Poetry Quotes

Porque a volar no se aprende solo, pero a caer no se aprende nunca.

[…] but she cannot make him eat, like you.

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...

Be a poet in action as well as in words.

Let my toes teach the shore how to feel a tranquil lifethrough the wetness of sands Let my heart latch the doorof blackness, as all my pain now blue sky understands

I want to unfold.I don’t want to be folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie.

Never fear the thing you feel-- Only by love is life made real

It is true that there is not enough beauty in the world. It is also true that I am not competent to restore it. Neither is there candor, and here I may be of some use.

To wander solitary there:Two paradises ‘twere in oneTo live in paradise alone.

I hear they make greeting cards now to thank your therapist... for NOTHING

We real cool. WeLeft school. WeLurk late. WeStrike straight. WeSing sin. WeThin gin. WeJazz June. WeDie soon.

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

Stasis in darkness.Then the substanceless blue

Is there a better method of departure by night than this quiet bon voyage with an open book, the sole companion who has come to see you off, to wave you into the dark waters beyond language?

I'm everyone everywhere with you without you unbound set free in limbo lost at sea.

My sincere thanks to friends and family, especially my mother, father, brother, and Mandy, who continue to love and support me despite my obsessions.

Les rêves sont seuls les réalités de la vie.

It is our fate to give ourselves most lavishlyto those who'd rather not be burdened with the gift

Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despairOf not being able to expressWith a shout, an extreme and bitter shout, The bleeding of my heart.

This man has talent, that man geniusAnd here's the strange and cruel difference:Talent gives pence and his reward is gold, Genius gives gold and gets no more than pence.

Memory revises me.

How do I learn to speakwhen silence is all I know?

The still watersWrap my lips, Eyes, nose and ears, A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

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.

In the prison of his daysTeach the free man how to praise

Hesitate once, hesitate twice, hesitate a hundred times before employing political standards as a device for the analysis and appreciation of poetry.

In those days I used to talk to myself as if reciting poetry.

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

The glamorous splender of a mystical moon.. Natures sleepless wonders.

This is life...by all means necessary

Nature is bent on new beginningand death has not a chance of winning...

[Poetry] was a form of incantation, a means of welding the world inside his head to the one that surrounded him, words the fiery chain that bound it all together.

Listen. Outside this frame I can see light, heavy as pardon, reliable as granite.Help me. Help me drag it into the picture.

maybe silent hurting is the new Mid-Western love

I believe that open-heart surgery is a mustfor all human beings

Poets find their voices when they articulate the wishes of the dead, especially those slain as sacrificial talismans to a larger frame of existence.

once I trained for the Olympics but panic is not a sport

if what is true brings us sorrow, / if what sorrow brings is truth

Poetry will die when love and pain cease to exist.

We are all poets, really.

something genuine like a mark in a toilet, graced with guts and gutted with grace

My earliest poems appear almost skeletal to me now - it seems I've learned to add meat, muscle and a nice suit of clothes.

I don't understand the whole thrilling verse, but I love the way poetry turns ordinary words into winged things that rise up and soar!

During our first date, I wanted to hold your hand so badI almost cut mine offand threw it at youto see if you would catch it

Poetry is not an art, it's a symptom.

Poetry is the guardian of love - constructed from truth it is a bridge that can be crossed from either side and it is oblivious of age or gender

Love could never be forever only for a lifetime, only God can love eternally.

Writing poetry is supernatural. Or, it should be.

I walk through the old yellow sunlightto get to my kitchen tablethe poem about melying there with the booksin which I am listedamong the dead and future Dylans

Haunted by demons of the past, hounded by demons not yet met, the nevermore and evermore left her little peace.” ~A Tale of Two Women