Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble

You never wish on shooting stars. You wish on the ones that have the courage to shine where they are.

You snipe so steady, you snub so snide, so rip and ready to diminish and deride.

2a.m and a ceiling stained with question marks.

You speak As one who fed on poetry.

21. Muurahaisten sokerijalat, täyttymystahmeat. Niiden keinuvat mustat siivet, valosta varjoon soljuvat varret. Auringon myöhäiset sormet höyhenillä, niin tuuliset ja viipyilevät. Niin kuin se, mikä on kahden välillä löytää paikkansa, lepäämättä. Tai niin kuin leikki alkaa surusta, leikillä on kehä, sen keskellä aina joku, unohtunut valo hiuksillaan, muistuttaa merestä johon aurinko uppoaa niin tuulisesti, niin tuulisesti ja viipyilevästi kuin iholla rakastetun sormet. Tapaaminen joka on aina viimeinen, leikin keskellä, ulkopuolella leikin, ei surun.

22 Ιουνίου 1962 - Ελάτε πίσω, τον τροχό - Benoy Majumder Ας πάμε, αν το κάνεις, το νερόμυλο, τη σπασμένη καρδιά, την καρδιά. Μείνετε μακριά από όλη την ειρήνη, την ικανοποίηση, όλα ξεχασμένα. Απλά κρατήστε την καρδιά της γεμάτη από την καρδιά της. Τα μακρύτατα μάτια του ήταν στη θάλασσα, στη θάλασσα Βαθιά κλήση, σκιά, σύννεφα, windstorm, ουρανό, άνεμος Άλογα σαν τραυματικό yosemite Τις διαρκείς σκέψεις του. Πρώτη φορά σχισμένο Το μυστικό του δέρματος είναι σαν ένα μυστικό, γλυκό e-πόνο. Ας πάμε όλη τη φωτιά, το νερόμυλο, τη σπασμένη καρδιά, την καρδιά.

5.57am and I’m finishing the last poem to the taste of the last cigarette. Smoke in my lungs, poetry on the paper. Inhale, exhale, it doesn’t get much easier.

...4-5-6: when time escapes the day in its most beautiful way. She starves for that beauty, she longs to quench her limitless thirst, but those moments are so fleeting and their limit is her unrest. Her bones are hollow and heavy as she takes a single step, and in that instant she is gone, blinded by the flash of a stray ray of light, her eyes close in that moment and stars flood her night. She falls forward slow, counting the half seconds of her descent. Her eyes stay closed, her thoughts are spent.

1. kembali pada onggokan kota tua, perempuan pada sebuah pertemuan apa itu definisi? tanya mereka lalu kemana perginya pertemuan? kata cinta kapal-kapal finisi membawa berita dari negeri seberang tentang sisifus yang belum juga kelelahan bukan naik ke atap gunung yang ia tuju, tetapi ketabahan menjalani kesia-siaan.

500 years /n another nail in the cross what's the difference anymore if it rains

3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.

7. But what kind of love is it, really? Don’t fool yourself and call it sublimity. Admit that you have stood in front of a little pile of powdered ultramarine pigment in a glass cup at a museum and felt a stinging desire. But to do what? Liberate it? Purchase it? Ingest it? . . . You might want to reach out and disturb the pile of pigment, for example, first staining your fingers with it, then staining the world. You might want to dilute it and swim in it, you might want to rouge your nipples with it, you might want to paint a virgin’s robe with it. But still you wouldn’t be accessing the blue of it. Not exactly.

A Blessing on the Poets Patient earth-digger, impatient fire-maker, Hungry word-taker and roving sound-lover, Sharer and saver, muser and acher, You who are open to hide or uncover, Time-keeper and –hater, wake-sleeper, sleep-waker; May language’s language, the silence that lies Under each word, move you over and over, Turning you, wondering, back to surprise.

A Bohemian life, filled with poetry, it cuts like a knife, without coquetry!

Abolish these categories of pain (or is it love) Let it all be one pain Pain swallows itself, dies like a star.

A Brief Awakening In the vastness of the out-rushing cosmos, you are but tiny—a warm and pulsing spark. Against all odds, your birth a brief awakening from silent eons spent sleeping in the dark. When you feel your heart swell with wild wonder at the dazzling diamond chandeliers of night, know your body was built from ancient stardust and the universe now sees through your eyes. So let the breath of sweet gratitude fill you, as the light of each new day begins. For this moment itself is a miracle, and to live it is your privilege my friend.

Abortive time: unwilling to tarry Daylight begins to hide into the heat His moonless night desires to be starry Those lame knees want to break down on his feet From the poem Sonnet For A Man (Part I)

Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.

Absence of problems    does not lead to happiness.      Dealing with them does.

¿Acaso no oyes al viento cuando pasa silbando mensajes? Tu alma existe, pero no gravita.

A beautiful poem is nothing but a mirror of philosophy through which we can see life’s pure beauty.

A blooming flower pleads, oh thee! Look at me, to see the beauty, Kiss me like a bee, To feel the bliss, To taste the nectar of life And just to feel and be. Kiss me like a wave kisses the shore In an endless dancing sea, again and again, just to be.

A book about books is like a poem about poetry: Books are knowledge, paid for, all. Readers - horses in a stall. Stallions should always run. Lest they stale become, in turn. Running waters are most clear. In some books, you disappear – lose yourself, and track of time. How I wish that one was mine... Mine, to have, to write, to read... Mine, just like a flying steed. Mine, forever, - to improve. Would I then, of me, approve? I would not, I can't... myself. I'm but dust, swept off a shelf. Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled, down, beside my flower, petalled.

A black boy brought Wilson's gin and he sipped it very slowly because he had nothing else to do except to return to his hot and squalid room and read a novel - or a poem. Wilson liked poetry, but he absorbed it secretly, like a drug. The Golden Treasury accompanied him wherever he went, but it was taken at night in small doses - a finger of Longfellow, Macaulay, Mangan: 'Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love...' His taste was romantic. For public exhibition he has his Wallace. He wanted passionately to be indistinguishable on the surface from other men: he wore his moustache like a club tie - it was his highest common factor, but his eyes betrayed him - brown dog's eyes, a setter's eyes, pointing mournfully towards Bond Street.

Above the dark town After the sun's gone down Two vapour trails cross the sky Catching the day's last slow goodbye Black skyline looks rich as velvet Something is shining Like gold but better Rumours of glory...

[About describing atomic models in the language of classical physics:] We must be clear that when it comes to atoms, language can be used only as in poetry. The poet, too, is not nearly so concerned with describing facts as with creating images and establishing mental connections.

A bush-warbler, Coming to the verandah-edge, Left its droppings On the rice-cakes.

a broken mirror tries hard to fix itself everytime she smiles at it

absence looks like a lake bed flooded with sky sounds like cotton howling tastes like tear-stained pillows smells like churning bile and burnt hair feels like screaming agony, my heart dying and dying

A butterfly in a caterpillar prison Illustrates a solitary ideal, that ideas are the insects of achievement set aloft by chromatic, galactic wings.

A chronic poet should always be an inveterate nature-lover.

A clock ticking on a wall, a fake laugh, a boy only thinking for himself.

A coward is a servant of his fears. A hero enslaves his fears.

Across the centuries the moral systems from medival chivalry to Bruce Springsteen love anthems have worked the same basic way. They take immediate selfish interests and enmesh them within transcendent, spiritual meanings. Love becomes a holy cause, an act of self-sacrifice and selfless commitment. But texting and the utilitarian mind-set are naturally corrosive toward poetry and imagination. A coat of ironic detachment is required for anyone who hopes to withstand the brutal feedback of the marketplace. In today's world, the choice of a Prius can be a more sanctified act than the choice of an erotic partner. This does not mean that young people today are worse or shallower than young people in the past. It does mean they get less help. People once lived within a pattern of being, which educated the emotions, guided the temporary toward the permanent and linked everyday urges to higher things. The accumulated wisdom of the community steered couples as they tried to earn each other's commitment. Today there are fewer norms that guide that way. Today's technology seems to threaten the sort of recurring and stable reciprocity that is the building block of trust.

A crust of bread and a corner to sleep in, A minute to smile and an hour to weep in, A pint of joy to a peck of trouble, And never a laugh but the moans come double; And that is life! A crust and a corner that love makes precious, With a smile to warm and the tears to refresh us; And joy seems sweeter when cares come after, And a moan is the finest of foils for laughter; And that is life!

ACTS OF LOVE Love is not a word Or a thought. It is the name for An action That breathes from its light. What do you DO In Love's name? And is it only done Outside In the light? Or with an inner Flame Illuminating Love's TRUE Name? I want to know. Are your actions Done by remote Or with SOUL? And when you say You love someone, Does a light go off Inside at all? What have YOU Done In the Name of LOVE? Because, Really, I want to know.

A day that's free, a man that's free, A spring like this invites a spree! Seek out the shade of a plane tree To spread a rug that's rainbow-spun- And hail the country of the Sun!

A demon seduced an angel in the middle of the night and they gave the stars a glimpse. There was nothing casual about it, it was tender skin and battle scars breathless passion under storm clouds a rapid river stream mirroring the moon light. Until one day, he left her with nothing, just a bruised heart and carved memories iridescent wings chipped on the edges heat under her skin, like an ember burning low. I asked her, "What do you do after a love like that?" She laughed. And madness danced behind her eyes. But she flew so high the world was jealous.

A drop of darkness above me hung,within me ruined Rome,within me demolished Rome, where those lands my dream would well travel, before that I want to die without blame,so let me see ten thousand moons to Dream.

Aeneas' mother is a star?" "No; a goddess." I said cautiously, "Venus is the power that we invoke in spring, in the garden, when things begin growing. And we call the evening star Venus." He thought it over. Perhaps having grown up in the country, among pagans like me, helped him understand my bewilderment. "So do we, he said. "But Venus also became more...With the help of the Greeks. They call her Aphrodite...There was a great poet who praised her in Latin. Delight of men and gods, he called her, dear nurturer. Under the sliding star signs she fills the ship-laden sea and the fruitful earth with her being; through her the generations are conceived and rise up to see the sun; from her the storm clouds flee; to her the earth, the skillful maker, offers flowers. The wide levels of the sea smile at her, and all the quiet sky shines and streams with light..." It was the Venus I had prayed to, it was my prayer, though I had no such words. They filled my eyes with tears and my heart with inexpressible joy.

A espantosa realidade das coisas É a minha descoberta de todos os dias. Cada coisa é o que é, E é difícil explicar a alguém quanto isso me alegra, E quanto isso me basta. Basta existir para se ser completo.

A few cold words on yonder stone, A corpse as cold as they can be -­ Vain words, and mouldering dust, alone -­ Can this be all that's left of thee? O, no! thy spirit lingers still Where'er thy sunny smile was seen: There's less of darkness, less of chill On earth, than if thou hadst not been. Thou breathest in my bosom yet, And dwellest in my beating heart; And, while I cannot quite forget, Thou, darling, canst not quite depart.

A far horizon embraced by cloud like a nameless God beautiful and evaporating

A flower is Mother Nature’s ‘tap on the shoulder’ to stop and look … A poem is an author’s ‘tap on the shoulder’ to find the flowers.

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand; but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon, when I don't know, if you will ever come back.

A friend is a companion for the journey, never a means to our own. What we take we take together, the joy we reap, we have sown.

A fruitless year, take a fearless heart One that blooms late will flourish in the dark

after Ernest Hemingway a road. a sign. Like a yellow kite flying in the sky last week the old bookmark Cul-de-sac. pull away wrong turn Window open a song adrift among the grass buttoned white shirt Sweat absorbed vest back to back Stars on the highway a black gap closes Wild strawberries in red.

After I was caught returning at dawn from one such late-night escapade, my worried mother thoroughly interrogated me regarding every drug teenagers take, never suspecting that the most intoxicating thing I’d experienced, by far, was the volume of romantic poetry she’d handed me the previous week. Books became my closest confidants, finely ground lenses providing new views of the world.