What Is Poetry Quotes
...for if a woman's body can attract the holy angels, how much more the unholy man.
MAN is a slave only to his own mental lethargy.
Only in thoughtful dialogue with what it says can this fragment of thinking be translated. However, thinking is poetizing, and indeed more than one kind of poetizing, more than poetry and song.
Go. Think. Turn black into white.Night into day. I am tired of thinking.I know where it will lead me and I don’tWant to be there.Go love. Do your thinking.
And everything I thought I knew - you made me trade it all for you...but, frankly, you're not worth it.
We are all too fixed on wrecking ourselves rather than bettering ourselves.
for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.
you wereand always will bethat first ever touchto have fertilizedthe groundbeneath my life’s treesthat first ever roseto have fragrancedthe rest of my memories.
when I finally begin to driftinto sleepyour memory is the...firstand the moonlightthe last, to kiss my face.
...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...
...we went to watch the waves that bitter day and the wind took your red cap and mittens - blew them into the sea...
...strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...
...before you, life was desolate - the past hardly worth remembering - and now, each moment a keepsake I can't throw away ...
I climb the door instead of a treeJust to crawl with myself walking freeWhat if I’m a lizard beneath my skinChanging my colours of the human I’ve been
Those things that take my breath away become the ocean-complex and deep-and I'm prone to drowning in beautiful things. Like you.
Just a drop in the ocean, " you say, And that may be true, But the ocean wouldn't be as full, If it weren't for you.
you areas fleetingly beautifulas a mother’s tearsand a father’s pranksa brother’s bachelorhoodand a best friend’s bad mooda bride’s glittering jittersand a handsome stranger’s smile.
Oh, I know that I'll never be perfectI'm just alive
How long will you fake at living life? What will it take for you to see the beauty you've neglected while wearing the dirty lies expected of you?
And Death it calls as the stone crow breaks. Streaks of blood malform its face.Death becomes its withered eyes and the shadows whisper, “Lies.” Excerpt from "Lies
...you disappoint me -I am the worst liar in the world - I can't hide my pain or my need so I make a bouquet of my sorrows and give them to you ...
...the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows...
I keep thinkingThat poetry is something else:A form of love that exists only in silence, In a secret place between two people, Almost always between two strangers
When the silence of the night becomes the chanting of poetry, the departure of con-cavity
It's all about inner silence! Everything else would just take you there!
Yet, the most wonderful in my heart remains unsaid and it will remain so forever!
In the silence, while awaiting the distant footsteps of death he heard someone weeping! O God, was that you?
Reading haiku is as much an art as writing it. The reader needs to pause and listen to the silences, to feel the spaces between the words, and to journey into the depths of many multi-colored worlds.
I too was pinched off from a piece of clay, I too modeled by omnipotence and flankedby things too wonderful for me
Things began happening with odd synchronicity, as if the universe itself was conspiring on behalf of their love story.
There is a point where the universe can deliver you from the verge of regret. I know your love for me will take you there.
I am in love with the serendipitous poetry with which this universe expresses itself.
you cross the field in the snow leaving tracks in perfect whiteness ...disturbing my placid universe...marking the landscape within me ...
The fragility of the intellectual is the same as the poet's:It's all about the I and its desperate sense of the we.
My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound.My mind, I hope, will soon be found.
I want her sinful arms wrapped around me, bloodied and angry and triumphant in shame.
And this is when I knew I was black for real.This is when I knew black was a citywhose walls were constantly under siege....
I don't believe in magic.'The young boy said. The old man smiled. 'You will when you see her.
There is a moon, that rests in the quiet cornersof a lover’s lips.
