Poetry Quotes - Page 14

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction.

SOME PEOPLE SIMPLY DO NOT EXIST ANYMORE. GET USED TO IT. QUESTION MARK.

So when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn't be read in school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language - and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers - a language powerful enough to to say how it is. It isn't a hiding place. It is a finding place.

There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.

How long your closet held a whiff of you,Long after hangers hung austere and bare.I would walk in and suddenly the trueSharp sweet sweat scent controlled the airAnd life was in that small still living breath.Where are you? since so much of you is here,Your unique odour quite ignoring death.My hands reach out to touch, to hold what's dearAnd vital in my longing empty arms.But other clothes fill up the space, your space,And scent on scent send out strange false alarms.Not of your odour there is not a trace.But something unexpected still breaks throughThe goneness to the presentness of you.

Heavenly bodies are nests of invisible birds.

An artist is identical with an anarchist,' he cried. 'You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.''So it is,' said Mr. Syme.'Nonsense!' said Gregory, who was very rational when any one else attempted paradox.

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

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO “Even when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.”—VICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow— Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow “has wings,” however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso “corvo,” although con dizionario io parlo Italiano— this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too— my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow— gioièllo mio— I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a

Hope without love is hopeless.

I held my breath tightly against the shivers coursing through my body. Darkness ate away the edges of my vision and numbness stole away my fingers. I kept holding though. Watching the last bubble of precious air escape my lips. Then it became all black. But I never let go.

You are the illness I will never cure. You are the poem I will never write. You are the thought I will never finish. You are the text I will never read.

I would not come in.I meant not even if asked,And I hadn't been.

We will spend the rest of the day inventing a kind of love that no longer exists in the world, a kind of love no army can pillage at the outposts, no rumor could bring to its knees like a traitor.

The more thou search, the more thou shall marvel.

I wanted all thingsTo seem to make some sense,So we could all be happy, yes,Instead of tense.And I made up liesSo that they all fit nice,And I made this sad worldA par-a-dise.

To the Virgins, To Make much of TimeGather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,tTomorrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,tThe higher he’s a-getting,The sooner will his race be run,tAnd nearer he is to setting.That age is best which is the first,tWhen youth and blood are warmer;But being spent, the worse, and worsttTimes still succeed the former.Then be not coy, but use your time,tAnd while you may, go marry;For having lost but once your prime,tYou may for ever tarry.

Hjuki and BilHjuki and Bil chased the moon,With waters from Byrgir’s well,Upon their shoulders they did share,Simul the pole and Saegr.‘Mani,’ they cried and chased the sky,‘From Byrgir whence we came,To water the earth and water your drink,And water the seas with rain’.Hati looked back and Skol ahead,But Mani gave no reply,For Hjuki he took, and bent his crook,And Bil was taken thereafter.Hjuki and Bil still chase the moon,From Byrgir whence they came,To water the earth and water the drink,And water the seas with rain.

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

Back BurnerPut the stress on the back burnerIt only burns its way backPut your thoughts on the futureand it becomes the past..."excerpt from my poem Back Burner from The Poetic Diary of Love and Change - Volume 1©Clarissa O. Clemens

Poetry is prose in slow motion.

I will walk by myself and cure myself in the sunshine and the wind.

Many Americans first fell in love with the poetry of the thirteenth century teacher and spiritual leader Jelalludin Rumi during the early 1990s when the unparalleled lyrical grace, philosophical brilliance, and spiritual daring of his work took modern Western readers completely by surprise. The impact of its soulful beauty and the depth of its profound humanity were so intense that they reportedly prompted numerous individuals to spontaneously compose poetry.

I am lover of words... I am wickedly drunk with the magic of words... the poetic nature whispers through and to my very heart and soul.

God has spoken to me, without words, to my heart. He has told me that I am to rewrite the future and remind His people's faith and to help keep that faith alive attached with the Holy Bible to Him. God gave me the name Compton Gage. My earthly name is not important. My person is not part of the reminder. This is not an ordinary book, this is not a Bible. The materials of the Third Testament, was organized and re-written by me. I was given a good authority by God. BY GOD ONLY!

(Wallace) Stevens turns to the idea of the weather precisely as the religious man turns to the idea of God.

you wanted it all to make senseand you wanted the most complicated answer,but the answer is simple.just be.

Man is in his own microcosm akin to a personal box, with poetry as its lid which it can defend itself from the world

A knowledgeable person without a curious mind is like poetry without essence.

A writer tears open their soul for youWe lay bare our fears and woes for youWe pour our heart onto the page for youWe unleash our demons for youLetters like blood smear the page for youThe world's pain we absorb for youA delicate path of sanity walked for youOnly for you to -Crumple the page in disdainYou will not abdicate your reignIn the oblivion of life, you’ll remainAs I continue to write for you

Believe God for something today. Prayer is the key to connecting with God and allowing Him to speak to your spirit. Open your heart and free your mind.

She had blue skin. And so did he. He kept it hid, And so did she. They searched for blue Their whole life through, Then passed right by - And never knew.

The sacred bequestOf times long spent with your heartThat saturate and illuminate you nowSo piercingly…

Before she knew it, she was just another set of eyes in a dusty attic, waiting for the stairs to creak.

oh. she heard it too-no waters coursing, canyon empty, sun soundless- and the beast your life nowhere hiding (p. 103)

You became moon dust in my soul, I couldn't quite brush you away because somehow you always returned to haunt my heart.

But what you’re calling poetry is what everything is. It’s not even poetry — it’s seeing. These materialists are blind. You told me they say space is infinite. Where do they see that in space?”And I, disconcerted: “But don’t you think of space as infinite? Can’t you conceive of space as infinite?”“I don’t conceive of anything as being infinite. How could I conceive of anything as being infinite?”“But, man,” I said, “Imagine space. Beyond that space is more space, and beyond that more, and then more, and more... It never ends...““Why?” asked my master Caeiro.

forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

Some, they didn't make it.The temptation just too strong.How can darkness cloud the mindTo what I know as wrong?

I love my love with a b because she is peculiar.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

Note the lessons a broken heart has taught you but don't ever alter the love you can give. Don't let a broken heart hinder your kind of love.

You are to me like white islands, in a world of vast darkness.

I have no use for these other loves.Seal them shut in jarsand place them in the pantry. A reserve of love.Thank them for their love.They are so kind.Perhaps store them in the fridgeFor others to take.They say love is a panacea. I know it is not.Flakes of snow,no two are alike.When I am down on my knees, hopeless and angry,for the world no longer makes sense,I won't look in the pantry or fridge.It is your hand pressing on my shoulderthat makes me whole,makes me forget.What trouble? What world?

The Unexpected GiftTorn asunder from her slumberin the hour of half past threeThe child knew the tyrannical regimeand followed instinctively.-(slice from Enigmatic Evolution)

I heard your whispered fantasies so clear Softly told in my earI opened my eyes you weren't thereSo real my dream, I was so awareBut we'll meet again so certainlyIn our whispered fantasy

You've got a lot to say for the one who walked away.

I love women whose hidden desires make horses put an end to their lives at the threshold

A book about books is like a poem about poetry:Books are knowledge, paid for, all.Readers - horses in a stall.Stallions should always run.Lest they stale become, in turn.Running waters are most clear.In some books, you disappear –lose yourself, and track of time.How I wish that one was mine...Mine, to have, to write, to read...Mine, just like a flying steed.Mine, forever, - to improve.Would I then, of me, approve?I would not, I can't... myself.I'm but dust, swept off a shelf.Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled,down, beside my flower, petalled.

In numele si sub teroarea ei (plictiselii, n.m.) parasesc oamenii caminul si moartea agreabila legata de el si se avanta in lume, spre a muri undeva fara acoperis si fara lacrimi; adolescentii se gandesc la sinucideri in zile infinite de primavara, iar servitoarele fara amanti se lamenteaza duminicile, de parca inima lor e un cimitir in care mortii nu pot dormi.

whatever you dobe gentle with yourself.you don’t just livein this worldor your homeor your skin.you also livein someone’s eyes.

I never understood desire until i felt your hands around my throat.

Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.

The longer the silence remains untouched the longer the miscommunication creates its own stories.

Let us remember to always rediscover one anotherbecause we are forever changing.

Towards these weeks of rain I give effusive praise. Let me always be reminded that there is time for change.

It must have been an endless breathing in: between the wish to know and the wish to praise there was no seam.

Think of your woods and orchards without birds!Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beamsAs in an idiot's brain remembered wordsHang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

BLACK IS SO FUCKIN' BEAUTIFUL

I want to tell you why poetry is worth thinking about - from time to time. Not all the time. Sometimes it's a much better idea to think about other things.Most of us have a short period of intense thinking about poetry, when we take a class in college, and then that's about it. And that's really all you need. One intense time, when you master your little heap of names - Andrew Marvel, Muriel Rukeyser, Christina Rosetti, Hardy, Auden, Bishop, Marvin Bell, Ted Hughes, John Hollander, Nicholas Christopher, Deborah Garrison, whoever, James Wright, Selima Hill, Troy Jollimore. Whoever they may be. Every so often you remember them. If you've memorised some poems, the poems will raise a glimmering finger in your memory once in a while, and that's very nice, as long as you keep it to yourself. Never recite. Please! If you recite, your listeners will look down and play with their cuticles. They will not like you. But sometimes if you quote just a phrase in passing, that can work. Like this: "As Selima Hill says: 'A really good fuck makes me feel like custard.