Poetry Quotes - Page 2

I enjoy it when the world smiles; the more smiles, the warmer I am.

Rocket shipsare excitingbut so are roseson a birthday.

And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself

Four simple chambers.A thousand complicated doors.One of them is yours.

there is something magical and addicting about going somewhere, being alone, and finding yourself in parts of the world you never knew existed, finding parts of yourself you never knew you would find.

blue-gold sky, fresh cloud, emerald-black mountain, trees on rocky ledges, on the summit, the tiny pin of a telephone tower-all brilliantly clear, in shadow and out. and on and through everything everywhere the sun shines without reservation (p. 97)

Do not feel alone.You are connected to everyoneyesterday, today, and for days to come connected with a threadless garlandthat is love.

The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty.

He was tiredof being calleda fag and teasedfor his sexualityby one of the guards,so he tried to hanghimself, twiceThe kid got a littlecloser the secondtime, but I won’t bearound to see athird

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

The sea is dangerous, they say, but not if you're the sea.

Music , literature with poetry makes a perfect paradise.

His Highness was always confident in his statements, especially about what he viewed for the first time.

At two o'clock in the morning, if you open your window and listen,You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun.And the trees in the Shadow rustle and the trees in the moonlight glisten,And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is done.

Poetry flows from our hearts. It is like that mass of snow we call a glacier and when it starts its slow movement, it thaws all the icicles, which keep mounting within us, in the hope of receiving the warmth of words.

PricklyWhen I'm feelingporcupine-y,I get nasty,I get whiny.Stay away orI might stick you.My sharp words arequills to prick you.

I recall my life every day. I recall my sins and my acts of purity. I remind myself I was never a religious man. I remind myself that I have been dead for half of forever. I remind myself of nothing. I move along to the next minute. Next day. Next year. The earth doesn’t change so much anymore. It doesn’t change so quickly. With humans, the earth had to keep changing. But you can only replace a dying thing so many times before someone notices. There haven’t been humans for years. Maybe a decade. Maybe more. I find myself loving their absence. The absence of humanity is the absence of violence. I love this peace. But then I remember my bones. My mind and my memories. I remember I’m human. I am the thing I detest. The creature that haunts my steps. It’s my shadow I see watching me. It’s my reflection in the water. I keep remembering. I live in fear. But still, I walk on.

....my sacred landscape is the foothills of the stars - I go there often to sleep ...

Cradle of SolitudeFor we know not why our tribulationsare given as suchour fragile formscreated from the dust...

You are never too old to become younger!

All that is gold does not glitter,Not all those who wander are lost;The old that is strong does not wither,Deep roots are not reached by the frost.From the ashes a fire shall be woken,A light from the shadows shall spring;Renewed shall be blade that was broken,The crownless again shall be king.

The chaos in me is the chaos in you. Like the love in you is the love in me. So maybe we’re both a little crazy. Enough to believe we’re found where dreams are born and beneath our faults remain a science, where you and I will run away and leave nothing behind.

No one wants to read poetry. You have to make it impossible for them to put the poem down--impossible for them to stop reading it, word after word. You have to keep them from closing the book.

No misery ever so beautiful than the one this mind creates.

One merit of poetry few persons will deny: it says more and in fewer words than prose.

We say God and the imagination are one . . .How high that highest candle lights the dark.

I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love

It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in MayAlthough it fall and die that night;It was the plant and flower of Light.In small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be (Ben Jonson)

We aren't suggesting that mental instability or unhappiness makes one a better poet, or a poet at all; and contrary to the romantic notion of the artist suffering for his or her work, we think these writers achieved brilliance in spite of their suffering, not because of it.

The profoundest of all sensualitiesis the sense of truthand the next deepest sensual experienceis the sense of justice.

Writing is a bitch. It's an itch that I love to scratch.

SOUL SHINEYou know that thingYou do so well,That little sparkYou hideIn the dark,That you thinkNobodyKnowsAboutButYou?Well,Did you knowThatThere'sA sheenThat you beam,When you talkOr doAnything,That everyoneKnowsAboutButYou?

Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.

...the religion of the heart is as intimate as a wish breathed to the night sky...

There is nothing in the world which an artist cannot recreate into something poetic, ennobling. And why do we read these things? They are not facts, they do not improve our business skills, our techniques in manufacturing goods, the management of a home. That is what most of you will be doing anyway. We read these because they teach us about people, we can see ourselves in them, in their problems. And by seeing ourselves in them, we clarify ourselves, we explain ourselves to ourselves, so we can live with ourselves…

I want to ripoff your logic and make passionate sense to you.

She senses your vulnerability, and reassures that every dream you’ve ever whispered in the night, or secret desires you dared not speak, are all within the palm of her hand

To be happy to be sad and sad to be happy is to sing an echo in that beautiful language called Sorrow.

When a woman's face is wrinkledAnd her hairs are sprinkled, With gray, Lackaday!Aside she's cast, No one respect will pay;Remember, Lasses, remember.And while the sun shines make hay:You must not expect in December, The flowers you gathered in May.

Love, is an unknown passion, for an unknown person, for an unknown reason.

Without intending to, without even knowing it, he demonstrated with his life that his father had been right when he repeated until his dying day that there was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate, no manager so lucid or dangerous, than a poet.

I am nothing but a ripped fabric stitched together by God's grace.

a flower knows, when its butterfly will return, and if the moon walks out, the sky will understand;but now it hurts, to watch you leave so soon,when I don't know, if you will ever come back.

Every man needs his Siren To check his courage and strength When he hears her song In his travels through the unknown.

My heart still speaks of our fire.

You were just another stranger in the room,In a room full of bodies, I was attracted to you,I became your tiny dancer,I became everything to you,Little did you know,That I'm just a dancer, Not your fool.

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aidTheir mistress mounted through the empty skiesIn her light chariot quickly is convey'd;Holding their course to Paphos, where their queenMeans to immure herself and not be seen.

If he had known unstructured space is a delugeand stocked his log house-boat with all the animals even the wolves, he might have floated. But obstinate hestated, The land is solid and stamped, watching his foot sink down through the stone up to his knee. From "Progressive insanities of a pioneer

Repetition sometimes works in poetry, but rarely in prose. The musical provocateur John Cage once wrote a lecture in which a single page was repeated fourteen times, with the refrain "If anybody is sleep let him go to sleep" (Cage, 1961). Midway through, the artist Jean Reynal stood up and screamed, "John, I dearly love you, but I can't bear another minute.

Life shows us all colours, some bright and some shades of grey,Some accept with a smile, while some frown in every wayThoughts and memories never end but life does one day.Whole age passes by in wait of that old time to return,But those old days once gone, will never come back again,Rather we can just cherish them in the memories that burn,In the back of our mind and make us remember,How we used to be so crazy,In those old days…

i hugged myself as a child & told Myself that everything was perfect in the petrichor The smell of pure innocence & earthy & earthly Innocence that stays in the clothes I only wear on good days…

A JEWELRY STORE NAMED INDIAIf you hold this Dazzling emeraldUp to the sky,It will shine a billion Beautiful miraclesPainted from the tearsOf the Most High.Plucked from the lush gardensOf a yellowish-green paradise,Look inside this hypnotic gemAnd a kaleidoscope of Titillating, Soul-raising Sights and colorsWill tease and seduceYour eyes and mind.Tell me, sir.Have you ever heardA peacock sing?Hold your earTo this mystical stoneAnd you will hearSacred hymns flowingTo the vibrationsOf the perfumedWind.

I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.

If we go on in this way, we shall have a new art of poetry, of which one of the first rules will be: To remember to forget that there are any such things as sunshine and music in the world.

They call it poetry, what she feels with her mouth closed. By his.

We must experience certain things in life, even in our childhood, so we can later look back and value the journey.

The hidden time is an eternity that runs through every moment. It is all-time. The hidden time is a thread, and moments are the beads on the thread.

...loving a fairy lady with a magic song will leave you desolate on a cold hillside ... but from there you can see the stars...

Thinking of you is a poison I drink often.