Poetry Quotes - Page 21

A teacher will be frustrated if she is only motivated to teach what she has learned. Yet, if she is motivated because of the students, then she will learn from them how to teach.

How weightlesswords are when nothing will do.

In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.

Where are we going? It’s not an issue of here or there. And if you ever feel you can’t take another step, imagine how you might feel to arrive, if not wiser, a little more aware how to inhabit the middle ground between misery and joy. Trudge on. In the higher regions, where the footing is unsure, to trudge is to survive.

Poetry purrs like a kitten on the tip of our tongue. Each word fluidly floating from our lips, like little crystalline snowflakes, before settling onto an emotional wonderland of forgotten feelings. It has the power to pull our deepest emotions to the surface of consciousness and to serenade our soul with the haunting melody of a self, lost... and finally found.

To evade such temptations is the first duty of the poet. For as the ear is the antechamber to the soul, poetry can adulterate and destroy more surely then lust or gunpowder. The poet's, then, is the highest office of all. His words reach where others fall short. A silly song of Shakespeare's has done more for the poor and the wicked than all the preachers and philanthropists in the world.

Poetry is the lighthouse of lifeGuiding the lost from a stormy sea.Without it's presence darkness prevailsKeeping us from all we can be.People write poetry because they have no choiceAnswering to the call of their gift.Where some tend to pull their readers downOthers compose to give them a lift.excerpts from The Power of Poetry by Tom Zart

Life doesn't stop. It doesn't stop progressing forward and it never stops trying to bring you to your knees. It will test your strengths and exploit your weakness, and I'm not sure that is always such a bad thing.

What would the world be, once bereft Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left, O let them be left, wildness and wet; Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

tell meof something fiercer than the love with which i gaze upon youof something softer than the tendernesswith which i hold you.

Poetry is prose bewitched, a music made of visual thoughts, the sound of an idea.

When there's music in your soul, there's soul in your music.

You're asking yourself if you will ever get over it. - I don't believe we ever do. Getting over something implies you floated on past the pain, blew kisses, and waved goodbye while leaping to freedom. I've never been able to jump after having the contents of my heart scattered and sewn over fields that will produce memory-laden blooms. The thing is... you get through it. But the seeds have been planted. Those memories grow. And every morning I still hear: 'He loved me. He loved me not.

Life is only a flicker of melted ice.

She was the kind of eleganceThat would never tarnish. A mixture of lace and mesh, Like a classic heirloom that begged to be worn.She was sharp intellect and quick wit.The type of woman that spoke her mind,Even if it shook.(Or even if no one was listening.)She was beautiful.But not someone you’d see in magazines, Her hips were too wide, her hair a mess of wispy tendrils, (Rather, she was actually very ordinary.) My, was she stubborn! She’d drive you mad!(Sometimes, you’d probably call her crazy.)But mostly, her laughter was a joyful moments. Like a warm towel fresh from the dryer,Or finding a twenty-dollar bill in your winter coat.And that was the true revelation.That magic does exist, It ran through her like a wild, fiery current.

Not in all ways (of course), but the animals you know have power: they have abilities humans lack, could be dangerous, could bring life, mean things that mean things.

Dining at the rare reasonTo get between the circumstanceAnd start milking the Caesars For what enters the earsAnd is for their eyes to air and advise.

Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville.

all the parts of mei did not show youwere the onesi wanted you to notice.

This is life...by all means necessary

You may be a poet and not even know it.

Hear about the hidden time. Some think the hidden time is yet to come. The Kingdom of God does not come by Observation. It is hidden in the inner dimension.

Death stoops over me.I'm a problem in chess. Hehas the solution.

Kill the part of you that believes it can't survive without someone else.

Will I ever see the mountains or am I doomed to roam the flatlands?

The mind is a poetic meadow for reification, where dark and light things are created

What will you do now with the gift of your left life?

Her happiness floated like waves of ocean along the coast of her life. She found lyrics of her life in his arms but she never sung her song.

And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

You are the ocean to my eyes.

Numbered are the daysof hunger stricken straysa woman's curving tastea paper police state.

If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.

Since nothing is absolute There is no absolute silence, Only an appearance Of temporary peace.

there isn't enough of anythingas long as we live. But at intervalsa sweetness appears and, given a chanceprevails.

Kiss her gypsy soul and love her for the wild rose she is.

Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul,that soft summer morninground a turning in the path,the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones,its legs in the air like a woman in needburning its wedding poisonslike a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound,but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.I am the vampire of my own heart,one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughterwho can no longer smile.Am I dead?I must be dead.

Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.

We can hear your voiceWe can hear it through the songs of praiseWe can hear it through the birdsWe can hear it through the windWe can hear your voice in our heartsWe can hear your voice in our mindsWe can hear you through everyhing

Go for it because for all those moments that you would make up your mind the other might have already rushed for it.

I always thought time was the most valuable currency, but I realized the people we spent our time on and loved us back, that love held even more meaning to me.

Every good poem asks a question, and every good poet asks every question.

Knowledge is light.God is light.God is knowledge.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

I am so glad that God's disappointment in me is not greater than his love and I still have a Destiny. I am growing in grace and mercy because that is the only soil that can produce the kind of life that God desires.

InsomniaI wonderIf those talks matterFew done in the clarity of dayOr the manyDone at 3 a.m. in the morning

There is nothing at all that can be talked about adequately, and the whole art of poetry is to say what can't be said.

You ask my love completest,As strong next year as now,The devil take you, sweetest,Ere I make aught such vow.Life is a masque that changes,A fig for constancy!No love at all were better,Than love which is not free.

Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.

[L]ike poems, cruising carves privacy out of public spaces. Poems are a kind of private communication that occurs in public speech. And I think cruising is that too: a training in reading occult codes; a way of seeing a significance in the world that most people don’t see.

There is a pledge of the big and of the small in the infinite.

I didn't know the demonsthat walked across your memory.They came from the dustwhen you were at peacein your grave.

Language is fossil poetry

The many men, so beautiful!And they all dead did lie:And a thousand thousand slimy thingsLived on; and so did I.

How do poems grow? They begin deep down in the pit of the soul as a seedling of a thought …

OvermodulationBy Charlotte M Liebel-FawlsYou're a cavity in my oasis,You're a porthole in my sea,You're a stretch of the imagination every time you look at me.You're an ocean in my wineglass,You're a Steinway on the beach,You're a captivating audience, an exciting Rembrandt,A Masterpiece.

if god is real, she put all of herself into this girl. she vowed to unleash a woman so violently herself, the sky would collapse every time she came to orgasm.

We are not from here, my dear. So:Let the flames take over our bodies,‘cause I wanna merely burn with you.And we can dance until we become ashes,but don’t you dare leave me when we become pointless dust.Because this is when we canfinally blow away with the wind,back to that place where lovewas once real...

We are made of all those who have built and broken us.

Tell me something only you know and make a new friend.

The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock treeHas given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued.