Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

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    My dream was to be a scientist, but it turns out to be poetic scientific awakener.

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    Naked you are blue like the night in Cuba, you have vines and stars in your hair,

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    Nobody must question your right to smoke, but I've right, too, not to inhale your smoke. First of all, health abuse is not a right; use of right ought to lead to life, not blight. You have right to party with unchecked noise, but I've right, too, not be pained by your noise. In short, a right can't be claimed as a right, if it violates other people's right.

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    Pain is subtle. He has cold grey fingers. His voice is horse from crying & screaming... When people try to avoid him, he follows them silently & turns upas the bartender, or the bus driver... Pain has an elaborate filing system for keeping track of everyone... Pain respects people who are willing to take risks. If you... face him directly, he will give you a special ointment so your wounds don't fester.

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    Our house is quiet, small and plain, and yet its rooms run far and wide. A hundred pencils, swift as rain, writing on sheets of beaten gold would not be quick enough to hold the strange adventures shadows hide...

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    Once there was an elephant, Who tried to use the telephant- No! no! I mean an elephone He tried to use the telephone- (Dear me! I am not certain quite That even now I've got it right.) Howe'er it was, he got his trunk Entangled in the telephunk; The more he tried to get it free, The louder buzzed the telephee- (I fear I'd better drop the song Of elephop and telephong!)

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    One of the most connective things we can do for ourselves, is to become world travelers of our own internal landscapes. What i love about creating art, is the excitement of turning that landscape inside out for all to see. And the kind of courage that takes, when i don't know what the outcome will be...

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    Parched by the deprivation of your love for so long made me forget what a cup brimming with love, on my lips, felt like. Everything that now wets it, only wrinkles it with a bland taste.

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    Peace is the greatest state that Human minds ever longed to find Delight,Peace is as well the secret act that makes a Creative Heart renowned.

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    REVENGE is a kind of wild justice; which the more man’s nature runs to, the more ought law to weed it out.

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    Pram wasn't told the story of her birth. But even as a very small girl, she felt deep in her chest that she was alive and dead at the same time.

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    Poetry is inspired by the elements of random thoughts, an overflow of gazing at the unseen.

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    Poetry is the articulation of emotion through language.

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    Scatter as a prayer escaping my lips... as orchids blooming in clouds.

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    Shake those stars from your hair, pretty Moonchild. It's time to dance with the noonday sun!

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    Settle your perfect hips here and the bow of wet arrows loosens into the night the petals that form your form let your clay limbs climb the silence and its pale ladder rung by rung taking off with me in my dream. I can sense you scaling the shade tree that sings to the shadows. Dark is the world’s night without you my love,

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    She is too perfect to be known by fragments. No mean brick shall be a specimen of the building of my palace.

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    She knew that the dead hid pieces of themselves in the world. They buried organs in the living. They stuffed memories into trees and clouds and other innocuous things.

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    Smokers always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. They claimed they loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between their fingers. That was all well and good, but there was nothing quite like actually smoking it: Leigh loved inhaling. To pull with your lips on that filter and feel the smoke drift across your tongue, down your throat, and directly into your lungs was to be transported momentarily to nirvana. She remembered- every day- how it felt after the first inhale, just as the nicotine was hitting her bloodstream. A few seconds of both tranquility and alertness, together, in exactly the right amounts. Then the slow exhale- forceful enough so that the smoke didn't merely seep from your mouth but not so energetic that it disrupted the moment- would complete the blissful experience.

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    She was a drawing that hadn't been colored.

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    She was the sky full of surprises. Her dreams were blue and breathtaking as a bright day and her secrets were dark and poetic as a cold night. Either way, she was the most beautiful mess that one had ever come across.

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    She pulled away, his grip no stronger than the strands of a spider web.

    • poetic quotes
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    She wished that when her heart was beating double, she could give one of those hearts to him and then press her ear to his chest and feel it beating.

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    ..so Grandpa turned the rusty latchkey of his magnificent remembery and set free a symphony of stories

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    Solitude became, for me, an interesting mosaic of broken pieces, a place where the neglected parts of myself get collected—for better and for worse, sometimes barely tolerated and sometimes arranged into lovely patterns.

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    Solitude itself your happiness,when a train of some promised words break like beads from the Heart's decked chain.

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    Someone asked me when is my birthday? The poet inside me replied, "My birthday is on the last day of the year, It's 31st December my dear!

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    Some people dream of becoming doctors or artists or veterinarians or teachers. I dream of the day Shaye laughs without stopping, and when she does, it will be only to take a breath before starting over again.

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    Some talk about how to uplift the poor; others walk about lifting up the poor. Some talk about how to fight corruption; others walk about fighting corruption. Some just see mess as part of existence: "Rushing or dragging makes no difference." Others see mess like that of ship sinking: "Acting fast can save many from drowning.

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    Sometimes stars do fall to earth. It was true. They did and then became commonplace like the rest of the dirt on the planet. His star was one of a kind. He would never allow her to be like any other. Never allow her to be common or sullied. No, her place was in the sky. With her family. With her stinking pet wolf. Never with him. "Have a nice life, princess.

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    some winters will never melt some summers will never freeze and some things will only ... live in poems.

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    Suddenly the full long wail of a ship's horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room - a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale's back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming. Full of the glitter and the frenzy of night, the horn thundered in, conveying from the distant offing, from the dead center of the sea, a thirst for the dark nectar in the little room.

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    Tell me..how do you stand there? filling the doorway....of my life.

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    The displacement of water is equal to the something of something.

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    Then the wind died down and the air grew warm and the flies awoke and started to drone, and they were a constant background hum, like ocean waves, rushing and ebbing and flowing, loud enough to hear through closed windows, and in great numbers, floods of flies, a communal purr, never just a single buzz.

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    ..there was no need to injure the shrubs, since we had already injured the quail.

    • poetic quotes
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    There were secrets there, the secrets of the ether all mankind is born from; of the blackness that holds our oldest memories captive.

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    The Romans eat much Garlic and the Hungarians more while in the Markets of Sidon lovelorn Men pay Ransoms for a Jelly dusted with Sugar from which the Scent of Roses does rise and which no veiled Maid can taste without yielding.

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    The two of us snuggled like quotation marks in his room full of words.

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    The velvet tapestry of the night curved from horizon to horizon, flecked with thousands of tiny stars. There seemed all the more of them, for as well as filling the sky, they shimmered in an elegant ballet on the waves, the sea itself giving them life.

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    They are paper cutouts rather than people, Pram thought. They are shadows with black dots for eyes and grim lines for mouths. They almost resemble the dead, but not quite.

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    They lay together in a sheltered place among the ruins of Brasilia while deathbeams from Chinese EMVs played like blue searchlights on broken ceramic walls.

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    They're talking as if nothing's happened, Soledad said to herself, and the jealousy ran from her ears into her heart, where it settled into her aorta and reshaped itself as longing and desire, the kind of want that makes one capable of poor but magnanimous decisions.

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    To feel everything in every way; to be able to think with the emotions and feel with the mind; not to desire much except with the imagination; to suffer with haughtiness; to see clearly so as to write accurately; to know oneself through diplomacy and dissimulation; to become naturalized as a different person, with all the necessary documents; in short, to use all sensations but only on the inside, peeling them all down to God and then wrapping everything up again and putting it back in the shop window like the sales assistant I can see from here with the small tins of a new brand of shoe polish.

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    To live in that Solitary world,is like the more you have lived for poetic Beauty.

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    Well, you’re not exactly social, are you, Mandy Valems?” “Oh yeah, sure, because I’m just surrounded by genius to be social with in this day and age,” Mandy replied with razor-sharp sarcasm. “Hey, I don’t need anyone else! I’ve got you, you’re my friend, and you’ll be with me forever!” “…You won’t be with me forever, though…” said Alecto cynically. “I’m like a spider’s web; anyone who is friends with me gets dragged into my troubles and eventually dies.” “…Poetic, dear friend,” Mandy sighed, shaking her head. “Morbid, but poetic.

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    What would your shoes say about the things you do everyday?

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    When I look at my life and at the secret color which it has, I feel as if tears were trembling in my heart. I am just as much the lips that I have kissed as the nights spent in the 'House before the World,' just as much the child brought up in poverty as this frenzied ambition and thirst for life which sometimes carry me away.

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    When it has finished saying it, it no longer is. The longer it is in saying it, the more it can say it at length, the more slowly it melts, the better quality it is.

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    When people who remember her better than me talk of her, she is always described as headstrong and irresponsible, which, if you think about it, are just different words for untameable. The wind is untameable, and so are rivers, and there is something poetic in that.