Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

The life of our city is rich in poetic and marvelous subjects. We are enveloped and steeped as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous; but we do not notice it.

The littlest thing can have the strongest connection when you're grieving. Your Proustian, poetic nerve is turned up to ten.

The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive.

The moment of change is the only poem.

The more prose I wrote, the more the pendulum swung back toward the middle, merging some poetic sensibilities with the more fundamental elements of creative prose.

The photographer must be absorbent - like a blotter, allow himself to be permeated by the poetic moment... His technique should be like an animal function... he should act automatically.

Then what's a synonym for woman?" "Entrails." "You're not very poetic, are you? Well, then, what's the antonym for entrails?" "Milk.

The pilgrim is a poetic traveler, one who believes that there is poetry on the road, at the heart of everything.

The poetic side of me is Scottish.

The poetic element lying hidden in most women is the source of their magnetic attraction.

The poetic image is a sudden salience on the surface of the psyche

The poetry of this one is called philosophical, of that one philological, of a third rhetorical, and so on. Which is then the poetic poetry?

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

The primary and literal meaning of the Bible, then, is its centripetal or poetic meaning.

The present is never poetic as it serves necessity, necessity, however, is prosaic.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, who hands over to the words.

'Therefore' is a word the poet must not know.

There are no poetic ideas; only poetic utterances.

There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.

There is nothing more poetic than the truth. He who does not see poetry in it will always be a poor versifier outside of it.

There is something beautiful, touching and poetic when one person loves more than the other, and the other is indifferent.

There is nothing as dreamy and poetic, nothing as radical, subversive, and psychedelic, as mathematics.

When critics are waiting to pounce upon poetic style on exactly the same grounds as if it were prose, the poets tremble.

The worst tragedy for a poet is to be admired through being misunderstood.

To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one.

The study of sickness is the most poetic of the sciences.

Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.

We have heard much about the poetry of mathematics, but very little of it has yet been sung. The ancients had a juster notion of their poetic value than we.

we know by the odour that occasionally we are visited by skunks, which are not poetic but very beautiful.

Woody Allen is a genius. His films are wonderful. He's poetic, but he's also a critic. He artfully steps back from a social setting and criticizes it without - I suspect - without letting himself be vulnerable to it.

Why should you be bogged down with my titles and how I thought about it and my poetic reasoning? No, that's not necessary. Either you're going to be drawn into it [or not]. It's a black hole; gravity should pull you in and you should have that experience.

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 great many a drop of water will create a creek.

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

...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 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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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