Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Only poetry isn't shit.

Only one is a wanderer. And when she was sad, she'd go into the streets to be with people.

Only tears can hear the sound of pain when warm blood reddens discolored stain

Only the heart knows...what it did for love.

Only those who look closely will see the beauty between her flaws.

Only those who will love longer than they expected to can truly love pecan pie, which doesn't explain its status as death rows most requested last dessert, or why chopped pecans, corn syrup, directions from the Karo bottle's cherry-red side are what mercy taste like to some. But there you have it.

ONLY TODAY Yesterday can no longer be touched. Tomorrow is out of your reach. So live today, only today.

On my heartstrings, you played the most beautiful music my soul could bear. And when you tugged each string away, my heart lay beating on the floor.

On Not Finding You at Home Usually you appear at the front door when you hear my steps on the gravel, but today the door was closed, not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney. I peered into a window but there was nothing but a table with a comb, some yellow flowers in a glass of water and dark shadows in the corners of the room. I stood for a while under the big tree and listened to the wind and the birds, your wind and your birds, your dark green woods beyong the clearing. This is not what it is like to be you, I realized after a few of your magnificent clouds flew over the rooftop. It is just me thinking about being you. And before I headed back down the hill, I walked in a circle around your house, making an invisible line which you would have to cross before dark.

On such a night,’ I thought, ‘were ill and good, Bright and unlovely; precious, tawdry, All mingled into one And pressed against my heart.

On Sunday, a lambent crevice opened up in the street outside my house, By Tuesday birds were flying into it. "I probably won't miss you," my mother said, "I'm only interested in the end of the world," I replied. Many find it difficult to breath without the atmosphere but we knew how. We just stopped breathing. We're at the Moonlite All-Nite Dinner and they're serving up fruit from the plants growing out of the waitress. The CLOSED sign whispers, "Please, don't touch me." We watch bodies fall to the ground outside like deep-sea creatures surfacing. You turn to me and ask, "Do you ever think about suicide?" I look away from you and close my eyes, eat the raspberries to confuse the blood in my mouth. Now you're in the only car in the parking lot at midnight and you're watching me throw stones at the moon, which hangs low in the sky so he can look into your house. Your sister tried to touch him from her bedroom window once, and he flinched; now he and the oceans watch her with a quiet concern. The lilac sky is trying to rest her head on his shoulder, all trees gradually growing through her. A hummingbird whispers to you, "Be careful, under her dress is her skin," and then builds his nest in the middle of the highway, I look back at you, and you close your eyes.

On the far horizon waved some flicker of light My heart, a city of suffering, awoke in a state of dream My eyes, turning restless, still dreaming, the morning, dawning in this vacuous abode of separation.

On No Work of Words On no work of words now for three lean months in the bloody Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft: To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven, The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft. To lift to leave from the treasures of man is pleasing death That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark. To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice. Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work.

On Paper * some call it poetry but it is just pain on paper _____________________ rassool jibraeel snyman (c) 2015 "The Poetic Assassin

On the ocean of feelings Poetry lies like a princess fairy When the current is opposite, she strives When in rhythm, she is merry…

On the edge of a laughing teacup Did Kubla Kat decree The the corn fritter festooned with medals Shall make the brownies free And so the walls turned to water To let our sorrows drown As the chairs burned themselves for warmth So they need not face the clown Then the spoons burst into song And all the forks they understood As I stared at my talking claws Becasue this catnip is just that good

On these days, I've never felt so hollow. Recollecting the many pieces of me that were lost in past sub-lives. They were the minor characters of my novel life, the sub-plots to the whole story. On these days I was the binding that held the book together, I was not the words.

On Writing Poetry: Take everyday words beyond everyday talent and write them alive.

Open my heart and you will see Graved inside of it, "Italy".

Open the doors of your heart and they will come… And for every cruel arrow, Sweet caresses of delirium also To nourish your soul.

Onwetend van dit alles maakte ik eind vorige eeuw mijn entree in dit discours door aan een tijdschrift te vertellen dat poëzie volgens mij entertainment is. Als iemand dat platvloers vindt, voegde ik er behulpzaam aan toe, had hij volgens mij een te lage dunk van entertainment.

Open your eyes to the warheads I'm dropping. Complete accuracy accurately corrects what's to be seen in precise actuality. It's those powerful pursuits to keep away from the poor house of poverty shelters, elevation like aristrocracy. Entrepreneur League Is Towards Everyone, so take heed. I'm wisdoms keeper, close to mind and heart like love is where I keep her.

Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

On Translating Eugene Onegin 1 What is translation? On a platter A poet's pale and glaring head, A parrot's screech, a monkey's chatter, And profanation of the dead. The parasites you were so hard on Are pardoned if I have your pardon, O, Pushkin, for my stratagem: I traveled down your secret stem, And reached the root, and fed upon it; Then, in a language newly learned, I grew another stalk and turned Your stanza patterned on a sonnet, Into my honest roadside prose-- All thorn, but cousin to your rose. 2 Reflected words can only shiver Like elongated lights that twist In the black mirror of a river Between the city and the mist. Elusive Pushkin! Persevering, I still pick up Tatiana's earring, Still travel with your sullen rake. I find another man's mistake, I analyze alliterations That grace your feasts and haunt the great Fourth stanza of your Canto Eight. This is my task--a poet's patience And scholastic passion blent: Dove-droppings on your monument.

Oracle of Delphi Speaks: In my deep mystery I breathe your fragrance swirling in your odourless soul I return your mystery revealing your destiny deep in the seed of your God Self

Ordinary days deliver joy easily again & I can’t take it. If I could tell you how her eyes laughed or describe the rage of her suffering, I must admit that lately my memories are sometimes like a color warping in my blue mind. Metal abandoned in rain. My mother will not move. Which is to say that sometimes the true color of her casket jumps from my head like something burnt down in the genesis of a struck flame. Which is to say that I miss the mind I had when I had my mother. I own what is yet. Which means I am already holding my own absence in faith. I still carry a faded slip of paper where she once wrote a word with a pencil & crossed it out. From tree to tree, around her grave I have walked, & turned back if only to remind myself that there are some kinds of peace, which will not be moved. How awful to have such wonder. The final way wonder itself opened beneath my mother’s face at the last moment. As if she was a small girl kneeling in a puddle & looking at her face for the first time, her fingers gripping the loud, wet rim of the universe.

Or: I am only trying to slither back into my first skin. Or: I am only trying to remember how it felt not to leak.

. . . Orpheus struck dumb with hindsight.

Or maybe that's not it, I'm just not it.

O rose, you look sick. O rose, wake up and sing.

Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country.

¿Os dais cuenta cabal de la cadena de crímenes tramados por la nena? Crimen número uno: la acusada comete allanamiento de morada. Crimen número dos: el personaje se queda con tres platos de potaje. Crimen número tres: la muy cochina destroza una sillita isabelina. Crimen número cuatro: va la dama y se limpia los zapatos en la cama... Un juez no dudaría ni un instante: «¡Diez años de presidio a esa tunante!». Pero en la historia, tal como se cuenta, la miserable escapa tan contenta mientras los niños gritan, encantados: «¡Qué bien; Ricitos de oro se ha salvado!».

O' sprite full Maia, come attire our lands with your boundless prize,of joyful swelling by the nature's pleasing bloom and green surprise; to sprout a floral bedding round the yards and shades for worthy dales;and birds will spin their adorned bowers over the dewy boughs and vales.

O Time! It may be pitiless, or sad, And now and it brutally shakes the earth. If Time intends to annihilate you, my lad, Go boldly forward, and fight for all you're worth.

O take me from the busy crowd, I cannot bear the noise! For Nature's voice is never loud; I seek for quiet joys. The book I love is everywhere, And not in idle words; The book I love is known to all, And better lore affords.

Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.

O Stunden in der Kindheit, da hinter den Figuren mehr als nur Vergangnes war und vor uns nicht die Zukunft.

Otherwise: the dark, and our bodies, two strange women trying to touch each other.

O sun, heart of the heavens whose blood of light Infuses the vigor which transmutes to azure The black ice strangler of great space obscure I hate you, mask of gold, mist and fire, circular Blind monster blinding all the prey around You who veil the impure dazzling phantasm To the loving vertigo of my avid gazes The visions of the colorless abyss of the void Reversed hollow truth-mask of the other world.

Otherwise, the dark and our mouths, tearing at what bones we found, grinning and hungry for something—something we couldn't, with all our words, name.

Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent. When she came to my bed and begged me with sighs not to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, I told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise. While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fine I devoured her mouth, tender lips divine; and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine. Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.

Our beauty unfolds, we become. The ones that truly value you And the pricelessness of your presence Will stick around to watch the full beauty of the sunset As they gaze through to your soul And feel warmed by your charm As you unfold, as you become

Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.

Our Beasts and our Thieves and our Chattels Have weight for good or for ill; But the Poor are only His image, His presence, His word, His will; - And so Lazarus lies at our doorstep And Dives neglects him still.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come

Our bodies are made of supernova dust, the epitome of ultimate destruction and shatter. And though we are whole, beings with bodies and souls, with cosmos in our eyes and black heart holes, we love as fiercely as the force of creation.

Our confidence in the future restorative justice of God may even give us confidence to do justice ourselves in the present. We are called then, to stretch out the arms of our minds and hearts and to find ourselves Christ shaped, cross shaped, at the intersection of the past present and future of God’s time and our own time. This is a place of intense pain and intense joy, the sort that perhaps only music or poetry can express or embody.

Our deepest beliefs about the universe filter their way up through the soil into the tiny aesthetic decisions that the artist makes. How we make our records. Which color feels right. Rhyme schemes and word choices. These kinds of decisions are rarely made out of purely analytical comparison. They come from the guts. From faith.

Our fate lies in the hands of the things we love and sometimes the things we love are the things that lead us to the fatal destruction of ourselves.

our foundation is rocky because we made a home in each other’s skin. the damage is beginning to show.