Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

In the midst of the ubiquitous dealings with prostituted signs, the thing-poem was capable of opening up the prospect of returning to credible experiences of meaning. It did this by tying language to the gold standard of what things themselves communicate. Where randomness is disabled, authority should shine forth.

In the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou know not whether shall prosper, either this or that, or whether they both shall be alike good.

In the morning, when I am gone. Don’t sit ‘round and mourn. Just simply look up to the sun. I’ll be looking right back at you. You will all be okay without me, soon. It’s not the end; it’s the start of a new bloom. You will have better times than now. Don’t reflect on the sad times, avow. Think of the happy times, the years and vow. I don’t want a bunch standing around my grave. Straighten up and think of the happy days. I’ll only allow tears of joy, be brave. I will be right there with you. I will keep an eye on you. You teenagers better behave, I’ll be seeing your every move. Every move you make on those nights, out late. So, anyway, when I am gone in the morning, date. Don’t be sad or mad, don’t hate. Just look up to the sun, nigh I’ll be looking back at you, wry It was just my time to fly. It was simply my time, goodbye.

In the new faith, there is only one commandment. It is this commandment, and this commandment alone, that must be followed to end the times of suffering, which are soon to come. FORSAKE USURY.

In the place of the bells, where battle is waged, The reeds all lie broken in Chalco today. Dust yellows the air, our houses are smoking, The sobbing is rising—from the lips of your Chalcans!

In the "Republic," Plato vigorously attacked the oral, poetized form as a vehicle for communicating knowledge. He pleaded for a more precise method of communication and classification ("The Ideas"), one which would favor the investigation of facts, principles of reality, human nature, and conduct. What the Greeks meant by "poetry" was radically different from what we mean by poetry. Their "poetic" expression was a product of a collective psyche and mind. The mimetic form, a technique that exploited rhythm, meter and music, achieved the desired psychological response in the listener. Listeners could memorize with greater ease what was sung than what was said. Plato attacked this method because it discouraged disputation and argument. It was in his opinion the chief obstacle to abstract, speculative reasoning - he called it "a poison, and an enemy of the people.

In the shade of words sits life itself.

In the sleep to me is given Our last eden of stars up high City of clean water towers, Golden Bakchisarai There behind a colored fencing By the pensive water stalled Village of the Tsar's gardens With rejoicing we recalled. And the eagles of Catherine Suddenly recognized - it's that! He had flown to valley bottom From the ornate bronze-clad gate. That the song of parting heartache In the memory longer lives, The dark-bodied mother autumn Brought to me the redding leaves And she sprinkled on her soles Where we parted in the sun And from where for land of shadows You had left, my soothing one.

In The Sunset Sky The sunset sky dazzling with the golden hues, Taking bow in brilliant sparkle of experience Is it not a climax, of the story so far, that was today? Or is it building anticipation of the night yet to come. Watch the days go, some proud of their accomplishments Some leaving sighs of disappointments, Leaving all in awe of its Amaranthine twists and turns And the fortunate get to see the moon trying to steal the show from setting sun, Oh she is such a show off, isn't she, basking in reflected glory Its magical, the sunset sky,Puzzling, sometimes just like a riddle, Leaving the nature stunned and amazed For it has been filling the canvas whole day with colours And now the sunset threatens to hide them all And in dark all the colours will be same A cue for the wise. Sunset sky has so much to offer, is she not a fine exampleof how uncertain a life can be Often reminding no matter what you planned, there will besome unexpected returns For End has its own brain, its own script Charting its own course So why just the beginning,every moment of the life should be grand, meted with equal passion and fervor She has been so clever; the sunset sky Leaving Twinkling cryptic messages for the night sky For even the dark has sparkle and hope if you keep your head up, A constant reminder that exuberance is an attitude of deep,rich, warm hearts I want my sunset sky to be grand, magical, and full of stories of my life that has been And its memories to linger on in this world, in the tomorrow and a few more years to come

In the tumult of our lives Are pockets of mystery Sparks emanating from Our very souls Intertwined and pulsing

... in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will have to bury children, and support themselves through grief.

In this universe there are no time machines or keys that can turn hearts back around.

In this life at least, Our fate is rarely epic. Maybe just as well, Impervious heroes we are not…

In this night too, in this night of his mortal eyes into which he was now descending, love and danger were again waiting... a murmur of glory and hexameters, of men defending a temple the gods will not save, and of black vessels searching the sea for a beloved isle; the murmor of the Odysseys and Iliads it was his destiny to sing and leave echoing concavely in the memory of man. These things we know, but not those he felt descending into the last shade of all.

In this space, We do raw We do loud hearts & truthful art We do open arms & unfettered forgiveness We do real We do vulnerable We do wild In this space, We do love In all the shapes & forms That we come in We do love

In this story I am the poet You're the poetry.

In those days I used to talk to myself as if reciting poetry.

In those years, people will say, we lost track of the meaning of we, of you we found ourselves reduced to I and the whole thing became silly, ironic, terrible: we were trying to live a personal life and yes, that was the only life we could bear witness to But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged into our personal weather They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove along the shore, through the rags of fog where we stood, saying I

In time, he began to see the details that held us like invisible stitches together. The scars we held within, the tears despite our dry faces. He saw the little sigh that came with the song. The way our breathing became labored even though nothing seemed wrong. He peeked into the aimless gaze of daydreamers, reliving their worst moments, commending them on being so strong.

INTO MY OWN One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of doom. I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why I should e’er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew— Only more sure of all I thought was true.

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

In unexpected recessions, my father would send me out to find a job, lock me out our gates until I got one, and because I had to, I'd find a way - or multiple.

Intoxicate me with the beauty and breath of your soul. Leave such imprints on my heart that you come to me in dreams, and I will leave you with eternal light, cherishing you until the end of time through synchronicity, through poetry, through mystery and undeniable energy.

In trials of ir'n and silver fain “The dead will rise and walk again “The blesséd few that touch the light “Will aid the war against the night. “But one by one they all will die “Without a cause to rule them by “As Darkness spreads across the land “He'll wield the oceans in his hand. “Five warriors will oppose his reign “And overthrow the Shadow Thane “They come from sides both dark and light “The realm the mortals call “twilight.” “A magus crowned with boughs of fire “Will rise like Phoenix from his pyre “A beast of shadows touched with sight “Will claim a Dark One as her knight “The next, a prophet doomed to fail “Will find her powers to avail “The final: one mere mortal man “Who bears the mark upon his hand “The circle closes round these few “Made sacred by the bonds they hew “But if one fails then so shall all “Bring death to those of Evenfall.

In your face I see your love for me.

In vogue and cosmopolitan they clutch their Pomeranians and walk among the millionaires or watch from swayback steamer chairs

In what I have come to name a Goddess-oriented spirituality, the attitude toward the body is opposite to that in the mainstream Judeo-Christian tradition. Dirt, blood, sex, soul, earth, death, animal are not destined to be transcended; as direct embodiments of the immanent sacred, they by extension are sacred. The traditions of Christianity, Buddhism, and other religions may tell us mystically that God is present in everything (“I draw water, I carry wood; that is my prayer,” says the monk in one of my earliest favorite stories,) but the notion of the Goddess actually constitutes a physical presence. Not only is the Goddess of the world; the world is her manifestation. Though the transcendent god and the immanent goddess are complementary sides of the same human spiritual coin, their resonances are fundamentally different.

In your sublimity I find meaning In your love I find a universe In you I find an unknown radiance Your thoughts my anchor Your being my desire Your life my inspiration Your words my existence

I often wonder and imagine What lies just beyond the fringe Of the human experience; What is it that we do not see?

Oh, what is brighter than the light? What is darker than the night? What is keener than an axe? What is softer than melting wax? Truth is brighter than the light, Falsehood darker than the night. Revenge is keener than an axe, And love is softer than melting wax.

In your eyes I found something that shines brighter than a thousand rays of sunshine.

In your hands I am no longer a pile of bones left behind to a world that moved on.

In your sky, you are the brightest star. Without you light, it’s dark like tar. So love yourself to enlighten others.

I offer you my mouth— Let me marry my lips to the tops of your thighs, I kneel between your legs. I offer you my hands— Your name written all over my palms, the fingers I press against you. I offer you my hips— My apologetic body.

In your lips I taste all that is living.

I offer you what I have my Poverty

In your voice, I will hear all my pains And with your words, I will understand them I will tell you That everything is uncertain (And so possible) And I will give you my hand (Inaccessible)

I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. I don't don't know why know why, I simply know that I I I am am inclined to say to say a lot a lot this way this way- I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. My mom my mom gets mad gets mad, it irritates my dad my dad, it drives them up a tree a tree, that's what they tell they tell me me- I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. It gets me in a jam a jam, but that's the way I am I am, in fact I think it's neat it's neat to to to to repeat repeat- I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat.

I once saw a small child go to an electric light switch as say, "Mamma, can I open the light?" She was using the age-old language of exploration, the language of art. It was a sort of metaphor, but she was not using it as ornamentation.

I paid, got up, walked to the door, opened it. I heard the man say, "that guy's nuts." out on the street I walked north feeling curiously honored.

I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán and then to Santiago, it sped off without warning, as if the somewhat ominous solitude of the place had unleashed atavistic fears in the driver's mind. For a moment I too was afraid. I must have been a sorry sight standing there helplessly with my suitcase from the seminary, holding a copy of Farewell's Anthology in one hand. Some birds flew out from behind a clump of trees. They seemed to be screaming the name of that forsaken village, Querquén, but they also seemed to be enquiring who: quién, quién, quién. I said a hasty prayer and headed for a wooden bench, there to recover a composure more in keeping with what I was, or what at the time I considered myself to be. Our Lady, do not abandon your servant, I murmured, while the black birds, about twenty-five centimetres in length, cried quién, quién, quién. Our Lady of Lourdes, do not abandon your poor priest, I murmured, while other birds, about ten centimetres long, brown in colour, or brownish, rather, with white breasts, called out, but not as loudly, quién, quién, quién, Our Lady of Suffering, Our Lady of Insight, Our Lady of Poetry, do not leave your devoted subject at the mercy of the elements, I murmured, while several tiny birds, magenta, black, fuchsia, yellow and blue in colour, wailed quién, quién, quién, at which point a cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilling me to the bone.

I once tried hawking my own book around the pubs in the hope that, like the Salvation Army, I too could sell to the cerebrally relaxed. It was a disaster. I had beer thrown over me for being a) a nuisance, b) not as good as Wordsworth and c) a nancy for writing poetry in the first place.

I only ever wanted to feel more human.

I only live to love so many Fig trees but could never Sleep under one. One is too Little in one lifetime.

I once saw many flowers blooming Upon my way, in indolence I scorned to pick them in my going And passed in proud indifference. Now, when my grave is dug, they taunt me; Now, when I'm sick to death in pain, In mocking torment still they haunt me, Those fragrant blooms of my disdain.

I once took all my journals from 3 years and burned them in a fire. Alone, watching the past disintegrate reminded me of life and time. The present is all I had. Time slowly burning away each moment.

I only felt the pain The things the you inflicted on me

I only know that learning to believe in the power of my own words has been the most freeing experience of my life. It has brought me the most light. And isn't that what a poem is? A lantern glowing in the dark.

I owe them gods a bottle of whiskey and a bullet each

I paint the darkness and the silence, You see them as stars and poetry.