Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

revenge was never my intention. -but it still tastes sweeter than honey

Rhynia, haute de cinquante centimètres, doit son nom au lieu de sa découverte dans le comté de Rhynie, en Écosse, où elle fut engloutie lors d’une éruption volcanique. Il y a des Pompéi de fleurs.

Riddle! what goes up when rains come down

Rip my heart into pieces I will turn them into letters Hurt me until i gust out tears I will turn them into words Punish my thoughts with misery I will turn them into poetry

Ritual Version —for Kate Middleton humself, shamself, hymnself, shameself—. lameself, lambself, numbself, unself—. sing anger, goddess, of—. many devices—. sing anger godless—. tell me who—. sacred in the sea suffered so many woes—. bookshelf, doubtshelf, debtshelf, riftshelf—. driftshelf, truthshelf, foolshelf, rueshelf—. sing less the many souls sent—. they perished—. sing spoils for the dogs—. who swallowed down the foolish song—. the soul and its companions—. nounself, nonceself, nonself, lashself—. ashself, lawself, thoughtself, aughtself—. tell me, muse, from any point—. and birds—. sing less the wrath of—. a man’s cleverness—. tell also us—. of recklessness—. of home—.

Right words are born in courage, which results from our struggle to make sense of our various predicaments. Cheer is what words are "trying to tell us/... It's native to the words/and what they want us always to know/even when it seems quite impossible to do.

Risk arrest Run Play a children's game Hire a sitter Lift baggage Open doors Open a window Open your mind Expand your patience Feel peace Cause excitement Kiss the children

Rise Again One goal goes by the wayside Some watch sneering arms folded Laughing at you until the end Until you have the last laugh You've courage you're no riffraff Another will lend you a hand You're apparently not left for dead You rise again and all is fine Defeat no matter how crushing That seemingly final act they consing Is speckle of dust to you the leaning Majestic Tower of Pisa still standing How dissapointed they must be Thinking they have the master key More bogus then a midnight sun Yet you stand on a solid foundation Your destiny is beyond what anyone Or anything can give or take from you Dangling hope strings attached rescue Instead rise and face the morning dew You the sun reclaiming your den From the frost,beams of hope chasing You are alone but alive again Shining the sheen of your green You rise again free no one's lien You are alive because you alaone Can decide the meaning of the dust If they had meaning to begin with Kaleb Kilton (c) 2016

Rim are there horizons where there is no horizontal where mountains fold space, hold distance up? embedded in a canyon our heads tilt instinctively. here earth meets sky, we can reach it; the rim does not shimmer and recede. we lean into diagonal lives, relieved of right angles eyes, arms, hearts drawn upward, vectored to ridgelines keenly aware of the slant of time, its shape and substance; it is a wedge; it moves along ray-stroked slopes; we pass into it, are passed over.

Romantic haste in drama brings tears and sighs when the hero dies but the curtain fall is final when in life we take the tragic way The sunset too is a glorious thing but with it ends the day.

Robot Boy Mr. an Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life. They were a normal, happy husband and wife. One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad. Mrs. Smith would would be a mom which would make him the dad! But something was wrong with their bundle of joy. It wasn't human at all, it was a robot boy! He wasn't warm and cuddly and he didn't have skin. Instead there was a cold, thin layer of tin. There were wires and tubes sticking out of his head. He just lay there and stared, not living or dead. The only time he seemed alive at all was with a long extension cord plugged into the wall. Mr. Smith yelled at the doctor, "What have you done to my boy? He's not flesh and blood, he's aluminum alloy!" The doctor said gently, "What I'm going to say will sound pretty wild. But you're not the father of this strange looking child. You see, there still is some question about the child's gender, but we think that its father is a microwave blender." The Smith's lives were now filled with misery and strife. Mrs. Smith hated her husband, and he hated his wife. He never forgave her unholy alliance: a sexual encounter with a kitchen appliance. And Robot Boy grew to be a young man. Though he was often mistaken for a garbage can.

Root yourself in this earth and it will root itself in you.

Robert Frost didn’t like to explain his poems—and for good reason: to explain a poem is to suck the air from its lungs. This does not mean, however, that poets shouldn’t talk about their poetry, or that one shouldn’t ask questions about it. Rather, it suggests that any discussion of poetry should celebrate its ultimate ineffability and in so doing lead one to further inquiry. I think of that wonderful scene from Elie Wiesel’s memoir, Night, where Mosche the Beadle of the local synagogue, in dialogue with the young, precocious author, explains: “Every question possesses a power that does not lie in the answer.

ROSEMARY Beauty and Beauty’s son and rosemary— Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly— born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary— since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers—white originally— turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when thirty-three— it feeds on dew and to the bee “hath a dumb language”; is in reality a kind of Christmas-tree.

Roses have thorns,’ we whine. When thorns of life entwine. Simple things can bring solace to heart-Things everyone take for granted-Like tending beds of fragile roses-with heart full of scars

Rouge of my heart, intertwined with double-hued destiny, Thread of my thoughts, constant and rubicund legacy, Filament of my future, endeared unto my expectation, Cord of my emotion, seared with eternal elation.

Rusted Flowers From her heart’s tear-salted soil, rusted flowers grew. A serrated beauty; wounding all those who bent near.

running with sharp knives never got me so far but running with you seemed lovely

Saat kehilangannya, hanya ada dua pilihan untuk membuat hatimu kembali bernyawa. Pertama, kau bisa memilih kembali mencinta dan berhak hidup bahagia. Segera melupakan dia yang tak mungkin bersamamu saat tua. Kedua, kau perlu benar-benar beristirahat untuk menyembuhkan segala luka. Menolak segala cinta untuk memperbaiki diri menjadi lebih bijaksana. Hanya dua pilihan, alasan mengapa pada akhirnya kau cepat memiliki pasangan, atau bertahan dalam kesendirian.

Sacred space in which To distil, like amber, The best of your love.

Sadness taught me to let someone hurt me and yet still talk beautifully about them.

Sadness is the ambrosia of all art.

Salt waters shall be found in the sweet, and all friends shall destroy one another; then shall wit hide itself, and understanding withdraw itself into his secret chamber-

Salt Marsh Goddess by Michelle Joers "You may need a super-human super-hero super-natural god/dess, hammer or harp in hand, horse-bodied or jackal-headed, Lady of the Lake or Lord of the Seas.* But I have the deep, deep ocean and strong winds driving waves upon the shore driving me to my knees for absolution driving me to oblivion; I have a sun that warms tender shoots, crooning them from the loamy body of a Living Earth; The caress of the Willow branch as I lie beneath her roots, book in hand, and squirmy child in lap. The Salt Marsh Goddess speaks to me in ringing tones, as clear as any god of myth does for you & she speaks in a thousand tongues— Spartina, Juniperus, Myrica, Sesarma, Uca, Littorina, Malaclemys, Ardea, Alligator …just to name a few. I have prayed at her temple as the tide pours into my boots And divined my future with her bones I have bled for her | I have tasted her flesh And drank of her blood | And given her mine While you argue over how to resurrect gods of long passed cultures, I’ll be the one covered in mud and dancing with the rushes, celebrating a goddess born of glaciers.

Sadness is an invitation to God.

Sad smo samo dva srca izmedju mnogih drugih srca.

Sand lines my soul which is filled with the breath of the ocean.

]Sardis often turning her thoughts here ] you like a goddess and in your song most of all she rejoiced. But now she is conspicuous among Lydian women as sometimes at sunset the rosyfingered moon surpasses all the stars. And her light stretches over salt sea equally and flowerdeep fields. And the beautiful dew is poured out and roses bloom and frail chervil and flowering sweetclover. But she goes back and forth remembering gentle Atthis and in longing she bites her tender mind

Sataa kirsikan kukkaslunta ja lumen kirsikankukkaa. Minä kysyn kevväältä: lunta, kukkaa vai lunta?

say, beautiful & point to the map of your body say, brave & were your skin like a gown or a suit say, hero & cast yourself in the lead role /// when a girl pronounces her own name there is glory when a woman tells her own life story she lives forever

savor with me the lushness of a lingering sleep... and last night’s dream.

Say you could view a time lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, “an infinite storm of beauty.” The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth’s face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting, and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up- mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash-frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and crumble, like paths of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any image but the hunched shadowless figures of ghosts. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

Scent of old books a mystery; a secret port of the dreamers.

Say No! Accept the burdens of revenge.

Say you could view a time-lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, “an infinite storm of beauty.” The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth’s face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by a widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up-mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too swift and intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and then crumble, like patches of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues that roamed the earth’s surface, are a wavering blur whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any images. The great herds of caribou pour into the valleys and trickle back, and pour, a brown fluid. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, like a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

Scenes from the Playroom Now Lucy with her family of dolls Disfigures Mother with an emery board, While Charles, with match and rubbing alcohol, Readies the struggling cat, for Chuck is bored. The young ones pour more ink into the water Through which the latest goldfish gamely swims, Laughing, pointing at naked, neutered Father. The toy chest is a Buchenwald of limbs. Mother is so lovely; Father, so late. The cook is off, yet dinner must go on With onions as her only cause for tears She hacks the red meat from the slippery bone, Setting the table, where the children wait, Her grinning babies, clean behind the ears.

Scatter as a prayer escaping my lips... as orchids blooming in clouds.

Science ask facts and religion ask faith, humans are confused between life and death.

Science is the poetry of reality.

Science neither cares to please nor to displease. She is inhuman. It is not science but poetry that charms and consoles. And that is why poetry is more necessary than science.

Science has given us a great lie. It is this lie that ends the current age of faith in God.

Science makes discoveries when it admits to not knowing, poetry endures if it looks hard at real things. Nature writing, if such a thing exists, lives in this territory where science and poetry might meet. It must be made of both; it needs truth and beauty.

Scientist alone is true poet.

Sea Prayer was inspired by the story of Alan Kurdi, the three-year-old Syrian refugee who drowned in the Mediterranean Sea trying to reach the Safety in Europe in 2015. In the year after Alan's death, 4,176 others died or went missing attempting that same journey.

Scrape away the rust from these jaded eyes and let me see again the wild wonder of life; to know in joy and pain what a miracle it is to feel anything at all.

Screw the false notion of "politically correct". No matter what race, nationality, creed or color you are. If you are a real writer then you are writing in the real world. Write about it and stand up for yourself as well as other writers.

Sealing your lips makes your eyes talk Truth creeps beneath your lame feet’s walk Knees stiffen when blood vessels stalk A pounding heart’s lies hard as rock

Seasons,the sad dreams and happiness give,like in on end,the bleak summers bear heart-felt sighs of death that circles the grave;and church bells toll loudly so deep and drear.

Sebagaimana senja senantiasa menyapa manusia, sebagaimana gemintang senantiasa menemani rembulan. Sebagaimana puisi yang berkasih sayang. Begitupula aku yang merangkulmu, pada cinta untuk kembali pulang.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness