Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men.

Use love as the only instrument to question the world around you.

UP You wake up filled with dread. There seems no reason for it. Morning light sifts through the window, there is birdsong, you can't get out of bed. It's something about the crumpled sheets hanging over the edge like jungle foliage, the terry slippers gaping their dark pink mouths for your feet, the unseen breakfast--some of it in the refrigerator you do not dare to open--you will not dare to eat. What prevents you? The future. The future tense, immense as outer space. You could get lost there. No. Nothing so simple. The past, its density and drowned events pressing you down, like sea water, like gelatin filling your lungs instead of air. Forget all that and let's get up. Try moving your arm. Try moving your head. Pretend the house is on fire and you must run or burn. No, that one's useless. It's never worked before. Where is it coming form, this echo, this huge No that surrounds you, silent as the folds of the yellow curtains, mute as the cheerful Mexican bowl with its cargo of mummified flowers? (You chose the colours of the sun, not the dried neutrals of shadow. God knows you've tried.) Now here's a good one: you're lying on your deathbed. You have one hour to live. Who is it, exactly, you have needed all these years to forgive?

üstadım şimdi şöyle bir mesele var ama dur ayaküstü konuşmayalım atıfta bulunalım ahır hayvanlarına sevişmeyi böyle bir karara bağlayalım.

Usually when your imagination is bigger then one's comprehension, this normally means you've out grown the small circle. Get with like-mined people and go after your vision. By T-cupp

Verily it is a foolish thought that they both have devised, for the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea also had its place to bear its floods.

..."vers libre," (free verse) or nine-tenths of it, is not a new metre any more than sleeping in a ditch is a new school of architecture.

Versifying left her cold. Poems were too close to prayer, rousing regrettable passions. Waiting for God to rescue you when it was up to you. Poetry and prayer put ideas in people's heads that got them killed, distracting them from the ruthless mechanism of the world.

Very early on, the Hungryalists had announced, rather brashly, their lack of faith and what they thought of god. To them religion was an utter waste of time, and they made no bones about this. In fact, in one of their bulletins, they had openly denounced god and called organized religion nonsense. Many of the Hungryalists, with their sharp knowledge of Hindu scriptures, had been challenging temple elders on the different rituals and modes of worship. This came as a shock to many, in a country where religion was very much a part of everyday life—a matter of pride and culture even. On the other hand, Ginsberg was evidently quite taken with religion in India and sought out sadhus and holy men wherever he went in the country. While this might have been because he was in search of a guru, he seemed to be fascinated, in equal measure, by the sheer variety that religion opened for him in India—from Kali worship to Buddhism. But like the Beats, the Hungryalists came together in denouncing the politics of war, which merged with their larger world view.

Vanessa insisted that film was exactly like poetry. Nothing necessarily had to happen; you just had to feel something.

Veins of ivy scale stones, find footholds but the caretaker cuts earth short, peels creepers from Cotswold rock and props the dead head to head so they won’t topple like drunks on their moss-soft shadows.

Verse is everywhere in language where there is rhythm, everywhere, except in notices and on page four of the papers. In the genre called prose, there are verses [...] of all rhythms. But in truth there is no prose: there is the alphabet, and then verses more or less tight, more or less diffuse.

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi- questa morte che ci accompagna dal mattino alla sera, insonne, sorda, come un vecchio rimorso o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi saranno una vana parola, un grido taciuto, un silenzio. Così li vedi ogni mattina quando su te sola ti pieghi nello specchio. O cara speranza, quel giorno sapremo anche noi che sei la vita e sei il nulla. Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo. Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi. Sarà come smettere un vizio, come vedere nello specchio riemergere un viso morto, come ascoltare un labbro chiuso. Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.

Very Like a Whale One thing that literature would be greatly the better for Would be a more restricted employment by authors of simile and metaphor. Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts, Can'ts seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have to go out of their way to say that it is like something else. What foes it mean when we are told That the Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold? In the first place, George Gordon Byron had had enough experience To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of Assyrians. However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and thus hinder longevity, We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity. Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a wolf on the fold? In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy there are a great many things, But i don't imagine that among then there is a wolf with purple and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings. No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was actually like a wolf I must have some kind of proof; Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big red mouth and big white teeth and did he say Woof woof? Frankly I think it very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say, at the very most, Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host. But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them, With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers to people they say Oh yes, they're the ones that a lot of wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them. That's the kind of thing that's being done all the time by poets, from Homer to Tennyson; They're always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison, And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm. Oh it is, is it, all right then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of snow and I'll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical blanket material and we'll see which one keeps warm, And after that maybe you'll begin to comprehend dimly, What I mean by too much metaphor and simile.

Victims of police brutality is not new. It happened to me and can happen to you. I hope you learn a lesson or two From this incident I've been through.

VIEWING HEAVEN’S GATE MOUNTAINS The River Chu cuts through the middle of heaven's gate, The green water flowing east reaches here then swirls. On either bank the blue hills face towards each other, The flatness of a lonely sail comes from by of the sun.

Vila the White, Built a City up height, Not in the Heavens, not on the ground, But on the edge of a Cloud, Vila the White, Put defenses the bright: Gold defends the heights, Sun defends the gate, Moon defends the City when it's late, Vila the White, Stood with Sun at sight, Watching what comes from the bay, And saw Lightning and Thunder play, Vila the White, Wed her son on Moon at night, And gave her daughter to Gold, as bride, They have couple brothers, she's their brother's wife.

VILLAIN. By Omrane Khuder. Staggering, tripping, stumbling down the tightrope, hastening to be set free. Yearning to be protected by the Superhero, before the Villain’s revulsion ingests me. Misplacing my footing on the tightrope, hands sweltering as the rope is pulled away. Glancing down at the fire below me, the chuckling Villain has won today. Little did I know, it was He setting me free. Little did I know, the tightrope was me.

Violence can read like poetry. You just have to describe the act as if you’re in love with the way your characters bleed.

VISIONS OF GRANDEUR I'm walking through a sheet of glass instead of the door, Flying over a giant candlestick lighting up Central Park, Repeating two courses at Hard Knock's College, And swimming through the Red Sea with silky jelly fish. I'm hopping over an empty row house in Philadelphia, Getting a seventy dollar manicure on a gondola in Venice, Wearing a white pearl necklace stolen from Goodwill, And running my first New York City marathon. I'm discussing the meaning of life with my late cat Charlie. Dating John Doe- the thirty-third chef at the White House, Running non-stop on a broken leg through a bomb-blasted city, And keeping a multi-lingual monkey named Alfredo as my pet. I'm spying on two hundred and twenty-two homegrown terrorists from Iowa, Worshiped by a red-headed gorilla named Salamander, Sleeping with a giant teddy bear dressed in black leather, And wearing hot pink lipstick over a shade of midnight blue.

VISITING THE TAOIST PRIEST DAI TIANSHAN, BUT NOT FINDING HIM A dog's bark amid the water's sound, Peach blossom that's made thicker by the rain. Deep in the trees, I sometimes see a deer, And at the stream I hear no noonday bell. Wild bamboo divides the green mist, A flying spring hangs from the jasper peak. No-one knows the place to which he's gone, Sadly, I lean on two or three pines.

Virtually everyone needs motivation of some sort, but when you are in love - that is motivation enough, it turns many into poets and painters, it spurs the creativity in you.

Você não acorda um belo dia e se transforma em borboleta - crescer é um processo

Voll Blüten steht der Pfirsichbaum nicht jede wächst zur Frucht sie schimmern hell wie Rosenschaum durch Blau und Wolkenflucht. Wie Blüten geh'n Gedanken auf hundert an jedem Tag -- lass' blühen, lass' dem Ding den Lauf frag' nicht nach dem Ertrag! Es muss auch Spiel und Unschuld sein und Blütenüberfluss sonst wär' die Welt uns viel zu klein und Leben kein Genuss.

Wafting hypnotic love through the air You see what we unravel, what is wasted In our house of severed horns, We have only our own stardust to fear

Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie, Lorsque nous étions si jeunes tous deux, Et que nous n'avions au coeur d'autre envie Que d'être bien mis et d'être amoureux! Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre âge à mon âge, Nous ne comptions pas à deux quarante ans, Et que, dans notre humble et petit ménage, Tout, même l'hiver, nous était printemps!

Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. The desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don’t go too early. You’re tired. But everyone’s tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving our loves again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Wake up wild one! Your mind is a cageless bird waiting to fly to uncharted lands. Like the phoenix, you'll rise again with renewed vigor, clarity, compassion and insight.

Wake up, wake up!' He said to me 'No, I'm still sleepy, do not disturb me' Wake up me child, see the beauty Don't cry, wipe your tears, He said to me 'No, I'm so lonely, Nobody understands me' Don't cry my child, embrace the beauty Don't panic, be calm, He said to me 'No, you don't understand, I need to earn money' Don't struggle my child, connect to the beauty Don't blame or attach, He said to me 'How can I be loving, When they hurt me?' Don't retaliate my child, show them the beauty Don't withhold your love, He said to me 'How can I give Father When they only take from me?' Don't fear my child, I replenish the beauty

Walk and love We're walking in love For the walk of love

Waldo nodded and waved goodbye pathetically, like a young father going off to war. As soon as the door was closed and he was gone, Jeanne squelched her own apprehensions, opened the paper and read the poem Waldo had written for her: One taste of Jeanne and out I flew Wildly, madly, in no direction But hers, and yet so straight and true I fly towards her with no protection It feels so strange to move this way Though I should land, desire it seems Moves in strange circles and so I stay Disoriented beyond my wildest dreams.

Walk a bit further. There is a different land not far away. The people in it have the magic to break the icy fingers of the great death. I heard that you don’t even have to pay. However, you have to find their door. It is only found by those who pay the other price.

Walking away ends a battle in the heart of one, and starts a war in the soul of another.

...Want to know why my roses grow dead on a living vine? Prayer against civil war. Let us hate with a single heart. Don't drink the runoff. I always wanted a ruin so I bought a run-'er-down. Love contaminates

Walking with my doggy is so much fun! And she makes me laugh, she makes me run. Licking she likes to make some good new friends, Kindly enough with cyclists who spin with no end.

Walk the midway and hear the carnival barker. Come see the freak named after his deceased father. Come see the prince who wants to abdicate his throne. Come see the son whose name is carved on a gravestone.

(Wallace) Stevens turns to the idea of the weather precisely as the religious man turns to the idea of God.

Wars against nations for the necessity of lifes crumbs, oh how pitiful, falling for this pit full of lies, now a destiny of failures is inevitable. It's incredible, this deceit is immeasurable, God please enable me to be eligible from this trickery by perfecting my credibility.It's a building of my minds pyramids as if I belong to the secret society of masonry.

Warm someone's cheek Whisper Caress Kiss for 10 seconds, or more, or for the rest of your life Be there Love Long Belong Be loyal Be love Be with someone always Belong to yourself

Warm bodies littered across these streets But none to call my own

Wars, wars, wars': reading up on the region I came across one moment when quintessential Englishness had in fact intersected with this darkling plain. In 1906 Winston Churchill, then the minister responsible for British colonies, had been honored by an invitation from Kaiser Wilhelm II to attend the annual maneuvers of the Imperial German Army, held at Breslau. The Kaiser was 'resplendent in the uniform of the White Silesian Cuirassiers' and his massed and regimented infantry... reminded one more of great Atlantic rollers than human formations. Clouds of cavalry, avalanches of field-guns and—at that time a novelty—squadrons of motor-cars (private and military) completed the array. For five hours the immense defilade continued. Yet this was only a twentieth of the armed strength of the regular German Army before mobilization. Strange to find Winston Churchill and Sylvia Plath both choosing the word 'roller,' in both its juggernaut and wavelike declensions, for that scene.

Watch carefully the magic that occurs when you give a person enough comfort to just be themselves.

Watch, how the sun slowly rises from behind my ear new lines, new countries spring up in my palms my rough hair become swaying silk and all the leaves in my body become lusher than fruits.

Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) They hung my black young lover To a cross roads tree. Way Down South in Dixie (Bruised body high in air) I asked the white Lord Jesus What was the use of prayer. Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) Love is a naked shadow On a gnarled and naked tree.

Watch out for love (unless it is true, and every part of you says yes including the toes) , it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won't be heard and none of your running will end. Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Watch me go. Watch me. Because you said i couldn't. Because you thought I wouldn't. Go on, cry now. Cry.

Wawashkesh these apples are for you, red on the white snow, their cider tang will find you in the gray woods. There is a story how a snake offered an apple, so sweet, so cold, those bite was sorrow. --excerpt from Eric Gadzinski's poem "Wawashkeshgiwis" from The Way North

We all have a god and a poet inside us. The poet, the human; the god, the divine. It is by the grace of our god that we can find the divine inspiration with which to wax poetic about our human experiences.

We aim to be men who’ll make our mothers proud, but we end up making them cry, and are only slightly better than our fathers, at best

We all must face death and walk with it. But we also must love and live in it.