Poetry Quotes
May the energy of the day always call for celebration." Barbara Botch
One day I might feel Mean, And squinched up inside, Like a mouth sucking on a Lemon.The next day I couldFeelWhole and happyAnd right, Like an unbitten apple.
Heavy as such things areAfter the wordslide, the writing begins."From "Word Quake
Little deer, I've stuffed all the world's diseases inside you. / Your veins are thorns // and the good cells are lost in the deep dark woods / of your organs.
Poetry...... a place for the genuine, Hands that can grasp, eyesthat can dilate, hair that can rise
O dear Himalaya...why are you so amazing, can I kiss your peak or can I just let your silence speak...O dear Himalaya...
A true poet is one who can appreciate the disciplines and structures of any and all styles of poetry.
I'm heading for a clean-named placelike Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get therewithout help and nosy proclivities.
May, and after a rainy springWe walk streets gallant with rhododendrons.
We can’t choose our poetic fathers any more than our biological ones — but we can choose how to come to terms with them.
In my more rebellious days I tried to doubt the existence of the sacred, but the universe kept dancing and life kept writing poetry across my life. (Beyond Religion, p. 81)
HOUSE Grow high. The devil can't find you. Grow deep. Buddha can't find you. Build a house and live there. Gourd creepers will climb over it, their flowers dazzling at midnight.
If you don't know the kind of person I amand I don't know the kind of person you area pattern that others made may prevail in the worldand following the wrong god home we may miss our star.
Hak cihâna tolıdur kimseler Hakk’ı bilmez / Anı sen senden iste o senden ayru olmaz.
The heart under your heart is not the one you shareso readily so full of pleasantry & tendernessit is a single blackberry at the heart of a brambleor else some larger fruit heavy the size of a fist
Some wrong eternity that wouldn’t budge, like trying to move a wardrobe or a safe, only to feel how light I was.
...always-the sharp, plaintive edgeon the rimof the spoonof my giving.(lines 8-13 of the poem 'Confessions')
. . . On a sandbarsunlight stretches out its limbs, or is ita sycamore, so brazen, so clean and bold?
Must be going crazy---my favorite poet latelyhas been me!
I recall that now and I recall everything for what do we have but the past to parent us?
With heaven in our hearts, life is romancing uswith glimpses ofthe universe dancing.
Logic, when applied to people, fails miserably!
Wer ein Theater füllen will, bedient sich der Dramaturgie. Um es zu leeren genügt Ideologie.
that stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it getsI wave my skinny arms like a tall flower in the wind
Hearing a crow with no mouthCry in the deepDarkness of the night, I feel a longing forMy father before he was born.
... You can't be with God and be neutral. / True contemplation is resistance. And poetry, / gazing at clouds is resistance I found out in jail.
L'artGreen arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth, Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.
noone knows and noone seeswe lovers doing what we pleasebut people stop and point at theseten milk bottles a-turning into cheese
I was the solitary plovera pencil for a wing-boneFrom the secret notesI must tiltupon the pressureexecute and adjust In us sea-air rhythm"We live by the urgent waveof the verse
the next time you hear someone in a workshop remarking on how good a particular free-verse line or passage sounds, scan it. The odds are that it will fall into a regular metrical pattern.
Tho' you're tired and weary, still journey on, Till you come to your happy abode, Where all the love you've been dreaming of, Will be there at the end of the road.
. . . poetry, like all imaginative creations, divines the human enterprise. This is poetry's social value.
And round about there is a rabbleOf the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.They shall inherit the earth.
Evil is not good's absence but gravity'severlasting bedrock and its fatal chainsinert, violent, the suffrage of our days.
We left you there, lonely, Beauty your power, Wisdom your watchman, To hold the clay tower.from 'The Tale of the Tiger Tree
Yo, múltiple, como en contradicción
Streets paved with opal sadness, Lead me counterclockwise, to pockets of joy, And jazz.
Lovers meander in prose and rhyme, trying to say-for the thousandth time-what's easier done than said.
You bear a sword and shield, remind meof her labor, her stoning gaze. What beastwill your blade free next? What call will you loosefrom another woman's throat?
I want to read every book that’s writtenhear every song that was sungI want to gaze at every cloudand hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.
