Poetry Quotes - Page 7

I have no words — alas! — to tellThe loveliness of loving well!

He feeds upon her face by day and night,And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Have they known scorn like youFive cellars down?

What do they think has happened, the old fools,To make them like this? Do they somehow supposeIt's more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,And you keep on pissing yourself, and can't rememberWho called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,They could alter things back to when they danced all night,Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?Or do they fancy there's really been no change,And they've always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,Or sat through days of thin continuous dreamingWatching the light move? If they don't (and they can't), it's strange;tttWhy aren't they screaming?

Get it? Gender is a country, a field of signifying roses you can walk through, or wear tucked behind your ear.Eventually the flower wilts & you can pick another, or burn the field, or turn & run back across the tracks.(from "Essay on the Theory of Motion")

And death shall have no dominion.Under the windings of the seaThey lying long shall not die windily;Twisting on racks when sinews give way,Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;Faith in their hands shall snap in two,And the unicorn evils run them through;Split all ends up they shan't crack;And death shall have no dominion.

When we lose these woods, we lose our soul. Not simply as individuals, but as a people.

Everything seems impossible And everything seems possible.

Here's to adrenaline. Here's to dramatic abandon of protocol. Here's to treasured pain and purple rain. Here's to chasing our souls, burning across to sky. Here's to drinking the ash as it falls, and not asking why.

Little world, full of little peopleshouting for recognition, screaming for love, Rolling world, teeming with millions,carousel of the hungry,Is there food enough? Wheat and corn will not do.The fat are the hungriest of all, the skinny the most silent.

We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us. Even while the earth sleeps we travel. We are the seeds of the tenacious plant, and it is in our ripeness and our fullness of heart that we are given to the wind and are scattered.

I have graduated to the extent of not asking what is happening in my life because I trust the maker(God).

What I know is nothing but that we are a spring path of autumn light carved into a river of ancient singing.

Let This Darkness Be a Bell TowerQuiet friend who has come so far,feel how your breathing makes more space around you.Let this darkness be a bell towerand you the bell. As you ring,what batters you becomes your strength.Move back and forth into the change.What is it like, such intensity of pain?If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.In this uncontainable night,be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,the meaning discovered there.And if the world has ceased to hear you,say to the silent earth: I flow.To the rushing water, speak: I am.

i am so crammedfull of fearsthat if you were to touch me i might eitherfly or break.

Rise AgainOne goal goes by the waysideSome watch sneering arms foldedLaughing at you until the endUntil you have the last laughYou've courage you're no riffraffAnother will lend you a handYou're apparently not left for deadYou rise again and all is fineDefeat no matter how crushingThat seemingly final act they consingIs speckle of dust to you the leaningMajestic Tower of Pisa still standingHow dissapointed they must beThinking they have the master keyMore bogus then a midnight sunYet you stand on a solid foundationYour destiny is beyond what anyoneOr anything can give or take from youDangling hope strings attached rescueInstead rise and face the morning dewYou the sun reclaiming your denFrom the frost,beams of hope chasingYou are alone but alive againShining the sheen of your greenYou rise again free no one's lienYou are alive because you alaoneCan decide the meaning of the dustIf they had meaning to begin withKaleb Kilton (c) 2016

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters...But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk.

. . . Orpheus struck dumb with hindsight.

Sound unbound by nature becomes bounded by art.

I slay dragons at night while you sleep. I see by the way your face contorts how they exist in your dreams. Willing a magic sword, I plunge into your deepest nightmares and swing at the beasts with all my might, dodging flames exhaled by monsters that would eat me alive to go on torturing the fair one I love. I see your face relax, eyes still drowsily closed, when the mighty dragon is slain. It may be that my fingers rub soft circles on your forehead as I imagine my brave fight as a knight reclaiming your dreams. You smile under the spell of my touch, and I am rewarded. And so, my love, as I await the dawn, I stand ready to slay dragons while you sleep.

All acts of kindness are lights in the war for justice.

Yo, múltiple, como en contradicción

The storms inside uncoilinto sky held calm by far seeing eyesMemories dressed in the translucenttrickery of the mind,so as to wear life upon themselves,give up their tired dance and runinto free frequency

Having to explain to someone how they hurt you, always feels like an ass kicking... again.

Deliver thunder, GodIf you choose not to talk.

Music does not need language of words for it has movements of dance to do its translation.

I tossed a stone into the Sea To see what it would do for me And the ripples went out And became ocean waves To return to the Sea inside of me

Having experimented in both poetry and prose, I can say that the two are such loaded words. But neither are quite as weighted as the word “poet”. I think some people can write poetry their whole lives, and never truly BE a “poet”. Whereas I see poets in the wanderers I encounter, the baristas who serve me, and the truckers I, so, love to talk to.To be a poet in my humble opinion is to be a muse of the human experience. I love that I love the idea, that anything can be poetry, it can’t be defined. It’s a feeling, like punk rock. I’m not one for form or structure. I say if your words are visceral and honest, it’s poetry. If you see the beauty of the world and humanity, and you preach it, you’re a poet.

The day arrived,when myriad teary rivers flow and the muted wind faintly died in his tears—an altar for the beloved one's departure,for sister-hood is no more,for her to adore!while pangs the beating world in a lamenting voice;their remembering loss of the 'one' they embrace most and when the crepuscule came like a phantom,the mournful,gathered birds swiftly flew in gloom.

Reclaiming the sacred in our lives naturally brings us close once more to the wellsprings of poetry.

Thơ ca là thứ vô cùng phù phiếm nhưng vô cùng thiêng liêng. Tôi tin ngay. Cũng như tôi tin ở trền đời có những thứ vô cùng thiêng liêng nhưng vô cùng phù phiếm.

The Triumph Of AchillesIn the story of Patroclusno one survives, not even Achilleswho was nearly a god.Patroclus resembled him; they worethe same armor.Always in these friendshipsone serves the other, one is less than the other:the hierarchyis always apparent, though the legendscannot be trusted--their source is the survivor,the one who has been abandoned.What were the Greek ships on firecompared to this loss?In his tent, Achillesgrieved with his whole beingand the gods sawhe was a man already dead, a victimof the part that loved,the part that was mortal.

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

Here, illuminated at last,Nestles the ruddy glint of spiritual certainty;Sweet moments of passion and healing,Of sensual release.

He was her reason for existence,She was his ultimate risk.

I am fascinated by the dailies, what is daily.

poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.

Nature, it seems, is the popular namefor milliards and milliards and milliardsof particles playing their infinite gameof billiards and billiards and billiards.

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,To raise the genius, and to mend the heart

I tell you, if you feel strange, strange things will happen to you: Fallen peacocks on library shelves

Science is the poetry of reality.

Ponder now by thyself, how great fruit of wickedness the grain of evil seed had brought forth. And when the ears shall be cut down, which are without number, how great a floor shall they fill?

We number nothing that we spend for you;Our duty is so rich, so infinite,That we may do it still without accompt.Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,That we, like savages, may worship it.

I will reveal you who I am. I am your reflection.

Her mind is a mess, and she has no intention of cleaning today.

I am not obsessing.I am just sitting hereperforating this post-itwith a push-pin.

L'artGreen arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth, Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

More or Less Love Poems #11:No babeWe'd neverSwing together butthe syncopationwould be something wild

A Note Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off; and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another, mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

You shall love your crooked neighbour, with your crooked heart.

I like the imp / in impossibility

And as we know from the pilgrimage diaries of Swami Ramdas, it is when we renounce everything that everything is given to us, in abundance. Everything: meaning the intensity of presence itself.

Give me a moment I am preparing to drawback to screamLouder than a train overhead below a railroad bridge

I will find comfort in the rhythm of the sea.

For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see,Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.

You dance inside my chest,where no one sees you,but sometimes I do, and thatsight becomes this art.

i will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowersI will take the sun in my mouthand leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyesto dash against darkness in the sleeping curves of my bodyShall enter fingers of smooth masterywith chasteness of sea-girls Will i complete the mystery of my fleshI will rise After a thousand yearslippingflowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Poetry is the essence and evidence of life.

Did you not enjoy the fragrant flowers on the trails edge,The cool, crisp drink from the glistening pools at sunset,The song birds that filled the time as you experienced all that I Am, and all that I Am not?Did the dewy raindrops glisten on the gardens giving you a different memory of familiar landscapes?Did the rainbow fill your skies and force a pause of wonder in the midst of your journey?

For every spirit who is learning: you heal yourself.