Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

Already we mistrust wakefulness; if we are dreaming, then let us dream, until our dream convinces us.

A love that is not sated Calls from a poisoned bed; Where monsters half-created writhe, unliving and undead. None knows for what they’re fated; None knows on what they’ve fed.

Already she was climbing the wind, already was not and didn't know it . . .

Although all days are equally long regardless of the season, some days are long not only seasonally but by rewards they offer.

Although life is hard in pace Lose not thy calm and grace. If thee are not tender Vow not to surrender Eternity lies right before thy face.

Although my road to writing seems like it may have come easily, there were a few bumps in that road. I didn’t get a lot of encouragement from friends, although my family were great supporters. I also had many…what you would call “mind-boggling” moments, when I would doubt myself and what I was writing. It has been said that we, ourselves, are our own worst critics. All the hard work had payed off though, and I created a children’s book that I am proud of, and an unforgettable little girl that will touch the hearts of many.”-Nina Jean Slack

…although her mouth uttered fond words, her eyes spoke only venom.

Although personal calling I sense, Who am I? even if I am, I don't know.

Although I've written a few (a very few) poems over the years, I am not a natural poet...and I remain in awe of people who are. The ability to evoke deep emotion, reveal a new facet of the world, or condense an entire story into the limited space and form of a poem (or likewise, of a good song lyric, or the text for a children's picture book) seems like pure magic to me.

Always a frail mind,to Live,I must act this inevitable play of life:'The LIving Death',the deranging and perplexing dreams are in it! Ah!let me not exit the World's STAGE, in silence, leaving the Nature's serene music, my Muse and the Beauty of MANY Imaginary dreams.

Always a frail mind,to Live,I must act this inevitable play of life:'The LIving Death',the deranging and perplexing scenes are in it! Ah!let me not exit the World's STAGE, in silence, leaving the Nature's serene music, my Muse and the Beauty of MANY Imaginary dreams.

Always in the middle of our bloodiest battles you lay down your arms like flowering mines to conqueror me home.

Always let the smoke linger long enough for you to remember it's sharp perky charm in-between two set of nervous arms. Darling, I've lost underneath these sunless skies where connection hangs perfectly where your spit splits in two mid air and obsessed with death, workout after workout; eyes glued to hyper space, revealing your lace and mind altering vivid pace.

Always dip your toe in the past before stepping into the future

Always dream big and dare to believe!

Always in my love, sudden night. Always in myself, my enemy. And always in my always, the same absence.

Always carry what is beautiful in your heart.

Always learn poems by heart,' she said. 'They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.

Always I’m trying to make something human but as if it hasn’t been made by a human.

...always- the sharp, plaintive edge on the rim of the spoon of my giving. (lines 8-13 of the poem 'Confessions')

Always the wild child, conceived in flames, born of fire. Drawn to the forbidden, witch, warlock, burning stones. Her blood is made of moonlight; part dark, part light. Her heart, it's a sword; fiercely loyal and will fight to the death for those whom she loves. You can throw her in the fire, she always returns as a flame: the fervor is her anchor, her safe-haven... her blood.

Always too eager for the future, we Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear, Sparkling armada of promises draw near. How slow they are! And how much time they waste, Refusing to make haste! Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, Each rope distinct, Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits Arching our way, it never anchors; it's No sooner present than it turns to past. Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload All good into our lives, all we are owed For waiting so devoutly and so long. But we are wrong: Only one ship is seeking us, a black- Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break. - Next, Please

A man does not become a real man by showing his physical domination over women. A man becomes a real man by loving, respecting and protecting women.

A maidenhead, the virgin's trouble Is well-compare-d to a bubble on a navigable river Soon 'tis touched t'is gone forever

Always write exactly what you’re feeling at the exact moment when writing something like poetry or an emotional novel. Put yourself, pour all emotions into your work…make yourself cry, feel joy if you are writing joyful things, feel lovey if it calls for it…just put your heart and soul into all that you do…then you will be a good writer when you can make whoever reads your work, feel." -Nina Jean Slack

A man holding a woman made of bad moods in his arms.

A man once said of women, "Women are like roads, the more curves, the more fun, exciting and dangerous they are." While the evolved man smiles with class and confidence and says, women with more curves, twists and turns in her mind are the most beautiful, exciting, dangerous creatures alive. And the evolved woman, well, she will accept no less than the evolved man; a man with honor, dignity and depth.

A man in the massive shadows of the columns of the Museum of Griefs-to-Come.

A man who loves her must be fierce. Not against the outside world, but against the beasts within him. Only a man who can defeat those is worthy of her heart.

A man walks into a bar and says: Take my wife–please. So you do. You take her out into the rain and you fall in love with her and she leaves you and you’re desolate. You’re on your back in your undershirt, a broken man on an ugly bedspread, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. And you can hear the man in the apartment above you taking off his shoes. You hear the first boot hit the floor and you’re looking up, you’re waiting because you thought it would follow, you thought there would be some logic, perhaps, something to pull it all together but here we are in the weeds again, here we are in the bowels of the thing: your world doesn’t make sense. And then the second boot falls. And then a third, a fourth, a fifth. A man walks into a bar and says: Take my wife–please. But you take him instead. You take him home, and you make him a cheese sandwich, and you try to get his shoes off, but he kicks you and he keeps kicking you. You swallow a bottle of sleeping pills but they don’t work. Boots continue to fall to the floor in the apartment above you. You go to work the next day pretending nothing happened. Your co-workers ask if everything’s okay and you tell them you’re just tired. And you’re trying to smile. And they’re trying to smile. A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says: Make it a double. A man walks into a bar, you this time, and says: Walk a mile in my shoes. A man walks into a convenience store, still you, saying: I only wanted something simple, something generic… But the clerk tells you to buy something or get out. A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he’s still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he’s still left with his hands.

a man was found floating dead in the San Francisco bay. a note in his pocket read: I won't jump if someone smiles at me today.

A man who knows how little he knows is well, a man who knows how much he knows is sick. If, when you see the symptoms, you can tell, Your cure is quick. A sound man knows that sickness makes him sick and before he catches it his cure is quick.

Amber May | 4 comments Stories that make me cry Tale that give me wing to fly What lovely things, what beautiful words So carefully crafted to be as sharp as swords A book for the old, A book for the new And my darling a book of me,I wrote for you. I think I might turn this into a quote, if don't mind. For some unsuspecting reader to find.

Amé, fuí amado, el sol acarició mi faz. ¡Vida, nada me debes! ¡Vida, estamos en paz! I loved, I was loved, the sun stroked my face. Life, you owe me nothing! Life, we are at peace!

Am I going to die and all I will have are these fucking poems

Am I making something worth while? I’m not sure. I write and I sing and I hear words from time to time about my life and choices making ways, into other lives, other hearts, but am I making something worth while? I’m not sure. There was a boy last night who I never spoke to because I was too drunk and still shy, but mostly lonely, and I couldn’t find anything lightly to say, so I simply walked away but still wondered what he did with his life because he didn’t even speak to me or look at me but still made me wonder who he was and I walked away asking Am I making something worth while? I am not sure. I am a complicated person with a simple life and I am the reason for everything that ever happened to me.

A million tears fall from my eyes; I can't continue with this life; I don't know why I fall in love If love is only meant to hurt me

American teachers said I was illiterate, so they put me in ELL classes. Although I spoke English, I did not speak their English.

America—where we hate our fathers, love our mothers, and everyone is hung up on trying to be a man

A mighty flame follows a tiny spark.

A million poems, all written in the loss and seeking of love that deludes us.

Among the fluctuation of the river currents, an abyss as green as the sea, its extension and profundity as immense as the ocean opened before me: the eyes of a beautiful girl. I succumbed into that abyss instantly, like a man who falls from the highest cliff into the ocean … … and I drowned.

Am I still a hero if the only person I save is myself? Am I still a villain if the only person I hurt is myself?

Amor, ch'al cor gentile ratto s'apprende prese costui de la bella persona che mi fu tolta; e 'l modo ancor m'offende. Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona, Mi prese del costui piacer sì forte, Che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona..." "Love, which quickly arrests the gentle heart, Seized him with my beautiful form That was taken from me, in a manner which still grieves me. Love, which pardons no beloved from loving, took me so strongly with delight in him That, as you see, it still abandons me not...

Amor" So many days, oh so many days seeing you so tangible and so close, how do I pay, with what do I pay? The bloodthirsty spring has awakened in the woods. The foxes start from their earths, the serpents drink the dew, and I go with you in the leaves between the pines and the silence, asking myself how and when I will have to pay for my luck. Of everything I have seen, it's you I want to go on seeing: of everything I've touched, it's your flesh I want to go on touching. I love your orange laughter. I am moved by the sight of you sleeping. What am I to do, love, loved one? I don't know how others love or how people loved in the past. I live, watching you, loving you. Being in love is my nature. You please me more each afternoon. Where is she? I keep on asking if your eyes disappear. How long she's taking! I think, and I'm hurt. I feel poor, foolish and sad, and you arrive and you are lightning glancing off the peach trees. That's why I love you and yet not why. There are so many reasons, and yet so few, for love has to be so, involving and general, particular and terrifying, joyful and grieving, flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss. That's why I love you and yet not why. There are so many reasons, and yet so few, for love has to be so, involving and general, particular and terrifying, joyful and grieving, flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.

Among both the learned and the not so learned it is accepted that poetry can be the language of the emotions; what does not gain such ready acceptance is that poetry is a living language whose syllables fall naturally into verse. And yet both these effects may be illustrated simultaneously by the easy experiment of dropping a weight on your toe. Any really prolonged and heartfelt profanity may lack originality but its imagery is elaborately fantastic; and it invariably scans.

AMUSING MYSELF Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk, Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes. Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream, Birds are far off, people too are few.

A mystical symphony permeates my senses and a holy lullaby embraces me.

& besides, I don’t design my smiles to be nets because I’m not fishing

An Ashinabe "spring poem" translated by Gerald Vizenor: as my eyes look across the prairie i feel the summer in the spring