Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

There was a sound you could smell / like you were inhaling tomorrow.

There was a time when I do not understand poetry.

There were days when I still put on make up in case you’d come back, but I wear the same clothes and shower in the rain and eat when I can and sleep when I can, which is rare and not often, so if you’d see me now on these streets where I once imagined walking with you you’d have a hard time recognising me. I takes a lot to run away.

There will not always be scientific men, perhaps, but there always will be poets.

There were things I wished I'd said And done But it is too late now So I go Heavy with my offering This book, this book

There will always a glimmer in those who have been through the dark.

There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say "She asked for storms." The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving mI haven't locked the door, Nor lit the candles, You don't know, don't care, That tired I haven't the strength To decide to go to bed. Seeing the fields fade in The sunset murk of pine-needles, And to know all is lost, That life is a cursed hell: I've got drunk On your voice in the doorway. I was sure you'd come back.

There will never be an end To this droning of the surf.

There will always be the facts of life to contend with, and there are times when the facts can become overwhelming. Yet, there is a poem at the heart of things and a mythic story in the heart of each of us. At certain times it is the poetry of life and the mythic imagination of the soul that become necessary in order to heal the wounds inflicted by an excess of reason or an overuse of force. When we unfold the story wound within our souls and untie the knots within us, we add presence to the world and contribute to the spirit of life in a specific and authentic way.

The River Mogami has drowned Far and deep Beneath its surging waves The flaming sun of summer

The rich flow of creativity, innovation, and almost musical complexity we are looking for in a fulfilled work life cannot be reached through trying or working harder. The medium for the soul, it seems, must be the message. The river down which we raft is made up of the same substance as the great sea of our destination. It is an ever-moving, firsthand creative engagement with life and with others that completes itself simply by being itself. This kind of approach must be seen as the "great art" of working in order to live, of remembering what is most important in the order of priorities and what place we occupy in a much greater story than the one our job description defines. Other "great arts," such as poetry, can remind and embolden us to this end. Whatever we choose to do, the stakes are very high. With a little more care, a little more courage, and, above all, a little more soul, our lives can be so easily discovered and celebrated in work, and not, as now, squandered and lost in its shadow.

THE RIGHT POEM FINDS US EXACTLY WHEN IT NEEDS TO. —ATTICUS

The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

The rock has split, the egg has hatched, the prismatically plumed bird of life has escaped from its cage. It spreads its wings and is perched now on the peak of the huge African mountain Kilimanjaro. Strange recompense, in the depths of our despair at the unfathomable mist into which all mankind is plunging, a curious force awakens. It is Hope long asleep, aroused once more. Wilson has taken an army of advisers and sailed for England. The ship has sunk. But the men are all good swimmers. They take the women on their shoulders and buoyed on by the inspiration of the moment they churn the free seas with their sinewy arms, like Ulysses, landing all along the European seaboard. Yes, hope has awakened once more in men's hearts. It is NEW! Let us go forward! The imagination, freed from the handcuffs of "Art", takes the lead! Her Feet are bare and not too delicate. In fact those who come behind her have much to think of. Hm. Let it pass.

The romantic boy told her that her mother was like the oyster of the sea. Not because she carried the most beautiful shell, but because her daughter was a pearl.

The sacred bequest Of times long spent with your heart That saturate and illuminate you now So piercingly…

the saddest thing is to be a minute to someone, when you've made them your eternity.

The same hopes, dreams and wishes Deep, flirty and playful kisses Collectively as one, never imagined apart Proof of togetherness from the very start

The same night, the same rain.

The saddest word in the whole wide world is the word almost. He was almost in love. She was almost good for him. He almost stopped her. She almost waited. He almost lived. They almost made it.

The same things that make you unique in this world, make you a target for the archers consumed by fear and jealousy.

the sapphire depth of my own love...startles and warms and wounds my soul.

THE SCRIBE Under the wings Of the feathered Goddess And in the middle Of the three dancing women, The scribe comes alive To reveal mysteries hidden Through divine gifts given The scribe is driven On his mission To wake up All the universe's Men, women and Heavenly children. Under the seven rays of Aten, And from the age of just ten, The scribe comes alive With the ink Of his luminous pen. Below the spectacle of the moon, And in the smile of the sun, The scribe is here to show us How we are all one. THE SCRIBE by Suzy Kassem

The sea loved the moon When she was supposed to love the shore. The moon knew And hence made his intentions known. That she should love the shore Who was destined for her. Yet his protests seemed weak. And even when he pushed her towards the shore- She always retreated back. To want, to need, to love the moon For all she's worth. Everyone said, it wasn't meant to happen. Yet, the Tsunami rose that night for their union.

The scribbles in my notebook are a reflection of you. Every line holds your name. Every paragraph a feature of yours I love. Each page is a memory of moments that took my breath away. Of times when I laughed more than my lungs would allow. My notebook is full, but I always knew only one would hardly contain all of you.

The sea is a desert of waves, A wilderness of water.

The sea is old and getting older/ but without noticeably ageing - /water is always now

The sea is dangerous, they say, but not if you're the sea.

These and other tools help poems call our attention to moments when the ordinary nature of experience changes--when the things we think we know flare into brighter colors, starker contrasts, strange and intoxicating possibilities.

The seasons bring to life the living lyre

The sea, the sea… Man alone, Passive, unaware In his elemental sadness.

These be they that have put off the mortal clothing, and put on the immortal, and have confessed the name of God: now are they crowned, and receive palms.

These bones I carry were borrowed from women much stronger than I. Know that when you need them, you can borrow mine.

These aren't still shots; the camera is always moving. And the scene is always just slipping out of sight, as if in spite of myself I were always descending a hill, rounding a corner, stepping into the street with a companion who urges me on, while I look back over my shoulder at the sight which recedes, vanishes. The present of my consciousness is itself a mystery which is also always just rounding a bend like a floating branch borne by a flood. Where am I? But I'm not. "I will overturn, overturn, overturn, it: and it shall be no more. . . .

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

The secret of poetry is never explained - is always new. We have not got farther than mere wonder at the delicacy of the touch, & the eternity it inherits. In every house a child that in mere play utters oracles, & knows not that they are such. 'Tis as easy as breath. 'Tis like this gravity, which holds the Universe together, & none knows what it is.

These hands will never go away they will scoop you up at anytime anytime that you want to be loved

These Hoes Just Gon Fuck Who Ever Poppin , You Better Be Careful, When you fuck em' Raw!

The secret to life is to live as though you know the secret." Barbara Botch

These dreams are disappearing Speak and be misunderstood Or be silent and good and as how far as it look These dreams are disappearing.. Put hopes in a box and tie It's either protect it or die Maintain the truth or talk a lie These dreams are disappearing.. Mountains of gold and a lovely cat a house by a lake and a lovely chat a day in paradise and all of that These dreams are disappearing.. Chase a purpose of life and do and be the one you wanted to and be with who have always wanted you These dreams are disappearing.. Run in pace and catch the sun Raise a family and have a son Build a home, not only one These dreams are disappearing.. In daily wars like on regular bases In daily problems a puzzled mazes In daily issues and complications These dreams are disappearing.. Nothing is lost but nothing is healing All is gone and all is leaking Some hope to hold on to and keep dreaming Although these dreams are disappearing... Ahmed Adel Hassona

The seed of our love will always cube within the wonder of infinite.

these hips are big hips. they need space to move around in. they don't fit into little petty places.

These fragments, these shivers of my heart Are mere lifetimes enclosed in a minute

These hands are unlike any other strong but gentle caring loving and understanding

The sense of modernism is often seen in the determination of each of the arts to come as close as possible to its own particular nature, its essence. For instance, lyric poetry rejected anything rhetorical, didactic, embellishing, so as to set flowing the pure fount of poetic fantasy. Painting renounced its documentary, mimetic function, whatever might be expressed by some other medium (for instance, photography). And the novel? It too refuses to exist as illustration of a historical era, as description of society, as defense of an ideology, and instead puts itself exclusively at the service of “what only the novel can say.

The senses give both us and the animals access to the natural world, but we humans have superimposed a second world by internalizing a poem, thereby making the two worlds seem equally inescapable. Outside of the natural sciences, reason works within the second world, following paths that the imagination has cleared. But inside those sciences, nature itself shows the way,

the sense of things remains in the intensity of their names

These places I traveled through, they were a lot like the people I knew. Some abodes I muddled about for a day or two, others entertained my thoughts for a year or a few. Each place and person gave me wisdom or growth, and, if I was lucky, sometimes I'd get both.

These poems are cups that I pour my love into. Here, Drink!

The self on tiptoes sneaking away from the self.