Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

You can't make poetry out of thought; poetry is passion. Linear thought must be seduced by wild mind, by the fires of ecstasy.

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

You speak As one who fed on poetry.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

...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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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!

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

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. . .

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.

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

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 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 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