Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

For a poet reality is mysterious, imaginations are magical, and perceptions are magnificent.

For books are more than books, they are the life The very heart and core of ages past, The reason why men lived and worked and died, The essence and quintessence of their lives.

for a poem Needs multitude, multitudes of thoughts, all fierce, all flesh-eaters, musically clamorous Bright hawks that hover and dart headlong, and ungainly Gray hungers fledged with desire of transgression, salt slimed beaks, from the sharp Rock-shores of the world and the secret waters.

For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth.

For a scientist must indeed be freely imaginative and yet skeptical, creative and yet a critic. There is a sense in which he must be free, but another in which his thought must be very precisely regimented; there is poetry in science, but also a lot of bookkeeping.

For as long as I shall live, I look forward to never growing old with you.

For even the best err in words when they are meant to mean most delicate and almost inexpressible things.

Forcing the muse to let thoughts flow; equals to pushing a child, into labor.

Forever, if she promises to never part the ocean where the river sings.

For every moment of suffering, Others will arrive That will instead pierce you with joy.

For each of us is A separate miracle In a collective miracle Brought together For a moment By a group of notes And a scan of words From the heart Of one Who dares To think That others Might feel As he feels

Forget the ones who tell you you are not enough and wait for the ones who tell you you are everything.

forge forever on tho' dark death rewards us all forge forever on

Forget decorated generals, tell me about Private Ryan.

Forget scientists. The next space launch we should send up painters, poets and musicians. I’d be more interested in what they discover than anything that takes place in a test tube.

Forgive often and completely.

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.

Forgiveness. How hard it is to be Love. Forgiving ourselves, forgiving others, forgiving ourselves for not forgiving others, forgiving others for not forgiving us... Love should not be such a painful struggle for us. We yearn for Love so badly, yet direct so much of our efforts on shoving it away. Breathe, breathe, and breathe. Hold those uncomfortable energies tightly, accepting, loving, thanking them, until that immense pain melts away. It feels like you'll never feel better again, it would be so much better to run as far away from these energies & feelings as possible. But then, they'll only be back later, more tears, more pain, more heartache, until we finally comfort those energies, and thereby ourselves.

Forgiven of my sins so it's a discharge of my crimes. Commercially speaking, intervals between these programmed shows, keep your eyes glued to the set watching this literacy flow. Intentional means, I intend my influence to outlive me like Martin Luther the King, Martin Luther and his dream.

...for if a woman's body can attract the holy angels, how much more the unholy man.

For if in careless summer days In groves of Ashtaroth we whored, Repentant now, when winds blow cold, We kneel before our rightful lord; The lord of all, the money-god, Who rules us blood and hand and brain, Who gives the roof that stops the wind, And, giving, takes away again; Who spies with jealous, watchful care, Our thoughts, our dreams, our secret ways, Who picks our words and cuts our clothes, And maps the pattern of our days; Who chills our anger, curbs our hope, And buys our lives and pays with toys, Who claims as tribute broken faith, Accepted insults, muted joys; Who binds with chains the poet’s wit, The navvy’s strength, the soldier’s pride, And lays the sleek, estranging shield Between the lover and his bride.

For it has come about, by the wise economy of nature, that our modern spirit can almost dispense with language; the commonest expressions do, since no expressions do; hence the most ordinary conversation is often the most poetic, and the most poetic is precisely that which cannot be written down.

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back, My heart goes sighing after swallows flown On sometime summer's unreturning track.

For her The greatest adventure Of life is Simply a conversation She stands as a rock She is indestructible Her love feels so perfect In an imperfect world She is one hell of the universe

For it is up to you and me to take solace in nostalgia's arms and our ability to create the everlasting from fleeting moments.

For homeland is something embalmed in someone else’s memory, or it is a symbol, both close to the heart and a stranger you reach for in the middle of the night.

For if our bodies aren’t our own, And justice isn’t ours, And our love is just a sin, And voices by the people Are no longer for the people, What have we left to lose?

For I have nothing to lean on, nowhere to call my home and there is nowhere I will go for Christmas to rest my head and touch familiar walls. I have no degree to show on paper or employment to take care of my health or the reassurance that I can pay my rent. And I have no right to complain because this is the road I choose and I built it myself, not really knowing where I wanted it to lead, but I have hope in all things ahead and behind and I am learning to let myself go. Forget my own ego and believe that what I am doing is grander than my very own self.

For me,I got rebirth through a direful- mystical accident,the accident was my ‘life’ self.My curiosity never ceased throughout my travel.I sold myself for imaginations.I swam with my pallid imaginations whenever I troubled in life.

For me the poem and the poetry open mic isn’t about competition and it never will be. Honestly? It's wrong. The open mic is about 1 poet, one fellow human being up on a stage or behind a podium sharing their work regardless of what form or style they bring to it. In other words? The guy with the low slam score is more than likely a far better poet-writer than the guy who actually won. But who are you? I ? Or really anyone else to judge them? The Poetry Slam has become an overgrown, over used monopoly on American literature and poetry and is now over utilized by the academic & public school establishments. And over the years has sadly become the "McDonalds Of Poetry". We can only hope that the same old stale atmosphere of it all eventually becomes or evolves into something new that translates to and from the written page and that gives new poets with different styles & authentic voices a chance to share their work too.

For like as the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea to his floods: even so they that dwell upon the earth may understand nothing but that which is upon the earth: and he that dwell above the heavens may only understand the things that are above the height of the heavens.

For me, you are fresh water that falls from trees when it has stopped raining. For me, you are cinnamon that lingers on the tongue and gives bitter words sweetening. For me, you are the scent of violins and vision of valleys smiling. And still, for me, your loveliness never ends. It traverses the world and finds its way back to me. Only me.

forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word or a verse and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations.

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusion of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years ago.

For once, engulf, not air, but hope. For once, breathe on, a firm belief!

For our generation walks as in Hades, without the divine.

For poetry and I are one To separate is to decapitate For my poetry is forever.

...for poets, at least, experiencing something inexpressible does not mean silence. It's precisely the inexpressible something that poetry is meant to help us see or feel. If it were merely expressible - if there were nothing ineffable about it - there would be no need for a poem. But everywhere in the Bible we meet reality that exceeds our expectations.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!

For soon the leaves, Having gone black, would fall, and the annulling snow Would pillow the walk, and we, with shovels in hand, would meet, Bow, and scrape the sidewalk clean. What else would there be This late in the day for us but desire to make amends And start again, the sun’s compassion as it disappears.

For that you should read the original. In very great poetry the music often comes through even when one doesn't know language. I loved Dante passionately before I knew a word of Italian.

For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute: Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

…[F]or the Lovers the place of worship Is the arch of the Beloved’s eyebrows. O Morning breeze, if you perchance Should find where my Beloved dwells, Search in her dark tresses Our broken hearts entangled there…” ―Amir Khusrow Dehlavi

For the Wife Beater's Wife With blue irises her face is blossomed. Blue Circling to yellow, circling to brown on her cheeks. The long bone of her jaw untracked She hides in our kitchen. He sleeps it off next door. Her chicken legs tucked under her She's frantic with lies, animated Before the swirling smoke. On her cigarette she leaves red prints, red Like a cut on the white cup. Like a skin she pulls her sweater around her. She's cold, She brings the cold in with her. In our kitchen she hides. He sleeps it off next door, his great Belly heaving with booze. Again and again she tells the story As if the details ever changed, As if blows to the face were somehow Different beating to beating. We reach for her but can't help. She retreats into her cold love of him And looks across the table at us As if across a sea. Next door he claws out of sleep. She says she thinks she'll do something After all, with her hair tonight.

…[F]or the Lovers the place of worship Is the arch of the Beloved’s eyebrows. O Morning breeze, if you perchance Should find where my Beloved dwells, Search in her dark tresses Our broken hearts entangled there…

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but i feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

For the weeping warriors, for the savage saints, for the bleeding mothers with fire in their eyes, for the hidden mystics whose prayers keep the earth spinning, for the buddhas who'll use their teeth when their blades are broken and let their evolutionary ancestors howl through them, this one is for you, my lovelies.

For they can picture love affairs of chemicals and stars...