Best 8159 quotes in «poetry quotes» category

The Pressure- Maybe one day, after centuries, we can become brilliant gems in crystal caves and we will be immortal after all.

The princess needs a prince, while the queen became bored babysitting the king and realized he adds unnecessary stress to her already busy life.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

The princess jumped from the tower & she learned that she could fly all along - she never needed those wings

The problem in this world is that we have poetry but insist on living in prose.

The problem was you kept waiting for another to call you powerful. You naively believed men like him were capable of loving women who make crowns for thorns. The problem was You loved him so shamelessly, even his lies became holy.

The Process of Explication" I Students, look at this table And now when you see a man six feet tall You can call him a fathom. Likewise, students when yes and you do that and other stuff Likewise too the shoe falls upon the sun And the alphabet is full of blood And when you knock upon a sentence in the Process of explication you are going to need a lot of rags Likewise, hello and goodbye. II Nick Algiers is my student And he sits there in a heap in front of me thinking of suicide And so, I am the one in front of him And I dance around him in a circle and light him on fire And with his face on fire, I am suddenly ashamed. Likewise the distance between us then Is the knife that is not marriage. III Students, I can’t lie, I’d rather be doing something else, I guess Like making love or writing a poem Or drinking wine on a tropical island With a handsome boy who wants to hold me all night. I can’t lie that dreams are ridiculous. And in dreaming myself upon the moon I have made the moon my home and no one Can ever get to me to hit me or kiss my lips. And as my bridegroom comes and takes me away from you You all ask me what is wrong and I say it is That I will never win.

The puzzled life was on Earth, still—a burdened lizard!

The rain always reminds me of your sublimity...

The questions are never painful. Only the answers are.

There ain't no money in poetry, that's what keeps the poet free. I've had all the freedom I can stand.

The rat is the mous- tache in the trache. the wrong- doer in the soer.

The real flight of this hawk is impending. Still,this bird is yet to be tested for real. Though I have leaped over the seas, well,the entire sky is still remaining to fly. And make sure that ,i am gonna do it with all my heart and all my soul. #loveyoourlife #liveyourlife #hvFUN

There are daisies In the ruined garden, still blooming strangely

There are good reasons to learn how to read. Poetry isn't one of them... Why can't poets just say what they want to say and then shut up?

There are bones waiting for names in the graveyards. Even the sun above us is dying, one landed repetition of light at a time.

There are magnets in my bones for that iron in her blood.

There are horrible events going on all over the world. Human beings are really fucking up. Poets, we can’t just write poems. We have to put poems into action.

The pulpit is beautifully furnished and bright But it's rotted in places not seen by the light

The pure products of America go crazy... ...[] No one to witness and adjust, no one to drive the car

The radiance of enlightenments are oft unearthed amidst the darkest of nights... sunrises at midnight.

The quest for identity from the images we see; god of America: Father TV.

The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.

The Quiet World In an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you. When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.

The rain always reminds me of our kisses.

The raindrops tapped your windows like my lips tapped your back.

The real cost Of Kurukshetra Was the moment When you disappeared Over the horizon At the end of our universe That moment When you looked back And couldn't see me When I strained my eyes But couldn't see you The monumental Incalculable Cost Of war Was an empty horizon. It always has been, Krishna.

There are a days when I want to day with feeling of a little and a hatred of myself There are a days when I ask if it is enough to love and do not forget to say anything Just blow out a match and dive head to boiling water and then in my left ear will burn a fire that is getting by your hands

There are countless circles of hell; believers never penetrate the ninth circle.

There are days when my imagination in my enemy. It likes to keep me company in my darkest of times and romanticizes a past that was more of a horror story than a fairytale.

There are dreamed anguishes that are more real Than the ones life brings us, there are sensations Felt only by imagining Which are more ours than our own life is. There’s so often a thing which, not existing, Does exist, exists lingeringly And lingeringly is ours and us…

There are, in places, fallen angels who in their iniquity and desolation linger like a stranger on a foggy night, sustained by the misdeeds of city-dwellers and spurred on by bitter hatred for their bright kin moving past them.

There are many wounded hearts here. Many! Some admit. Others - the stubborn ones, scribble poetry instead.

There are no words that could describe how loving of beloved feels. Nor the joy of opening arms into a hug.

There are no barriers to poetry or prophecy; by their nature they are barrier-breakers, bursts of perceptions, lines into infinity. If the poet lies about his vision he lies about himself and in himself; this produces a true barrier.

There are no brakes in loving you. No life preservers. It is full throttle or nothing at all. I cannot stop, I won’t stop. I will drown in love and return dripping with madness and poetry. It is an art, a gift, this kind of lunacy.

There are no clear borders, Only merging invisible to the sight.

There are no good tights, Rare they are, a rare sight. You roll and roll Inside a new hole, They´re only good for a fight.

There are no humans left. I should not be alone. I can’t help but wonder that. There were so many of us living. But time started growing young four years ago. It isn’t four years anymore. It’s a number I wouldn’t even be able to say. It feels like four years. It’s trapped in my tender memory as four years. It’s been an age. Multiple ages. It’s been lifetimes; every single lifetime that used to exist. I remember my mother screaming. I recall the doctors naming me as nurses wiped away her blood and covered her face with white. The end of the play. It’s been so long. Why am I alone?

There are only so many times you can roll a dice, before it lands on a six.

there are only so many things that you can fix with your hands. ...What they don't realize is I am not a thing to fix.

There are no stones honeycombed into an abusive tongue strong enough to clip my wings.

There are snippets of hope shining in the darkest corners of chaos, you must not be scared. Refrain from letting fear cover your eyes.

There are only so many parallel universes that concern us. In one, he isn't dead.

There are pieces of you that will always be with me.

there are poems seeping through the crevices you left behind. gentle on the eyes. rough on the tongue. so deeply rooted in me yet clawing their way to the paper.

There are some griefs so loud They could bring down the sky, And there are griefs so still None knows how deep they lie, Endured, never expended. There are old griefs so proud They never speak a word; They never can be mended. And these nourish the will And keep it iron-hard.

There are things you want to say but don't There are things I want to say but I already said them A year ago or two or five, when we first met There were times I thought you knew I loved you You never knew We never were I died You died That's it

There are some places you can't visit anymore, poetry and writings take you there.

there are some poems that we leave behind some that leave us behind while some just live silently in the heart crumble, sometimes dwindle disappear die and are reborn when you smile again.