What Is Poetry Quotes

If onlyyou could have witnessed howmuch I have changed: sit alonein a disused theatre and feel whatI have felt, see how the world hastransformed me, like the metamorphosisof a caterpillar.

Life is unbearable pain.

August is dust here. Droughtstuns the road, but juice gathers in the berries.

Where is my oasis? Too far fromhere for me to crawl with thesedead legs, refusing to co-operateHands and fingers clawing uselesslythrough the grains of sand...

Think neither fear nor courage saves us.Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism. Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses.It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.

L'aube exalteé ainsi qu'un peuple de colombes, et j'ai vu quelquefois ce que l'homme a cru voir!(And dawn, exalted like a host of doves - and then I've seen what men believe they've seen!)

How are poets able to unzip what they see around them, calling forth a truer essence from behind a common fact? Why, reading a verse about a pear, do you see past the fruit in so transcendent a way?

I was compared to Charles Bukowski yesterday. It was the best and worst compliment I've ever gotten.

Each and every words count.Each and every thoughts count.

The answer to our existence lies in existence itself.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person...

For the beginning is assuredlythe end- since we know nothing, pureand simple, beyondour own complexities.

If rape or arson, poison or the knifeHas wove no pleasing patterns in the stuffOf this drab canvas we accept as life -It is because we are not bold enough!

I heard a bird congratulating itselfall day for being a jay.Nobody cared. But it was gladall over again, and said so, again.

And so I pray I am today as honestwith myself, with life all around me and below and above me, with all who I encounter.

Everything has its poetry. 94

Talent is a faucet. When it is on, one must write. Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

the poet I saw once...but whose words have long beenin my mind, windows of invincible candles...

It is ferocious, life, but it must eat . . .

it isn't that we're alone or not alonewhose voice do you want mine? yours?

Freedom is the dream you dreamWhile putting thought in chains again --

There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either

Each arrow you shoot offcarries its own targetinto the decidedlysecrettangle

Amé, fuí amado, el sol acarició mi faz.¡Vida, nada me debes! ¡Vida, estamos en paz!I loved, I was loved, the sun stroked my face.Life, you owe me nothing! Life, we are at peace!

rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed convictionthere ought to be another wayof sayingthis.

Mute in that golden silence hung with green, Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyesRemembrance of all beauty that has been, And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

… the fisherman’s daughter grinding serenity in her coffee grinder.

Sharing one umbrella, We have to hold each other, Round the waist to keep together, You ask me why I'm smiling-It's because I'm thinking, I want it to rain forever.

There will never be an endTo this droning of the surf.

Like poetry, in times of intense emotion the image returns to me. Like poetry, it stroked my soul and, by turns, lulled and stoked my senses.

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

I breathe in...the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.

I love to feel the temperature drop and the wind increase just before a thunderstorm. Then I climb in bed with the thunder.

Poetry is the sound of the human animal.

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and doleUnequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

moonrisesettle back with muffins and teauntil the window empties

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-huntingFor fear of little men.

Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.'No not at all, ' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

Some plant lips on Mother Earth in a display of gratitude.Meanwhile, she is kissing the soles of your feet, recognizing the one to be worshiped is you.

I had embraced you...long before i hugged you.

moonlight disappears down the hillsmountains vanish into fogand i vanish into poetry.

there is some achingthat will only heal...in the mosque of sleep.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway....of my life.

Live as many lives as you can.

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated....foreverin my mother’s arms.

To be the other womanis to be a seasonthat is always about to end, when the air is floweredwith jasmine and peach, and the weather day after dayis flawless, and the forecastis hurricane.

I’m happy. But some beauty is nonesuch - The gently sloping path across the wood, The wretched bridge that’s just a little skewed And that, for which, I won’t be waiting much.

Alles wat ik van het leven weet maakte ik me buiten de muren van de school eigen, en zodra ik me binnen die muren bevond leek het of ik achterwaarts leefde.

A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover!