Poetry Quotes - Page 15

Every day the world subtracts from itself and nothingis immune.

He shall rule, whom they look not for that dwell upon the earth, and the fowls shall take their flight away together:

someday i will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.

Degraded bird, I give you back your eyes forever, ascend now whither you are tossed;Forsake this wrist, forsake this rhyme;Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen; depart, be lost,But climb.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

We swam deep in the waves, a wild chase ..Stained with memories and pain.Who knew a gulf would lay between?Who knew loving someone, would ache?

I look up upon a sparsely starred abyssHaving wandered to this street cornerIn the middle of the nightWatching the cars and people go byWonderingIf this deep, black nothingnessIs the sum total of being human.

Poetry destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign, and redeem: and without their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell--the hell of your own meanness.

We live longerbut less preciselyand in shorter sentences.

Song of myselfSmile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth! Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees! Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt! Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue! Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Smile, for your lover comes.

Furthermore, he had beautiful eyes.

Partial skinning may be less painful, perhaps delay unpleasantness, how pain set in breasts, back, and belly offers less agony, some reprieve, while the skinning of fingers, nose, cheeks and lips feels like spears. . .

I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.

Like a child who saves their favourite food on the plate for last, I try to save all thoughts of you for the end of the day so I can dream with the taste of you on my tongue.

Some who grow dull religious straight commenceAnd gain in morals what they lose in sense.

Every book has to wait for the right time to be read and understood.

Wisdomis in the insane asylums.The endis in the everyday-pale smiles

O youcan’t tell someone just how lonely he is

These wrinkles are nothingThese gray hairs are nothing,This stomach which sagswith old food, these bruisedand swollen ankles, my darkening brain,they are nothing.I am the same boymy mother used to kiss.

She cries,I laugh,She becomes numb,I become filled with joy,She slowly crumbles,I feel on top of the world,Yet somehow in the end,Out of the ashes,She rose like a Phoenix,As if nothing had ever touched her

Always choose love

A steampunk nationBaby pollution rises up then the loving comes arraigning 'causeOur art's official and only partially artificialAnd our heart's in the middle of sharp hardened shards of metal butThere's not where it settlesBecause it's beating to the steaming of God's hottest pot or kettleAnd now we face it, this creation we made toTo save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it'sOur safeway they make into a pathetic revelationIn our steampunk nationOur steampunk nation

Every star was once darker than the night, before it awoke.

Hemingway is overrated,Twain is even more lost at sea,And all truths point to the mouth of a woman,Where both her whispers and her screams,Are born.Pour another glass, Beer, wine, whiskey,I don't care,So long as its wisdom is sharp,And it tells lies instead of promises.

Without space, there is no time.

All I need to dois place my pen against paperand your lovewrites for me.

She is yet like a diamond on a heap of broken glass.

With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.

Old McDonald had a restaurant,E, I, E, I, O,And in that restaurant was some beef,E, I, E, I, O,With a moo moo here,And a moo moo there.Here a moo, there a moo,Everywhere a moo moo cholesterol filled death trap burger.

it is to be savored like a seabreeze-whispereddream...in the mysteriousblue minutesbefore dawnlike a secretinfatuation.... like slowlanguorous sipsof green tea... like a lingeringglimpsea self-wrappedparadiselike his name upon my lips.

I can't love anymore.Except for you...I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

No one understands now. Those who couldhear a song this deeply vanished long ago.

…The love of his youthAppeared as in a dreamAnd this ageing loverWent mad with love.The youth robbed him ofReason and his chastity.In pursuit of his Beloved, mad, deranged,He was from kith and kin estranged.The fire of the rose’s cheekBurnt the nightingale’s heart;The laughing flameTormented the devoted moth…

You are my drug of choiceI know you’re no good for meAnd though I swear my lipsWill never touch you againHere we are, here we are.

Maybe one day we’ll find that place, where you and I could be together and we’ll catch our dreams within the waves of change. So hear me, you are not alone.

Sometimes to self-discover you must self-destruct.

Why poetry, you ask? Because of life, I answer.

Criticism is like politics: if you don't make your own you are by default accepting the status quo and are finally yourself responsible for whatever the status quo does to you.

And everything I thought I knew - you made me trade it all for you...but, frankly, you're not worth it.

Because I found the strength to do the things I believe in, and the will to stop doing the things I don't believe in.So I have discovered what it means, to be at peace.

She walked among the stars,The princess of the heavens,Looking for the one who caught her crystal tearsThat spilled out from liquid ice blue eyes-Rolling down pale cheeks-Then sealed up tenderly...In pearl alabaster jars...

Each arrow you shoot offcarries its own targetinto the decidedlysecrettangle

No non-poetic account of reality can be complete.

And I am weary of the anguishIncreasing winters bear;Weary to watch the spirit languishThrough years of dead despair.So, if a tear, when thou art dying,Should haply fall from me,It is but that my soul is sighing,To go and rest with thee.

We met at the blue lagoon on the even of a full moon. Dancing wild like those gypsy girls, with their messy hair and glittering eyes. We made magic behind the mangrove trees and ended up with bruised knees, as the sound of the win and the waves serenaded us late into the sweet bohemian night.

Justice is paramount. The new judgement is the justice of the hidden time.

A grain of poetry suffices to season a century.

But one kiss levitates above all the others. Theintersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.The I’ll love you through a brick wall kiss.Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth,like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.

I'll be your blanket, baby. Wrap yourself up in me. Let me give you shelter, in the winter of this world.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force.

This is definitely / for the brothers / who ain't here.

Tell me, enigmatical man, whom do you love best, your father,Your mother, your sister, or your brother?I have neither father, nor mother, nor sister, nor brother.Your friends?Now you use a word whose meaning I have never known.Your country?I do not know in what latitude it lies.Beauty?I could indeed love her, Goddess and Immortal.Gold?I hate it as you hate God.Then, what do you love, extraordinary stranger?I love the clouds the clouds that pass up thereUp there the wonderful clouds!

So here is my story, may it bringSome smiles and a tear or so,It happened once upon a time,Far away, and long ago,Outside the night wind keens and wails,Come listen to me, the Teller of Tales!

A Poet = A willingness to be vulnerable & to trust the inner voice.

You may continue to call it a breakup. I will continue to call it an exorcism.

you remind me of someone i knew. looked just like you but kind.

Therefore, since the world has stillMuch good, but much less good than ill,And while the sun and moon endureLuck's a chance, but trouble's sure,I'd face it as a wise man would,And train for ill and not for good.

August is dust here. Droughtstuns the road,but juice gathers in the berries.

Blinding, mineral, shattering silence. You hear nothing but the quiet crunch of stones underfoot. An implacable, definitive silence, like a transparent death. Sky of a perfectly detached blue. You advance with eyes down, reassuring yourself sometimes with a silent mumbling. Cloudless sky, limestone slabs filled with presence: silence nothing can sidestep. Silence fulfilled, vibrant immobility, tensed like a bow. There’s the silence of early morning. For long routes in autumn you have to start very early. Outside everything is violet, the dim light slanting through red and gold leaves. It is an expectant silence. You walk softly among huge dark trees, still swathed in traces of blue night. You are almost afraid of awakening. Everything whispering quietly. There’s the silence of walks through the snow, muffled footsteps under a white sky. All around you nothing moves. Things and even time itself are iced up, frozen solid in silent immobility. Everything is stopped, unified, thickly padded. A watching silence, white, fluffy, suspended as if in parentheses.