Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

People don't gotta like the same stuff. If they did, life would be pretty boring.

People, like us we feel... too deeply consumed, in shadow this game of chance. Together, surviving we unending dreamers. People... like us.

People promise each other the world until they are not given it. We give until we no longer receive something of equal or greater value. Life and love is nothing more than re-gifting. When we don't like what we get, we save it for someone else, and hope, with all of our hearts, the the next package is better.

People tell you to believe in yourself for your whole life, then call you arrogant when you begin taking their advice.

People start to lie more once they start to care less.

People who are buried leave Behind their memories. People feel sad for them and Worry, but for the living man, They are never sorry. This person, who is the sufferer, Will never be able to withstand, The chances snatched from him, He thinks, “Am I under a ban?” So he dies, and the world is Forever in debt For the man who faced Death before his death.

PEOPLE WITH THE SMARTEST MOUTHS HAVE THE DUMBEST BRAINS

Perasaan tidak sejalan dengan logika! Kebodohan macam apa ini?

Perdón si cuando quiero contar mi vida es tierra lo que cuento. Esta es la tierra. Crece en tu sangre y creces. Si se apaga en tu sangre tú te apagas.

Perfection, my dear being, is what you are. Let not your mind obscure your view. Be still and be aware, right where you are, you cannot miss it.

Perfection" Every oak will lose a leaf to the wind. Every star-thistle has a thorn. Every flower has a blemish. Every wave washes back upon itself. Every ocean embraces a storm. Every raindrop falls with precision. Every slithering snail leaves its silver trail. Every butterfly flies until its wings are torn. Every tree-frog is obligated to sing. Every sound has an echo in the canyon. Every pine drops its needles to the forest floor. Creation's whispered breath at dusk comes with a frost and leaves within dawn's faint mist, for all of existence remains perfect, adorned, with a dead sparrow on the ground. (Poem titled : 'Perfection' by R.H.Peat)

Percy wakes me (fourteen) Percy wakes me and I am not ready. He has slept all night under the covers. Now he’s eager for action: a walk, then breakfast. So I hasten up. He is sitting on the kitchen counter Where he is not supposed to be. How wonderful you are, I say. How clever, if you Needed me, To wake me. He thought he would a lecture and deeply His eyes begin to shine. He tumbles onto the couch for more compliments. He squirms and squeals: he has done something That he needed And now he hears that it is okay. I scratch his ears. I turn him over And touch him everywhere. He is Wild with the okayness of it. Then we walk, then He has breakfast, and he is happy. This is a poem about Percy. This is a poem about more than Percy. Think about it.

Perhaps it was the way he'd look at me and smile, Perhaps it was the sound of his voice after being utterly defeated, Perhaps it was the warmth of his touch, Perhaps I've always been in love with you

Perhaps pondering words is also a form of seeking justice. If a monologue can invite a chorus, then perhaps it can speak for others as well.

Perhaps your desire will help her see what you see, but if she cheats on him with you, there’s a good chance she won’t leave him. And you’re left where she is with a jerk. Take it from a nice guy and a wallflower.

Perhaps you’re fascinated by the contours of my cheeks with skin like bed sheets that hide all of the complexities of what’s underneath, and present an image of simplicity (that is easier to digest than skipping heart beats for hairy legs). I wonder if these next six nights of not having to feel so alone will make you wondrous in keeping me as a bedside table: to place your hard times on before you get the forty winks your eyes need to glisten in the midday light of my bedroom. And it’s hard to fall back into sleep when I’ve fallen in love with studying the one that lies next to me. I wonder if you’ve found landscapes in my elbows like I’ve found ebbing tides in your forehead. Perhaps your love for me is fleeting, and you’ll have moments where you consider tearing yourself even further apart, but as soon as it’s possible you close your eyes again, fall out of the thought and back into sleep. But, perhaps you’ll keep me as a bedside table: to place your brain things in my cupboards, to place your step dad in my cupboards, to place your sad eyes in my drawers, to put your heart ache in my mouth, your desire for love in bite marks on my neck, and your misty breath in my ears whispering ‘you are so important to me’. -Bedside Table

Pero los escritores mienten, aun los más sinceros. Los menos hábiles, carentes de palabras y frases capaces de encerrarla, retienen una imagen pobre y chata de la vida; algunos, como Lucano, la cargan y abruman con una dignidad que no posee. Otros como Petronio, la aligeran, la convierten en una pelota hueca que rebota, fácil de recibir y lanzar en un universo sin peso. Los poetas nos transportan a un mundo más vasto o más hermoso, más ardiente o más dulce que el que nos ha sido dado, diferente a él y casi inhabitable en la práctica. Los filósofos hacen sufrir a la realidad casi las mismas transformaciones que el fuego o el mortero hacen sufrir a los cuerpos; en esos cristales o en esas cenizas nada parece subsistir de un ser o de un hecho tales como los conocimos. Los historiadores nos proponen sistemas demasiado completos del pasado, series de causas y efectos harto exactas y claras como para que hayan sido alguna vez verdaderas. Mucho me costaría vivir en un mundo sin libros, pero la realidad no está en ellos, puesto que no cabe entera.

Perhaps the year and a half spent trying to make sense of all this has finally drained me Maybe, just maybe, I always know I deserved better, but was too afraid to accept it

Persephone had it right. If you must go, might as well take all of spring with you—

Perverse obsessions And it is only now That I realize I am bleeding Now no air now dead And that it was your careful strike That made it so

Philosophy’s shadow: poetry. Poetry’s Shadow: philosophy. Poetry art: revolt. Perspective absorbs perspective: time. Tide: the love of the moon for the earth.

Pina colada kisses and cocaine nips never lie, swear to me that this feeling is real.

pie visa vēl iztēloties neko savu aizmiršanos un meitenes auksto roku viņas krūtis kā vīlušās observatorijas un savu piedzimšanu kā neizdevušos joku

Pixel of Quantity makes the big picture of Quality

playing the lead is more important than the need of playing pretend

Play a Death March for me

please allow me to dance the triumphant dance as my patience is rewarded by your smiling blissful being!--Stanza from Faceless Wonder

Please let me know if I have missed any spots, because my soul yearns to know all of you, each and every part. I want your naked soul or nothing at all.

Plato utterly condemns the poets for publishing trivial, false and indeed wicked stories about the gods, such as that they fight with each other, or are overcome by emotions like grief, anger, mirth. Reluctantly, he will not allow Homer in his Republic, and he is very angry with the tragic poets for spreading unworthy ideas of the Deity. It may well be that there were inferior tragic poets who deserved Plato's strictures, but so far as concerns the tragic poets whom we know, Plato's attack is absurd. It is the attack of a severely intellectual philosopher who was also more of a poet than most poets have contrived to be; one who invented some of the profoundest and most beautiful of Greek myths. 'There is a long-standing quarrel', says Plato, 'between philosophy and poetry.' So there was, on the part of the philosophers, and most of all in Plato's own soul.

Please approach with care these figures in black. Regard with care the weight they bear, the scars that mark their hearts. Do you think you can handle these bodies of graphite & coal dust? This color might rub off. A drop of this red liquid could stain your skin. This black powder could blow you sky high. No ordinary pigments blacken our blues. Would you mop the floor with this bucket of blood? Would you rinse your soiled laundry in this basin of tears? Would you suckle hot milk from this cracked vessel? Would you be baptized in this fountain of funky sweat? Please approach with care these bodies still waiting to be touched. We invite you to come closer. We permit you to touch & be touched. We hope you will engage with care.

Please let me know if I am not here Let me know if I fail to find you there For before the dawn I leave the night behind me And before my heart I let you leave me behind.

PLEASE TELL ME YOU KNOW OF SYLVIA PLATH Conventions bleed my soul squeeze me old wear me grey like a headstone in transit. It’s tradition and form— fear of the unknown— driving me dead in tight spaces darkly. I cry aloud but who can hear when I stand alone in the middle of an art show….

pleas for forgiveness dropping like sweat or red rain or tears from the monster’s mouth and the devil laughs scathingly “i did not control you” and misbahas become nooses throwing the world into fire and fog smears the streets

Poetry excites innate emotions and perceptions that let you create a new world where you have never visited and no one else can enter.

Poetry first introduced me to the concept that pain could, perhaps, be viewed as 'the pain' and not 'my pain.' That sorrow and loneliness and abandonment were the human condition, not my sole possession

Poetry gives the greatest pleasure.

Poetry has an immediate effect on the mind. The simple act of reading poetry alters thought patterns and the shuttle of the breath. Poetry induces trance. Its words are chant. Its rhythms drumbeats. Its images become the icons of the inner eye. Poetry is more than a description of the sacred experience; it carries the experience itself.

Poetry has saved me on occasions when people couldn't.

(Poetry) helped me to find a silver lining in even the darkest emotions, experiences, observations and topics; find positivity even in the face of extreme negativity; find strength when I was being forced to feel weak; and find hope that my tomorrows would be brighter.

Poetry is above all a concentration of the power of language, which is the power of our ultimate relationship to everything in the universe. It is as if forces we can lay claim to in no other way, become present to us in sensuous form. The knowledge and use of this magic goes back very far: the rune; the chant; the incantation; the spell; the kenning; sacred words; forbidden words; the naming of the child, the plant, the insect, the ocean, the configuration of stars, the snow, the sensation in the body. The ritual telling of the dream. The physical reality of the human voice; of words gouged or incised in stone or wood, woven in silk or wool, painted on vellum, or traced in sand.

Poetry is, after all, only nonsense and justifies what would be considered impudence if written in prose.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.

Poetry is a storm asking peace to dance with her.

Poetry is a will to put things right, an imaginary solution, a way of avoiding a catastrophe that already happened. Poetry is an escape, perhaps intelligent, perhaps idiotic, from a senile situation. It is a dialectical movement, it keeps tearing open the wounds while trying to heal them. Here we see the only acceptable path open up towards an existence worthy of human beings. Here the seriousness is unfaltering and absolute. Where it will lead no one knows.

Poetry is dancing with words.

Poetry is intimacy between poet and reader. It's revealing your truth and feeling safe acceptance in the unveiling

Poetry is like a beef bouillon cube; it's hardly ever needed (or perhaps never needed at all); it sits in its precious wrapper, well out of view, until everyone has forgotten it's there.

Poetry is more than a form of art. It's a vibration and a pulsing heart. Whether it's sour or whether it's sweet. It can give you strength no one can defeat

Poetry is not an art, it's a symptom.