Poetry Quotes - Page 25

We love with all our heart but we also keep our heart light and pliable. It has space. It breathes. It waits on life to give instructions. It sings with sweetness when the winds are soft and warm. It stands with calm patience when the storm is brewing. It lets go when endings have left their irrefutable mark. It moves. It heals. It hopes.

The glamorous life is a facade, a frauda farce of frivolous triteThe storybook is blank insideChivalry has died

A thousand lifetimes I'd exchange if only I could have one with you.

I am a wildflower in your perfect bed of roses.

I am so brave with love and yet, so weak.

February. Get ink, shed tears.Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,While torrential slush that roarsBurns in the blackness of the spring.Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,Race through the noice of bells and wheelsTo where the ink and all you grievingAre muffled when the rainshower falls.To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,Fall down into the puddles, hurlDry sadness deep into the eyes.Below, the wet black earth shows through,With sudden cries the wind is pitted,The more haphazard, the more trueThe poetry that sobs its heart out.

i want so much to touch youwhere my hands cannot.

Today I introduced myself to my very own Heart,In silent agony, after all these years it bled apart.

How blest am I in this discovering thee!To enter in these bonds is to be free;Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be. Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be

To be human is to be broken and broken is its own kind of beautiful.

You must remain. I must depart.Two autumns falling in the heart.

I contemplate the impossible and achieve madness. This is my blessing. This is my curse. My heaven, my hell.

Poetry is the sound of the human animal.

Even when your heart is blue, I'll safely hold it. I really don't mind these indigo-stained hands.

I’ve come down from the skylike some damned ghost, delayedtoo long…To the abandoned fieldsthe trees returned and grew.They stand and grow. Time comesTo them, time goes, the treesStand; the only placeThey go is where they are.Those wholly patient ones…They do no wrong, and theyAre beautiful. What moreCould we have thought to ask?...I stand and wait for lightto open the dark night.I stand and wait for prayerto come and find me here.” Sabbaths 2000 IX

Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

I stumble and fall.I weep and struggle to rise.My mom feels it all.

Think not of the fragility of life, but of the power of books, when mere words can change our lives simply by being next to each other.

He loved me like thick molasses on a summer's day. Pure, sweet, sticky, warm, dark.

Listen, children:Your father is dead.From his old coatsI'll make you little jackets;I'll make you little trousersFrom his old pants.There'll be in his pocketsThings he used to put there,Keys and penniesCovered with tobacco;Dan shall have the penniesTo save in his bank;Anne shall have the keysTo make a pretty noise with.Life must go on,Though good men die;Anne, eat your breakfast;Dan, take your medicine;Life must go on;I forget just why.

If you have a fight work it out, don't get out

In the prison of his daysTeach the free man how to praise

Stay away from the underground lake I implore,The Siren will see you are heard of no more.

]sing to usthe one with violets in her lap]mostly]goes astray

Pleasured equallyIn seeking as in finding,Each detail minding,Old Walt went seekingAnd finding.

A picture is a voiceless poem, a poem is a vocal picture.

Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.

NexusI wrote stubbornly into the evening.At the window, a giant praying mantisrubbed his monkey wrench head against the glass,begging vacantly with pale eyes;and the commas leapt at me like wormsor miniature scythes blackened with age.the praying mantis screeched louder,his ragged jaws opening into formlessness.I walked outside;the grass hissed at my heels.Up ahead in the lapping darknesshe wobbled, magnified and absurdly green,a brontosaurus, a poet.

The SleepingI have imagined all this:In 1940 my parents were in loveAnd living in the loft on West 10thAbove Mark Rothko who painted cabbage rosesOn their bedroom walls the night they got married.I can guess why he did it.My mother’s hair was the color of yellow applesAnd she wore a velvet hat with her pajamas.I was not born yet. I was remote as starlight.It is hard for me to imagine thatMy parents made love in a roomful of rosesAnd I wasn’t there.But now I am. My mother is blushing.This is the wonderful thing about art.It can bring back the dead. It can wake the sleepingAs it might have late that nightWhen my father and mother made love above RothkoWho lay in the dark thinking Roses, Roses, Roses.

I'll say I love you,Which will lead, of course,to disappointment,but those words unsaidpoison every next moment.I will try to disappoint youbetter than anyone else has.

The courage of the poet is to keep ajar the door that leads into madness.

I am solitary as grass. What is it I miss?Shall I ever find it, whatever it is?

We are all born free and spend a lifetime becoming slaves to our own false truths.

My sincere thanks to friends and family, especially my mother, father, brother, and Mandy, who continue to love and support me despite my obsessions.

Wherever I go, I meet myself.

Poetry is the art of using language to transcend language.

When soul meets soul on lovers' lips.

Blessed be, it's finally Spring. In joy and delight the birds sing, Ravished upon the entire earth, The new rebirth, Helas, the joy it brings!

He said he'd never opened up to anyone... But that confiding in me, was like learning to breathe all over again. I don't know about you, but how do you turn away from that?

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another til I drop.

The moon is my fear.The sun is my heart afire.The stars, my love songs.

If movements were a spark every dancer would desire to light up in flames.

It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I love a sunburnt country,A land of sweeping plains,Of ragged mountain ranges,Of droughts and flooding rains.I love her far horizons,I love her jewel-sea,Her beauty and her terror –The wide brown land for me!

Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.

I know one thing for sho Heaven’s gotta have a ghettoCuz where else in death do I get to go?

To expect to be kissed having bad breath is the secret of a fool.

The Garden En robe de parade. - SamainLike a skein of loose silk blown against a wallShe walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,And she is dying piece-mealof a sort of emotional anaemia.And round about there is a rabbleOf the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.They shall inherit the earth.In her is the end of breeding.Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.She would like some one to speak to her,And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

A poetess is a collection of unfinished thoughts. She is a tormented phantom, a harbinger of life and death. Those who peer deep inside her catacombs will learn that even madness is a virtue.

We hear only our own voices, still echoes returning to our emptiness.

merindukanmu adalah indahnya rasa, yang sukar kusembunyikan keresahannya

He'd been let down so oftenHis brow was on the floorBut then they foundA small hole in the groundAnd let him down some more

I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.

A few drinks and the world was hers— she wore her whiskey like a loaded gun.

It were better that we were not at all, than that we should live still in wickedness, and to suffer, and not to know wherefore.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.

How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?

The spiritual life to me has always meant just one thing: emotion. Emotion is the poetry of life.

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffrings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. People corwd around the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul.