Poetry Quotes - Page 22

Sadness is the ambrosia of all art.

In poems, equally as in philosophic disquisitions, genius produces the strongest impressions of novelty while it rescues the most admitted truths from the impotence caused by the very circumstance of their universal admission.

After the first glass of vodkayou can accept just about anythingof life even your own mysteriousnessyou think it is nice that a boxof matches is purple and brown and is called La Petite and comes from Swedenfor they are words that you know and that is all you know words not their feelings or what they mean and you write because you know them not because you understand them because you don't you are stupid and lazy and will never be great but you do what you know because what else is there?

The world of light and starry grace;within your mind I live to trace.Your thought’s speed in thunder’s glory,lightening my being with dream’s story.I embrace the tree carrying your nameYour unspoken wish : the heart of fame.

If my life was pulled into the pages of a book, there would be coffee stains and wrinkles along the lines of that narrative. Because all I can wish is that the book of my life would be well read and well loved. Living within words and the sound of writing.

I'm sick of the images trapped in my headI'm sick of being preoccupied with the dead

All people are enslaved by something.

I will missmy chest explodingyou coming home latenot turning on the lightalways waking me upI will missthe sudden burst of safetywhen you look at meor hold my handor say something like”let’s go home”I will missthe years I loston something or someone.The pieces didn’t fit, shaped wrongthe timing slightly off.I loved you like I always will.

Strategy for a MarathonI will startwhen the gun goes off.I will runfor five miles.Feeling good,I will run to the tenth mile.At the tenthI will say,Only three moreto the halfway."At the halfway mark,13.1 miles,I will knowfifteen is in reach.At fifteen milesI will say,You've run twenty before,keep going."At twenty I will say,Run home.

I'd rather die fighting over great poets than over gods.

God wants to use you right where you are with what you have not what you do not have.

When I write...I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.

We are all planted in God's vineyard and our lives are filled with potentials and purpose and we have all been given the hopes to anchor our lives even in the most disappointed times. So God is waiting to see what you and I will make out of the raw materials that He has given to us. He is waiting to see what we will make out of the discouragement and disappointment. I believe that in those deepest places of disappointment that the greatest grace will manifest.

We are all poets, really.

People with yuan fen are destined to like one another;Friendship develops even if a thousand miles apart.But should yuan fen be absent between two individuals,They will remain strangers despite sitting face-to-face

There is somethingmystically sadand beautifulabouthowi will neversee youagainbut meet youagain and againin poetry.

The Amorous Shepherd is a fruitless interlude, but those few poems are among the world’s greatest love poems, because they’re love poems about love, not about being poems. The poet loves because he loves, not because love exists.

Before the first before and after the last after, there is night waiting.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat a homesickness or alovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

She has one hell of a dark soul,but damn,it’s so full of light!

She's not stumbling, she's not lost. She's simply romancing her inner animal and falling in love with the wild part of her soul.

Here dwell together still two men of noteWho never lived and so can never die:How very near they seem, yet how remoteThat age before the world went all awry.But still the game’s afoot for those with earsAttuned to catch the distant view-halloo:England is England yet, for all our fears–Only those things the heart believes are true.A yellow fog swirls past the window-paneAs night descends upon this fabled street:A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.Here, though the world explode, these two survive,And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

If Springtime crawls out of thewild mouths of flowers, thensurely, Winter crawls out of mine.

My writing, it’s my way of making sense of everything. My way to feel whole. May I never be complete and may I never feel content – please, let me always have the need, always have the urge to write. 

Suddenly, I was stopped by a quiet song . .Somebody stood, swaying slowly on the road,In the darkest shadow by a puddle,And low above it a small tree grew . .It might’ve been a wild cherry tree . .He kept singing, watching the puddle fill . .I dragged the pine through the water,And with my other hand steadied my sack,Where a bottle of red vino dangled . .He didn’t move, but kept on singing . .Should I have stopped thereAnd joined his singing? . .Had he foundThe one happy tree? . .No one knows where it grows—Or what it looks like . .And who is allowed to recognize it? . .I never stood under it,Even to wait for rain to passOr watch between the dropsThe silent froth appear . .Swaying, he kept on singing . .Otherwise, he would have fallenAnd the rain stopped . .He danced his own rainUnder that tree . .I can’t do such things . .Perhaps it was a wolf? . .

The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seaswhere we would dive for pearls. My lover’s wordswere shooting stars which fell to earth as kisseson these lips; my body now a softer rhymeto his, now echo, assonance; his toucha verb dancing in the centre of a noun.Some nights, I dreamed he’d written me, the beda page beneath his writer’s hands. Romanceand drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -I hold him in the casket of my widow’s headas he held me upon that next best bed.

When I lean my ear up against your seashell heart, I can hear an ocean of love roaring inside.

Safety isn't always safe. You can find one on every gun.

How about we be the light of Jesus Christ? There are things we tend to forget when fear becomes the driving force. The world is filled with a lot of questions now; what do we do? Who do we elect? How do we fix this? Some people feel powetless in those ways. Helpless, hopeless, confused, overwhelmed.What do we do?My answer: Stop looking for practical advice "don't be afraid " "those who are with us are more than those who are with them"2 kings 6:16

... yes I speak a different language - the dark fire of poetry - it flutters and gutters in tune with the mood...

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

Author's PrayerIf I speak for the dead, I mustleave this animal of my body,I must write the same poem over and overfor the empty page is a white flag of their surrender.If I speak of them, I must walkon the edge of myself, I must live as a blind manwho runs through the rooms withouttouching the furniture.Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking "What yearis it?"I can dance in my sleep and laughin front of the mirror.Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,I will praise your madness, andin a language not mine, speakof music that wakes us, musicin which we move. For whatever I sayis a kind of petition and the darkest daysmust I praise.

Those of little understanding say the world will soon end. It is the current age that is coming to an end. The end of this age is the beginning of the next.

Here we go mother on the shipless ocean.Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.

The sea waves stirred before methey dashed against the rocksLike a mermaid rising from its depthscurled white sea foam were her locks...

Total knowledge is annihilation Of the desire to see, to touch, to feel The world sensed only through senses And immune to the knowledge without feeling.

Sentinels of treesbreathe life into bodies of earthly fleshAs their mighty arms reach to the starswe join in their quest for Helios’s mighty powerLike sentinels, we seek our placein the forest of nature’s gentle breath

Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent

This wobbly worldhost to insects and lintand a thousand pithy waysto feel unserious each minuteIt brings abouta great softening of the mind, likethe clouded edges of sea glass (thisfilter you could download and apply)A poultice or an opiate,rigidly individual. Aloneand erasing sentences to splinters.(Poem No. 5)

The inkstand is full of ink, and the paper lies white and unspotted, in the round of light thrown by a candle. Puffs of darkness sweep into the corners, and keep rolling through the room behind his chair. The air is silver and pearl, for the night is liquid with moonlight.See how the roof glitters, like ice!Over there, a slice of yellow cuts into the silver-blue, and beside it stand two geraniums, purple because the light is silver-blue, to-night.

Let thy words be few. I agree, but only if my ink can relentlessly run.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,but what I reject is more numerous,denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.

Ere long this golden light shall pass and fadeExcept all cherish'd mem'ries ye have made.

Isn't joyful or painful this pain in which I rejoice

I wanted it to be you. I wanted your eyes to be locked with mine during every fear and tear experienced throughout my lifetime.

With my ninth mind I resurrect my firstand dance slow to the music of my soul made new.

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air.

I am a free soul, singing my heart out by myself no matter where I go and I call strangers my friends because I learn things and find ways to fit them into my own world. I hear what people say, rearrange it, take away and tear apart until it finds value in my reality and there I make it work. I find spaces in between the cracks and cuts where it feels empty and there I make it work.

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

I wanted nothing more than her attention. Her thoughts filled with me. Her eyes lost in my image. I wanted her so badly I didn't even realize I lost myself in the process. Now, when I look in the mirror, I only see her... where is me?

To accomplish the perfect perfection, a little imperfection helps.

Ripe summer's sweetness drippedin pearls from every treeand into my opened hearta little drop ran down.

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

holding a tiny dixie cup in my hand makes me feel like a giant human being that can crush things

Stand up upon the right side, and I shall expound the similitude unto thee.

How to raise sons who respect women:Never give them the opportunity to see you disrespect yourself.

Your words... I hold them deeplike ancient skinshold wrinkles.

Poetry is a will to put things right, an imaginary solution, a way of avoiding a catastrophe that already happened. Poetry is an escape, perhaps intelligent, perhaps idiotic, from a senile situation. It is a dialectical movement, it keeps tearing open the wounds while trying to heal them. Here we see the only acceptable path open up towards an existence worthy of human beings. Here the seriousness is unfaltering and absolute. Where it will lead no one knows.

A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.

Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.