Best 429 quotes in «poets quotes» category

If rewriting equals rereading, we must logically conclude that writing is reading. If this is indeed the case, how could we possibly write under a ban on reading? The only way left is mouth-to-mouth – poets and storytellers recite their pieces and before we can commit them to memory, everything vanishes into thin air.

If the poets offered us nothing more than another make-believe world, they would be mere sellers of drugs or, at best, sweetmeats.

If you are good, they say you are weak.

If you could have walked on the planet before humans lived here, maybe the Ivory Coast would have seemed more beautiful than La Côte d'Azur.

If you were destined to be a poet, then you won't brainstorm for lines that rhymes. If you were destined to be a celebrity, then you shouldn't start searching for fans. If you are truly a god, then let others worship you!

i have laughed more than daffodils and cried more than June.

If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.

If you're an artist, always keep at it, there will be someone out there who sees the universe and soul in what you've created. Maybe they can't afford it, but it calls them like the siren in a sea, and they've saved for months and scraped, thinking all the time about how one piece you made has moved them. You can change a person's moment with your work, don't forget that. If you're an author, someone out there has read your work. They've laughed with your characters. They've cried with them. They've escaped into your fantasy or memories, and they've been changed by you. Nothing they do afterward will be the same. You will forever make them different and who they will become. Please don't forget that. If you're a singer or musician, you inspire others. People sing when they feel great emotion. If you're one of those who bursts into song at a moment's notice, imagine what that can do to brighten someone else's day. People are listening. They see you, who you really are. They are feeling the magic of those moments with you. You never know who's life you can change. You never know who is listening. Never forget that. It doesn't matter what kind of magic you create, don't ever stop. There is beauty, pain, and so many other things that depend on you to continue. Never stop. Let the world see your magic. Perform your craft with all of the fibers of your being. Shine with your light. Edge with your darkness. Do what you must, but never stop. Your creations are a gift to the world, so give with all your might. You never know who might need it.

I had become a poet long before I learnt how to walk. My mother, a poet, made me a poet in her womb!

I is for immortality, which for some poets is a necessary compensation. Presumably miserable in this life, they will be remembered when the rest of us are long forgotten. None of them asks about the quality of that remembrance--what it will be like to crouch in the dim hallways of somebody's mind until the moment of recollection occurs, or to be lifted off suddenly and forever into the pastures of obscurity. Most poets know better than to concern themselves with such things. They know the chances are better than good that their poems will die when they do and never be heard of again, that they'll be replaced by poems sporting a new look in a language more current. They also know that even if individual poems die, though in some cases slowly, poetry will continue: that its subjects, it constant themes, are less liable to change than fashions in language, and that this is where an alternate, less lustrous immortality might be. We all know that a poem can influence other poems, remain alive in them, just as previous poems are alive in it. Could we not say, therefore, that individual poems succeed most by encouraging revisions of themselves and inducing their own erasure? Yes, but is this immortality, or simply a purposeful way of being dead?

I had never known any man to die while speaking in terza-rima

I have tried to live very quietly, so I could be happy.

Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination.

I’m a maker of ballads right pretty I write them right here in the street You can buy them all over the city yours for a penny a sheet I’m a word pecker out of the printers out of the dens of Gin Lane I’ll write up a scene on a counter - confessions and sins in the main, boys confessions and sins in the main Then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s keeping the demons at bay There’s nothing like gin for drowning them in but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day They come rattling over the cobbles they sit on their coffins of black Some are struck dumb, some gabble top-heavy on brandy or sack The pews are all full of fine fellows and the hawker has set up her shop As they’re turning them off at the gallows she’ll be selling right under the drop, boys selling right under the drop Then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s keeping the demons at bay There’s nothing like gin for drowning them in but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day

I'm sick of the images trapped in my head I'm sick of being preoccupied with the dead

In a world where people talk more, we poets choose to write down.

In einer Zivilisation von Dichtern sind die Probleme der Gesellschaft gelöst, auch die Angst vor dem Tod ist kein Problem mehr. Den Logos für sich zu gewinnen, das ist doch das Höchste, wonach der Mensch strebt! Hat er das, braucht er kein Paradies mehr.

In order to enter that zone we must finally let go of the embodied distances that place grants. But what does this do to what we commonly think of as the past? I think of cyberspace, which is no place at all, as akin to the dark imaginary out of which poems come, their rhythms, their discrete music punctuating the inner life.

Inside is where we meet everyone else; it's on the outside that we are truly alone.

In the case of Michel Angelo we have an artist who with brush and chisel portrayed literally thousands of human forms; but with this peculiarity, that while scores and scores of his male figures are obviously suffused and inspired by a romantic sentiment, there is hardly one of his female figures that is so,—the latter being mostly representative of woman in her part as mother, or sufferer, or prophetess or poetess, or in old age, or in any aspect of strength or tenderness, except that which associates itself especially with romantic love. Yet the cleanliness and dignity of Michel Angelo's male figures are incontestable, and bear striking witness to that nobility of the sentiment in him, which we have already seen illustrated in his sonnets.

in the end it is words poetry. sunsets someone’s deep blue silk voice. mountain scents. someone’s smile. eyes. that we have no defenses against.

In the lie of truth lies the truth.

In the morning, when I am gone. Don’t sit ‘round and mourn. Just simply look up to the sun. I’ll be looking right back at you. You will all be okay without me, soon. It’s not the end; it’s the start of a new bloom. You will have better times than now. Don’t reflect on the sad times, avow. Think of the happy times, the years and vow. I don’t want a bunch standing around my grave. Straighten up and think of the happy days. I’ll only allow tears of joy, be brave. I will be right there with you. I will keep an eye on you. You teenagers better behave, I’ll be seeing your every move. Every move you make on those nights, out late. So, anyway, when I am gone in the morning, date. Don’t be sad or mad, don’t hate. Just look up to the sun, nigh I’ll be looking back at you, wry It was just my time to fly. It was simply my time, goodbye.

In this story I am the poet You're the poetry.

I pen you words from my heart neither paper nor pen would do as I lay them out in flowery fonts what more could you ask for as I am writing in your heart the love that I want to endure I am no Keats nor am I anyone but me a poetess longing for your touch get lost with me in my words as I serenade you with a forever quill.

I recall that now and I recall everything for what do we have but the past to parent us?

Irish improves a poet.

..i spill into the kind of silence only Khalil Gibran would understand.

I tell my sisters: / cultivate loneliness / like you might care for / an orchid, turning it / gently towards the light, / serving it water like wine / aerated, purified, filtered.

It is a fact that there is no country in the world where love does not turn lovers into poets.

It is clear enough that not every something can be elevated to the rank of a thing - otherwise everything and everyone would be speaking once more, and the chatter would spread from humans to things. Rilke privileges two categories of 'entities' [Seienden), to express it in the papery diction of philosophy, that are eligible for the lofty task of acting as message-things - artifices and living creatures - with the latter gaining their particular quality from the former, as if animals were being's highest works of art before humans. Inherent to both is a message energy that does not activate itself, but requires the poet as a decoder and messenger.

It is ferocious, life, but it must eat . . .

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

It is unfortunate to say, but someone has to voice the pain, the struggle, the real and the lived through. You can thank the artists, poets, musicians for that - our stories may bleed sorrow but what we create seems to always hit right down to the core, the places many fear to tread, the soul. We give meaning for the scars.

It may be enough, however, to have it said that we survive in exact relationship to the dedication of our poets (include preachers, musicians, and blues singers).

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.

It's up to poets to revive the gods.

I turned myself into an artist because then my life would be about creating meaning out of ugliness and that would be my life, and it was noble. It was the beginning of a journey, the creating of the world every single day and I was not bored. I was ecstasy and creation and nothingness turned into melodies and I was dancing with the spirits.

it was the kind of moon that I would want to send back to my ancestors and gift to my descendants so they know that I too, have been bruised...by beauty.

I used to know Brian Howard well -- a dazzling young man to my innocent eyes. In later life he became very dangerous -- constantly attacking people with his fists in public places -- so I kept clear of him. He was consumptive but the immediate cause of his death was a broken heart.

I’ve learned that I am not just a poet, that poets are not just poets. If I could tell my younger self one thing about being a poet...I’d tell her that we contain multitudes.” @Nic_Sealey

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible; the world has written its own.

i want to be in love with you the same way i am in love with the moon with the light shining out of its soul.

I want to be the one you run to. I want to be the one you miss. I want your arms to hold me through. I want your lips to be mine to kiss. I want to be the one you’re in love with. Eyes opening up my heart like a locksmith. I want to be the one you snuggle. Together creating jealous couples. Love is one of the greatest treasures. Something that cannot be measured. Take me with you on this journey. As long as we’re together, there’re no worries.

I wish to stay drenched forever in those rain-blue eyes in those...soul-reaching crystals not moving a muscle nor breathing just savoring this turquoise ache against my heart.

Love is almost never simple.

Love doesn’t make you a poet; it makes you poetry.

love is always moving towards you

Love is not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size. Love is simply two hands reached out in the darkness, saying; I’ll be your light, if you’ll be mine.

Man cannot live without oxygen, The poets cannot live without love!