Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

To love thyself is the only option, I catch my reflection in the mirror; I caution myself But seeing your picture-perfect lives is a pollution - - your bliss disrupts my peace, bugging me to consider that my own existence isn’t burdened with glee. Just like a movie, I crave my life to be … … but only because I flick the screens and yours seems to be.

To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the music the words make.

TOMORROW’S WILL Silent world, I find myself, Glad no one hears my thoughts. In dark cocoon, I hibernate, Yet spirit spills every thought. A second chance to try again. The risks I know too well. Two sunsets turning into six- Awaits tomorrow's will.

To me, one quality of disability justice culture is that it is simultaneously beautiful and practical. Poetry and dance are as valuable as a blog post about access hacks - because they're equally important and interdependent.

Tommorow Call you call me that night when you were alone and crying, but I am only an outcast, and it all blast in my mind, in my heart, an ocean of tears falling let me dream cause I feel so deprim, don't wake me up I won't get up cause I always chose to never give up, but lately it all fall apart like a castle of card let me go back to my fortress cause its the only place I can be a mess without distress and when love don't love you back make some step back even if you don't no where to go keep going even if you don't know what you doing cause you know you have a blessing and never let go cause you never know what can be made of tomorrow even when in a sorrow don't let it go you never know what can be made of tomorrow He was like a brother. He never showed it but he was broken and at some point he couldn't handle it anymore. Whitout the strength to get out of this pain Full of life i remember him crossing the door for the last time He was sad inside He was lost He was my friend He was my brother Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to live if I have time I would tell him that love and the time that goes by also makes mistakes Now he's gone and people finally realize how amazing he was but now it's to late. Maybe a little love and a hand to hold it wouldn't have come to this But I had been the pillar and now the base is broke. Walking in the street wearing masks of the lie, faded soul in disguise only an entity, invisible, intangible never let go cause you never know what can be made of tomorrow even when in a sorrow don't let it go

Tomorrow came with the illusion of today even more fleeting than yesterday it came like it always comes and went like it’s always gone like a favorite song in its final seconds Tomorrow came and left leaving nothing nothing... but a familiar lingering sense of loss behind.

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum. But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before. Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.

Tonight, I won't dream, because nobody has held me and no hands have strayed and even though I'm drunk with love, my arms are empty.

To not say all that can be said is the secret of discipline and economy.

Too lazy to be ambitious, I let the world take care of itself. Ten days' worth of rice in my bag; a bundle of twigs by the fireplace. Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment? Listening to the night rain on my roof, I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

Tonight, I decided to take a stroll down to my local liquor store. Maybe I’ll find a refreshment to wash down this full moon. I hate showing up & the clerk fucking knows my name, perhaps because I’m a regular. Anyways got my shit, left…barely covering the tax. Took the long way home; to get away from that haunting typewriter. Sat down at some park bench, as I started to open my poison; A memory rushed into me. A empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s under the Christmas tree. I thought my dad would want another drink, so started to pour my bottle into the dirt & cried.

too much explanation can take the pleasure out of any poetry. (Preface, vii)

Tongue on your words to taste you there Couldn’t   read what you had never written there Played your message over feeling bad Played your message over it was all I had To tell me what and wherefore this is what it said: I’m tired of you asking me why I’m tired of words like the chatter of birds Give me a pass, let me just get by

Tonight I see no spheres, but project myself and gaze back, an important trick because the goal is to be on both sides of the poem, shuttling between the you and I.

Too high for common selfishness , he could At times resign his own for others' good, But not in pity - not because he ought, But in some strange perversity of thought, That swayed him onward with a secred pride To do what few or none could do beside; And this same impulse would, in tempting time, Mislead his spirit equally to crime; So much he soared beyond, or sank beneath, The men with whom he felt condemned to breathe And longed by good or ill to seperate Himself from all who shared his mortal fate.

Too often girls cover up their highlights instead of their shadows. And too often the right boys are too late to notice.

To plunge one thing into the shape or nature of another is a fundamental gesture of creative insight, part of how we make for ourselves a world more expansive, deft, fertile, and startling in richness.

Too much war, hatred and fear in the world. Desperately needed: More art, love and poetry.

To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you And know there is more That you can't see, can't hear Can't know except in moments Steadly growing, and in languages That aren't always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circled in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon within a True circle of motion, Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty.

Too often, there are no words to describe the heartache of a lost love, only the deafening silence left in its wake, and the unfathomable sorrow that seeps deep into the dark crevices of our frail hearts.

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!

To quote Ms. Lauryn: i wrote these words for everyone who struggles in their youth... * * - Esther - * * "Don't worry that you'll be a copy The Maker had you on His mind the entire time Before a speckle of sand hit the darkness Before sound came from the void Before two drops of hydrogen And oxygen combined Before mama knew papa The vibrations in your voice are like thumbprints The fequency and wavelength your sound generates Reverberates in the universe Breaking and entering into souls A light house in a perfect storm Your siren song does not take but lends To safety To refuge To home Don't be afraid that its already been said - Speak Don't be afraid that its already been thought - Think In this generation This moment For this time

Tornadoes devastate and leave a mess behind, just like your ending, so the instant that 'Psychlone' sees you rebuilding, she's going to spin completely out of control, every time. You can't get sucked into the same vortex twice if you eject the monster from being it's own victim; but until then, I'd pull in your rocking chairs, lock down your trash cans and recycling bins, and take your potted azaleas inside... ... if I were you.

To reduce poetry to its reflections of historical events and movements would be like reducing the poet's words to their logical or grammatical connotations.

To see the sun shining on its bright grass, fresh, when we first visited it, with the autumnal dews, and hear the whispering of the wind among the leaves of the trees which have overgrown the tomb of Cestius, and the soil which is stirring in the sun-warm earth, and to mark the tombs, mostly of women and young people who were buried there, one might, if one were to die, desire the sleep they seem to sleep.

To sin by silence, when we should protest, Makes cowards out of men. The human race Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised Against injustice, ignorance, and lust, The inquisition yet would serve the law, And guillotines decide our least disputes. The few who dare, must speak and speak again To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God, No vested power in this great day and land Can gag or throttle. Press and voice may cry Loud disapproval of existing ills; May criticise oppression and condemn The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws That let the children and childbearers toil To purchase ease for idle millionaires. Therefore I do protest against the boast Of independence in this mighty land. Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link. Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave. Until the manacled slim wrists of babes Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee, Until the mother bears no burden, save The precious one beneath her heart, until God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed And given back to labor, let no man Call this the land of freedom.

To say that a poet is justified in employing a disintegrating form in order to express a feeling of disintegration, is merely a sophistical justification for bad poetry, akin to the Whitmanian notion that one must write loose and sprawling poetry to "express" the loose and sprawling American continent. In fact, all feeling, if one gives oneself (that is, one's form) up to it, is a way of disintegration; poetic form is by definition a means to arrest the disintegration and order the feeling; and in so far as any poetry tends toward the formless, it fails to be expressive of anything.

To set the cause above renown, To love the game beyond the prize, To honour, while you strike him down, The foe that comes with fearless eyes; To count the life of battle good, And dear the land that gave you birth, And dearer yet the brotherhood That binds the brave of all the earth. - Henry Newbolt

To say that film and television are the same thing is to say poetry and the novel are the same simply because they are words written on a page.

To shew thee such tokens I have leave; and if thou wilt pray again, and weep as now, and fast even days, thou shall hear yet greater things.

To some, you are just a face in the crowd. To the one, you are the star of the show.

to speak to existence what is not and see what was not. Be.

to split the very sea into ours and theirs." Border at the Beach And More White Sheets

To storm, a mind, it must be balanced, by what can't be it must be challenged...

Total knowledge is annihilation Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel The world sensed only through senses And immune to the knowledge without feeling.

To the delicate, You will fall for the rough ones. the cold ones. the ones filled with apathy. you will spend your time counting their affection in change. you will stuff your pockets with silence. you will settle for second hand love. Delicate, you will be fashioned in the art of forgiveness. you will love like it’s a religion. you will memorize birthdays, phone numbers, and the moments you’ve heard goodbye. and when life becomes unyielding, and the burden too heavy, you will fault yourself. blame the material you are made of. say that you rip too easy, expect too much, give too often. you are a well that keeps on leaking. but even if you overflow, even if the thunder finds your home, you must remain soft. and if they have broken your heart, allow it to make you softer. kinder. do not imitate the cruel. do not allow yourself to take the shape of those who hurt you.

To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand,

To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop in the oats, to air in the lung let evening come. Let it come, as it will, and don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come.

To thee, to thee, my fire! Thou hast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life were a piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful of ashes.

To the knights of faith nobody believes.

To the person in my future...I hope you're ready, because I'm going to love you... fiercely. You'll never have to suffer for my past heartache. It's taught me that I need love more than the absence of it. I'm not perfect, nor is my track record. I've experienced a lot of takers in my life - but I'll love you with every part of me that remains.

To those who have been accustomed to the difficulties and dangers of a sea-faring life, there are no lines which speak more forcibly to the imagination, or prove the beauty and power of the Greek poet, than those in the noble prayer of Ajax: "Lord of earth and air, O king! O father! hear my humble prayer. Dispel this cloud, that light of heaven restore; Give me to see - and Ajax asks no more, If Greece must perish - we Thy will obey; But let us perish in the face of day!

To use the term 'clerk' as an insult is simply a banal vulgarity; Pessoa and Svevo, however would have welcomed it as a just attribute of the poet. The latter does not resemble Achilles or Diomedes, ranting on their war-chariots, but is more like Ulysses, who knows that he is no one. He manifests himself in this revelation of impersonality that conceals him in the prolixity of things, as travelling erases the traveller in the confused murmur of the street.

Touch my song with your lips, make it immortal, be my beloved, make my love immortal. No restriction of age, not the bond of lives, when someone love should see only the soul, by carving new trend, make the trend immortal. Loneliness of the sky is in my lone heart, with rattleing paayal enter into my life, by giving own breaths make the music immortal make the music immortal, make my song immortal. World snatched from me, whatever was beloved to me, all won from me, I lost at every moment, by losing your heart you make my victory immortal. written By "Honthon Se Chhoo Lo Tum - Jagjit Singh

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO “Even when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.”—VICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow — Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow “has wings,” however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso “corvo,” although con dizionario io parlo Italiano— this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too — my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow— gioièllo mio— I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, s erafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, addio. (((((Impromptu equivalents for esperanto madinusa (made in U.S.A.) for those who might not resent them. azzurro-negro: blue-black vivorosso: lively con dizionario: with dictionary savio ucello: knowing bird botto e totto: vow and motto io giuro: I swear è questo credo: is this credo lucro è peso morto: profit is a dead weight gioièllo mio: my jewel a bel bosco: to lovely woods tuttuto vagabondo: complete gypsy serafino uvaceo: grape-black seraph sunto: in short verecondo: modest))))

To understand possible means to understand impossible.

Towards these weeks of rain I give effusive praise. Let me always be reminded that there is time for change.

To walk quietly until the miracle in everything speaks is poetry, whether we write it down or not.