Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Neuere Poeten tun viel Wasser in die Tinte. (More recent poets put a lot of water in the ink.) -- Goethe: Aus Makariens Archiv. Wilhelm Meisters Wanderjahre. III 18

ne tappavat itsensä kaasulla, vedellä, tulella, ampumalla, hirttämällä, hyppäämällä, tekemällä harakirin, vuotamalla kuiviin, syömällä tabuja tai tarttumalla sähköön toiset tallentavat itsensä videolle heinäsirkat saapuvat maa väistyy alta kalpeat miehet nousevat kellareista vitamiinipurkit taskuissa helisten onko olemassa ketään jolla ei olisi luurankoa piilossa sängyn alla!

Never ask a writer what they are writing while they are writing, unless you’re prepared for sharp teeth, fangs and blood on your lap.

Never be an artist that starts worshiping yourself or believe your little group is better than anyone outside of it. For, you are nothing more than a grain of sand on a hillside in this world of ours. Even Da Vinci’s work is only glanced at then scrolled past on a phone or computer these days. Climb down off your throne and become humble once more.

Never cry because you have mountains of problem in your hands to solve. Always smile because each problems will someday resolve.

Never fear the thing you feel-- Only by love is life made real

Never durst a poet touch a pen to write Until his ink was tempered with love's sighs.

Never is God without but within us; that’s how great a power we have in us. So why beg, why cry, why be torn apart; unleash that power sleeping in your heart.

Never Judge Another Person's Journey!

Never leave your feelings with someone who can not answer them to the fullest.

Never mourn the loss of a map. There remains a world to discover.

Never mock a sin of mine until you have walked a mile in my moccasins

Never say savor when you only mean taste – one is a holding on the tongue and an intoxication and the other is cursory, a sampling, connoting reluctance to bask. Never say a thing you don’t mean.

Never run back to someone who is walking away from you.

Never stop depending on God.

never trust anyone who says they do not see color. this means to them, you are invisible.

Nevertheless now have I asked thee but only of the fire and wind, and of the day where-through thou hast passed, and of things from which thou canst not be separated, and yet canst thou give me no answer of them.

Never underestimate your worth your beauty or your strength. You are everything you can imagine and so much more.

Never your bird, never finch never graceful feathered thing.

New York! I say New York, let black blood flow into your blood. Let it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life Let it give your bridges the curve of hips and supple vines. Now the ancient age returns, unity is restored, The recociliation of the Lion and Bull and Tree Idea links to action, the ear to the heart, sign to meaning. See your rivers stirring with musk alligators And sea cows with mirage eyes. No need to invent the Sirens. Just open your eyes to the April rainbow And your eyes, especially your ears, to God Who in one burst of saxophone laughter Created heaven and earth in six days, And on the seventh slept a deep Negro sleep.

Never worry about the reader, what the reader can understand. When you are writing, glance over your shoulder, and you’ll find there is no reader. Just you and the page. Feel lonely? Good! Assuming you can write clear English (or Norwegian) sentences, give up all worry about communication. If you want to communicate, use the telephone. To write a poem you have to have a streak of arrogance (…) when you are writing you must assume that the next thing you put down belongs not for reasons of logic, good sense, or narrative development, but because you put it there. You, the same person who said that, also said this. The adhesive force is your way of writing, not sensible connection.

New Rome will be destroyed By the attacks of new vandals. God always remains silent.

NIGHT SNOW I was surprised my quilt and pillow were cold, I see that now the window's bright again. Deep in the night, I know the snow is thick, I sometimes hear the sound as bamboo snaps.

Night time You’ll find her there Blooming Like a night rose.

Next o'er his books his eyes began to roll, In pleasing memory of all he stole.

Night never needs a shade but it requires to fade into the grin of twinkling stars where light is just a glint of scars

night opens I enter night shuts I don't leave

Nights; are belong to the universe that speaks about an unspoken feelings into a poetry.

Nights I stay up writing about you, wondering where you've gone, my heart doesn't understand your absence, I do my best to reassure, but its erratic beating tells me it doesn't believe my lies.

Nexus I wrote stubbornly into the evening. At the window, a giant praying mantis rubbed his monkey wrench head against the glass, begging vacantly with pale eyes; and the commas leapt at me like worms or miniature scythes blackened with age. the praying mantis screeched louder, his ragged jaws opening into formlessness. I walked outside; the grass hissed at my heels. Up ahead in the lapping darkness he wobbled, magnified and absurdly green, a brontosaurus, a poet.

Night after night on starry wings Night lovers soared so high Miles apart, across the oceans Their love forgot to sigh In heavenly flight’s timelessness That highest height treasured Into the deepest of all blues Their depth of love measured. From the poem 'The Ballad of Night Lovers

Night’s visions of tranquility slowly rolled above me by the groovy silken silence,that prevailed wisdom and by my casement,the starry beams rave,and thoughts start to sketch Nyx’s beauty, as I admired.

NIGHT TIME PASSIONS My tongue remembers your name. It whispers it to itself at night, thinking I am asleep, not realising its linguistic dance is keeping me from slumber. My tongue remembers your taste too, but keeps those wet memories to itself, no matter how much I ask.

No baby, you didn't hurt me. You wrecked me. Know the difference.

Ninja beats pirate. Pirate beats ghost. Ghost beats zombie. Zombie beats most. Werewolf beats vampire. Vamp beats Imp. Imp beats fiend. Fiend beats wimp. Wizard beats cyrborg. Cyborg surely beats troll. Troll beats goblin. Goblin eats a hermit’s soul. Hermit beats child. Child beats wagon. Wagon beats moon snake. Moon snake beats dragon. Dragon beats hydra. Hydra beats sailor. Sailor beats teacher. Teacher beats tailor. Tailor beats sun worm. Sun worm beats clown. Clown beats robo-squid. Robo-squid beats town. Town fights jackals. Town will win. Town fights mummies. Town won’t fight again. Zookeeper beats hell hound. Hell hound beats giant. Giant beats accountant. Accountant beats client. Client beats frog. Frog beats himself. Knight beats Big Foot. Big Foot beats elf. Elf beats pixie. Pixie beats specter. Specter beats sea hag. Sea hag beats Hector. Hector beats serpent. Serpent beats rat. Rat beats Grandma. Grandma beats cat. Lava beats demon. Demon beats warlock. Warlock beats dinosaur. Dino beats Spock. Spock beats Lando. Lando beats Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon beats Jar-Jar. Jar-Jar beats none. Rock beats scissors. Scissors beat paper. Paper beats insect. Insect beats vapor. Wood Woman beats Tree Man. Tree Man beats the dark. The dark kills spider-fish. Spider-fish beats shark. You beat me. I beat a dentist. The dentist beats the barber. The barber is menaced. These are the rules, and never forget. Now hand over your money and place your bet.

Ninth Floor she ran across the parquet slipped the flokati mat crashed the window no she stood at the window prism looked up at sky bruise night spread her no she tilted dived swanning spinning tip-toed ink air broke fingers first no she climbed the small gap the window gave hung her finger joints clotted the view with frightened breath fell ligament torn and sorry no she wandered to the glass hatch to watch tranquilised lights sputtering leaned too hard fell faster than a bottle of Jack no this is how it was: drunk screaming she crashed the parquet with grief roared the ungiving window frames which gave she spangled spaghetti-like ribbon-voiced street lights crashed on her no. She did nothing.

No artist has painted A true portrait of Lenin Ages to come will complete Lenin's unfinished portrait. Did Poletaev understand the tragic implication of his lines about Lenin? (pg179)

Nobody must question your right to smoke, but I've right, too, not to inhale your smoke. First of all, health abuse is not a right; use of right ought to lead to life, not blight. You have right to party with unchecked noise, but I've right, too, not be pained by your noise. In short, a right can't be claimed as a right, if it violates other people's right.

Nobody knows how hard it is to be in her place, all she wants is a peaceful home.

Nobody knows the aftermath.

Nobody reads poetry, we are told at every inopportune moment. I read poetry. I am somebody. I am the people, too. It can be allowed that an industrious quantity of contemporary American poetry is consciously written for a hermetic constituency; the bulk is written for the bourgeoisie, leaving a lean cut for labor. Only the hermetically aimed has a snowball's chance in hell of reaching its intended ears. One proceeds from this realization. A staggering figure of vibrant, intelligent people can and do live without poetry, especially without the poetry of their time. This figure includes the unemployed, the rank and file, the union brass, banker, scientist, lawyer, doctor, architect, pilot, and priest. It also includes most academics, most of the faculty of the humanities, most allegedly literary editors and most allegedly literary critics. They do so--go forward in their lives, toward their great reward, in an engulfing absence of poetry--without being perceived or perceiving themselves as hobbled or deficient in any significant way. It is nearly true, though I am often reminded of a Transtromer broadside I saw in a crummy office building in San Francisco: We got dressed and showed the house You live well the visitor said The slum must be inside you. If I wanted to understand a culture, my own for instance, and if I thought such an understanding were the basis for a lifelong inquiry, I would turn to poetry first. For it is my confirmed bias that the poets remain the most 'stunned by existence,' the most determined to redeem the world in words..

Nobody can tell you about that sword all that there is to be told of it; for those that know of those paths of Space on which its metals once floated, till Earth caught them one by one as she sailed past on her orbit, have little time to waste on such things as magic and so cannot tell you how the sword was made, and those who know whence poetry is, and the need that man has for song, or know any one of the fifty branches of magic, have little time to waste on such things as science, and so cannot tell you whence its ingredients came. Enough that it was once beyond our Earth and was now here amongst our mundane stones; that it was once but as those stones, and now had something in it such as soft music has; let those that can define it.

No Child of Yours I saw a child hide in the corner So I went and asked her name She was so naive and so petite With such a tiny frame. 'No one,' she replied, that's what I am called I have no family, no one at all I eat, I sleep, I get depressed There is no life, I have nothing left.' 'Why hide in the corner?' I had to ask twice Because I've been hurt, it not very nice I tried to stop it, it was out of my control I feared for myself I wanted to go. I begged for my sorrow to disappear I turned in my bed, oh God, I knew they were near 'So come on little girl, where do you go A path ahead, or a path to unknown?' With that she arose, her head hung low She held herself for only she knows Her tears held back, her heart like ice It looks as though she has paid the price. The ice started melting, her tears to flow The memories flood back, still so many years to go The pain, the anger all built up inside Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It will get better, just wait and see You'll get a life, though you'll never be fire Open your heart and love yourself The abuse you suffered was NOT your fault.

Nobody reads poetry anymore So who the hell are you I see bent over this book?

No crime is a means to an end. No crime can be rationalized.

No es el amor quien muere, Somos nosotros mismos.

No happiness or pain, no more forgetting.

No I do not like blaming. Because for me it's enough if someone is other than bad—not too much out of hand, conscious at least of the justice that helps the city, a healthy man. No I shall not lay blame. Because fools are a species that never ends. All things, you know, are beautiful with which ugly things are not mixed.

No, I am just writing this because, sometimes, you’re still all I have to write about. Sometimes you’re the only thing that my typewriter needs. I am writing this because you are, because you’ve always been the one person who can always make me bleed.

No! I don’t love you! I just like you, a little. Your lips are sweet, and your eyes are precious to me. No! I don’t love you! I just like you, a little. ...