Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

You too?" She asked Ruth. "How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said.

You touched my heart...ever so softly and I realized tears had never been...merely salt and the rain Oh the Rain! had never been merely water.

You've been sipping on poison for so long that It is stained onto your fingertips, Grained into your DNA It's choking up your words So your "I hate you" Sound like "I'm glad you came

You trip over a word while carrying a tray of vocabulary out to the pool only to discover that broken glass is a good topic.

You’ve always been a storm Your lightning mouth Electrifies my heart

You've given me a bad name I'll only make worse.

You’ve got to plant flowers in the center of your soul if you want to bloom.

You've granted me eyes to see and ears to hear and with more knowledge comes more sorrow. Only true substance can pay for a due but a print out of the false can only discharge, how true. Taking the false to introduce as a truth, polluting our minds, yoking us with a noose. Economic slavery, the complete opposite of freedom and bravery. I amend these words to constitute what's meant to we, as in us, the French area holds the trusts, friendship to hear what I'm saying with God is a must.

You want to achieve something? Accept to be something, - that attracts more things your way.

...you want the sweetness of our beginning without the bitterness of our struggle - what are you asking - do you want light without shadow? ...

you want to be angry but you can’t stop looking and when you look you love and when you love the entire world unfolds around you

You were a storm I chased to get my kicks and have some fun; it backfired when I crashed hard in love.

You were just another stranger in the room, In a room full of bodies, I was attracted to you, I became your tiny dancer, I became everything to you, Little did you know, That I'm just a dancer, Not your fool.

you were and always will be that first ever touch to have fertilized the ground beneath my life’s trees that first ever rose to have fragranced the rest of my memories.

You Were My Death You were my death: you I could hold when all fell away from me.

You were the walking streak of thunder In my world You were like a song during the cool breeze And now In the wilderness without you How will I find my way

You were Something or someone I loved But I am a traveler And I love no one But the empty road

You whom I could not save, Listen to me. Can we agree Kevlar backpacks shouldn’t be needed for children walking to school? Those same children also shouldn’t require a suit of armor when standing on their front lawns, or snipers to watch their backs as they eat at McDonalds. They shouldn’t have to stop to consider the speed of a bullet or how it might reshape their bodies. But one winter, back in Detroit, I had one student who opened a door and died. It was the front door to his house, but it could have been any door, and the bullet could have written any name. The shooter was thirteen years old and was aiming at someone else. But a bullet doesn’t care about “aim,” it doesn’t distinguish between the innocent and the innocent, and how was the bullet supposed to know this child would open the door at the exact wrong moment because his friend was outside and screaming for help. Did I say I had “one” student who opened a door and died? That’s wrong. There were many. The classroom of grief had far more seats than the classroom for math though every student in the classroom for math could count the names of the dead. A kid opens a door. The bullet couldn’t possibly know, nor could the gun, because “guns don’t kill people,” they don’t have minds to decide such things, they don’t choose or have a conscience, and when a man doesn’t have a conscience, we call him a psychopath. This is how we know what type of assault rifle a man can be, and how we discover the hell that thrums inside each of them. Today, there’s another shooting with dead kids everywhere. It was a school, a movie theater, a parking lot. The world is full of doors. And you, whom I cannot save, you may open a door and enter a meadow, or a eulogy. And if the latter, you will be mourned, then buried in rhetoric. There will be monuments of legislation, little flowers made from red tape. What should we do? we’ll ask again. The earth will close like a door above you. What should we do? And that click you hear? That’s just our voices, the deadbolt of discourse sliding into place.

you were the flaming meteor about to send me in smoke but i kissed you anyways. there's a burning crater on my lips from your touch and i think i may always be in love with you. we looked at each other like we were the sun and the moon and we knew we'd only eclipse for so long.

You whom my body longs for, where are you? In the stars, in the river, over the rainbow? Perhaps you hide in the shadows of the mountains, whistling in the wind through mighty peaks Just maybe you are in every corner of my being awaiting invocation Ô Manna Breath fill my life with your infinite power

You were wrong," he murmured ruefully, resting his cheek on top of Amy’s head. "You weren’t safe with me." "I feel like Psyche kissing Cupid in the dark," Amy said dreamily. Richard drew Amy’s arms around his back under his cloak. "Feel. No wings." Amy could hear the smile in the Gentian’s voice. "Does that mean if I unmask you, you won’t fly away?" Richard tightened his grip on Amy’s arms. "Don’t even consider it." "You could give me three trials, like Psyche." "With what as the prize at the end? Me, or membership in the League?" Amy managed the difficult feat of looking at him askance with her nose only inches from his. "It would be much easier for me to answer that question if I knew who you were." "What’s in a name? A Gentian by any other name would—" "Be an entirely different flower," interjected Amy, swatting him on the arm. "I refuse to be fobbed off with poor imitations of Shakespeare." "If you don’t like Romeo and Juliet, how about a sonnet?" Richard suggested. "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art—" "Not that easily deterred." Amy extricated herself from Richard’s arms – and his cloak, which had tangled around her knees – and hopped off the window seat. "Damnation," muttered Richard. "I’ll ignore that,"offered Amy generously. "And we can go straight to the crucial question of how I’m going to help you restore the monarchy

You who never arrived in my arms, Beloved, who were lost from the start, I don't even know what songs would please you. I have given up trying to recognize you in the surging wave of the next moment. All the immense images in me -- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape, cities, towers, and bridges, and un- suspected turns in the path, and those powerful lands that were once pulsing with the life of the gods-- all rise within me to mean you, who forever elude me. You, Beloved, who are all the gardens I have ever gazed at, longing. An open window in a country house-- , and you almost stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I chanced upon,-- you had just walked down them and vanished. And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back my too-sudden image. Who knows? Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, separate, in the evening...

you will always die you will live forever you are nothing & nobody you are made of stars — you will be forgotten

You will always end up in frustration whenever you try to produce outside your purpose.

You will come away bruised. You will come away bruised but this will give you poetry.

You will find all the riches you ever need in the center of your heart. Go there. Explore.

] ]you will remember ]for we in our youth did these things yes many and beautiful things ] ] ]

You will realize you love me But it will be too late You will cry out for me I will be long gone This is not a wish But what I knew to be so

20th century poetry is a piñata. Images break from the earth when the poet strikes it.

All art emulates the condition of ritual. That is what it comes from and to that it must always return for nourishment.

Abyss-mongering makes professors and poets feel daring.

A child playing with dolls may shed heartfelt tears when his bundle of rags and scraps becomes deathly ill and dies ... So we may come to an understanding of language as playing with dolls: in language, scraps of sound are used to make dolls and replace all the things in the world.

All high poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks potentially.

All poets, all writers are political. They either maintain the status quo, or they say, 'Something's wrong, let's change it for the better.'

All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.

All poetry is experimental poetry.

And truly Philosophy is but sophisticated poetry. Whence do those ancient writers derive all their authority but from the poets?

A mighty good sausage stuffer was spoiled when the man became a poet.

And of poetry, the success is not attained when it lulls and satisfies, but when it astonishes and fires us with new endeavours after the unattainable.

And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, and silently steal away.

All the senses awaken and fall into harmony in poetic reverie. Poetic reverie listens to this polyphony of the senses, and the poetic consciousness must record it.

Almost any poem has to be read twice, first for strangeness, second for clarity.

And we were Banksy on an overpass in New Orleans spray-painting porch lights on the hurricane. We were welcome mats for the un-forgiven. We never sold our windpipes to make a living. We were the letters sent to the wrong address, but opened anyway. We opened anyway.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, The hand that held the steel: For only blood can wipe out blood, And only tears can heal

A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore; it’s to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought. Poetry soothes and emboldens the soul to accept mystery.

A poem is a naked person... Some people say that I am a poet.

A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.

A poet is wounded into speech, and he examines these wounds, meticulously, to discover how to heal them. The bad poet harangues at the pain and yowls at the weapons that lacerate him; the great poet explores the inflamed lips of ruined flesh with ice-caked fingers, glittering and precise; but ultimately his poem is the echoing, dual voice reporting the damages.

Any great warrior is also a scholar, and a poet, and an artist.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat