Poetry Quotes - Page 26

And yet, it is amazing that poetry often touches the heart even though it may not try to teach us anything.

Deprivation is the mother of poetry.

Chaos,leave me never,keep me wildand keep me freeso that mybrokenness will be,the only beautythe world will see.

Dreams are our only geography—our native land.

Anger does not change the fact. The will to take control is everything.

She was starmetal bones with kaleidoscope eyes. A cracked framework of unique beauty, a patchwork portrait filled with swirling brush strokes, an amalgamation of delicate light and detailed shatter. I could write a novel about the way she breathes.

The weight of wait.

Sometimes it feels like even ifEvery inch of my skin was touching yoursI still wouldn’t be close enough to you.

It [Bach's cello suites] is like a great diamond," said [Mischa] Maisky in a thick Russian accent, "with so many different cuts that reflect light in so many different ways.

I feel no grief for being called somethingwhichI am not;in fact, it's enthralling, somehow, like a goodback rub

Whenever a time arises where clarity is desired, it is always wise to reflect on the sage within.

One error, in fact, of eccentricity in poetry is to seek for new human emotions to express; and in this search for novelty in the wrong place it discovers the perverse. The business of the poet is not to find new emotions, but to use the ordinary ones and, in working them up into poetry, to express feelings which are not in actual emotions at all.

It was in the words he didn't say... that I found all the answers to my questions.

I loved him... much more than I liked him. And therein was the beginning of the end.

সারাটি রাত্রি তারাটির সাথে তারাটিরই হয় কথা,আমাদের মুখ সারাটি রাত্রি মাটির বুকের 'পরে!

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

Without thinking, I knelt in the grass, like someone meaning to pray. When I tried to stand again, I couldn't move,my legs were utterly rigid. Does grief change you like that?Through the birches, I could see the pond.The sun was cutting small white holes in the water.I got up finally; I walked down to the pond. I stood there, brushing the grass from my skirt, watching myself,like a girl after her first loverturning slowly at the bathroom mirror, naked, looking for a sign.But nakedness in women is always a pose.I was not transfigured. I would never be free.

If the most High grant thee to live, thou shall see after the third trumpet that the sun shall suddenly shine again in the night, and the moon thrice in the day:

PRACTICE MAKES THE HARD THINGS EASY

Cuando vayamos al maryo te diré mi secreto:Me envuelve, pero no es ola...Me amarga..., pero no es sal...

To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.

No jewels, save my eyes, do I own, but I have a rose which is even softer than my rosy lips. And a quiet youth said: 'There is nothing softer than your heart.' And I lowered my gaze...

My soul is wrapped in harsh repose,Midnight descends in raven-colored clothes,But soft... behold!A sunlight beamButting a swath of glimmering gleam.My heart expands,'tis grown a bulge in it,Inspired by your beauty...Effulgent.

Please lift your snowy skies off my soul -Your diamond dreams slice through my veins

I felt torn Between living and dying Between sleeping and surviving.

Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

For a game, you don’t need a teacher.

Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw...

You crawled inside myribs to die. Giant becomes squirrelbecomes a dirt-wet girlfeverishly alive.

My favorite words in the world are t

He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.

I'm going to Hell in a basketWeaved in from my sinsLike wickerWith little Wiccan tiesAs if I'm a witchAccused

And stay, my dearstay...forever, as my quiet song,in my lilac dawn.

LIFE IS A JOURNEYTO FIND THE PEOPLEWEIRD LIKE YOU. —ATTICUS

In our most vulnerable hour, it is helpful to remember our creative power.

Moonlight drifts from overA hundred thousand milesTo fall upon a cemeteryIt reads a hundred epitaphsAnd then smiles at a nest ofBaby owls

I exaggerateThere is a lie in my truthLook! My soul is blue

I learned a long, long time ago, that I could accomplish things in this place we call reality and yet still spend most of my time in the better reality of my mind.

In MoonlightNoSoft sweet paw on my cheekNoFur curled under my chinJustA sad space left behind - Gray cat gone away. [Ellie's poem]

To live day by dayIs not to live at all.

Git'er DoneThey beat their swords upon their shieldsTo no beast or man would they yield

This autumn-why am I growing old?bird disappearing among clouds.

I arrived, I saw humans and I saw through their faces. Nothing ever changes but the light in their eyes. For I too have buried my demons today, without knowing what might remain beneath the face of tomorrow.

Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.

one doesn't even think ofthe liverand if the liverdoesn't think ofus, that'sfine.

In pale moonlight / the wisteria's scent / comes from far away.

it is hard not to count the hoursi have left with you.it is hard to be here now--knowing everything between uswill come to an end.

The burning off and the gathering together are one.

For with his little secret that he cannot divulge, the poet buys this power of the word to tell everybody else's dark secrets. A poet is not an apostle; he drives out devils only by the power of the devil.

Turning and turning in the widening gyreThe falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;The best lack all conviction, while the worstAre full of passionate intensity.

each morning we’re born againof yesterday nothing remainswhat’s left began today

The poet…is the man of metaphor: while the philosopher is interested only in the truth of meaning, beyond even signs and names, and the sophist manipulates empty signs…the poet plays on the multiplicity of signifieds.

There is always the question why And there is always life, Which doesn't need an answer.

Walk the midway and hear the carnival barker.Come see the freak named after his deceased father.Come see the prince who wants to abdicate his throne.Come see the son whose name is carved on a gravestone.

Quote words that affirmall men and women are yourbrothers and sisters.

Where do they go, these dreams of mine? Do they live? Do they die? Do they fall? Do they fly?

Why do I love poetry? It's more than word play, less about the pay. Let's just say that for the first time in along while I stopped running, stared back at my darkest worst and said, 'Come here, you belong with me

These hands are unlike any otherstrongbut gentlecaringlovingand understanding

Only--but this is rare--When a beloved hand is laid in ours,When, jaded with the rush and glareOf the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,When our world-deafen'd earIs by the tones of a loved voice caress'd--A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.A man becomes aware of his life's flow,And hears its winding murmur; and he seesThe meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.