Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Enslave me or deliberately liberate me as I'm meant to be. Dependent on God is a mindset in ancient, present and future prophecy. Hallucinations of the light coming to an illumination of Truth for death has no place in the life of an immortal. The third eye is a wide open portal. I brush off any of lifes struggles, any of lifes limits. I have no shame, Jesus is my Savior and with redemptive pride, I admit it.

Enmerson's interest is in the workshop phase, the birthing stage of art, not the museum moment, the embalming phase. Poetry mimics Creation and is therefore sacred. More precisely, just as God may indeed be a verb (as Mary Daly insists), poetry is the act of creating. The process of poetry also mimics the process of nature. 'This expression or naming is not art, but a second nature, grown out of the first, as a leaf out of a tree. What we call nature is a certain self-regulated motion or change.' Another aspect of nature is genius, which, as Emerson observes, 'is the activity which repairs the decays of things.

Entropy The Disintegrating Integration of Cheez-Whiz Squirts Insipid Inspiration Quoth the Oblong Eclipse of Nether-Knowledge Never Knowing Decaying Matter in a Decaying Orbit Orangutans of Science Study Ignorance of What The Cows Already Know.

En tunne enää ystäväni sydäntä. Vain luumunkukat yhä tuoksuvat niin kuin tuoksuivat kerran ennen.

Envy said, “Girl, I remember well, ye, who I flung from Hell, and not a day has passed, I haven’t missed the loss of your soul that I mourned, I’ve been bereft and forlorn, for the sweet taste of your flesh I’ve yet to kiss. But no worries—bygones, that’s the past—long gone, I don’t hold a grudge, no, in no way. And though your family they did swindle my joy of flaying ye on a spindle, I begrudge ye not a little, so let’s play. So, merely toss your token in my well, and all your dreams I will unveil, for ye alone, them I’ll grant. Come closer, little Penny, your hands I know are not empty, ye have something I dreadfully want.

Envy won't make you a better poet.

Erudition is the crude residue of wilted harvests; wit: the meddlesome weed that wilts them.

Es sind tausend Tropfen in einer Welt nur für uns gemacht Tausend Tropfen wenn der Himmel weint und man dennoch lacht

Ere long this golden light shall pass and fade Except all cherish'd mem'ries ye have made.

Es como si al acomodarnos en el interior del vagón en movimiento quedásemos encapsulados, fuera del mundo, limitándonos a verlo transcurrir plácidamente a través de las ventanillas.

Escrevo sem pensar tudo o que meu inconsciente grita. Penso depois: não só para corrigir, mas para justificar o que escrevi.

ERRORS ARE WHAT MAKE US HUMAN. PLOT TWIST: I'M A HORSE.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.

Escóndeme en tus brazos por esta noche sola, mientras la lluvia rompe contra el mar y la tierra su boca innumerable.

Euphemisms chosen by fear are a covenant with hypocrisy and will immediately destroy the poem and eventually destroy the poet.

Et ce monde étrange continue de tourner.

Etchings endure, But not in Sand Meanings Collide To Unresolved Fragments Codes fizzle to Static They are not lost But Unheard Never lost Fading slowly to Silence By infinite degrees

Even before I have uttered a word of prayer from my lips, you have already answered me. You are so beautiful and caring. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to have communion with you father God. The wisdom and knowledge and understanding you bestow in my life has changed me, I have come to a complete realization that you have given me complete dominion over all Earth.

Even amid the erratic crowd and the loud voices that drowned everything in coffee, Ginsberg commanded attention. Samir had recalled to Malay: He approached our table, where Sunil, Shakti, Utpal and I sat, with no hesitation whatsoever. There was no awkwardness in talking to people he hadn’t ever met. None of us had seen such sahibs before, with torn clothes, cheap rubber chappals and a jhola. We were quite curious. At that time, we were not aware of how well known a poet he was back in the US. But I remember his eyes—they were kind and curious. He sat there with us, braving the most suspicious of an entire cadre of wary and sceptical Bengalis, shorn of all their niceties—they were the fiercest lot of Bengali poets—but, somehow, he had managed to disarm us all. He made us listen to him and tried to genuinely learn from us whatever it was that he’d wanted to learn, or thought we had to offer. Much later, we came to know that there had been suspicions about him being a CIA agent, an accusation he was able to disprove. In the end, we just warmed up to him, even liked him. He became one of us—a fagging, crazy, city poet with no direction or end in sight.

Even as I hold you I think of you as someone gone far, far away. Your eyes the color of pennies in a bowl of dark honey bringing sweet light to someone else your black hair slipping through my fingers is the flash of your head going around a corner your smile, breaking before me, the flippant last turn of a revolving door, emptying you out, changed, away from me. Even as I hold you I am letting go.

Even if a poem is beautiful and memorable, it’s not like an advertising jingle or propaganda, which attempt to convince and control. Poems seek to confuse, disabuse, enlarge understanding, and make people ask questions and think for themselves.

even in the loneliest moments i have been there for myself.

Even if my wings broken, even if i couldn't fly anymore, I would rather to stay here, with you, with all your wounded stories, that slowly began to hurt me.

Even if you forget, I will remember for the two of us.

Evening came, a paw, to the gray hut by the river.

Even in solitude, silence stays, like a loyal supporter, with its unbroken presence.

Even lungs that are gasping are lungs that are trying.

Even my identity has been kept hidden from me. It is a child's ghost buried in mud. It is an old woman waving at me from a passing train.

Even the most political poem is an act of faith.

Even now, I see his damp hair crowding at his forehead. His eyes, cerulean, the same as my mother's. Him, favoring the skin of any water to me. I remember him moving with it, and staying. That ripe light and intermittence. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever stop looking for him there.

Even so have I given the womb of the earth to those that be sown in it in their times.

Even the new things that I less than know, I keep trying, did again until perfect.

Even though we could never be it was my favorite kind of love story - the one without a beginning or an ending.

Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light.

Even though trauma has a way of becoming the wallpaper of my head, watch me drag the art out of my suffering. Watch me plant seeds down my spine and bloom into a garden of poetry from every horrible thing that has ever happened to me, all the nights my voice turned to cement and I couldn't say anything- Watch me build an empire from the ashes of everything that tried to destroy me.

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me, even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye: I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Even when your heart is blue, I'll safely hold it. I really don't mind these indigo-stained hands.

Even your graffiti artists spray Rumi on the walls

Everybody here is infirm. Everybody here is infirm.

Every beginning has an end and every end has a new beginning, don't worry, broken soul, life will one day come to an end.

Every avalanche was once a lonely snowflake, every flood was once an aching raindrop.

Every attempt to fix eternity is an escape from reality. I will be plaguing my days with moments and minutes. For ever is too far!

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows that the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows that the boat is leaking Everybody knows that the captain lied Everybody got this broken feeling Like their father or their dog just died Everybody talking to their pockets Everybody wants a box of chocolates And a long stem rose Everybody knows

Every breath we take from the air Takes oxygen from an insect’s lungs mid-prayer And every exhalation does loudly declare That in the currency of life, we’re millionaires. A butterfly flapped it’s wings and Rome fell A passerby’s whistle cracked the liberty bell And I dare urge the daring not to yell Lest we so bid a skyscraper a rough farewell. A snake’s tongue slithered and man did sin Let me tell you how the waves from a shark’s fin Did set the tides on D-Day and let the allies win; Chance and destiny are identical twins. A word was spoken and the earth created Another phrase and the future was dictated And so every action must be carefully weighted We just never know how things are interrelated.

everybody loves a poet a poet loves everybody

Every broken piece of me fell on every broken piece of you and when I took the missing parts, like the emptiness of me I saw the emptiness of you and I poured my half upon you to fill you whole. I risked it all just to dream you complete and catch you one day free in the wild.

everybody loves me because i'm good at making people feel good. i'm good at making people feel good because i have had a lot of practice on myself

Every book has to wait for the right time to be read and understood.

Everybody talks, but there is no conversation.

Every decision, every single one, comes with a price to pay. It means you chose one thing over another, always. Whether you chose right or wrong, that cost remains constant. It's a permanent life tax. That's where taxes come from.