Best 1872 quotes in «poem quotes» category

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    I look back frequently I'm learning from the past I try to distract from the pain I lose myself at times Chaos is still beautiful for me and I understood I'm stronger braver and more resilient Then I once believed

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    I love her, but every hug leaves bullet holes in my chest. Every kiss is another scar upon my flesh. Every thrust, every touch, every moan that escapes her lips...they are famine to my soul, and I still can't let her go.

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    I love you in my very own way. Like a stone loves the mosses around it Like a sea loves the pebbles in it Like a coincidence... Taking you as the way you are, With all the bruises, scars and broken parts all around you and your heart. I love you in my very own way By throwing the stone, the mosses, the sea and the pebbles to your head Like i want to kill you. Just because of envying the love That my heart spend on you.

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    I love you Of the tempestuous love That unites the sea and the sailor I love you Like the round of the sun High up on my garden Like the shape of your hand in my own Like the breath of your breath -at dawn I love you beyond life itself Beyond obviousness I love you in the union of my senses When they order yours In the evening silences

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    I love your round head, the brilliant green, the watching blue, these letters, this world, you. I am very, very hungry.

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    I love you to infinity Yet sometimes If you ask me how much I may not be able to answer If you ask me why I may not be able to show But I know I will keep on loving you Till my heart beats

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    I made her go because I knew she could do better and now I wonder if I should have just been better.

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    Imagination is a gift. I've misused it, Hired it to Paint my walls With fear. I've learned it, Laughed at My stories Of "truth." I've burst with it, Dripped my Hopes and lies Onto you. And now I've become it, Stopped trying To control my wildfire And let it spread. Life is a gift. I'm. Opening. It.

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    imagine the desert mothers, with hair tangled tighter than their theology and breasts that flowed milk and mystic wisdom. they knew how to draw the singing sigils in the sand, how to dig rough and bitten fingers into desiccated dirt for water to wet the lips of their young. women of hips and heft, who learned how to burn beneath the wild and searing sun, who made loud love against the star-flecked threat of night, who knew that strength is not always a matter of muscle. imagine your ancestresses, the prophetesses of the arid lands, before these starched traditions and pews too hard to pray from, who bled true ritual and birthed their own fierce souls at creation's crowning --

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    imagine your heart is just a ball you learned to dribble up and down the length of your driveway back home. slow down control it. plant your feet in the soft blue of your mat and release it is hard but slowly you are unlearning the shallow pant of your childhood. extend your body—do not reach for someone but something fixed and fleshless and certain— fold flatten then lift your head like a cobra sure of the sun waiting and ready to caress the chill from its scales. inhale—try not to remember how desperate you’ve been for touch—yes ignore it—that hitch of your heart you got from mornings you woke to find momma hysterical or gone. try to give up the certainty she’d never return recall only the return and not its coldness. imagine her arms wide to receive you imagine you are not a thing that needs escaping. it is hard and though at times you are sure you will always be the abandoned girl trying to abandon herself push up arch deep into your back exhale and remember— when it is too late to pray the end of the flood we pray instead to survive it.

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    I'm a peasant I'm the muzhik A pest you're destined to play the music And yes it's pleasant to say it's beauty I'm Indebted to rest respecting it truly

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    Imitating others, I failed to find myself. I looked inside and discovered I only knew my name. When I stepped outside I found my real Self. ~Rumi

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    Imitation nation by nation, the simple means of communication and conflict. Stranger than fiction, always has been this way. In the heart of Rome, I never wanted this Halloween season to end, sweet dreams of dark love and wild west wide nights the universe was inside all along. The mystic river beyond metaphysical questions, I can't believe these pink walls anymore, can't remember the names of every street corner I lost my mind to every kind of street art sensual experience. Sunrise rooftops, all the make-up in the world couldn't heal the wounds from the false words in the every day scene of the fiery red lips predicting a gone future puff by single breath. Seeing my skin peel off the city lights.

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    I'm Not a Doctor or Engineer or Expert in tech because did not like to read the only books and syllabus but loved to read the expression on faces, depth in eyes, the situation of people, nature of society so I became a Writer

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    I‘m no good at loving people but… I will love you like the darkness loves the stars. I'm the goddess of the night. I will smear my ink over your skin, and leave paper cuts where the light can get in. I will break you then make you whole. You‘ll be the moon lighting up the sky. But I will never be done – we‘ll dance together until my darkness is gone.

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    I'm not sure what I imagined, but I thought the lapis sash of a mallard's wing meant joy was everyone's destiny. that it was tucked in if only you knew how to look, how to route salt to the side of your tongue, bitter to the back. I preened in the gloss of black ice. Our vows lassoed the night sky--tried to-- each word a flint-dipped sparkler, a nest of lightning or a thrashing fuse. Wasn't that love? Not the way violins are made, maple soaked, warped, planted till sound bloats wood's ancient fissures. Not like the bow slow-combed, pale horsehair secured, capped in wax. when you begin to hate a man, his stunt fingers swell with fat. His red face sweats strawberry rot. Like a stuck pig, the door, if locked, brays and grunts at his boot-strike, shoulder-strike. The town is small, but it's his. You dial, wanting someone to marvel with you, to witness that cheap bolt as it holds. To fix the cornered nuthatch three-quarters dead, still resisting in the cat's mouth, still dreaming of flight.

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    Impassionate gods have never seen the red that is the Tatsuta River. / ちはやぶる 神代も聞かず 竜田川 からくれなゐに 水くくるとは

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    Impatience kills quickly.

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    In a dark silent room I sit all alone Feeling only the pain and With uncontrollable tears The floral bed sheets I'm covered in Fails to offer the warmth and comfort I’m trapped Underneath the blankets Screaming and tormenting I'm passing the nights

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    In daylight we pick up our tinned rations and hike off, every artery and nerve of us, into the rest of our commemorative lives.

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    I never think of burning a star when I acquire certain sadness attached by suspending from the top of a raging dark sky within my unnerving me. From the poem- Not A NightGazer

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    Infatuated painted clouds, enamored of our silky bed-lagoon, reflect with silent tremors your sweetest of the kisses...whispers...then lightly consume its shining sunset skin with loving smiles greeting the lacy starry night ahead...making our senses dance so softly stepping on to the adorn petals of the place no one else knows...

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    In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down, Whose bonnets touch the firmament, Whose sandals touch the town, ― Meek at whose everlasting feet A myriad daisies play. Which, sir, are you, and which am I. Upon an August day?

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    In learning a language, when from mere words we reach the laws of words, we have gained a great deal. But if we stop at that point and concern ourselves only with the marvels of the formation of a language, seeking the hidden reason of all its apparent caprices, we do not reach that end, for grammar is not literature… When we come to literature, we find that, though it conforms to the rules of grammar, it is yet a thing of joy; it is freedom itself. The beauty of a poem is bound by strict laws, yet it transcends them. The laws are its wings. They do not keep it weighed down. They carry it to freedom. Its form is in law, but its spirit is in beauty. Law is the first step toward freedom, and beauty is the complete liberation which stands on the pedestal of law. Beauty harmonizes in itself the limit and the beyond – the law and the liberty.

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    In order to not feel alone, we conform our selves to masks and hide in social solitude. We ignore the inner geniuses and envy the others.

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    Inside, my soul is curled tightly bearing the burden of massive sins from another life. And my eyes look far at the hell around me... a sharp grin tugs at the corner of my lips.

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    Inside the woods is an abandoned hotel. Trees grow in the lobby and up through the rooms. Limbs jut out through the windows. It looks like outside inside. I climb the trees through 1000 rooms. I look for you in each of them. You’re a long shiny line.

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    In snow thou comest Thou shalt go with resuming ground The sweet derision of thx crow And Glee's advancing sound

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    In the '70s, everything shone as bright as brass.

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    In the days of Prismatic Color not in the days of Adam and Eve, but when Adam was alone; when there was no smoke and color was fine, not with the refinement of early civilization art, but because of its originality; with nothing to modify it but the mist that went up, obliqueness was a variation of the perpendicular, plain to see and to account for: it is no longer that; nor did the blue-red-yellow band of incandescence that was color keep its stripe

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    In the end, Just remember If he really want to stay with you, He will pursue you. That's it!

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    In the end it was my blood that was spilled on the sheets. I won't forget the girl I was before you, and the girl I became after.

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    In the forty minutes I watched the muskrat, he never saw me, smelled me, or heard me at all. When he was in full view of course I never moved except to breathe. My eyes would move, too, following his, but he never noticed. Only once, when he was feeding from the opposite bank about eight feet away did he suddenly rise upright, all alert- and then he immediately resumed foraging. But he never knew I was there. I never knew I was there, either. For that forty minutes last night I was as purely sensitive and mute as a photographic plate; I received impressions, but I did not print out captions. My own self-awareness had disappeared; it seems now almost as though, had I been wired to electrodes, my EEG would have been flat. I have done this sort of thing so often that I have lost self-consciousness about moving slowly and halting suddenly. And I have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. I wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves. Martin Buber quotes an old Hasid master who said, “When you walk across the field with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their souls come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.

  • By Anonym

    In The Garret Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago, By children now in their prime. Four little keys hung side by side, With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish pride, Long ago, on a rainy day. Four little names, one on each lid, Carved out by a boyish hand, And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happy band Once playing here, and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain, That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain. 'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair. I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known care, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life-- Gifts to gentle child and girl, A bridal gown, lines to a wife, A tiny shoe, a baby curl. No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg's play. Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain. 'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more, Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet, Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain-- 'Be worthy, love, and love will come,' In the falling summer rain. My Beth! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came. Death canonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine-- The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door. The songs she sang, without lament, In her prison-house of pain, Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain. Upon the last lid's polished field-- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield, 'Amy' in letters gold and blue. Within lie snoods that bound her hair, Slippers that have danced their last, Faded flowers laid by with care, Fans whose airy toils are past, Gay valentines, all ardent flames, Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames, The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer, truer spells, Hearing, like a blithe refrain, The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain. Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, Four women, taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime. Four sisters, parted for an hour, None lost, one only gone before, Made by love's immortal power, Nearest and dearest evermore. Oh, when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father's sight, May they be rich in golden hours, Deeds that show fairer for the light, Lives whose brave music long shall ring, Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain

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    In the mid-thirties, a young black poet named Langston Hughes wrote a poem, "Let America Be America Again": . . . I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek- And finding only the same old stupid plan. Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak. . . . O, let America be America again- The land that never has been yet- And yet must be-the land where every man is free. The land that's mine-the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's ME- Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again. Sure call me any ugly name you choose- The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, We must take back our land again, America! . . .

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    In the poem, there is always that present moment which is terribly important through which memory works.

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    In the serenity and quiet of this lovely place, touch the depths of truth, feel the hem of Heaven. And when you leave, don't forget why you came...

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    In the very end, all we have left to atone for our faults are words.

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    In this forest called life, sometimes there are no goodbyes, no proper sendoffs, no wishing for a next time; just the knowledge that this departure will never be set right.

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    In time, he began to see the details that held us like invisible stitches together. The scars we held within, the tears despite our dry faces. He saw the little sigh that came with the song. The way our breathing became labored even though nothing seemed wrong. He peeked into the aimless gaze of daydreamers, reliving their worst moments, commending them on being so strong.

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    In times of need I call unto you Abba Father and you answer.

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    In those years, people will say, we lost track of the meaning of we, of you we found ourselves reduced to I and the whole thing became silly, ironic, terrible: we were trying to live a personal life and yes, that was the only life we could bear witness to But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged into our personal weather They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove along the shore, through the rags of fog where we stood, saying I

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    In trials of ir'n and silver fain “The dead will rise and walk again “The blesséd few that touch the light “Will aid the war against the night. “But one by one they all will die “Without a cause to rule them by “As Darkness spreads across the land “He'll wield the oceans in his hand. “Five warriors will oppose his reign “And overthrow the Shadow Thane “They come from sides both dark and light “The realm the mortals call “twilight.” “A magus crowned with boughs of fire “Will rise like Phoenix from his pyre “A beast of shadows touched with sight “Will claim a Dark One as her knight “The next, a prophet doomed to fail “Will find her powers to avail “The final: one mere mortal man “Who bears the mark upon his hand “The circle closes round these few “Made sacred by the bonds they hew “But if one fails then so shall all “Bring death to those of Evenfall.

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    In your voice, I will hear all my pains And with your words, I will understand them I will tell you That everything is uncertain (And so possible) And I will give you my hand (Inaccessible)

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    In your eyes I found something that shines brighter than a thousand rays of sunshine.

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    I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. I don't don't know why know why, I simply know that I I I am am inclined to say to say a lot a lot this way this way- I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. My mom my mom gets mad gets mad, it irritates my dad my dad, it drives them up a tree a tree, that's what they tell they tell me me- I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat. It gets me in a jam a jam, but that's the way I am I am, in fact I think it's neat it's neat to to to to repeat repeat- I often repeat repeat myself, I often repeat repeat.

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    Once was Apollo Now a rat in the Lab'rinth Send help. And cronuts

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    I owe them gods a bottle of whiskey and a bullet each

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    I only ever wanted to feel more human.

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    I paid, got up, walked to the door, opened it. I heard the man say, "that guy's nuts." out on the street I walked north feeling curiously honored.