Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

5.57am and I’m finishing the last poem to the taste of the last cigarette. Smoke in my lungs, poetry on the paper. Inhale, exhale, it doesn’t get much easier.

A Beauty can count myriad gifts by Nature, as well as fear.

Amateurs… They’re like of a pack of clay pigeons to the shotgun they call poetic justice.

A great many a drop of water will create a creek.

A loner by nature and an introvert... i am a twinkling star, burning bright amidst a cloudless night. As such, i tend to fade in and out of people's lives. This aspect of me is often misunderstood as rejection or a lack of love and caring. In reality, the only way i can survive as an introvert, is to drop from the sky, from time-to-time, recharging within the energizing landscape of my inner-universe. To love me, is to let me me have the space i need to illuminate the sky. I can't be taken hostage or held captive. Inner-light is what gives my star its twinkle.

Ah! stir well your fancy, fear not to tell me those deep heart secrets now,look the sun goes down the high hills and by the tree shades we sat,in adored pose;along side the lake we sat,kissed by the winds nigh.

A lie is yet a lie, though bought worldwide; soon it shall fade with coming of new tide. Truth remains truth, though stepped on like a dime; soon it shall reign with the passing of time. A lie lasts as long as there's suppression, for lies were but of man's fabrication. Truth lasts as long as there's constellation, for truths were but of Nature's formation.

An Artist has his Imagination never dies,but it Grows you a Mystery, about its True Origin.

and I looked and looked at her, and knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. She was only the faint violet whiff and dead leaf echo of the nymphet I had rolled myself upon with such cries in the past; an echo on the brink of a russet ravine, with a far wood under a white sky, and brown leaves choking the brook, and one last cricket in the crisp weeds... but thank God it was not that echo alone that I worshipped. What I used to pamper among the tangled vines of my heart, mon grand pch radieux, had dwindled to its essence: sterile and selfish vice, all that I cancelled and cursed. You may jeer at me, and threaten to clear the court, but until I am gagged and halfthrottled, I will shout my poor truth. I insist the world know how much I loved my Lolita, this Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque, part o nous ne serons jamais spars; Ohio? The wilds of Massachusetts? No matter, even if those eyes of hers would fade to myopic fish, and her nipples swell and crack, and her lovely young velvety delicate delta be tainted and torneven then I would go mad with tenderness at the mere sight of your dear wan face, at the mere sound of your raucous young voice, my Lolita.

And stay, my dear stay... forever, as my quiet song, in my lilac dawn.

... And when the giant clam opened you were standing there dressed only in kelps and weeds of the ocean. And you held in your hand a starfish, and you said, 'Take, my Queen, this is for you. I bring you the stars, the stars from the borderless sea.

...and the women spread their ntsaroz and sit on one side, the men on the other, like they are two different rivers that are not supposed to meet.

And wilderness is paradise now.

Approaching the Start of Civil Exams Perhaps I was once a young Chinese scholar approaching the start of civil exams, my mind grown weary and sad from seclusion with books on syntax and poetic style. All that I knew were the mist-covered mountains and sweet white blossoms of mountain apples that grew in the valleys of my province. But I had been gone over six years busy with studies in the Heavenly City empty and thin despite my work. I showed my verses to an older poet who told me a truth I longed to believe: all knowledge is futile and barren which does not open the love of your friends.

Art lets man awake,so an Artist becomes an entertainer.

Are we like two stars in a constellation Seeming so close And making so much sense Yet in reality We are separated by lightyears And shall never meet? Except, perhaps In that sacred space Between dreams and reality Called hope.

A rain like melting pillows… a rain so beautiful I could never have let go of if not certain that someday...it would find its way into my poem.

As an artist, i live in fantasy and flirt with reality. I'm an emotional magician of sorts. I paint my feelings onto the abstract canvas of a waking dream. I suspend my concepts in the ether's of otherworldly realms. This is the way my existence has always been. I am untethered, a traveler between worlds. I sinuously slip in and out of the real and surreal, until, they are one and the same. I do not like being shackled or chained, to the physical plane.

As artists, we create the beauty We are too afraid to live out And search, but always fall just shy Of finding what life is about.

A way a lone a last a loved a long the—

a single poem the thing that can keep me light on my feet, when my soul is heavy with sorrow.

At my dying breath i'll do my best to tell you: "Walk on" Whether it be the toughest fight or darkest night; Through fields of fire and restless tire, walk on. When armies march through the land of god and tyrants get away with fraud; When the black crow flies as good men die, walk on. When friends have fallen and death is calling; When i'm dead and gone, walk on.

Bagaimana kita tahu bahwa Tuhan bukanlah matahari?

a young man was hung by a rope made of Stalingrad snow

Battered was my heart in the deep search, branded with cracks like slices of silver birch. An ignorant dream, a wish, just fool's gold -- that was the tale that love had sold.

Bracy sighed, "So this wasn't the heart...it was the head." "Bracy don't try to be poetic; it doesn't suit you.

Because we were not in our country, we could not use our own languages, and so when we spoke our voices came out bruised.

Being a poetic heart is more like a throbbing self, a pretty melancholic wave inward tides,for many a time I begged the living world's mercy and how many times you fade my dreams at every day break.

Buchstaben zu empfinden, sie nicht nur mit den Augen in Büchern zu lesen, - einen Dolmetsch in mir selbst aufzustellen, der mir übersetzt, was die Instinkte ohne Worte raunen, darin muß der Schlüssel liegen, sich mit dem eigenen Innern durch klare Sprache zu verständigen, begriff ich.

Connecting with others, who can see the poetic visions

Cease, stranger, cease those witching notes, The art of syren choirs; Hush the seductive voice that floats Across the trembling wires. Music's ethereal power was given Not to dissolve our clay, But draw Promethean beams from heaven To purge the dross away.

But the future lay open, a thousand kaleidoscopic possibilities with a small quick heartbeat, delicate and impatient

Deny the venom can't kill you, it can. Deny the bullets can't harm you, they can. No one has fought Nature and came out glad. If you can cheat Nature, you can cheat God.

Descobri a minha estrela. Ela é bela e graciosa. Elegante e divina. O meu riso no inverno. Ela é corajosa e forte. Arrojada e tentadora. Diferente de qualquer outra no universo e não posso tocar-lhe. Nem me atrevo a tentar.

Driving down deserted early morning roads. Round and round. Round downtown. Through naked streets. Lips pursed on two litre bottles of beer, but pursuing the lips of freedom's night. Swapping cars. Winding up at karaoke bars or Bolsi- the best place in town. For the food. For the folk. For the service. For the crema de papaya. And for that late night dawn's whiskey coffee.

desperately knocking against the blind little world, i loosened one of its planks, opening a window to a new, wider world. There, spread out, was a profusion of geography, of atmosphere, of full empty air.

Do not wander in the deeps, Where the Shriker's shadow creeps. When he rises from beneath, Beware the Sharpness of his teeth.

Don't live each day as if it were your last, for you might break your back and breathe your last. Rather, live as if a hundred days left; oh, not so pressured, of tension bereft. We do work to live, not do live to work; always rushing is not fun but a joke. Live each day not so stressed nor so relaxed; it's in balanced way where joy's at the max.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.