Poetry Quotes - Page 20

Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.

When I/Don’t know/What to say,/Let me/Listen.

The fear of poetry is an indication that we are cut off from our own reality.

I love writing poetry because it's pretty. I love writing pretty.

Energy manipulation took place completely in mind,same way believing in telepathy caused telepathic abilities to grow STRONGER.

The TriflerDeath's the lover that I'd be taking;Wild and fickle and fierce is he.Small's his care if my heart be breaking-Gay young Death would have none of me.Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!No one other my mouth had kissed.I had dressed me in silk to meet him-False young Death would not hold the tryst.Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;I must wait till he whistles for me-Proud young Death would not turn his head.I must wait till my breast is wilted.I must wait till my back is bowed,I must rock in the corner, jilted-Death went galloping down the road.Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.Fine he was in the game he played-Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,And rode away with a prettier maid.

Some people never go crazy. Me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. They'll find me there. It's Cherub, they'll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. Then, I'll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I'll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, Suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.

When my words are concealedWith lies and disguises, truth and beyondInsecurities in the veil of trustBetrayal in bounds of liesIt’s just the charm of words darlingGiving the illusion of happiness inside misery

You alone in Europe are not ancient oh ChristianityThe most modern European is you Pope Pius XAnd you whom the windows observe shame keeps youFrom entering a church and confessing this morningYou read the prospectuses the catalogues the billboards that sing aloudThat's the poetry this morning and for the prose there are the newspapersThere are the 25 centime serials full of murder mysteriesPortraits of great men and a thousand different headlines("Zone")

... time is how you spend your love ...

In fiction, the characters have their own lives. They may start as a gloss on the author’s life, but they move on from there. In poetry, especially confessional poetry but in other poetry as well, the poet is not writing characters so much as emotional truth wrapped in metaphor. Bam! Pow! A shot to the gut.

I've got mixed feelings about poetry cause done well poetry is fantastic. But not many people are capable of doing it well. I think you should have some kind of license to perform poetry. A poetic license perhaps.

I wear the words we didn't say. My heart is clothed in them every day.

twice I have lived forever in a smile

Xs and OsLove is a gameof tic-tac-toe,constantly waiting,for the next x or o.

Too much war, hatred and fear in the world.Desperately needed: More art, love and poetry.

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

How are poets able to unzip what they see around them, calling forth a truer essence from behind a common fact? Why, reading a verse about a pear, do you see past the fruit in so transcendent a way?

She was afraid of heightsbut she was much more afraid of never flying.

WHO AM I?I have seven heavenly panelsLeading up to a pointed sphereI’m multidimensional like a crystalAnd my center is never clear.I’m an inventor and pioneer.A mentor to my peers.But I'm not as sound as my shell reveals,Because I’m tormented by my fears -That may appear to be groundedBut my insides are filled with tears.And the sadness is well-founded,From years and yearsOf traumatic experiencesCompoundedIn the most dementedAtmospheres.I talk but feel like nobody hears.Has reason disappeared?And, God, are you near?This is Giza’s 7th light forceAnd I'm asking you to interfere.I can no longer walk amongst the blind and deadWith open eyes and ears.I’m trying to maintain my sanityAnd to straighten up my veneerAs I roll amongst the growing calamitiesFlowing on Earth’s severely trashedFrontier.Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (2010)

Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.

I bleed to un-break you,un-mending me.I fall to save you...now who will save me.

The seed of our love will always cube within the wonder of infinite.

A poem is a frozen momentmelted by each reader for themselvesto flow into the here and now.

True artcomes from flying with the madnessso close you burn your eyelashes.

OnceThere was a quiet island,With a name.You must believe me When I say that sunlight, Impure but beautiful, Broke upon the bay, silveredThe unrepentant, burning moon.

Go thy way, weigh me the weight of the fire, or measure me the blast of the wind, or call me again the day that is past.

Show me a person who found love in his life and did not celebrate it with a dance.

Space is entirely poetic.

I drift like a cloud,Across these venerable eastern lands,A journey of unfathomable distances,An endless scroll of experiences...Lady Zhejiang here we must part,For the next province awaits my embrace.Sad wanderer, once you conquer the East,Where do you go?

Think of what starlight And lamplight would lack Diamonds and fireflies If they couldn’t lean against Black. . . .

Knowing me better than I think anyone shouldExcept, perhapsNo, probablyNo, definitelyDefinitely except you

April is the cruelest month, breedinglilacs out of the dead land, mixingmemory and desire, stirringdull roots with spring rain.

If we knew how to find the lost, we would know how to rediscover the parts of our mindsleft behindin battle.

I see the life with your sight,O" the love; you're my light.

Poetry without truth, is like a rose without thorns.Still pretty,But sometime the real beauty comes from the things that can make us bleed.

Kerouac: You're ruining American poetry, O'Hara.O'Hara: That's more than you ever did for it, Kerouac

Digging deep inside you as a writer will damn near kill you at times. But in the end, your words will be true and undeniable for the reader, and that is all that ever really matters in writing.

You see demons in the eyes of the world, and the world sees bottomless pit in yours.

I think a lover, when broken, is given a gift not a scar, not a poem, not a rhyme (unless it fits.) I think as humans, we see a set of hues but when wounded, we see something more: deeper shades of hurt and worry, colors never seen before. Because I can’t imagine a child could see the same black as a widower, and I don’t think healthy hearts know the true meaning of blue. When children close their eyes, they see a color they call empty. But in the eyelids of the bruised, the empty black’s a crowded room.

You hid in my ink and guided my hand. You stained the pages with your silence as God wrote the words, "Be still." Yet, my heart's blindness could only write in loud hues of red, "I love you.

She's the kind of girl who brings you to the moon without you even being aware. The kind of girl you trip in love with, The kind of girl you never forget.

What is this life so full of care,We don't have time to stand and stare.

A dalliance with poetry before we dance.

As artists, we create the beautyWe are too afraid to live outAnd search, but always fall just shyOf finding what life is about.

He taught me to be a Da Vinci and I sit here, with his portraits waiting for him to returnI do not think he willIs that what it means to be humanto be all powerful, to build a temple to yourselfand leaveonly the walls to pray

Some people make you want to be a better person, and that, for me, is the purest form of love.

We were not meant to read stories anymore. We were too busy writing our own.

I will never take what is never given, but I will receive to what is given.

Cut my life into pizzas. this is my plastic fork. oven baking, no breathing, dont give a fuck if its carbs that i'm eating' -Catherine Spann

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through anyone that suits you.

NowNow is the time…Now is the time – Make a changeNow is the time – All is strangeNow is the time – Start life anewNow is the time – Cannot stewHeartbreak, loss, pain, and challenges paleNow is the time – Sharp as a nailNow is the time – Take a chanceNow is the time – Sing and danceNow is the time – Make a changeNow is the time – engageNow is the time…

Freud thought that a psychosis was a waking dream, and that poets were daydreamers too, but I wonder if the reverse is not as often true, and that madness is a fiction lived in like a rented house

Love is like the wild rose-briar;Friendship like the holly-tree.The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,But which will bloom most constantly?The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,Its summer blossoms scent the air;Yet wait till winter comes again,And who will call the wild-briar fair?Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,And deck thee with holly's sheen,That, when December blights thy brow,He still may leave thy garland green.

Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rudeAnd fled to the silence of sweet solitude.

And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shallot.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

What a comfort to know that God is a poet.

How do I feel today? I feel as unfit as an unfiddle,And it is the result of a certain turbulence in the mind and an uncertain burbulence in the middle.What was it, anyway, that angry thing that flew at me?I am unused to banshees crying Boo at me.Your wife can’t be a banshee—Or can she?

Sound.Noisethe air employs.Melodies sweet.Tweet, tweet, tweet.Soft. Loud.A roaring crowd.Cluck. Caw. Crow.Tet, tet. Tis, tis.Guttural growl.Harrowing howl.Drip, drip, drip.Tap, tap, tap.Moan and groan.Endless drone.Ding, dang, dong.A church bell song.Vibrations in my earto hear.Sound.