Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

Each moment is a poetic expression of the undefined. As long as it remains undefined, it has all the beauty of the world and it steps inside to nurture your dreams.

Early in her career, Muse engaged her skills for technical purposes, such as document translation and schematic visualizations for government entities. She continued to write and paint poetically, in secret, using her pen name, Muse. An inner compass is evident in her work. Pieces reflect both past and present dilemmas; while showcasing her victories in overcoming these obstacles ~ all from her faith based perspective. Light touches of modernism play hand in hand with old world strokes, offering highly visceral readings.

Elles ont le corps pulpeux là où le regard mâle cherche du rebondi, quelque chose de ferme, doux et chaud pour remplir une paume rêche, rarement propre à cause des travaux manuels qui ne sont pas le lot des maîtres au village. Le type usé cherche un corps jeune pour essuyer ses mains crottées d'homme vaillant, un corps-torchon qui sent bon la vanille importée, la mauvaise gousse taillée, puis frottée entre les seins et à l'attache des bras qui n'a pas connu le fil du couteau sur la veine la plus apparente, celle qui pisserait rouge si on la tranchait dans le sens de la mort.

Er bestrich sich Stirn und Brust, unwissend, was er aus seinem Zustande machen sollte, und ein unsägliches Wonnegefühl ergriff ihn, als ein Westwind, vom Meere her, sein wiederkehrendes Leben anwehte, und sein Auge sich nach allen Richtungen über die blühende Gegend von St. Jago hinwandte.

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me, even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye: I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Every second from Life,is an experimental trip,that teaches the physics of our sadness or happiness, leaving a tempest blow.

Fairy tale about a little girl, who wasn’t afraid of death. Her fragile bones looked as white coffins where birds used to sleep.

faces pressed against the pane, full of little, content with sawdust tears.

Feelings and emotion ran through my veins like a hurricane. And that's when everything began to look like poetry. —You look like poetry

Felix had left his heart buried in the ground years ago, but he felt it crack apart.

Ha! no more dirges for the dead summer—and here,the shrills of that unpleasant months over, and new leaves start to shiver;as the winter smiled in her foggy bath!

from under the ground, from under the waters, they clutch at us, they clutch at us, we won’t let go.

Gargoyles sat on the battlements- lean they were and the same hideous damp grey as the stone. They looked at her with hollow eyes and rattled their silver chains. They had wings of bats or wings or birds, most of them, and licked their beaks or teeth with forked or double tongues. Two paced restlessly before their platforms; others whined or picked their claws or groomed their mangy fur or feathers or lizard skin or scales.

God designed love to make the world living; so if world's dying, we know what's missing. When missing, God designed another thing: "This one is hatred-to do repairing." Oh, how the world treats hatred as beastly; yet sans hatred, who'll fight depravity? Hatred used to correct is celestial; but when used to oppress, it is bestial.

Fracture lines etch the surface of the glass box as if a body fell from the sky and landed on it. He doesn't hear the impact, can't smell the blood.

Have you been caring to all your children? Will they take you than be at old folks' den? Will they feel honored pushing your wheelchair? Will hearts break when your breath runs out of spare?

Hope lies not in the light at tunnel's end; it's in the fact our life doesn't yet end. Till we can talk, walk, see, and comprehend, hope goes on for all things we want happen.

He is in love with the land that is always over The next hill and the next, with the bird that is never, Caught, with the room beyond the looking glass. He likes the half-hid, the half-heard, the half-lit, The man in the fog, the road without an ending …

Her voice was a hushed whisper against my ear. An audible smile.

He was now working his way through the many shades of grief. Sadness made everything gray, he'd learned, but there were different types of gray, some darker than others. There were dark spots in his memories he wasn't brave enough to enter.

His green eyes blazed with desire; such a different look than I'd known before. Chase had studied me, reading my feelings. Tucker was only trying to see his own reflection. Disturbing on several levels.

[H]is skin was the color of age and his features the shape of a saint’s.

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.

He liked the way the obsidian reflected his light, the way its slick surfaces caught fire as he passed. Of course, he did not consider how black it would be when he was gone. My father has never been able to imagine the world without himself in it.

His eyes are a midnight moment filled with memories, the only windows into my world.

His stories were not always new, but there was in the telling of them a special kind of magic. His voice could roll like thunder or hush down into a zepherlike whisper. He could imitate the voices of a dozen men at once; whistle so like a bird that the birds themselves would come to him to hear what he had to say; and when when he imitated the howl of a wolf, the sound could raise the hair on the backs of his listeners' necks and strike a chill into their hearts like the depths of a Drasnian winter. He could make the sound of rain and of wind and even, most miraculously, the sound of snow falling.

How stark everything became, at the end, all the wishes for one's children distilled by the world's swift cruelty into the desperate hope that death would take them fast.

I am a daydreamer.. I daydream a lot, and thus is when my wicked imagination emerges to bleed upon my paper...

Aleksei with his impossible curls so very like her own, yet less seemly perhaps. Such hair is somewhat fairy-tale in a man. Poetic.

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood, neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eye I am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.

If you are happily married for what you have highly devoured from your beloved wife,is however legal,the world clasps respectfully, without any means to disapprove,though jealous and you too had given your wife an Heavenly drink,many a time with her mind's consent in order to fill what 'Eternal Sexual Divinity' is all about.

I am nothing but a book of fiction which is written in very poetic way.

I bounce to Creativity by selling myself for Imagination.

I decided an Akubra did not a bushy make - Ellen Read - An Ordinary Man .

I'd like to hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue"-all at the same time. Sometimes now I listen to Louis while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound.

if nothing ends where do we begin?

I found a night’s sky full of stars In your cinematic eyes And heard a symphony In your laughter.

If someone asks you why you're oppressing a world and you reply with a lot of poetic crap, no. I guess there can't be a meeting of minds.

If you ask a twenty-one-year-old poet whose poetry he likes, he might say, unblushing, "Nobody's," In his youth, he has not yet understood that poets like poetry, and novelists like novels; he himself likes only the role, the thought of himself in a hat.

If you don't like my face, you go to God; before my own mirror, nothing seems odd. If you don't like my guts, you come to me, so I can fix myself as well as thank thee.

I knelt and locked the door. I locked the door locking the world and time outside. I stretched my body across the mattress and Saskia drew in close to me and placed her open hand on my chest, her mouth near my shoulder; her breath, my breath blew out the candle, and I held my lost Wanderess with tenderness until sweet sleep overcame us.

If you want the naked beauty of my vulnerability, you have to have the strength to share the burden of, the private pain, that makes me feel so tender and fragile. For i am as strong, as i am, weak. If you want me to come home to you, be the safe harbor, in which, i can seek refuge.

I get a little poetic sometimes. The moonlight does that to me.

I have a few regrets. There was a girl I should have married, a war in which I should never have fought, a loaf of bread I should have shared, a lie to which I should never have listened. And there is a story I should have told.

I knew that people said love should be unconditional, given like a dog gives to its master, but what Being could give that way? What could love though it had been kicked and beaten? What could go kissing the hand of its tormentor with upturned eyes? I didn't know. Perhaps Jesus, perhaps the Dalai Lama, but I couldn't. I had a condition, the way life has conditions to live, the body must have certain conditions to grow, and Cristien had to meet mine or I could not live. I could not.

I know who I was, I can tell you who I may have been, but I am, now, only in this line of words I write.

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 had no room now for this fear, or for any other fear, because I was filled to the brim with music. And even when it was not literally (audibly) music, there was the music of my muscle-orchestra playing — “the silent music of the body,” in Harvey’s lovely phrase. With this playing, the musicality of my motion, I myself became the music — “You are the music, while the music lasts.” A creature of muscle, motion and music, all inseparable and in unison with each other — except for that unstrung part of me, that poor broken instrument which could not join in and lay motionless and mute without tone or tune.

I have woken up…quite sloshed from night-mingled rains a little drugged, by mountain fogs I have been kidnapped for years....by a mere kiss.

{Letter from Fawcett to the great Robert Ingersoll, 1894} I do so wish, that, in all these big questions, literary men would take you more for a guide than they do, or seem to do. You have, of course, an immense constituency; but your love of letters and your deeply poetic spirit render you worthy of a far greater reverence and respect from writers than it seems to me that you receive. I want the brilliancy of your thought to penetrate our literature profoundly and permanently. But of course that will come. The younger generation of writers cannot escape you any more than the air they breath. You will, indeed, be the air they breath, -- and hence, in many cases, if not all, their inspiration. Especially should the poets love you and sit at your feet. If you die before you see the change, I believe that those who now love you and survive you will see how much of the mere pietistic rubbish in modern poetry has been gradually yet surely swept away by the mighty besom of your fearless and noble intellect.