Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

It matters what you call a thing.

It may be beneficial for mind and conscious development to “Be in this world, but remember we are not of this world”. This is a journey of self-discovery that is traveled and experienced by going inward to the source of consciousness.

I told you in the course of this paper that Shakespeare had a sister; but do not look for her in Sir Sidney Lee's life of the poet. She died young--alas, she never wrote a word. She lies buried where the omnibuses now stop, opposite the Elephant and Castle. Now my belief is that this poet who never wrote a word and was buried at the crossroads still lives. She lives in you and in me, and in many other women who are not here tonight, for they are washing up the dishes and putting the children to bed. But she lives; for great poets do not die; they are continuing presences; they need only the opportunity to walk among us in the flesh.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

I took a thousand breaths But none Could efface the one that smelled of you

I took her to bed with silk and song 'Lay still, my love, I won’t be long, I must prepare my body for passion.' 'O, your body you give, but all else you ration...

I took him to the river and said “let’s watch something drown,” So he took a stone and I took my necklace and we threw it all together, the way I always think I will get better in July. Things will change and sounds won’t ache and I gave my heart to uncertainty so many times, and so I took him to the river, threw the necklace in the river to slowly watch it drown, or burn, or fade away like I’ve done so many times.

It only took a corny joke, but the smile I saw shone brighter than a glare, more profound than a star. And the best thing... it was so genuine. It was so her. I never thought I could fall more in love.

I told her it takes a lot of solitude to write a poem. She told me it takes a lot of solitude to die.

To live. I'm not endorsing it.

I touched curiosity, I kissed sin, I felt regret, And I was forgiven. But life won't let me forget.

I told her I felt kind of restless about the new poetry and I had high hopes the new poetry one way or another would be able to get at the real stuff of American life, slipping its fingers into the steel meshes and copper coils of it under the streets and over the houses and people and factories and groceries, conceding a fair batting average to Dante and Keats for what they wrote about love and roses and the moon.

I too was pinched off from a piece of clay, I too modeled by omnipotence and flanked by things too wonderful for me

I tried to cut through all our hurried centuries, lost in a forest within. Men broke by war emerged in frightful shape— more than human but also less, they were quite aware, the sovereign dead, that time is like a window opening up the sad patterns of never. As one they advanced— Lloyd George Georges Clemenceau Adolph Hitler —through history. But the past does not follow so straightforward a path said I (predictably in Italian), and, burning under their masters, they proclaimed the world a pendulum. It is possible, but this gives rise to the often-heard complaint that repetition is unavoidable. Still time issues into today, little fathers. The years, I believe, can be shaped with one’s hands. The world —its obscure moving fields, Persian tragedies, and countries in peace— I had to inform that council of the lost, remains an instrument, a valve instrument, which, when waning, is perfectly clear in the pit —and, being given to such classical concepts as freedom and necessity, laboriously continued in the traditional way— I believe I believe.

I tried to tell you our love is cursed.

I traded in my freedom for a needy, whiny and defiant four-year-old, a junky girlfriend, and a relationship riddled with someone else’s problems Now, I stare out of open windows like a wild mustang craving open fields I clench my crotch, where my balls used to be, and I hum a loathsome tune, like an out- of-work castrato who’s realized his dreams of someday having his own family are gone

I try to think of metaphors that suit him best, but he was made of the sea and the stars and the sun, and one wouldn’t do him justice.

It's 8a.m. and time to rest It's 10a.m. and time to relax It's noon and time for repose It's 3p.m. and time for shut-eye It's 6p.m. and time for siesta It's 9p.m. and time to slumber It's midnight and time to snooze It's 4a.m. and time to hang upside down from your bedroom ceiling, screaming.

I try to feel my own edges in the low light. I send my mind to the outer edges of me — where do I end? I send myself to my innermost edges, and I see that in both directions  I am infinite.

It’s a disease, writing. Stalking its victim day and night In the mind all the time Words Stories Poems There is no single solitary cure but to keep writing.

I try to use words, whether in prose or poetry, that people can understand, that make them feel in an intense way. I'm a writer, that's what I do.

it’s a constant struggle between what i want and what i should do in the name of izzat and haya.

I try to hide you With the silence But, my eyes Say the unsaid words and Speak in the loudest volume. In your hesitation, I found my answers. In your silence, I found my answers. Sometimes, I laugh at myself So much that The tears roll down and Reach to my cracked lips. I try to hide you With the silence But, my eyes Say the unsaid words and Speak in the loudest volume.

It's a great indy movie with many a spark, Robert Downey Jr starring as Tony Stark. Only that it didn't have the public recognition, Now are the headlines about films in exhibition: Many good movies with no channel to portrait All end up with a few public to its own fate. No need to say who made them obliterate. (AnA Cross+Tic for Iron Man)

It’s all accumulation and the aftermath,' she says as I would question her about the failing earth and giants unaware that they are sinking everyday

It's a lust for some trust we never attain. 95% of people don't know what they want out of life so ignorance is the price they'll always retain. 4% 'think' they know what to obtain and that 1% know exactly what they want out of life and take control of their domain.

It's all a conundrum, isn't it— forgetting the mixed tape in the car... feeling forgotten when... so many people are thinking of us? Drinking when we should be eating... sleeping when we should be making love... thanking God above when we don't have enough? Each day is a mad rush to something irrelevant. We measure our pricelessness by our successes, which... still equals money. Life goes by so quick when each day is a mad rush to slow motion. We eat fast food so that we can go to bed on time, but, trust me, everyone wakes up too late.

It’s always safe to do nothing when it rains.

it's amazing how music can do that: make life feel so much more real.

it's a myth, you know; he doesn't have to draw blood for him to leave a scar.

It's been nice having your van in my driveway. Maybe for just two weeks before you go, I can have the vision come untrue, long enough to forget when I thought I was going to have your van in my driveway every morning, and your sleepy noises the first thing that I heard in a day, as you whispered how you couldn't stay, but "wished you could," in independence's place. I told you, "I never revise a poem. Make sure, in your moment of self-defeat, that you are sure, because once I hit 'save', your decision will never delete.

It's been awhile since I have heard from you, To me it felt like it was only yesterday that all we could do was talk to each other To me it felt like it was only yesterday that I'd fall asleep with you on my mind and be awakened with a smile from your morning messages To me it felt like it was only yesterday that you started to back away, when I was in a dark place To me it felt like it was only yesterday when you left my mind and heart in a million pieces

It's better to have loved and lost than never love at all - I doubt that sorry statement every time I fall.

It’s called Sisyphus. No. Sisyphus. Yes. Apparently some Greek myth. This guy is punished for—punished—yes— for something, and has to roll a rock up a hill every day and every day it rolls—a rock, yes— and every day it rolls back down. Something about the absurdity of life. Camus says—Camooo—says it’s about the condition of man and that it’s meaningless and we have to just keep doing it and—the rock, yes, rolling the rock—and that gives our life meaning. Yeah. Well if that don’t drive you to God—

It's easy to hide behind a smile, that's why it is so important to search instead inside the eyes.

It’s easier for me to make sense of it that way than it is for me to face the other way—reality. And yet, those evil spirits that were unleashed—be they fake entities from a stupid carnival ride, or cruel malevolencies from dark spiritual chasms of our universe—have stayed with me all these years

It seems only yesterday I used to believe there was nothing under my skin but light. If you cut me I could shine. But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life, I skin my knees. I bleed.

It seems to me now that the plain state of being human is dramatic enough for anyone; you don't need to be a heroin addict or a performance poet to experience extremity. You just have to love someone.

It seems as though the voice of man Will never sound in this place, But only wind from age of stone Is knocking on black gates. It seems to me that I alone Have kept good health under this sky, Because of this, that first I sought To drink the deadly wine. Parting, Evening and slanting, Downward goes my way. Yesterday in love still, "Don't forget" you prayed. Now there's only shepherds' Cry, and glancing winds, And the worried cedars Stand by clear springs.

It's Gods Eden, the fountain of youth, the water of Truth and yes it shall set thee free of this world-wide mental misery. It's a pleasure to me to introduce the God that sets you free, sets you high, air castles in the cosmos that make you fly. Make you cry cause you know your recognition of your unworthiness; God comforted me in my loneliness, it's redemption from rags to riches in Gods holiness. These riddles are self-explanatory, explaining the exploration of this planet from the beginning of His story. Open your eyes for God's the one that abides.

It's in the spirit of male loneliness to imagine that someone has to suffer for it.

It's her black wings that make her beautiful.

It's intelligence mixed with less than innocence, it's cruelty mixed with a sense of elegance. It's a trap set for seduction to those that are persuaded by speech.

It’s in the sky, light or dark, And in all the clouds and stars it holds; It’s in the wind and the raindrops, In the mountains and streams That ignore man’s partitions, In the seasons that forever unfold, one into the next. It echoes from the past, is amplified in the present, And waits for us in the future. It’s in our dreams; perhaps it is our dream. It is the very fiber of our hearts. Freedom.

It’s January and I’m kicking snow off the ground. I just threw out the flower you made me promise to water, handle with care, because I was too careless, you said. Careless with things and people, around me and behind and I remember being still for just a second or two, thinking that it’s so much easier to leave and start anew, than take care of what’s already here.

It’s just another stop on the curvy road the final encounter for the man who has lived death is the answer.

It's just me throwing myself at you, romance as usual, us times us, not lust but moxibustion, a substance burning close to the body as possible without risk of immolation.

It’s my broken sore mending the unbreakable A deep shaken hollow from the unshakeable

It's made of poetry and art and lost hearts enhanced in magic It's the kingdom of love, where free spirits find their resilience It's the dream catcher of lost passion and deep silence It's the torso where rebel souls find their homeland It's the beginning of a dream and the end of another It's what keeps you up in the night, when you're breathing dreams It's that madness of artists caught in the wind It's the night on a full moon drown between chimeras It's you making love to me, under the blessings of Seine..." (fragment from "Paris", chapter Hope)

It's not about putting forth the questions, it's about accepting the answers we ask for.