Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Writing and art are my lovers

Writing fiction has always, for me, been an alchemy of turning pain into poetry, ugliness into beauty. It has been a kind of redemption.

Writing is a lifelong commitment that taxes every scribble, and reimburses only at the tombstone. (A.W. Ryleigh) Every dream, every thought, every moment of preoccupation....write it. (A.W. Ryleigh) Down deep beneath dark water, Sliding through the slippery abyss The giant dreams not of slaughter Nor sun's rays, nor wind's kiss (Cupid is Drunk- A.W. Ryleigh Something dismal was on the horizon. The people in the village had been sensing it, predicting something dark—something threatening. (PRETA, A.W. Ryleigh)

Writing is not a matter of time, but a matter or of space. If you don't keep space in your head for writing, you won't write even if you have the time.

WRITTEN ON THE WALL OF WEST FOREST TEMPLE From the side, a whole range; from the end, a single peak: Far, near, high, low, no two parts alike. Why can’t I tell the true shape of Lushan? Because I myself am in the mountain.

WU WEI flow of Life governed by Tao flow of change spontaneous natural effortless acting through non-action connecting with Earth and Moon and Sun through being not inert or lazy or passive but swimming swiftly within the current merging Life with Tao quiet and watchful not-interfering receptive alert directly connected acting without action trusting detached without desire spontaneous natural effortless Living

Writing is my passion. Words are the way to know ecstasy. Without them life is barren. The poet insists, language is a body of suffering and when you take up language you take up the suffering too. All my life I have been suffering for words. Words have been the source of the pain and the way to heal. Struck as a child for talking, for speaking out of turn, for being out of my place. Struck as a grown woman for not knowing when to shut up, for not being willing to sacrifice words for desire. Struck by writing a book that disrupts. There are many ways to be hit. Pain is the price we pay to speak the truth.

Wrote you a poem or two. You didn’t enjoy them, but I did for you.

Writing poetry is supernatural. Or, it should be.

WRITTEN IN PENCIL IN THE SEALED RAILWAY-CAR here in this carload i am eve with abel my son if you see my other son cain son of man tell him that i

Writing is the light of imagination playing over shadow of thoughts.

Writing on architecture is not like history or poetry.

Writing poetry is a passion, ignited by thoughts, fueled by ink. A way to travel through another mind, where souvenirs of tears are tucked away inside your soul. Or leave you with smiles for miles, depending on which route you go.

Writing poetry is like having sex with the universe and the language is just a condom.

Writing the poems, I came to think that regarding is a form of love, but the regarding is not necessarily accurate. In the poems, people are always misperceiving one another. But misperceptions are a part of being alive to others. You don’t need truth or beauty. All you do is perceive. That’s all you need to have loved and lived fully.

Writing poems is simply an excuse to remember You.

Written soul is called poetry

Ya got cigarettes?” she asks. “Yes,” I say, “I got cigarettes.” “Matches?” she asks. “Enough to burn Rome.” “Whiskey?” “Enough whiskey for a Mississippi River of pain.” “You drunk?” “Not yet.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero. Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Xerxes, I read, ‘halted his unwieldy army for days that he might contemplate to his satisfaction’ the beauty of a single sycamore. You are Xerxes in Persia. Your army spreads on a vast and arid peneplain…you call to you all your sad captains, and give the order to halt. You have seen the tree with the lights in it, haven’t you? You must have. Xerxes buffeted on a plain, ambition drained in a puff. Your men are bewildered…there is nothing to catch the eye in this flatness, nothing but a hollow, hammering sky, a waste of sedge in the lee of windblown rocks, a meager ribbon of scrub willow tracing a slumbering watercourse…and that sycamore. You saw it; you will stand rapt and mute, exalted, remembering or not remembering over a period of days to shade your head with your robe. “He had its form wrought upon a medal of gold to help him remember it the rest of his life.” We all ought to have a goldsmith following us around. But it goes without saying, doesn’t it, Xerxes, that no gold medal worn around your neck will bring back the glad hour, keep those lights kindled so long as you live, forever present? Pascal saw it; he grabbed pen and paper and scrawled the one word, and wore it sewn in his shirt the rest of his life. I don’t know what Pascal saw. I saw a cedar. Xerxes saw a sycamore.

Xs and Os Love is a game of tic-tac-toe, constantly waiting, for the next x or o.

Y algo golpeaba en mi alma, fiebre o alas perdidas, y me fui haciendo solo, descifrando aquella quemadura y escribí la primera línea vaga, vaga, sin cuerpo, pura, tontería pura sabiduría del que no sabe nada, y vi de pronto el cielo desgranado y abierto.

Ya es bastante grave /que un solo hombre / o una sola mujer /contemplen distraídos el horizonte neutro

Years has passed and my eager heart stands. Until we meet again love is an uncertainty that I'll pass. I had all but one to give, this heart of mine that is yours still.

Years have passed, I suppose. I'm not really counting them anymore. But I think of this thing often: Perhaps there is a Golden Age someplace, a Renaissance for me sometime, a special time somewhere, somewhere but a ticket, a visa, a diary-page away. I don't know where or when. Who does? Where are all the rains of yesterday? In the invisible city? Inside me? It is cold and quiet outside and the horizon is infinity. There is no sense of movement. There is no moon, and the stars are very bright, like broken diamonds, all.

Yellow and fresh are the lanterns, Black is the road of the garden at sea. I am very calm. Only please, do not Talk about him with me. You're tender and loyal, we'll be friends. . Have fun, kiss, together grow old. . And light months above us will fly like feathers, Like stars made of snow and as cold.

Yes! all is past—swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, And yet that may not ever, ever be, Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell; Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

... yes I speak a different language - the dark fire of poetry - it flutters and gutters in tune with the mood ...

Yes, love can be wondrously complicated, it can be confusing, and it can be terrifying. But if it wasn’t all those things, then it isn’t love.

Yesterday, I was collecting words. One was up there, sitting in the bo tree, Another was in the banyan. One was wandering in my street, Another was lying in the earthen jar. A green word lay in the fields, A black one was eating flesh. A blue word was flying With a grain of the sun in its beak. Every single thing in this world looks like a word to me. The words of eyes, The words of hands. But I do not understand words I hear from a mouth. I can only read words. I can only read words.

Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, / Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. / Out of the grave I come to tell you this— / To tell you this.

Yes You Are! Like the Blossoming rose, Like the Rays of hope. Like a deer in the forest, Like an athlete full of zest. Like a lamp in temple, Like the life feeling ample. Like the feel of the dawn, Like the grace of the swan. Like the melody of sitar, Like the rage of guitar. Like a group of angels in the sky, Like the pot that makes you high. Like the peacock's dance, Like she is the romance. Like the silent talk, Like the wine from Medoc. Like the colors of life, Like the music from the fife. Like the calmness of the cold wind Like the beauty of the hind.

Yet you stand, too ashamed to run, too fearful to embrace. God I see so much of what I love in that face.

Ye who have laid your love to rest, And wept above their lifeless clay, Know not the anguish of that breast, Whose lov'd are rudely torn away. Ye may not know how desolate, Are bosoms rudely forced to part, And how a dull and heavy weight, Will press the life-drops from the heart.

Yet from thy lethal lips and thine alone, Love would I drink, as dew from poison-bloom.

Yet gold all is not, that doth gold seem, Nor all good knights, that shake well spear and shield: The worth of all men by their end esteem, And then praise, or due reproach them yield.

Yet should there hover in their restless heads One thought, one grace, one wonder at the least, Which into words no virtue can digest.

Yet this thou art alive, but if ye soar, My poor frail heart will have beat out its cry And sadly miss thy sweet form all the more While helplessly I stand and watch you die.

Yo, múltiple, como en contradicción

Yo te he nombrado reina. Hay más altas que tú, más altas. Hay más puras que tú, más puras. Hay más bellas que tú, hay más bellas. Pero tú eres la reina. Cuando vas por las calles nadie te reconoce. Nadie ve tu corona de cristal, nadie mira la alfombra de oro rojo que pisas donde pasas, la alfombra que no existe. Y cuando asomas suenan todos los ríos en mi cuerpo, sacuden el cielo las campanas, y un himno llena el mundo. Sólo tú y yo, sólo tú y yo, amor mío, lo escuchamos.

You apologize for how you carry your mother's loneliness quietly between your teeth. You apologize for how you carry your father's sins inside your blood. You forgot how to carry yourself away for the histories that threatens to break you open, leaving you with grief and unbearable weight of emptiness. Tell me, apart from the sadness thick as smog living inside your chest tell me the last time you held your face and saw love staring back at you. How does destroying yourself prove your worth to others?

yo te amo para comenzar a amarte, para recomenzar el infinito y para no dejar de amarte nunca: por eso no te amo todavía.

You and I will be lost and found a thousand times along this cobbled road of us.

you are a lover of the words a soul mate to the story everything becomes a part of you from my fingertips to your eyes from my heart to yours

You are alone. But you seems not afraid- though you weary with your groaning; wandering far off in the wilderness and your eyes, consumed because of your grief; waxed old while you're still young.

You are a cool cemetery. You have the sinner’s grave You have the saint’s earth colliding You have all the beds narrow as a knife; as if a rally of tombstones to defend death. But you can’t really postpone the inauguration of my burial, can you? From the poem - Few Words to Cemetery

You Are a Dark Body of water with a bed of rock barely visible from your surface. You are the only dark body of water in a desert littered with bleeding cactus. At your collarbones you carry a gulch, held up by a thread of hair. You travel days drinking only from yourself, because you are this land’s only dark body of water. At the crease of horizon you find a woman in bed, her chest wet with saliva, you kick her off the bed, and take her place among its sheets. A man lies down in bed next to you. He swallows your dark body of water and gives you a woman’s body, a body you’ve never known. As a woman he gives you sores, and through the sores you breathe, and despite the sores you give birth to a child stillborn for lack of water. You kick the child off the bed, but it returns in the arms of the woman whose bed you stole. You cry to be made again into a dark body of water. The man kicks you off the bed, covers you with dirt, and turns you desert. You cry for a bed he will never let you sleep in again. You cry for your body’s bed of rock turned desert for lack of water.

You are alone, So alone, You speak back to silence. People call it loneliness, You call it solitude, Different words, Meaning the same pain.

You are a whispering diamond, turning in the sun, articulating the one thing the sky wants to say, in a million different ways.

You are blooming like the rare flower you are!