Poetry Quotes - Page 6

why can't you see i'm a kid', said the kid.Why try to make me like you?Why are you hurt when I don't cuddle?Why do you sigh when I splash through a puddle?Why do you scream when I do what I did?Im a kid.

The world and the friends that lived in it are shadows: you alone remain real in this drowsing room.

Too lazy to be ambitious,I let the world take care of itself.Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?Listening to the night rain on my roof,I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

Man is no form no mighty molecule no justidea alone — all that Thing — I feel man tender radiance at Heart betweenbreast and belly, that physical placewhere the Self urges — delicate sensation

A life without books is a thirsty life, and one without poetry is...like a life without pictures.

I travel, always arriving in the same place.

Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.

I love being able to see an un-written future.

Haiku is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life.

Base words are uttered only by the baseAnd can for such at once be understood;But noble platitudes — ah, there's a caseWhere the most careful scrutiny is neededTo tell a voice that's genuinely goodFrom one that's base but merely has succeeded.

Dear Forgiveness, you know that recentlywe have had our difficulties and there are many thingsI want to ask you.

Shall I tell you our secret? We are charming thieves who steal hearts and never fail because we are the friends of the One.Blessed is the poem that comes through me but not of me because the sound of my own music will drown the song of Love.

What you are trying to let go of...is already gone.

And in the vine of the divine, There is a fine line;Between tragedy and comedy,That a man cannot define.

Come closer, my dears, let me give you a warning,Of the fate that befalls those who stay out past morning,In the darkest hours before the dawn,When witches roam and demons spawn,And children die with spirit gone,Magicked away in the gloaming.

I love the smell of coffee when I wake up in the morning. It gives me the awesome feeling of hope!

The greatest adventure is to have no fear for the blaze that lies ahead.

I try to think of metaphors that suit him best, but he was made of the sea and the stars and the sun, and one wouldn’t do him justice.

In the country whereto I goI shall not see the face of my friendNor her hair the color of sunburnt grasses;Together we shall not findThe land on whose hills bends the new moonIn air traversed of birds.What have I thought of love?I have said, "It is beauty and sorrow."I have thought that it would bring me lost delights, and splendorAs a wind out of old time . . .But there is only the evening here,And the sound of willowsNow and again dipping their long oval leaves in the water.-- from "Betrothed

Only our love hath no decay; This no tomorrow hath, nor yesterday, Running it never runs from us away, But truly keeps his first, last, everlasting day.

I'm a peasantI'm the muzhikA pest you're destined to play the musicAnd yes it's pleasant to say it's beauty I'mIndebted to rest respecting it truly

Were I to use the wits the Spirits gave me, then I would say this lady cannot exist cannot exist - for what sane man would hold dream to be reality. Yet rather would I not be sane and lend belief to charmed, enchanted eyes.

...for poets, at least, experiencing something inexpressible does not mean silence. It's precisely the inexpressible something that poetry is meant to help us see or feel. If it were merely expressible - if there were nothing ineffable about it - there would be no need for a poem. But everywhere in the Bible we meet reality that exceeds our expectations.

Death swallows death.

I would rather have a man chasing JESUS than a house full of stuffs and garrage filled with big cars.

He loved hte curves on her body, her soft skin and pouty lower lip, her deep soulful eyes. He adored her voice; sometimes sultry, sometimes fiery. Her laugh, her playfulness... he adored it all. But what really turned him on were the curves in her mind, the twists and turns, the fire, the brilliance - and her compassionate heart; the beat of it harmonizing so sweetly and perfectly with the beat of his. The whole package was beyond thrilling... yet her mind, her heart, those were the immortal aphrodisiacs.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

No’ might make them angry but it will make you free.

in a slapfight with Jesusmy face bleedsbecause no one cut their fingernails back then

To the delicate,You will fall for the rough ones. the cold ones. the ones filled with apathy. you will spend your time counting their affection in change. you will stuff your pockets with silence. you will settle for second hand love. Delicate, you will be fashioned in the art of forgiveness. you will love like it’s a religion. you will memorize birthdays, phone numbers, and the moments you’ve heard goodbye. and when life becomes unyielding, and the burden too heavy, you will fault yourself. blame the material you are made of. say that you rip too easy, expect too much, give too often. you are a well that keeps on leaking. but even if you overflow, even if the thunder finds your home, you must remain soft. and if they have broken your heart, allow it to make you softer. kinder. do not imitate the cruel. do not allow yourself to take the shape of those who hurt you.

stronger than mountains.a place where my heart feels the safest- underneath his shirt.

I placed a jar in Tennessee and round it was upon a hill.

Reality calls for a name, for words, but it is unbearable, and if it is touched, if it draws very close, the poet’s mouth cannot even utter a complaint of Job: all art proves to be nothing compared with action. Yet to embrace reality in such a manner that it is preserved in all its old tangle of good and evil, of despair and hope, is possible only thanks to distance, only by soaring above it--but this in turn seems then a moral treason.

The gilded spiralOf longings within.Our very own cathedralThat points persistently to heaven.

Later that night she picked the polish offwith her front teeth until the bed you sharedfor seven years seemed speckled with glitterand blood.

You whom my body longs for,where are you?In the stars, in the river, over the rainbow?Perhaps you hide in the shadows of the mountains,whistling in the wind through mighty peaksJust maybe you are in every corner of my beingawaiting invocationÔ Manna Breathfill my life with your infinite power

Mineral cactai,quicksilver lizards in the adobe walls,the bird that punctures space,thirst, tedium, clouds of dust, impalpable epiphanies of wind.The pines taught me to talk to myself.In that garden I learnedto send myself off.Later there were no gardens.

Unasked, Unsought, Love gives itself but is not bought

The mimicry of passion is the most intolerable of all poses.

When you write in prose you say what you mean. When you write in rhyme you say what you must.

Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry.

So it's off with the shellsuit and on with the Armanis,Bring out the champagne and the caviar sarnies

You write poetry?" Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one."Just a little bit," Isadora said modestly. "I write poems down in this notebook. It's an interest of mine.""Sappho!" Sunny shrieked, which meant something like, "I'd be very pleased to hear a poem of yours!

At the round earth's imagined corners blowYour trumpets, angels, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberless infinitiesOf souls, and to your scattered bodies go ;All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow,All whom war, dea[r]th, age, agues, tyrannies,Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyesShall behold God, and never taste death's woe.But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space ;For, if above all these my sins abound,'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace,When we are there. Here on this lowly ground,Teach me how to repent, for that's as goodAs if Thou hadst seal'd my pardon with Thy blood.

In every possibility of a mind May you travel, yet not blind. As a head filled with imagination, Goes a heart full of gold creation, It's never late to have a dream. Nor is it so far away as it seems, And, like a rearview mirror reveals, Thus a fantasy soon becomes real. It may be closer than it appears. Or at least it will show up clear. Never give up a dream for fear!

You just go on your nerve.

Oh my…!Love can be troubled somber,mournful and yet subtle and precise. Love is a chaotic thing, my dear!

A door jumpsout from shadows,then jumps away. Thisis what I've come to find:the back door, unlatched.Tooled by insular wind, itslams and slamswithout meaningto and without meaning.

When their voices didn't reach my ears,I rebelled against my own skin too young to realize that without their stories I would starve.

My creativity keeps me from starving. Humanity keeps my life mundane. Loving secures my love for life, but my imagination keeps me sane.

Harold's Bow and FoodBowl bowl bowl bowlFood food food foodThe miracle of the heavenly restaurantI mouth thisgreat dark sad eveningSuddenly they come for me in a limousineHow could I have believed I was vanquishedI never lay slain Iam the victor this parade is for meNow they have led me to the doors of GodLong ago and foreverI was in this placeon the other side of eatingwhere I am full and the emptybowl is beautiful-- from Unleashed: Poems by Writers' Dogs

Deceit dispels the boredom of the Absolute.

He needed some sort of membrane between himself and experience, which, for him, became language.(Jeanette Winterson on T.S.Eliot)

If you are a twin, you watch yourself live two lives–yours and hers. It’s constant comparison. I am never as good as the bad I wanted her to be. I was the only soldier I needed. We couldn’t haven known what splitting would mean. Time speeds past fast, scattering like shrapnel, and is quiet as cobwebs. We wait for the ambush. Sister will find out first; she’ll be my living memory. She will be the body left standing.

so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos...So ring the bells that still can ringForget your perfect offeringThere is a crack in everythingThat’s how the light gets in.

and sometimes I sitdown at my typewriterand I thinknot of someonecause there isn't anyoneto thinkabout and i wonderis it worth it

fortune has no era finer than this moment

My love for Neo-Tokyo is a bulbous massof post-human organic circuitry.Cyperpunk is my mother tongue.My love is a man-machine interface gun.

Every poet... finds himself born in the midst of prose. He has to struggle from the littleness and obstruction of an actual world into the freedom and infinitude of an ideal.

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.