Poetry Quotes - Page 9

Otter! Otter! Otter!Don’t lead cows to slaughter!I love you, and I knowI should’ve told you soon-aBut you didn’t buy the dolphin-safe tuna!

This is newness: every little tawdryObstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only youDon't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.There's no getting up it by the words you know.No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.We have only come to look. You are too newTo want the world in a glass hat.

Winning a love is just an outcome, keeping a love is a true accomplishment.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance like breath.

having nothing to struggleagainstthey have nothing to strugglefor.

Armed I am with love. Disarmed I am.

Whenever I write a dramatic poem I can't understand why the characters should ever want to be anything but poets themselves.

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

Приспособяваме се тихо към живота,доволни и от бледите утехи,които вятърът довяваи пуска в празните ни джобове.Но още храним обич към светащом спираме пред гладно котенце на прага,готови да го приютим в протрития ръкав,да го спасим от улицата - шумна и жестока.(...)Играта е такава - кара ни да се усмихваме насила.И все пак виждаме луната, спряла над самотна уличка,да преобръща празна кофа в искряща чаша на смеха,и все пак чуваме през веселия шум и нашите стремежигласа на котенце, което вика сред пустинята.

What's madness but nobility of soulAt odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!I know the purity of pure despair,My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,That place among the rocks--is it a cave,Or winding path? The edge is what I have............... Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,Keeps buzzing at the sill.~From "The Waking" by Theodore Roethke

You might say “no, you will never do that, that’s not you, not who I know, not who I thought you were”, and I will say "watch me".

There are, in places, fallen angelswho in their iniquity and desolationlinger like a stranger on a foggy night,sustained by the misdeeds of city-dwellersand spurred on by bitter hatredfor their bright kin moving past them.

Go then, O my inseperable, this once more,

Miracle: to love more with an irreparable heartache

Fly’ GenerationWe stand tall, we stand proud, we are the ‘fly’ generationWe think what we learn to think and dream with our eyes openWe keep our hearts on our sleeves for it to be brokenbut we can take it, we are the ‘fly’ generation.We question things when we need to understandIts important we know, how it works, where we standWhy all this pain and no explanation?we need answers, we are the ‘fly’ generation.We love to hate and hate to love, what have we become?Since when is that the norm? when did we succumb?The victims will be forgotten and culprits will change faceBut we will still be running, running to win the invisible race.So here’s to the untold stories and six degrees of separationwe can take it, after all… we are the ‘fly’ generation.

Under a night’s skyFilled with a hundred billion starsIs it so crazy to believeOur paths were destined to cross?

Hesitancy is the surest destroyer of talent. One cannot be timorous and reticent, one must be original and loud. New metaphors, new rhythms, new expressions of emotion can only spring from unhindered gall. Nothing should interfere with that intuition--not the fear of appearing stupid, nor of offending somebody, nor jeopardizing publication, nor being trivial. The intuition must be as unhindered as a karate chop.

The noontide of my life is starting,Which I must needs accept, I know;But oh, my light youth, if we're parting,I want you as a friend to go!My thanks to you for the enjoyments,The sadness and the pleasant torments,The hubbub, storms, festivity,For all that you have given me;My thanks to you. I have delightedIn you when times were turbulent,When times were calm... to full extent;Enough now! With a soul clear-sightedI set out on another questAnd from my old life take a rest.Let me glance back. Farewell, you arboursWhere, in the backwoods, I recallDays filled with indolence and ardoursAnd dreaming of a pensive soul.And you, my youthful inspiration,Keep stirring my imagination,My heart's inertia vivify,More often to my corner fly.Let not a poet's soul be frozen,Made rough and hard, reduced to boneAnd finally be turned to stoneIn that benumbing world he goes in,In that intoxicating sloughWhere, friends, we bathe together now.

They are both spectacular, Life and death.

All my contemporaries—hundred-and-fivers or convicts—will tell you how we livedin barely sentient fear, raisingchildren for the executioner,prison, or the torture chamber.

Somewhere along the way we all go a bit mad. So burn, let go and dive into the horror, because maybe it’s the chaos which helps us find where we belong.

Places We LovePlaces we love exist only through us,Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time,Places we love we can never leave,Places we love together, together, together,And is this room really a room, or an embrace,And what is beneath the window: a street or years?And the window is only the imprint left byThe first rain we understood, returning endlessly,And this wall does not define the room, but perhaps the nightYour son began to move in your sleeping blood,A son like a butterfly of flame in your hall of mirrors,The night you were frightened by your own light,And this door leads into any afternoonWhich outlives it, forever peopledWith your casual movements, as you stepped,Like fire into copper, into my only memory;When you go, space closes over like water behind you,Do not look back: there is nothing outside you,Space is only time visible in a different way,Places we love we can never leave.

When shall I get to kiss thee?’ I asked.‘By all means you can forever ask,’ she answered.‘Your lips ask a heavy price,’ I said.‘It’s a fair exchange of one so fair,’ she said.‘What lips are worthy for your mouth and lips?’ I asked.‘Only the discerning can this secret know,’ she answered.‘Don’t worship idols, be with the Truth,’ I said.‘In the Way of Love, both are allowed,’ she said.I said, ‘The tavern helps to heal the heart.’‘Blessed are those who heal the lonely heart,’ she answered.‘It’s not religion, the priestly robe, the wine,’ I said.‘But to the gnostic both lead to the Divine,’ she answered.‘What use to an old man of youthful lips?’ I asked.‘By such sweet kissing, he grows young!’ she answered.‘When shall the bridegroom embrace the bride?’‘When the stars are that way inclined.’I said, ‘The prayer of Hafiz is for His glory.’‘This is the prayer of angels too, in heaven,’ she answered.

All those other girls are cake...I'm Crème brûlée...Tiramisu, if you will. Just a few notches above.

I have inflammation of the imagination.

through the rose glass window in their beautiful new home, you stare at the love you gave away.

Every new dayOur children's joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

She reminded me that I could write stories,/could be struck by lightning & live.

Music helps to forgetThis forsaken tomb,That is my abodeCellars downFar belowUnder the ground, ...

Sometimes I want a quiet lifeother timesI want to go a little bit fucking Gatsby.

A storm-filled life replete with piercing and unearthly sounds ravages the soul of any thoughtful person. In contrast, the genteel wind of restoration moves silently, invisibly. Renewal is a spiritual process, the communal melody that sustains us. Inexpressible braids of tenderness whispering reciprocating chords of love for family, friends, humankind, and nature plaits interweaved layers of blissful atmosphere, which copious heart song brings spiritual rejuvenation. For when we love in a charitable and bountiful manner without reservation, liberated from petty jealously, and free of the toxic blot of discrimination, we become the ineluctable wind that vivifies the lives of other people. The mellifluous changes in heaven, earth, and our journey through the travails of time, while worshiping the trove of fathomless joys of life, constitute the seeds of universal poetry.

a woman will tell youevery home she has ever inhabitedhas been broken intostarting with her body

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

Nobility is not only in forgiveness.

Life is just a slide. Back and forth between loving and leaving, remembering and forgetting, holding on and letting go.

A permanent pathThat, once illuminated,Goes ever onward – a way home…

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

She was everything real in a world of make-believe. 

And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air.

Anyone who claims good or evil isn't one or either, they're just a liar... the worst kind of liar... the liar that doesn't even know they're lying. We're human. We're good during the day and evil at night, half the time those roles are reversed, that's what it's all about.

He lived to near the things he loved to seem poetical.

Books measure time in both moments and years. We all grow old but the stories never will.

Men had always been the reciters of poetry in the desert.

To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something beautiful, ready always to apprehend in the flow of language the sudden flash of poetry.

What a strange world. We trade our days for things.

It’s just another stop on the curvy roadthe final encounterfor the man who has liveddeath is the answer.

As the sky prepares to settle its tired, aching feetinto the night’s velvet slippersI settle, into my armchair, soaking the teabag,of my thoughts, into warm liquidy stars.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

Where to start?Everything cracks and shakes,The air trembles with similes,No one world's better than another;the earth moans with metaphors.

I begin my life. I live again. I meet a young girl called Valeria. She smiles easily. She laughs tender sounds that pull at my heart. I’m too young to be profound but she makes me feel so safe. So cherished. I am thirty years old. I bump into a woman I knew when she was a girl. Valeria looks annoyed to see me. She lives in the future. Where the world is turning. I live within the past. Where the people are trapped and screaming and alone. I live within the past when Valeria and I were in love. She’s waiting for the cab to come, her foot tapping against the sidewalk. Her eyes glancing at her watch every few minutes. I’m eager to reunite our lives through some kind of friendship. I’m so eager to know her again, as she was when she was a child. But Valeria lives within the future. I live within the past. Have the two ever gotten along? Have they ever even met?

Be yourself. Trust me, you don’t want to be anyone else because they are not you and you are special.

Les rêves sont seuls les réalités de la vie.

everything i know about loveis that it hurtsand is almost always never returnedthe way you want it to.but i have hopebecause i do not know everything.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,Which cold human hands have wrought,And where none shall dare restrain usWe can meet again, in thought.

On the beach, at dawn:Four small stones clearlyHugging each other.How many kinds of loveMight there be in the world,And how many formations might they makeAnd who am I everTo imagine I could knowSuch a marvelous business?When the sun brokeIt poured willingly its lightOver the stonesThat did not move, not at all,Just as, to its always generous term,It shed its light on me,My own body that loves, Equally, to hug another body.

I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turn'd to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys & de

When magic through nerves and reason passes, Imagination, force, and passion will thunder. The portrait of the world is changed.

Each timewe bow to thefeet of anythingwe find riveting,the mind rises tobe surprised withnew crowningdiamonds ofcreativity.

I can speak of you now to anyone because I’ve stopped wanting anything like what I once wanted from you.

In the busyness of living, he is the kind of man that makes a woman pause and write romantic poetry.