What Is Poetry Quotes

I listen to the rainfall, my words wanna flow!Droplets run down the wall, where do they go?Letters in the raw, mesh together for the show!

Another breath, left to translate

Time is not ours and we would not own it. It does not wound us to say so.from the prose poem INNOCENCE

I plan to be a sinner tonight. Could've been something else, but looked way too good in my red dress to be anything Christian.

So this is love:the Sculptor’s chisel.And stone, which in its whole lifedoes not utter a single word, suddenly sings.

My cup is yellowOr not, though not'sImpossibleIt's yellow

Sure, we thought the acresThat we tilled were sacred, But how could we have knownThat wheat can haunt like ghosts

Today I write, riots with insite!Tomorrow I read, take the lead!Sometimes I sleep, health to keep!But for now I write, and got no gripe!

And you know what the worst thing was?The worst thing was that nobody ever believed how hard we tried.

For [W. B.] Yeats magic was not so much a kind of poetry as poetry a kind of magic, and the object of both alike was evocation of energies and knowledge from beyond normal consciousness.

Experience taught me that when pride wins... we all lose.

Poetry is alive because it is a medium of vision and experience. It is not necessarily comfortable.It is not necessarily safe.

Spirituality is the poetry of our experience. Science is the gauge of our reality. Together, they create the essence of our humanity.

I did not foresee my words becoming such a reverie of mimic and refrain.

If you look a word up in the dictionary and twenty minutes later you're still wandering around in the dictionary, you probably have the most basic equipment you need to be a poet.

For that you should read the original. In very great poetry the music often comes through even when one doesn't know language. I loved Dante passionately before I knew a word of Italian.

You are the language so universalyou are forgottenBe my linguistTurn meinto your words.

Poetry is the struggle against the simplification, codification, and mummification of language, it serves as a constant redirect - moving us to the experience to which the words point.

The best grammarian still can't write a verse.

Euphemisms chosen by fear are a covenant with hypocrisy and will immediately destroy the poem and eventually destroy the poet.

He needed some sort of membrane between himself and experience, which, for him, became language.(Jeanette Winterson on T.S.Eliot)

Poetry is, among other things, a criticism of language.

AimlesslyIt pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. NoOne listens to poetry.— from "Thing Language

In MoonlightNoSoft sweet paw on my cheekNoFur curled under my chinJustA sad space left behind - Gray cat gone away. [Ellie's poem]

It is the blight man was born for. It is Margaret you mourn for.

perhaps like me she's vainly hopingand some news awaits, but the moist earth already holds himin her strong embrace...

Darling, even raindrops try to wipe my teardrops but your thoughts haul out more tears from my liquid eyes and then teardrops replace raindrops...

{...]I began to feel tears of frustration build up in my eyes, yearning to free themselves from their glandular prisons.

Being a writer makes you immortal.

We are the instruments of genius, yet more the rhythm and less the drum as each expanding beat arises.

In knowing you I, discovered my self.

When their voices didn't reach my ears, I rebelled against my own skin too young to realize that without their stories I would starve.

I thought at times that poetry might be an elegant way of screaming.

The German language is so sonorous, isn't it? Beautiful language...the language of poetry. Angry, angry poetry.

You know it's real when reality becomes a dream, the dream becomes real, and real feels unreal

There are some places you can't visit anymore, poetry and writings take you there.

I love you every day -for the code and the blushand the shrug of it. Make your mind up in me, and I will do the same.

For even the best err in words when they are meant to mean most delicate and almost inexpressible things.

You are the ocean to my eyes.

let my heart always belike it is...this very momentready to explode...with lovea violent rainstorm...with no streamno ocean vast enoughto flow into.

you are here.the moontides are here.and that’s all that matters.

You were the poem I never knew how to write because no words could describe the wind you cannot see, but feel.

I stumble and fall.I weep and struggle to rise.My mom feels it all.

tread carefullyinto my life, my dear.the currents are strong.you will get lostin this warm oceanof my skin.

If my life were a fragrance, it would smell like the sea.

When the words have been said and the music has been played, feelingsare the only form of art which will remain to reign.

I will not feel, I will notfeel, untilI have to

You hate him for turning you inside of yourself. You are still getting used to looking at your body in the light.

...the feelings that pass between us are deeper than fleshly touches...

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