Poetry Quotes - Page 24

But here we call it Spring, when a young man’s fancy turns,fitfully, lightly, to idling in the sun,to touching in the dark. And the old man's?To worms in their garden box; stepping asidea moment in a poem that will remember,fitfully, who made it and the discordand stammer, and change of heart and catch of breathit sprang from. A bending downlightly to touch the earth.

Don’t be afraid of your struggles, they are making you dangerously strong and wise. They are preparing you for your superpowers. Let them happen, otherwise you’ll stay in the same damn place you’ve always been, and until you know there is so much more awesomeness in the world you’ll be content in your tiny cocoon, spinning the same circles day in and day out. Your struggles are transforming you.

may my faith always beat the end of the daylike a hummingbird...returningto its favorite flower.

...Feel no fear before the multitude of men, do not run in panic,but let each man bear his shield straight toward the fore-fighters,regarding his own life as hateful and holding the dark spirits of death as dear as the radiance of the sun.

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these.

Poetry without words, you are, the beat to my hearts rhythm.

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.....

Youth endures all things, kings and poetry and love. Everything but time.

Any healthy man can go without food for two days--but not without poetry.

Whenever life is getting tough hold on.Don't let it get the best of you stay strong.

Over the inter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild-piled snowdrift,The warm rosebuds below.

Madness and chaos are self-destructing but over thinking is the suicide.

You’re not a bad person, you’re just a little bit different and I’m a sucker for that.

Words fail to describewhat i feel anymore.Let me be numb for a while,let me be sore.

Don't analyze her love. Just turn the green light on and move into her soul.

Inside, my soul is curled tightly bearing the burden of massive sins from another life. And my eyes look far at the hell around me... a sharp grin tugs at the corner of my lips.

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet's destiny is to love.

Talent is a faucet. When it is on, one must write. Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

Just when you see a kid selling a mascot,If you don't buy it because he winks, Not only that will be considered a "boycott",Xenophobically, it will also be a jinx!

What haunts me most about her eyes is the pain I put in them... In the corner of my dark soul Her passion is dark like a kohl She is giving new meaning to these feelings She is complete she is whole.

Cleave to the common good. We are all responsible for bringing about the time of great suffering, for its continuing.

Everything has its poetry. 94

A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.

Pour Into My Spirit...spread your arms around meconsole me and keep me close -wield your mighty swordto vanquish all my foes...

Do You BelieveDo you believethat I have loved yousince the dawn of time?Do you believethat we were destinedto be intertwined?...

You burn like a candleinside my soul,showing me a waythrough this darkness.

The element of craftsmanship in poetry is obscured by the fact that all men are taught to speak and most to read and write, while very few men are taught to draw or paint or write music.

This is freedom. This is the face of faith, nobody getswhat they want. Never again are you the same. The longingis to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more byeach glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself.Also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of somethingat sea. Here hands full of sand, letting it sift through in the wind, I look in and say take this, hurry. And if I listennow? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was onlysomething I did. I could not chose words. I am free to go.I cannot, of course, come back. Not to this. Never.It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.

Some hae meat and canna eat,And some wad eat that want it,But we hae meat and we can eat,And sae the Lord be thankit.

I'm not worried about plagiarism, I don't care if every person between here and Hell's creation put their name on my work as long as it ends up in the eyes of someone that found peace in the words

In this universe there are no time machines or keys that can turn hearts back around.

I don’t need the facts. I’m a Pisces.

Books are carefully folded forests/void of autumn/bound from the sun

I wanted to write some words you'd remember.Words so alert they'd leap from the paper,crawl up your shoulder, lie by your ears,and purr themselves to you like baby kittens,but it was rainy, so I laid there and daydreamed about you.

If you never listen, you can't see. The devil has got so many people so disconnected that they cannot even listen or even sense when the Lord is speaking.

Good poetry reveals the beauty of joy and tragedy.

I become a horn to be heard over whistles.

Beneath it allI kept faith with Ithaca, travelled,Travelled and travelled,Suffering much, enjoying a little;Met strange people singingNew myths; made myths myself.But this lion of the seaSalt-maned, scaly, wondrous of tail,Touched with power, insistentOn this brief promontory...Puzzles.

I will learn your anger. I will lick your sadness.I will feast on your hunger.

I sit on a rock and watch children playingin the park belowThey don't see meOr know my thoughtsOr that you haven't calledBut I forgive them their indifference todayAbove me a crow cawsPerhaps he smells the crumbs on my dressOr my angerBut he flits away over the treesProbably has a homeProbably has a wifeProbably knew to callThe children leaveThe coffee in my can turns coldThe wind nips at meSome street lights flicker onBut I won't moveNot yetI will wait for the night to chase meBack where I came fromUp the empty streetTo a quiet house

I had a theory; I’m not sure if it was my own but it worked for me. Public spaces, such as streets and subway stations, became inhabitable as I assigned them some value and imprinted an experience on them. If I recited a snatch of Paterson every time I walked along a certain avenue, eventually that avenue would sound like William Carlos Williams. The entrance to the subway at 116th Street was Emily Dickinson’s:Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawnIndicative that suns go down;The notice to the startled grassThat darkness is about to pass.

Talk to me in poetry. / It is all I understand.

With all honesty, somewhere between the hello and the dreams I saw you in I fell in love.

We speak in (rich) monotones. Our poetry is haunted by the music it has left behind. Orpheus shrinks to a poet when he looks back, with the impatience of reason, on a music stronger than death.

Elegant writers depict intricacy with simplicity.

How, and when shall these things come to pass? wherefore are our years few and evil?

There is nothing to me but you. I know it’s pathetic but, oh darling, it’s true.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today,tTomorrow will be dying.

A poet has to be a bit childlike at heart, and in that sense all the romantic stereotypes about poets being "eternal children", etc, are all accurate. They believe, whatever they may say, that art and words can change the world.

My mind gets stronger everyday,my heart gets weaker with time.

Oceanic farness treasures tomorrowMingled tears lost in the sea of sorrowOur immortal love will lead us a way When pale days remain cloudy and grey

Loneliness clarifies. Here silence standsLike heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken, Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken, Luminously-peopled air ascends; And past the poppies bluish neutral distance Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence: Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

The Poetry of LoveWe see the world with the eyes of a small child.We visualize the beauty of the world with an unique magic sense,and unfold our deeper feelings and expectations diffusing the seizing negative forces that stretch out their threatening tentacles.We give blow and shape in our dreams.We seek for Love through unfamiliar new people and new experiences. Love is a vivid spirit, a big breath that touches upon each piece of our existence, our each cell…Love affiliates a lot of forms, exists and fits everywhere.Each flight of a small bird, the flutter of an incredible beauty butterfly, the stones wetted by waters of Aquamarine River, the branches of the trees that dally with the blow of wind, all these is the Spirit of Love.When you love in a genuine way, love everything.You are not bothered by the babble of Nature and the strange reactions of people.You hear the sounds of everyday routine with bigger consequence. Overtakes the meanness consequently and with courage.You seek truth in small things.You live the each moment as if it's unique.Love for nature.Love for life.Love for people.

Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

I’m a man of integrity. My heart is locked and I have given you the only key.

I sang in my chains like the sea

LOVE COULD BE LABLEDPOISON AND WE’D DRINK IT ANYWAYS.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its setting,And cometh from afar:Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we come

I do believe in poetry. I believe that there are creatures endowed with the power to put things together and bring them back to life

The arts that have escaped [uniformity] best are the arts in which the public take no interest. Poetry is an instance of what I mean. We have been able to have fine poetry in England because the public do not read it, and consequently do not influence it.