Best 1872 quotes in «poem quotes» category

3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.

...4-5-6: when time escapes the day in its most beautiful way. She starves for that beauty, she longs to quench her limitless thirst, but those moments are so fleeting and their limit is her unrest. Her bones are hollow and heavy as she takes a single step, and in that instant she is gone, blinded by the flash of a stray ray of light, her eyes close in that moment and stars flood her night. She falls forward slow, counting the half seconds of her descent. Her eyes stay closed, her thoughts are spent.

Abba Father! Your love for me is transparent no hidden agenda, no ulterior motives because You are the Holy God. And the only thing abides us is the covenant of your love that will never be broken. In times of need I call unto You and You answer. When I feel alone you always beside me with Your loving and caring touch.

Ablakom előtt visszanyesem a fákat: virradjon korán.

A BOAT beneath a sunny sky, Lingering onward dreamily In an evening of July — Children three that nestle near, Eager eye and willing ear, Pleased a simple tale to hear — Long has paled that sunny sky: Echoes fade and memories die: Autumn frosts have slain July. Still she haunts me, phantomwise, Alice moving under skies Never seen by waking eyes. Children yet, the tale to hear, Eager eye and willing ear, Lovingly shall nestle near. In a Wonderland they lie, Dreaming as the days go by, Dreaming as the summers die: Ever drifting down the stream — Lingering in the golden gleam — Life, what is it but a dream?

A Book I Can Put Down I’m halfway through and I’ve gotten used to the way it wants to be read. This writer wants to spoon it up, wants to watch me swallow it. This writer makes a point of good deeds, clean living, god and country, when what I want is sin and shame, the rusty metal edge of cruelty, varieties of pain, his mother still crying years later, just like mine. I want a writer who’s given up on the moral of the story, one who’ll hand me a knife and sit back to see what I do with it. (Published in Anderbo)

A book about books is like a poem about poetry: Books are knowledge, paid for, all. Readers - horses in a stall. Stallions should always run. Lest they stale become, in turn. Running waters are most clear. In some books, you disappear – lose yourself, and track of time. How I wish that one was mine... Mine, to have, to write, to read... Mine, just like a flying steed. Mine, forever, - to improve. Would I then, of me, approve? I would not, I can't... myself. I'm but dust, swept off a shelf. Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled, down, beside my flower, petalled.

about our argument tonight whatever it was about and no matter how unhappy it made us feel remember that there is a cat somewhere adjusting to the space of itself with a delightful wonderment of easiness. in other words magic persists without us no matter what we do against it.

A beautiful poem is nothing but a mirror of philosophy through which we can see life’s pure beauty.

absence looks like a lake bed flooded with sky sounds like cotton howling tastes like tear-stained pillows smells like churning bile and burnt hair feels like screaming agony, my heart dying and dying

About your easy heads my prayers I said with syllables of clay. What gift, I asked, shall I bring now Before I weep and walk away? Take, they replied, the oak and laurel. Take our fortune of tears and live Like a spendthrift lover. All we ask Is the one gift you cannot give.

a broken mirror tries hard to fix itself everytime she smiles at it

A clock ticking on a wall, a fake laugh, a boy only thinking for himself.

add one make dumb add two make poo

Adventure runs on all sorts of whiskey.

A far horizon embraced by cloud like a nameless God beautiful and evaporating

A feeling struck me one fine day that people call ‘love’, Before that my life was empty, all I had was loneliness and sorrow… I loved the way it felt being with him, for I felt up above, Now everything was complete and nothing remained hollow… That person who cupid made me fall for, was a God descended from heavens, I loved him with all I had, a true heart and a pure soul… I thought I achieved the meaning of life, never did I felt so glad, But when he left me amidst a chaos, I had no one with me to console… I cried, it hurt, I wept and screamed, everyone called me ‘mad’, And still I wonder if in my life, that actually was his role… But a string still binds me to my past of untold vow, Some unsaid promises that linger between us even now, Although I don’t know where he went after that fateful day… I still try to convince myself every day, I know how, Each moment has been tough, each day a new challenge… Each hour passed as if it was my heart that always allowed, One more day to live without him, one more day to cherish… One more day to spend without the love of my life somehow, But he doesn’t know that one day, the girl herself would perish… Who loved him and lived each day of her life in his wait, For the man who never returned, for the man who wasn’t in her fate…

A foolish man question: “what is love?” A madman answer: “Love is an omnipresent attribute of human life. Our appetite will always be unfulfilled for love. It is better for us because without it, earth will not rotate, seasons will not change, birds will not sing and life will not exit.” What do you think?

After every war someone has to clean up. Things won’t straighten themselves up, after all. Someone has to push the rubble to the side of the road, so the corpse-filled wagons can pass. Someone has to get mired in scum and ashes, sofa springs, splintered glass, and bloody rags. Someone has to drag in a girder to prop up a wall. Someone has to glaze a window, rehang a door. Photogenic it’s not, and takes years. All the cameras have left for another war. We’ll need the bridges back, and new railway stations. Sleeves will go ragged from rolling them up. Someone, broom in hand, still recalls the way it was. Someone else listens and nods with unsevered head. But already there are those nearby starting to mill about who will find it dull. From out of the bushes sometimes someone still unearths rusted-out arguments and carries them to the garbage pile. Those who knew what was going on here must make way for those who know little. And less than little. And finally as little as nothing. In the grass that has overgrown causes and effects, someone must be stretched out blade of grass in his mouth gazing at the clouds.

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes, and torments, and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze, He beckons us to follow, and across Cool verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete

A good poem has rhyming but no ending, it continues to rhyme in our heart.

… Fourier's great mathematical poem ... {Referring to Joseph Fourier's mathematical theory of the conduction of heat, one of the precursors to thermodynamics.}

Air of dust For a moment I was a storm cloud, All righteous booming thunder; All sharp and pinning, Dazzling. Once the flashing faded A sizzling prong sprang upwards. I was positively popped. The static situation Struck me Negatively, And I leaked out sulfur on the people Who dared hold up the sky. Strong storms are still boneless And mostly all alone.

A JEWELRY STORE NAMED INDIA If you hold this Dazzling emerald Up to the sky, It will shine a billion Beautiful miracles Painted from the tears Of the Most High. Plucked from the lush gardens Of a yellowish-green paradise, Look inside this hypnotic gem And a kaleidoscope of Titillating, Soul-raising Sights and colors Will tease and seduce Your eyes and mind. Tell me, sir. Have you ever heard A peacock sing? Hold your ear To this mystical stone And you will hear Sacred hymns flowing To the vibrations Of the perfumed Wind.

aku kembali lagi ke dalam elok puisi mencari pelepasan atau sekedar rindu maukah ikut bersamaku menjadi burung terbang bebas pada lanskap senja maukah ikut bersamaku menjadi kabut pada segenggam gelap subuh maukah ikut bersamaku menjadi embun di daun atau ingin tetap berpilu perih dengan cinta yang kau sembunyikan sendiri Akhirnya, aku kembali lagi ke dalam lorong sunyi puisi mencari pelepasan atau sekedar rindu maukah ikut bersamaku

Aku selalu larut pada keindahanmu, tidak cukup bagiku hanya menguntai kata perihal dirimu, pesonamu bak gemintang yang memberi kesejukan, gemulaimu bak rembulan yang selalu bersinar tatkala gelap bermunculan.

A litany of headlights blinding her, she stands unsteady on the dotted traffic line, takes timid steps toward rolled up windows behind which any horror could crouch....

A little bunny or some kind of ferret was probably there too, and bore witness as only rodents can.

All day long you sit and sew, Stitch life down for fear it grow, Stitch life down for fear we guess At the hidden ugliness. Dusty voice that throbs with heat, Hoping with your steel-thin beat To put stitches in my mind, Make it tidy, make it kind, You shall not: I'll keep it free Though you turn earth, sky and sea To a patchwork quilt to keep Your mind snug and warm in sleep!

All I need to do is place my pen against paper and your love writes for me.

All I know, all I can comprehend of the mathematics of a life, are the times your hand is inside my hand, and the times it is not.

All kinds of people read poetry: revolutionaries, scholars, sentimentalists etc. But above all else, lovers read poetry. Why? Because we fell in love. And then we fell in love with love.

All my past heartache and pain suddenly made sense. That was who I would not be to the person who deserves the best of me.

All of my insecurities shine in the dark.

all theories like cliches shot to hell, all these small faces looking up beautiful and believing; I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but believe is a graveyard. we have narrowed it down to the butcherknife and the mockingbird wish us luck.

All this waiting. Waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting in traffic. Waiting for the bill. Waiting at the airport for an old friend. Waiting to depart. Then, there’s the big waiting: waiting to grow up. Waiting for love. Waiting to show your your parents that when you have kids you’ll be different. Waiting to retire. Waiting for death. Why do we think waiting is the antithesis of life when it is almost all of it?

Already the ripening barberries are red And the old asters hardly breathe in their beds. The man who is not rich now as summer goes Will wait and wait and never be himself. The man who cannot quietly close his eyes certain that there is vision after vision inside, simply waiting for nighttime to rise all around him in darkness- it's all over for him, he's like an old man. Nothing else will come; no more days will open and everything that does happen will cheat him. Even you, my God. And you are like a stone that draws him daily deeper into the depths.

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 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.

Amends Regret lingers, niggles. Yellow lilies on the table, gone brown in the vase. The garden we talk about, endlessly, but never begin, deterred by tough sod. On the edge of the walk, the wheelbarrow full of stones waits like an undelivered apology. Within, the floor needs scrubbing and only hands and knees will do the job. I know that forgiveness is a simple meal— a salad, a boiled potato, a glass of tea. Easy to prepare, to offer. That the silence afterward will satisfy, perhaps even nourish.

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

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?

Am learning every day that there are more threads to me That I have been rising and changing, rediscovering who I am becoming who I want to be putting the broken pieces back together and becoming an arrow continuing to rise into the light.

and angle of vision, dust, gravity, solitude, and the part of the law which is the world's waiting and the part of the law which is my waiting, and the part which is my impatience—now; now?— though there are, there really are things in the world, you must believe me.

an axiom of sorcery: If you come to know yourself no one else can know you

And I died As the thunder crashes -in an empty sound. (It turned my soul into a wound) My life is destroyed Without you My mind is destroyed Within me I know a place where flowers bloom Please take my hands into the woods Please distract me from my pain It cries loudly into my veins.

And I knew then that I would have to live, and go on living: what sorrow it was; and still what sorrow ignites but does not consume my heart.

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived  in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where  it came from, from winter or a river.  I don't know how or when,  no they were not voices, they were not  words, nor silence,  but from a street I was summoned,  from the branches of night,  abruptly from the others,  among violent fires  or returning alone,  there I was without a face  and it touched me.

And now, for something completely the same: Wasted time and wasted breath, 's what I'll make, until my death. Helping people 'd be as good, but I wouldn't, if I could. For the few that help deserve, have no need, or not the nerve, help from strangers to accept, plus from mine a few have wept. Wept from joy, or from despair, or just from my vengeful stare. Ways I have, to look at stupid, make them see I am not Cupid. Make them see they are in error, for of truth I am a bearer. Most decide I'm just a bear, mauling at them, - like I care.

And now what will I do with all this time that forms my life with all these people who care nothing for me now, that you've left all these nights why, for whom and this morning for nothing returning my heart banging for whom why banging gravely, gravely, and now how to face up to that nothingness my life slipping o friends be gentle you know well we have nothing to do with it And now what will I do now that you . . .