Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

I see You, Every time I look into Buddha’s eyes. I give myself to You. Every time I alter one of Your 1,000s names. Honestly & fully I love You. Through Christ and Maria, Shiva and Shakti, Krishna and Radha, With every day that passes and every breath I take. I enter gratitude for receiving Your Love. Obeying Your Laws of Truthfulness and Ahimsa, Weaving Prana With hearts and souls of Gaia. Through mysticism, shamanism, sufism, and ecstatic meditations. I yearn to touch You, to feel You, to be You. Within this amazing Journey of Awareness of Your Consciousness.

I see the reflection, the alter-ego, my all capital name, CROWNED. Wore it proud like a title but realized it wasn't who I truly was so I looked within and found the fact of who I Am. Now I look back and ask "What's a king to a god & to God?" Eat on the bread and sip on the wine, feed on these words and be divine.

...I see you as series of gestures, a palette of colors -all these tiny tiles pixelate, and then coalesce... into the idea of you...

I shivered in those solitudes when I heard the voice of the salt in the desert.

I see your picture and in that picture I didn't see you.

I sent my words out onto the wind to paths unseen and parts unknown in hopes people will enjoy this book of poetic words I've sown

Is her name nightmare, some mothball ambition slammed into hard shoes suspended from cain't nobody do me like shame having sex with terror.

I shoot the man who told me my womanism is of the devil As if he knew the demons that trouble me These demons that trouble me Have no trouble shooting you They shoot you They will not pray For God’s forgiveness I always knew I had a little bit of heathen in me. Always knew I had a lot of woman in me. We shoot you

She is ancientness. She has lived forever. It has driven her insane.

I shall have my lasso, I shall lead the course; I recognize it’s time to mount a different horse.

Ishwara Algorithm Should we sleep to know how to sleep? Should we breathe to know how to breathe? We must be aware to know how to be happy? Clearly not! Happiness is oblivion!

I should think a poet president would be able to create a delectable confluence of various spaces. A poet is most political.

I sit and watch The sunsets with the tears Flowing down my cheeks I wake up before the sunrise And look for you until the night

Is it not enough to dip your tongue into my soul and write poetry?

I sit on a rock and watch children playing in the park below They don't see me Or know my thoughts Or that you haven't called But I forgive them their indifference today Above me a crow caws Perhaps he smells the crumbs on my dress Or my anger But he flits away over the trees Probably has a home Probably has a wife Probably knew to call The children leave The coffee in my can turns cold The wind nips at me Some street lights flicker on But I won't move Not yet I will wait for the night to chase me Back where I came from Up the empty street To a quiet house

Is it not funny, in the presence of an unlimited God, we will still be stucked? Sometimes faith overwrites the fact, that some people have not come to realise. Stop giving excuses and telling God what is happening around you. You have the tools.

... I slipped our wicker bed and walked the sands where we were also roughly repeated: some young couple, "you did," "I didn't," "you sure the fuck did" – they hugged that bicker to their chests like blankets fighting cold.

Is it too aggressive of me to say I want to rip the past into shreds? I cannot change how I feel, and you cannot change how catastrophically this ended. I do not want to remember anything— not you,      not how my heart heals differently now. I want you to stop existing in the past as easily as you stopped existing in my future.

Is it well that I should wish to leave this dreary world behind, seeking for your fair utopia, which perchance I may not find?

I slept like a rock Coming through my window Woke up with new light

i smile. things taken for granted have a way of catching you offguard when you least expect it, and then you're taken by what the portuguese calls saudade, a sense of longing for something, someone not there anymore.

I sit there bloodless And my lust, too It rings

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was you madness?

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee, And yet thou are not there; I fill my arms with thoughts of thee, And press the common air.

I Sometimes Touch my wounds And damn They still hurt me the most

I speak here of poetry as a revelatory distillation of experience, not the sterile word play that, too often, the white fathers distorted the word poetry to mean--in order to cover a desperate wish for imagination without insight. For women, then, poetry is not a luxury. It is a vital necessity of our existence. It forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action. Poetry is the way we help give name to the nameless so it can be thought. The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.

Isn’t it time that, loving, we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured: as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight, something more than itself?

Isn't it true that a pleasant house makes winter more poetic, and doesn't winter add to the poetry of a house?

Isn't it time that, in love, we freed ourselves from the loved one and, trembling, endured: as the arrow endures the string, collecting itself to be more than itself as it shoots?

I sometimes think you despise poetry,' said Phineas. 'When it is false I do. The difficulty is to know when it is false and when it is true.

I stand still inhaling the beauty of our memories, Flashbacks of our togetherness burn my flesh and I breathe love through every single skin pore. (Excerpted from The room, chapter Pain)

I speak of something not in this world. I speak of someone whose purpose is elsewhere.

I stand in my own power now, the questions of permission that I used to choke on for my every meal now dead in a fallen heap, and when they tell me that I will fall, I nod. I will fall, I reply, and my words are a whisper my words are a howl I will fall , I say, and the tumbling will be all my own. The skinned palms and oozing knees are holy wounds, stigmata of my She. I will catch my own spilled blood, and not a drop will be wasted.

I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I'm 56 and I often want to write like a child.

I spent one full hour convincing some friends that women said poems in Ireland before Eavan Boland. The women friends are suspicious. They have English degrees.

..i spill into the kind of silence only Khalil Gibran would understand.

I spill my emotions and hopes on pieces of paper and pixels of screens, combining and creating, merging traditional methods with artificial means.Words carved in ink and electricity to facilitate simplicity and eradicate toxicity. No matter what fashion, form, font, method or avenue, the simplest and most meaningful words remain ever so true; I choose and love, only forever you.

I spill my heart on pure white pages, and let the ink dance and twirl into the splattered story of my soul.

I Starve my Belly for a Sublime Purpose Three days I starve my belly so that it learns to eat the sun. I say to it: Belly, I am ashamed of you. You must spiritualize yourself. You must eat the sun. The belly keeps silent for three days. It’s not easy to waken in it higher aspirations. Yet I hope for the best. This morning, tanning myself on the beach, I noticed that, little by little, it begins to shine.

Is there life before death? That’s chalked up In Ballymurphy. Competence with pain, Coherent miseries, a bite and a sup, We hug our little destiny again.

Is the healing process the writing or the reading of that writing? What are we all healing from? Ourselves? What are we all healing towards? Ourselves?

Is there any reward? I'm beginning to doubt it. I am broken and bored, Is there any reward Reassure me, Good Lord, And inform me about it. Is there any reward? I'm beginning to doubt it.

Is this some enigmatic type of test? What if we Fail? How and to whom do we address our appeal?

Is this where the light faded out forever? Where the cat was finally killed by caught tongue? Where hand no longer wandered over curious texture? Where words no longer moved past lips but died in a quiver?

I still have a lot of growing to do and I know there is more room for it in your absence.

I still remember you as a little girl who overwaters plants because she doesn’t know when to stop giving.

I stood there on the corner of the street, I held on to your hand, I looked into your eyes, And all you responded with was, "move on

I stopped telling you all of my secrets when you became my biggest one.

I stood in your doorway this morning dreaming you’d turn around you’d tilt your head you’d softly whisper ”stay” or that you’d grab my arms to shake me while asking what the hell are we doing we love each other and this is not right so we will make this work now stay! You poured your coffee. Stirred the spoon like a crystal man with your back to me and not a sound. the fridge humming elegies while the clock ticked on and the streets are so clean here people rushing to work and maybe I should be too by now at this age this stage this town. I will stand in that doorway dreaming for many nights to come.

I strike the ground with the soles of my feet and life rises up my legs, spreads up my skeleton, takes possession of me, drives away distress and sweetens my memory. The world trembles.