Best 312 quotes in «poetic quotes» category

The clouds took on the shape of dancers; from somewhere far off, Pram heard music before the clouds became normal again.

The cork was in the bottle. He and the Atropos were trapped.

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

The Estate of Solemnity By right, it reigns in its places- in long beards Of spanish moss hanging from a live oak On a windless evening, and in the chill of new Icicles rigidly, imperceptibly lengthening. Cavern Stalagmites are almost majestic with solemnity. The black morel and the tree ear mushroom Are solemn without grief, solemn without joy, Solemn without reverence, without a single Flicker of green or lift of a wing or cry. But the most solemn, most stalwart, the least Wavering are the tors and crags, the towering desert Spires and carved pinnacles, the devoted ascents And sharp, raw rims of boulders and bluffs, the maw Of a distant cave I saw yesterday and the day before, And the grave echo there of the day and the before. Mystics and divines have always sought the pure, White-rock serenity of the silent, solemn moon Bound in its flight alone far above the peaks, far Above the earth, surrounded there forever by bevies Of giddy stars, all asparkling, all aglow.

The Goddess of poetry,who loves to unveil the mystic truth of transparent life,never resembles a woman who hides to keep her secrets behind the false veil.

The rays of sun spilled Like coffee into a pot Gently, warmly flowing Almost as an afterthought. The morning dew melted to vapor Rising into a morning mist As the supple steam rose from the cup And with the breeze, was dismissed. I took my mocha with extra cream As clouds drifted across the sky Forming thick, bushy clumps Becoming one with the liquid nearby. I took my first sip As sun crested horizon The heat nearly burnt my lips As blue sky began to lighten. I sighed with contentment Enjoying the myriad flavors The coffee swirled and mixed Rhythmically as the light wavered.

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.

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

There are so many things to say; so many things that can't really be said. So much has happened; so little has changed. We have so many words prepared; so many words are too hard to actually say. A few days have passed; this pain has been here for years. We don't know where to go from here; our future has always been in our minds. Moments of peace with those who constantly argue; fights with those that usually bring peace. There are so many things to say; so many things that can't really be said.

There's no succession without successor. There's no oppression without oppressor. There's no narration without narrator. There's no creation without Creator.

There was a strange exciting smell in the air - the smell of wine, cigar smoke, and perfume, mingled with the scent of the roses. The bright colors merged into one another, and the music rose and fell.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Watch, how the sun slowly rises from behind my ear new lines, new countries spring up in my palms my rough hair become swaying silk and all the leaves in my body become lusher than fruits.

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.

They peered at him with their shining honey warm molasses-brown eyes. Their smiles, the white smiles pinned to their faces, were wide as all of summer.

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

We all have stories to tell. Our demons are sunk deep under our skin, and maybe we use stories to exorcise them - or at least know them truly.

They give us eighteen years To figure out how to spend our lives; We’re pushed towards high-paying careers At the cost of letting our dreams die.

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.

This time around I was so lonely that I was forced to be face to face with myself. Realizing at the end of the day I only have me and I didn't seem to like my own company. I decided to I had to make myself into someone I can live with.

Thus I did with Susan as with most other things in my earlier days, dipping her image into my mind and coloring it of a thousand fantastic hues, before I could see her as she really was.

To be crisp,in order to invent Beauty, you have to fly from the extreme end of your Imagination,and to reach there,you have to be alive with an urge for solitary travels, physically or mentally,where those experiences can give you a great Reflection on your Creativity.

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.

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

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.

What is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

When Beauty evokes an ethereal, colourful art,as it paints a material or a body,to render an Earthly wish,as its mesmerizing shapes give a fanciful glow for the smile lost Poetic hearts,ah! yet wonder,how we wander high!

Why long for heaven up there we don't see, When there's heaven down here that's so lovely. Why mind the hell up there we can't fathom, When there's hell down here that's worse than Sodom.

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.

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.

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.

When they had hurried to the train station with their violin cases, they had drawn almost as many stares as they would on any normal day when their hair was to their knees and sheeting behind them like red silk. A poetic fruit-seller had told them once that they looked like dryads, and they did still, only now they looked like dryads who had tired of snagging their hair on brambles and sliced it all off on the edge of a knife.

when whispered what an exquisite song, it makes- your name.

Why lamenting Nature, for you have done on Earth and high Heavens the most adorned works,your hues spread the jocund rainbow shine,and blissful thoughts of breeze are awakened,yet like a tainted maid,you droop and wept, sad below the bleak, barren fields, concealed from the steep views,that human kept,and a white cloud of peace in you dissolved.

When she died of lung cancer a few years later, it felt like a malicious cosmic joke. When Grandpa married Margaret the fundamentalist Christian, that was the punch line.

When you deserved it, even the mail could rape you.

Wings of a half finished book across his chest.

You are the ocean to my eyes.

With skin dressed only in moonlight, she beckons you to her secret garden.

Writing should beguile us, not just take us from A to B to Zzzzz

Ye just hit the Life with your Old Dream!

You are my drug of choice I know you’re no good for me And though I swear my lips Will never touch you again Here we are, here we are.

you are so delicious to my poetic side.

Words do not always need a destination. We can leave them behind us at the borders of feelings. Running around headless in the vague zone. And that is the privilege of artists: to live in confusion.

You are the trembling of time, that passes between vertical light and darkened sky,

you, my friend, could be the smoke’s daughter, you who may not have known you were born of fire and rage, lightning over flaming lava etched your violet mouth, your sex in the scorched oak’s moss like a ring in a nest, your fingers there in the flames, your compact body rose from leaves of fire that make me recall there were bakers in your family tree, you’re still the rainforest’s bread, ash from violent wheat,