Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

....my sacred landscape is the foothills of the stars - I go there often to sleep ...

My scars show you I've been strong enough to endure the trauma of the world. My heart has no scars, my heart hangs in tatters only visible to those who see with more than their eyes. And my soul, well, my soul is comprised of pristine shatter, held together only because each individual piece is falling apart. They fall apart the right way though, that's why I still play this facade of being one and whole.

My soul is in a state of perpetual Autumn.

My soul is in love with your soul.

Mystisch wird der Herbst, wenn Worte leise die Sterne berühren und wir die Nacht zurückfordern. Der Tag verblast, die Nacht kehrt heim, Mondgeflüster. Der wahrhaftige Dichter, zu seinen Lesern spricht, Montag um sieben, so steht es geschrieben.

My stomach rumbles in this governed jungle, hunger drives as I drop the clutch into the 9th. Triple double struggle and only God knows my own. Cold world I need a fur coat to keep me snuggle and warm. I favor myself in this trouble I try to maintain, shout out to the chain gang, changed my life from spare change into a hole elevated mind frame.

My Serinity, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved, Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened, Thee, my serenity, A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee wail, whine, cry, Like a gloomy, mourning brume, Thee, my serenity, Soared through fervor and delight, To the crown of heavens, the Almighty Myth, One can not bear, Seeing thee prostrate, razed, demure, Upon the dimmed streets, crawling, for a sight of the lune, Thee, my birdy in love, What befall to thy song, The very chant of my life, Cut short, stopped, along with all I gasp, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee, caged in thy own night, Encumbered, through thy own heart, Lean on my shoulders now, My beautiful, wonderful Lily, That thee shall not fear, the sorrow of, Of being lonely, apart, not having a peer, As I promise, to my most dear, The girl to my heart, always near, Come what may, don’t age a year, That I will be, forever here,

My soul connects with your soul through poetry!

My soul is chaos, how can it be at all? There is everything in me: search and you will find out ... in me anything is possible, for I am he who at the supreme moment, in front of absolute nothingness, will laugh.

My soul will not sleep For want of my sister The river runs between us And I am sick with loss. My pool is broken By ripples unending, For the wind has blown her far away, The wind has blown her far away. Oh, sister, your perfume Is like honey dropped in water. Like spices and pomegranates, You stain my mouth with longing. My pool is broken By ripples unending; The wind has blown your odor far away, The wind has blown your odor far away. The gods have made your love Like the advance of flames on straw, My longing like the downward stoop Of the falcon in bright flight. My pool is broken By ripples unending. I will fly to you on wind far away, I will fly to you on wind far away. I am a hunted goose, a hunted one; The beauty of your shining hair Is a bait to trap me in your net; Your eyes, a snare of meryu-wood. Gratefully I fall Into ripples unending. Hunt me, sister, far away. Hunt me, sister, far away.

Mystical experience needs some form of dogma in order not to dissipate into moments of spiritual intensity that are merely personal, and dogma needs regular infusions of unknowingness to keep from calcifying into the predictable, pontificating, and anti-intellectual services so common in mainstream American churches. So what does all this mean practically? It means that congregations must be conscious of the persistent and ineradicable loneliness that makes a person seek communion, with other people and with God, in the first place. It means that conservative churches that are infused with the bouncy brand of American optimism one finds in sales pitches are selling shit. It means that liberal churches that go months without mentioning the name of Jesus, much less the dying Christ, have no more spiritual purpose or significance than a local union hall. It means that we -- those of us who call ourselves Christians -- need a revolution in the way we worship. This could mean many different things -- poetry as liturgy, focused and extended silences, learning from other religious traditions and rituals (this seems crucial), incorporating apophatic language. But one thing it means for sure: we must be conscious of language as language, must call into question every word we use until we refine or remake a language that is fit for our particular religious doubts and despairs -- and of course (and most of all!) our joys.

My soul is crushed under the weight of tears I can’t spill.

My soul must reach into the clouds and touch the beauty of madness.

My silence knot is tied up in my hair; as if to keep my love out of my eyes. I cannot speak to one for whom i care. A hatpin serves as part of my disguise. In the play, my role is baticeer; a word which here means "person who trains bats." The audience may feel a prick of fear, as if sharp pins are hidden in thier hats. My co-star lives on what we call a brae. His solitude might not be just an act. A piece of mail fails to arrive one day. This poignant melodrama's based on fact. The curtain falls just as the knot unties; the silence is broken by the one who dies.

My silence – this gentle frost turning slowly far beneath the skin

My sincere thanks to friends and family, especially my mother, father, brother, and Mandy, who continue to love and support me despite my obsessions.

... My soul sings loudly, forever changed by love Crafting oceans of majestic pain But releasing every storm from within Feeling exhausted, but safe and blessed ... (Excerpted from Healed by rain, chapter Resilience)

My stupidity gave its blessing to succouring nature, on her knees before God. What I am (my drunken laughter and happiness) is nonetheless at stake, handed over to chance, thrown out into the night, chased away like a dog. The wind of truth responded like a slap to piety’s extended cheek. The heart is human to the extent that it rebels (this means: to be a man is ‘not to bow down before the law’). A poet doesn’t justify — he doesn’t accept — nature completely. True poetry is outside laws. But poetry ultimately accepts poetry. When to accept poetry changes it into its opposite (it becomes the mediator of an acceptance!) I hold back the leap in which I would exceed the universe, I justify the given world, I content myself with it

My true-love hath my heart and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a bargain better driven. His heart in me keeps me and him in one; My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own; I cherish his because in me it bides. His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded with his wounded heart; For as from me on him his hurt did light, So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true-love hath my heart and I have his.

My tears of joy hear the raindrops crying, as the rain never wants to pour down on my cloudy days when I make our love-dreams for the sun to dream only for you.... (From the poem "Only For You" By Munia Khan)

My uncle read me Omar Khayyam. In Arabic. Not Turkish or even English. I tried so hard to understand it. I would ask him what it all meant but he always said the pleasure was in the finding out... the discovery. He said you can keep some poems by you your whole life and they will only reveal parts of themselves to you when you are ready to hear them. (Ottmar)

My tongue remembers your wounded flavor. The vein in my neck adores you. A sword stands up between my hips, my hidden fleece sends forth its scent of human oil.

My town of clouds and river Of terrifying minds and young dreams Streets with some people Good people smiling Train tracks of dreamers, High, happy, celebrating— Us, themselves and the beauty.

My wife is a lovely leathery green, the blue-tongued lizard said; Her eyes are as red as bulldog ants, lurking in holes in her head; Her body is made of the speckled grass, a violet grows on her tongue, And I could watch her for fifty years if nobody blundered along.

My thatched hut; the whole sky Is its roof The mountains are its hedge, And it has the sea for a garden. I’m inside with nothing at all, Not even a bag, And yet there are visitors who say “ It’s hidden behind a bamboo door” — Muso Soseki

My turn shall also come: I sense the spreading of a wing.

My vegetable love will grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.

My verse, my blood.

My Voice Dreamt a dream of dreams,lucid One word birthed another,others Still deeper beyond time,infinite space One bled into another,one danced Twisted tight, for dear life, embraced winds Darkness, out of sight burned, wept my mind Into a new frontier, frameless portraits In defiance, out of the ash, rose my voice Kaleb Kilton (c) 2016

My whole being is a dark chant that will carry you perpetuating you to the dawn of eternal growths and blossomings in this chant I sighed you, oh in this chant, I grafted you to the tree, to the water, to the fire.

My wife is a thief... She takes the last cookie Takes forever to get ready She takes her time in the shower Takes all of the hot water She takes my favorite seat on the couch Takes the high road when I lose control My wife is a thief... She took my last name Took the time to get to know me, love me She took the back seat and let me lead Took on motherhood and the emotional toll that it brings She took care of me the many times that I've gotten sick Took on the pain of pregnancy so that the Jackson legacy would live on My wife takes, and takes, and takes... I'm so proud of my perpetual thief who stole my heart and won't give it back.

My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound. My mind, I hope, will soon be found.

My wild heart craves shadows. Like a bat unfurling its wings, I open myself to darkness; I open myself to truth.

My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content – please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write.

NAMING THE EARTH (a poem of light for national poetry day) And the world will be born again in circles of steaming breath and beams of light as each one of us directs our inner eye upon its name. Hear the cry of wings, the sigh of leaves and grass, smell the new sweet mist rising as the pathway is cleared at last. Stones stand ready - they have known since ages and ages ago that they were not alone. Water carries the planet's energy into skies and down to earth and bones. The cold parts steadily as we come together, bodies and hearts warm, hands tingling. We are silent but our eyes are singing. We look, we feel, we know, we trust each other's souls, we have no need to speak. Not now, but later, when the time is right, the name will ring within the iron core of each other's listening - and the very earth's being. Every creature, every plant, will hear it calling, tolling like a bell - a sound we've always felt but never dared to hope to hear reverberating - true at last, at every level of existence. The poets come together to open the intimate centre. Believe in life and air - breathe the light itself, for these are the energies and rhythms that we need to see, to touch, to reach, to identify, to say, the NAME. Colours on your skin fuse and dissolve - leave the river clean for pure space and time to enter and flow in. We all become one fluid stream of stillness and motion, of flaring thought pulses discovering weird pools and twists within where darkness hides from the flames in our eyes but will not snare us. We probe deeper still, journeying towards a unity which will be more raw and yet also more formed than anything written or spoken before. Our fragile bodies fall away - and the trees, and the roots of trees, guide us - lead us away from the faces we remember seeing each day in the mirror - into an ocean of dreams seething with warmth, love, where the beginning is real, ripe, evolving. And the world is born again in circles of steaming breath and beams of light. An ache - a signal - a trembling moment - and the time is right to say the name. We sing as one whole voice of the universal - all the words, the names of every tiny thirsting thing, and they ring out together as one sound, one energy, one sense, one vibration, one breath. And the world listens, beats, shines, glows - IS - Exists!

My words are my children. I am eternally grateful to the womb of my mind for conceiving them.

Nagorno Karabakh we sold, without the faintest sigh, We auctioned off our factories until our wealth ran dry, Now we are slaves or exiles, thieving strangers are our lords, For whom our prostrate backs a wide and easy road affords.

Na hum kisi k, na koi hamara, Kon chale saath, kon bane Sahara, Beet Gaya vo waqt, kal jo tha hamara, Reh Gaya bas dard, aur ek zakhm gehra, Aksar yaad aata, uska woh chehra, Kuch bhooli baatein, aur hasna woh hamara, Jate jate aksar, uska woh ruk jana, Aur ye kehna, kaash thaher jaye ye waqt hamara, Jabhi yaad karta hu mein, apna woh waqt sunhera, Saath chali aati hai, uski yaadon ka pehra, Ab aur kya bataun, khul na jaye ye raaz hamara, Varna mazaak udayegi ye duniya, Tuta dil hai bechara, Na hum kisi k, na koi hamara, Kon chale saath, kon bane Sahara

Não sou alegre nem sou triste: sou poeta.

Nails that claw by a beautiful mind. A pretty face can leave you blind - Poem 'Small Pain' from 'The B Word: The B in LBGTQ Poetry'.

Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —

Nature enhances her beauty, to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries by truth and by his art, but with this consolation in his pursuits, that they will draw all men sooner or later. For all men live by truth and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.

Når jeg genkalder mig Ikaros, bliver jeg meget sørgmodig og forvirret. Han var branket kobber, et hjerte, jeg bar ham på min læbe. Jeg blev vingerne, eller jeg blev voks, noget af mig smeltede til Ikaros. Nu, når krybenes bælge flækker, tænker jeg på det. Småkrybene dør med forbløffelsens lethed, næsten som om de bøjer sig brat ned efter en sten. Når der er mange kryb på én gang, fokuserer jeg helst på de små: deres bløde maver, kinder, tynde negle. Jeg vugger dem i min mund, til det hele er opløst. Før så jeg på dem som fjerne kusiner, nu tænker jeg på dem som børn. Du ser, hvor galt det er fat med mig. M.

Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.

...nature itself is a poem that we humans have written [...and] the imagination is the principle vehicle of human progress.

Nature, it seems, is the popular name for milliards and milliards and milliards of particles playing their infinite game of billiards and billiards and billiards.

neither for me honey nor the honey bee

Neither pathway is correct.

Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.

Neuere Poeten tun viel Wasser in die Tinte. (More recent poets put a lot of water in the ink.) -- Goethe: Aus Makariens Archiv. Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre. III 18