Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Nostalgia dies in the pit of my throat from lack of exercise and I buried the word six feet under the pronunciation of hopeful tomorrows.

NOSTALGIA When I was a child, Nostalgia was a tiny postage stamp, I, on this side, My mother, on the other. When I was older, Nostalgia became a ship ticket, I, on this side, My bride, on the other. Later, Nostalgia was a squat tomb, I, outside. My mother, inside. And now, Nostalgia is a coastline, a shallow strait. I, on this side, The mainland, on the other.

No sun—no moon! No morn—no noon— No dawn— No sky—no earthly view— No distance looking blue— No road—no street—no "t'other side the way"— No end to any Row— No indications where the Crescents go— No top to any steeple— No recognitions of familiar people— No courtesies for showing 'em— No knowing 'em! No traveling at all—no locomotion, No inkling of the way—no notion— "No go"—by land or ocean— No mail—no post— No news from any foreign coast— No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company—no nobility— No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member— No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November!

Not a day passes when the eagle of dark depression doesn't take flight in my soul, said Sunay, infusing his words with mysterious pride. But I cannot catch myself. So hold yourself in. All's well that ends well.

Note the lessons a broken heart has taught you but don't ever alter the love you can give. Don't let a broken heart hinder your kind of love.

Not all kisses heal an open wound.

Not everything can be felt and not everything will be ever understood.

Nothing felt like mine anymore, not after you. All those little things that defined me; small sentimental trinkets, car keys, pin codes, and passwords. They all felt like you. And more than anything else, my number - the one you boldly asked for that night, amidst a sea of people, under a sky of talking satellites and glowing stars. You said no matter how many times you erased me from your phone, you would still recognize that number when it flashed on your screen. The series of sixes and nines, like the dip of my waist to the curves of my hips, your hands pressed into the small of my back. Nines and sixes that were reminiscent of two contented cats, curled together like a pair of speech marks. You said if you could never hold me or kiss me again, you could live with that. But you couldn't bear the thought of us not speaking and asked, at the very least, could I allow you that one thing? I wonder what went through your mind the day you dialed my number to find it had been disconnected. If your imagination had raced with thoughts of what new city I run to and who was sharing my bed. Isn't it strange how much of our lives are interchangeable, how little is truly ours. Someone else's ring tone, someone else's broken heart. These are the things we inherit by choice or by chance. And it wasn't my choice to love you but it was mine to leave. I don't think the moon ever meant to be a satellite, kept in loving orbit, locked in hopeless inertia, destined to repeat the same pattern over and over - to meet in eclipse with the sun - only when the numbers allowed.

Nothing conceivable is so petty, so insipid, so crowded with paltry interests, in one word, so anti-poetic, as the life of a man in the United States.

Nothing fills the world quite as poetry does. A poet need not dwell on the pagecount of his life.

Nothing is as endearing as a handwritten letter scribed by the person who holds your heart spellbound.

Nothing is part of everything.

Nothing is inanimate; what is the rest is our interpretation.

nothing is lifeless when the moon writes its screed on the silvern sand silence -From the poem:"The Universe In Blossom

Nothing much bothered you for a while and you kept walking like a silhouette through this town, saying hi’s and goodbyes, acting polite at all times. But there is no fire in your heart; you are not very concerned.

No thought is a stupid thought, those who are thoughtless are thought of as stupid.

Not in all ways (of course), but the animals you know have power: they have abilities humans lack, could be dangerous, could bring life, mean things that mean things.

Nothing would be easier without you, because you are everything, all of it- sprinkles, quarks, giant donuts, eggs sunny-side up- you are the ever-expanding universe to me.

Not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree.

Not sleeping tonight Thoughts incoherent in mind A lucid dream gives solace.

Not merely is the art of the second half of the fifth century influenced by the same experience which formed the ideas of the Sophists; a spiritual movement such as theirs, with its stimulating humanism, was bound to have a direct effect upon the outlook of the poets and artists. When we come to the fourth century there is no branch of art in which their influence cannot be traced. Nowhere is the new spirit more striking than in the new type of athlete which, with Praxiteles and Lysippus, now supplants the manly ideal of Polycletus. Their Hermes and Apoxyomenos have nothing of the heroic, of aristocratic austerity and disdain about them; they give the impression of being dancers rather than athletes. Their intellectuality is expressed not merely in their heads; their whole appearance emphasizes that ephemeral quality of all that is human which the Sophists had pointed out and stressed. Their whole being is dynamically charged and full of latent force and movement. When you try to look at them they will not allow you to rest in any one position, for the sculptor has discarded all thought of principal view-points; on the contrary, these works underline the incompleteness and momentariness of each ephemeral aspect to such a degree as to force the spectator to be altering his position constantly until he has been round the whole figure. He is thus made aware of the relativity of each single aspect, just as the Sophists became aware that every truth, every norm and every standard has a perspective element and alters as the view-point alters. Art now frees itself from the last fetters of the geometrical; the very last traces of frontality now disappear. The Apoxyomenos is completely absorbed in himself, leads his own life and takes no notice of the spectator. The individualism and relativism of the Sophists, the illusionism and subjectivity of contemporary art, alike express the spirit of economic liberalism and democracy—the spiritual condition of people who reject the old aristocratic attitude towards life, with all its gravity and magnificence, because they think they owe everything to themselves and nothing to their ancestors, and who give vent to all their emotions and passions with complete lack of restraint because so whole-heartedly convinced that man is the measure of all things.

Not much more than a broke disgrace who's hooked on tonics, so excuse him if his poker face has puke on it.

Not many get to see this side of him. So, if you do, know that you’re lucky.

Not the bureaucrat's stamp on the folder of our fate. But a knot nonetheless, and not of our making.

Not words. nor laughter. but rather someone who will fall in love with your silence.

Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked, I look with worry on the chambers dark? Already used to ringing high and raw, Already judged not by the earthly law, I, like a criminal, am being drawn along To place of shame and execution long. I see the glorious city, and the voice most dear, As though there is no secret grave to fear, Where day and night, in heat and in cold bent, I must await the Final Judgment...

November the seventh The last Faint cricket

Now, analysis, the breaking of the wholes into parts, is fundamental to science, but for judging works of art, the procedure is more uncertain: what are the natural parts of a story, a sonnet, a painting? The maker's aim is to project his vision by creating not a machine made up of parts but the impression of seamless unity that belongs to a living thing. Looking at an early example of systematic criticism by analysis -- say, Dante's comments on his sonnet sequence La Vita Nuova -- one sees that the best he can do is to tell again in prose what the first two lines mean, then the next three, and so on in little chunks through the entire work. We may understand somewhat better his intention here and there, but at the same time we vaguely feel that the exercise was superfluous and inappropriate. Reflection tells us why: those notations taken together do not add up to the meaning of the several poems. In three words: analysis is reductive. Since its patent success in natural sciences, analysis has become a universal mode of dealing not merely with what is unknown or difficult, but also with all interesting things as if they were difficult. Accordingly, analysis is a theme. Depending on the particulars of its effect, it can also be designated reductivism.

Now and then, I remember you in times Unbelievable. And in places not made for memory But for the transient, the passing that does not remain.

now I'm blinking in a new gloaming and all I see as I'm stretched low down here is a world of women flat on their frozen faces. we are the ground itself, corporeal carpet of cells, softness calloused hard beneath the pebbled soles of the fathers and husbands and brothers and priests and it's a horror if you could see it, a world of women ruined by man's fear.

Now as to magic. It is surely absurd to hold me “weak” or otherwise because I choose to persist in a study which I decided deliberately four or five years ago to make, next to my poetry, the most important pursuit of my life…If I had not made magic my constant study I could not have written a single word of my Blake book [The Works of William Blake, with Edwin Ellis, 1893], nor would The Countess Kathleen [stage play, 1892] have ever come to exist. The mystical life is the center of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write.

Now he's got me hooked and hanging on a fragile thread; How I overlooked the ending: he just wants me dead. I can't let go, he's got control; I'll never be so foolish again to fall in love in love with a fisherman.

Now and then I am asked as to ‘what books a statesman should read,’ and my answer is, poetry and novels – including short stories under the head of novels.

Now hear of the new judgement. You are judged many times more by what you do in groups than for what you do as individuals.

Now I have been a resident of a small English city for four years and here even the strangers are familiar. I am settled and it is unsettling.

Now I have more freedom than I have ever had at any time in my life, and I do only the things I always have. They were empty before, but Selina has given a meaning to them, I do them for her. I am waiting, for her - but, waiting, I think, is too poor a word for it. I am engaged with the substance of the minutes as they pass. I feel the surface of my flesh stir - it is like the surface of the sea that knows the moon is drawing near it. If I take up a book, I might as well never have seen a line of print before - books are filled, now, with messages aimed only at me. An hour ago, I found this: The blood is listening in my frame, And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Fall on my overflowing eyes... It is as if every poet who ever wrote a line to his own love wrote secretly for me, and for Selina. My blood - even as I write this - my blood, my muscle and every fibre of me, is listening, for her. When I sleep, it is to dream of her. When shadows move across my eye, I know them now for shadows of her. My room is still, but never silent - I hear her heart, beating across the night in time to my own. My room is dark, but darkness is different for me now. I know all its depths and textures - darkness like velvet, darkness like felt, darkness bristling as coir or prison wool.

Now I know I'm not broken, For the stars within my soul, Have just built constellations, To keep me feeling whole.

Now I’m sober and I realize, I didn’t drink to escape the world, I drank to escape myself

Nowhere to be touched or explored, not here and not in distance. It’s just a tingle that overflows my brightest dreams. Am I wise or simple-minded to believe that non–existent evidence is not an evidence of non–existence?

Now of all voyagers I remember, who among them Did not board ship with grief among their maps?

No wires tender even as nerves can transmit the impact of our seasons, our catastrophes while we are closed inside them

Now Now is the time… Now is the time – Make a change Now is the time – All is strange Now is the time – Start life anew Now is the time – Cannot stew Heartbreak, loss, pain, and challenges pale Now is the time – Sharp as a nail Now is the time – Take a chance Now is the time – Sing and dance Now is the time – Make a change Now is the time – engage Now is the time…

Now you may hear songs of kindness From every singing bird And from every dancing heart Let kindness be the part of your being

Now while I sat in the day and look'd forth, In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops, In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests, In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds and the storms,) Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women, The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sail'd, And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor, And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages, And the streets how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent—lo, then and there, Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail, And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

Now the poet has to embrace his destined sadness in life,by entering into this ecstatic world of imagination to unroll the heart secrets with his muse,and to happily fulfill her musky moist dreams of Romance.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Ntozake Shange tells us it's not so good to be born a girl. She does not object to being born a girl. She objects to what it means when you are born a girl. She objects to the way that girls are treated. She objects to the way that our dreams are stifled. She objects to the way that we are not taken seriously, we are there as some sort of plaything,

Number me the things that are not yet come- gather me together the dross that are scattered abroad- make me the flowers green again that are withered- Open me the places that are closed, and bring me forth the winds that in them are shut up- shew me the image of a voice: and then I will declare to thee the thing that thou labor to know.

Numb to the words you have left heavy on my skin. Dipped with malice and edged with regret, it's within these shadows you have sanctioned my death. And how naive to once think us equal pillars, when really you were my soul killer. No noble knight, no sheltered haven. Just another devil casting mayhem.

Nunca hubo más comienzo que ahora, ni más juventud o vejez que hay ahora; y nunca habrá más perfección que hay ahora, ni más cielo ni infierno que hay ahora.