Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

I believe in being a poet in all moments of life. Being a poet means being human. I know some poets whose daily behavior has nothing to do with their poetry. In other words, they are only poets when they write poetry. Then it is finished and they turn into greedy, indulgent, oppressive, shortsighted, miserable, and envious people. Well, I cannot believe their poems

I believe in Aphrodite, I believe in insane thinkers, I believe in roaring free-spirits, I believe in full-throated poetry, I believe in feverish sex and moony love with all its facets.

I believe in love at first sight but I will always believe that the people we love we have loved before. Many, many, many times before and when we stumble through grace and circumstance and that brilliant illusion of choice to finally meet them again, we feel it faster each time through. The one glance that set life alight is two sets of two eyes staring through the layers of lifetimes and stolen glances and first kisses and hands held; the brace against the weight and unrelenting tide of waiting. I believe in love at first sight but am not burdened with the misconception that it's a first sight at all.

I believe in the flesh and the appetites; Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle. Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from; The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer; This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.

I believe that good poetry resonates with people on a metaphysical level; you can read a poem without quite being able to put into words why you enjoyed it. It could have been the shivers that ran down your spine or the elevating in your heartbeat. Or, it made you smile, or even cry; made you feel something.

I believe the night I’ve never met hides one elusive star I need to divide me between darkness and light

I believe that writing, particularly poetry, is a powerful tool for healing and growth.

I believe the visionaries and true reflections of society will be rewarded after their lives. Those being rewarded now are giving the public what it needs now, usually applauding its current state and clearing consciences.

I believe that to be the world's greatest living writer there must be something terribly wrong with you. I don't even want to be the world's greatest dead writer. just being dead would be fair enough.

I belong with the trees, the wind, the earth beneath my feet. I belong in the land of enchanting things. But mostly, I belong entwined in your kiss, lost, yet wild and free, pure bliss, like poetry.

I bleed myself to be your drink: Is not the blood of poets—ink?

I bounce to Creativity by selling myself for Imagination.

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

I breathe in...the silence of my own heart aching with tenderness with memories.. Of home.

i bring my kiasu friend to the airport leavings are never easy, not for long and though we both saw blur along the way memories flooded present tensions. in the curry of his life no lemak remained so now the predictable exit signalled the end of his roundings, his bombings– he can bluff like hell, ma, he got style– and left me thinking about home, my kampong.

I bleed to un-break you, un-mending me. I fall to save you... now who will save me.

I build boxes and place them at your feet, to measure the distance between dreams and reality.

I beseech thee, O Lord, let me have understanding: For it was not my mind to be curious of the high things, but of such as pass by us daily.

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

I betrayed my body sleeping with you. I gave up my integrity, giving you pieces of me you did not deserve.

I breathe in... the fragrance of love, and moist sand the one his roses left on both my hands I just keep on breathing every moment as much as I can preserving it, in my body for the day it can’t.

I build what I wish to have in the mind of brilliance. It's a determination of conscious thought. If it's riches I envision, riches shall be my lot. If I envision love then like Adam, I make my request to the One above. Eve is created through his image and likeness, love is truly lifes purpose for what more can catch a womans attention but a diamond? Diamond is pure carbon, deposited drops of sunlight. A diamond is the last and highest of Gods mineral formation, as a woman is the last and highest of Gods creation.

I blindly swallowed the days the way a dog will run until it is lost and I was never here the medication, closer to nothingness than ever being well.

I blinked my eyes and in an instant, decades had passed.

I blink January’s lashes and gush down December’s cheeks

I breathed enough to learn the trick, And now, removed from air, I simulate the breath so well, That one, to be quite sure The lungs are stirless, must descend Among the cunning cells, And touch the pantomime himself. How cool the bellows feels!

I breathe therefore I write…

I broke my soul trying to mend yours.

I came to pen another poem for you, but even every unwritten poem is you.

I can blend words easily with my pen, and show concepts from deep within. Yet not everyone gets the message I send. So why do I even let these words begin? Maybe they will soak in one day at the right time. When the readers on a new path to find. So for now I'll continue to drop ink and not worry about what other people think.

I can hear the moths crackling and burning on the bulb, I see myself as one of them, flitting around this porch light. I can imagine me bewitched by the wink and sparkle, but I couldn't imagine myself taking up camp here, forever. I am suddenly abundantly aware that this is not even summer yet. This is just a porch with a jerrybuilt swing and creaky planked floors, a frayed recliner, and splays of gray hairs just (now) taking root. I remember that first summer when we strung sprinklers like toy lanterns...

I can look beyond the clouds to feel your love the sun will rise again to end the darkness

I came up with a new reason To write your name today I plagiarized each letter From a love note you wrote me. The scent of ink was sacred to me In that relapsed moment… For a minute I could pretend The paper reminded me of your skin; I could pretend the glimmering ink Was the moonlit lake Of our summer night. But the pretending crumpled with paper And I threw us into the trash can For the bridge between us is long burned And it’s time I accepted that.

I can barely conceive a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.

I can give not what men call love; But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the heavens reject not: The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?

I cannot breathe, or see, nor swim, My darkness is composed of him.

I cannot forgive you. That day, if you had not refused, I would have given you a present. I would have carved my love in stone.

I cannot speak truth without poetry, because truth is beauty.

I cannot love my neighbour as myself because you bid me do him no harm, and I cannot love my enemies because they keep crawling inside me and tearing out all my emotions: if I am made in your image then you are not somebody I want to see because why believe in the broken, why depend on the weak, why seek the lost and bewildered whose only answer is “please”?

I cannot begin to count how many lightbulb moments I’ve had How many times I’ve concluded they’re bad, and how often they’ve turned out to be just fads. My handwork starts as a miracle but quickly turns into a battle I need a spark of gold dust for revival, so I can follow-through and truly beat my rivals.

I can quote a million people but in the end it only comes down to one thing "Faith

I can sense your love, why leave me in darkness? Beguile me for your amusement, stealing my soul without kisses. You are the sun and I, the moon. Your beauty is reflected in my eyes. When we are apart, I am extinguished in the blackness of these skies.

I can’t, but I could I saw good instead of him A dim light which could’ve been

i can’t always tell what’s better long drives in the star-spangled deserts or long walks along winding tea gardens.

I can speak of you now to anyone because I’ve stopped wanting anything like what I once wanted from you.

I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breaths and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.

i can still taste you on my lips– rapture at the tip of my tongue, plagued by dreams of you, i can only swallow– reminiscing as i burn.

I can't love anymore. Except for you... I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

I can’t sleep alone anymore and I get used to company too quickly. You’re always gone too soon.

I caution against communication because once language exist only to convey information, it is dying. In news articles the relation of the words to the subject is a strong one. The relation of the words to the writer is weak. (Since the majority of your reading has been newspapers, you are used to seeing language function this way). When you write a poem these relations must reverse themselves: The relation of the word to the subject must weaken – the relation of the words to the writer (you) must take on strength. This is probably the hardest thing about writing poems In a poem you make something up, say for example a town, but an imagined town is at least as real as an actual town. If it isn’t you may be in the wrong business. Our triggering subjects, like our words, come from obsessions we must submit to, whatever the social cost. It can be hard. It can be worse 40 years from now if you feel you could have done it and didn’t. RICHARD HUGO Public versus private poets: With public poets the intellectual and emotional contents of the words are the same for the reader as for the writer. With the private poet, the words, at least certain key words, mean something to the poet they don’t mean to the reader. A sensitive reader perceives this relation of poet to word and in a way that relation – the strange way the poet emotionally possesses his vocabulary – is one of the mysteries and preservative forces of the art. If you are a private poet, then your vocabulary is limited by your obsessions. In fact, most poets write the same poem over and over. (Wallace Stevens was honest enough not to try to hide it. Frost’s statement that he tried to make every poem as different as possible from the last one is a way of saying that he knew it couldn’t be).