Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

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 death in reverse is the rewinding of life. I do not die of old age, in a bed surrounded by strangers my loved ones paid to take care of me. I die in reverse. I die falling back into a younger age. From my forty-five years to twenty-five. To sixteen. When we were in love. To fourteen: when we first met. To five. To one. To the hospital my mother died at from the complications of my existence. A life for a life.

Adios Her pretty picture lying on the ground was like the toppling of some fascist regime And burning the photograph, was the celebration

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.

Admittedly, I'll admit to thee that no one is above the 'I Am' in themselves. So look to God for common people are as worthless as a puff of wind, and the powerful are not what they appear to be. If you weigh them on scales, together they are lighter than a breath of air.

Adorn ritual; decorate shrines of love, hope, tranquility. Be significant. Arrive deliberate. . .

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.

Aegean Islands 1940-41 Where white stares, smokes or breaks, Thread white, white of plaster and of foam, Where sea like a wall falls; Ribbed, lionish coast, The stony islands which blow into my mind More often than I imagine my grassy home; To sun one's bones beside the Explosive, crushed-blue, nostril-opening sea (The weaving sea, splintered with sails and foam, Familiar of famous and deserted harbours, Of coins with dolphins on and fallen pillars.) To know the gear and skill of sailing, The drenching race for home and the sail-white houses, Stories of Turks and smoky ikons, Cry of the bagpipe, treading Of the peasant dancers; The dark bread The island wine and the sweet dishes; All these were elements in a happiness More distant now than any date like '40, A. D. or B. C., ever can express.

Adventures kept hidden, words kept silent. You became my greatest secret. And when you left, no one knew the source of the pain I felt. No one knew you existed, except my writhing heart.

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 drinks and the world was hers— she wore her whiskey like a loaded gun.

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 fallen blossom returning to the bough, I thought -- But no, a butterfly.

A feeling struck me one fine day that people call ‘love’, Before that my life was empty, all I had was loneliness and sorrow… I loved the way it felt being with him, for I felt up above, Now everything was complete and nothing remained hollow… That person who cupid made me fall for, was a God descended from heavens, I loved him with all I had, a true heart and a pure soul… I thought I achieved the meaning of life, never did I felt so glad, But when he left me amidst a chaos, I had no one with me to console… I cried, it hurt, I wept and screamed, everyone called me ‘mad’, And still I wonder if in my life, that actually was his role… But a string still binds me to my past of untold vow, Some unsaid promises that linger between us even now, Although I don’t know where he went after that fateful day… I still try to convince myself every day, I know how, Each moment has been tough, each day a new challenge… Each hour passed as if it was my heart that always allowed, One more day to live without him, one more day to cherish… One more day to spend without the love of my life somehow, But he doesn’t know that one day, the girl herself would perish… Who loved him and lived each day of her life in his wait, For the man who never returned, for the man who wasn’t in her fate…

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

A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.

A fleeting second on someone's news feed, No dearth of meanings for those who read, Not my stories but 'tis what I think, I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

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 fortress built long ago, Walls made timeless by historic glory. The small girl in the boat slows, To listen to its story.

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 all these years, all I know is, I need not to do anything as a part of remorse. All I need is to write. Because,'Poetry forgives.

After a night of insomnia the body gets weaker, Becomes dear but no one’s — not even your own.

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 a noticeable silence, he'd recently published a book of technically baffling poems, with line breaks so arbitrary and frequent as to be useless, arrhythmic. On the page they look like some of Charles Bukowski's skinny, chatty, muttering-stuttering antiverses. Impossibly, Mark's words make music, the faraway strains of an irresistible jazz. It's plain to any reader, within a few lines—well, go read the poems and see, Marcus Ahearn traffics with the ineffable. He makes the mind of the speaker present, in that here-and-now where the reader actually reads—that place. Such a rare thing. Samuel Beckett. Jean Follain, Ionesco—the composer Billy Strayhorn. Mark calls his process "psychic improvisation" and referred me to the painter Paul Klee; the term was Klee's. "You just get out a pen and a notebook and let your mind go long," he told me.

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.

After the final no there comes a yes. And on that yes the future world depends. No was the night. Yes is this present sun.

After seven days of fasten so it was, that the thoughts of my heart were very grievous unto me- and my soul recovered the spirit of understanding.

After you left I stared at the driveway Feeling its emptiness Wondering if you’d return. After you left I thought about your questions Wishing I hadn’t been so blunt Wondering if I scared you away. After you left I remembered how you felt in my arms. How you fit so perfectly there. Like my guitar. Wondering if I should have kissed you when I had the chance. After you left I sat in my room Remembering all the things you said, and Wondering about all the things you didn’t. After you left I sat in silence. Missing you in a way I didn’t quite understand. Wondering if you’d ever come back.

After this I don’t think I will ever love again Perhaps it is the only way to be saved

Against Self-Pity It gets you nowhere but deeper into your own shit--pure misery a luxury one never learns to enjoy.

Age in itself gives substance — what has lasted becomes a thing worth keeping. An older poem's increasing strangeness of language is part of its beauty, in the same way that the cracks and darkening of an old painting become part of its luminosity in the viewer’s mind.

A girl whose name is Love Is lost. Simple, beautiful, She is lost.

a generation: the black night gave me black eyes still I use them to seek the light

A good starts with breakfast; no matter what I'm going through, a good breakfast with friends, family, or tribe helo me and others start the day right and better. a professional practice I follow as retaught to me by a mentor who was a 3 star general when he held the meeting until i and c others had a full breakfast. Good leadrrship and a lesson with kindness.

A good writer never tells your secrets, they tell their own. They sacrifice themselves and surrender you.

A great Hope fell You heard no noise The Ruin was within Oh cunning wreck that told no tale And let no Witness in

A great poet must have the ear of a wild Arab listening in the silent desert, the eye of a North American Indian tracing the footsteps of an enemy upon the leaves that strew the forest, the touch of a blind man feeling the face of a darling child.

A great poet gives words wings to fly in the reader's perceptual sky.

A happy poet who writes about his window and the glass doors of his bookcases that reflect pensively a beloved, lonely vastness. This is the poet I would have liked to become (...)

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!" — but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

Ah! It is you again. You enter in this house Not as a kid in love, but as a husband Courageous, harsh and in control. The calm before the storm is fearful to my soul. You ask me what it is that I have done of late With given unto me forever love and fate. I have betrayed you. And this to repeat -- Oh, if you could one moment tire of it! The killer's sleep is haunted, dead man said, Death's angel thus awaits me at deathbed. Forgive me now. Lord teaches to forgive. In burning agony my flesh does live, And already the spirit gently sleeps, A garden I recall, tender with autumn leaves And cries of cranes, and the black fields around. How sweet it would be with you underground!

Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty fleeing flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night.

He is a type of our best — our rarest. Electrical, I was going to say, beyond anyone, perhaps, ever was: charged, surcharged. Not a founder of new philosophies — not of that build. But a towering magnetic presence, filling the air about with light, warmth, inspiration. A great intellect, penetrating, in ways (on his field) the best of our time — to be long kept, cherished, passed on... It should not be surprising that I am drawn to Ingersoll, for he is 'Leaves of Grass.' He lives, embodies, the individuality I preach. 'Leaves of Grass' utters individuality, the most extreme, uncompromising. I see in Bob the noblest specimen —American-flavored—pure out of the soil, spreading, giving, demanding light. {Whitman's thought on his good friend, the great Robert Ingersoll}

… Fourier's great mathematical poem ... {Referring to Joseph Fourier's mathematical theory of the conduction of heat, one of the precursors to thermodynamics.}

Maya Angelou entered our lives at Virago in 1984, when we first published I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. "Entered our lives" is too tame. She danced, sang, and laughed her way straight into our hearts. She brought us a best-seller, but more than that, she brought us a reminder that the human need for dignity and recognition is a gift easily given to one another, but also frighteningly easy to withhold.

Ah, there are so many things betwixt heaven and earth of which only the poets have dreamed! And especially ABOVE the heavens: for all Gods are poet-symbolisations, poet-sophistications!