Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

It is not enough to be a man... you have to become an idea... a terrible thought... a wraith- indeed- Become one with the darkness.

It is not given to each of us To be desired.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be (Ben Jonson)

It is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem,—a thought so passionate and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an animal it has an architecture of its own, and adorns nature with a new thing. The thought and the form are equal in the order of time, but in the order of genesis the thought is prior to the form.

It is not the myth that falls out of date, it is the way of wording it. New voices are endlessly needed to swell their throats with song. Poetry is the unbroken lineage.

It is not our job to remain whole. We came to lose our leaves Like the trees, and be born again, Drawing up from the great roots.

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down. It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses. It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.

It is not what a poem says with its mouth, it’s what a poem does with its eyes.

It is not written that you may not grieve. It is not written that you may not shed any tears. It is not written that feeling the emotion of the hurt that touched you would only make you weak. But it is written that after the rain, you will get a wonderful rainbow. It is written that at the end of every tunnel, you will find a bright light. It is written that after a journey of a thousand steps, you will find your way to your destination. It is written that after every difficulty comes ease, After every pain comes joy, After every hurt comes understanding. It is not written that you may not grieve, But my Darling, You can’t cry every time someone asks you your name!

It is, of course, we who house poems as much as their words, and we ourselves must be the locus of poetry's depth of newness. Still, the permeability seems to travel both ways: a changed self will find new meanings in a good poem, but a good poem also changes the shape of the self.

it isn't that we're alone or not alone whose voice do you want mine? yours?

It is not your job to understand. Sick people do sick things. You do not understand the mind of an abuser, because you are not sick like one.

It is perhaps, its ability to penetrate the multidimensional layers of the human condition at all, that makes poetry and art so valuable in today's modern age.

It is right that one must come so far to see the world as it is meant to be.

It is so hard to stay afloat in a world that just wants to drown you.

It is spiritually beneficial to understand that if we can first accept what is happening at any moment we will experience more harmony within ourselves as a human being.

it is so dark now with the sadness of people they were tricked, they were taught to expect the ultimate when nothing is promised now young girls weep alone in small rooms old men angrily swing their canes at visions as ladies comb their hair as ants search for survival history surrounds us and our lives slink away in shame.

It is some water lilies and a skull in a decorative pond, and a tiny goldfish swimming like an animated change-purse made of brightness and surprises observing the moment through its empty eye.

It is such a pity how some people Are dead long before their hearts stop beating.

It is the fire that consumes me; It is an inexplicable love, It is the rain that calms me; It is a melody from above. It is the wind that humbles me; It is everywhere and nowhere, It is the sand that fuels me; It is the artistry of nature. I’m consumed by what I am, I’m calmed by a riotous noise, I’m humbled through arrogance, I’m fueled by what is in poise. I’ve much cherished the mystifying, I’ve heard the unreal symphonies, I’ve been moved by the inevitable, And I’ve hailed the epiphanies.

It is the need that defines truth (true love).

It is true that a mathematician who is not somewhat of a poet, will never be a perfect mathematician.

It is time I came back to my real life After this voyage to an island with no name, Where I lay down at sunrise drunk with light.

it is to be savored like a seabreeze-whispered dream...in the mysterious blue minutes before dawn like a secret infatuation.... like slow languorous sips of green tea... like a lingering glimpse a self-wrapped paradise like his name upon my lips.

It is time to float on the waters of the night. Time to wrap my arms around this book and press it to my chest, life preserver in a sea of unremarkable men and women, anonymous faces on the street, a hundred thousand unalphabetized things, a million forgotten hours.

it is trying to wonder why you ever thought that love would feel like being weighed down

It is warmer here. Can you see the light? Trust it. It is safe. It has lived a long time. It has seen much more than you. You fight a demon that you once knew but the demon is already slain. And from the corner of your eye you will see the scattered, sacred fire reform again. Settle, settle. Peace, peace

It is weird to me on how people will come to church frequently and have absolutely no desire or intention to change anything about their life based on what they experienced in the church.

It is untrue that bravery can be measured by a lack of fear. It takes guts to tremble. It takes tremble to love.

It is very good, Wisehammer, it's very well written, but it's too-too-political. It will be considered provocative." "You don't want me to say it." "Not tonight. We have many people against us." "I could tone it down. I could omit 'We left our country for our country's good.'" "That's the best line.

It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves of the hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s colors were draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the tilt that gives way to headlong rush. And when the monarch butterflies had passed and were gone, the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity, the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still, the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath.

It'll be as always. Same pain, this disaffection, this non-love.

It made me happy that poems are referred to in the present tense even when the poet is in the past tense.

It makes me wonder if living under tragic circumstances inflects a person's sentences, irresistibly, with poetry.

It might be true that I am a lightweight when it comes to falling in love, heavy.

It must be a little love, - a baby, sort of, It shies away when the cars honk and hiss, But adores the bells on the horse-tram.

It must have been an endless breathing in: between the wish to know and the wish to praise there was no seam.

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 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