What Is Poetry Quotes

Writing is not a matter of time, but a matter or of space. If you don't keep space in your head for writing, you won't write even if you have the time.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:Out of a misty dreamOur path emerges for awhile, then closesWithin a dream.

Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

Love me like a wrong turn on a bad roadlate at night.

I could feel the day offering itself to me, and I wanted nothing morethan to be in the moment-but which moment?Not that one, or that one, or that one,

Cada vez que te enamores no expliques a nadie nada, deja que el amor te invada sin entrar en pormenores

Listen! If stars are litIt means there is someone who needs it, It means someone wants them to be, That someone deems those specks of spitMagnificent!

Resolve, and thou art free.

Anger's like a battery that leaks acid right out of meAnd it starts from the heart 'til it reaches my outer me

forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

You are an Universe of Universes and your soul a source of songs.

In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.

I'll say I love you, Which will lead, of course, to disappointment, but those words unsaidpoison every next moment.I will try to disappoint youbetter than anyone else has.

There is another world, and it is in this one.

There is no Space or TimeOnly intensity, And tame thingsHave no immensity

I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my versesand my heart is closinglike a fist.

the worstthing that ever happenedtothe worldwasthe white man coming across gun powder.–– the end of the world | the beginning of white supremacy

Some men are born sodomites, some achieve sodomy, and some have sodomy thrust upon them...

all they want to dois tie the poem to a chair with ropeand torture a confession out of it.They begin beating it with a hoseto find out what it really means.

But you hate poetry!Yes, but you make me want to write it.

I don't wish to be everything to everyone, but I would like to be something to someone.

Our love was bornoutside the walls, in the wind, in the night, in the earth, and that's why the clay and the flower, the mud and the rootsknow your name.

Living together/ is one move closer/ to living apart

We didn't start the fireIt was always burningSince the world's been turningWe didn't start the fireNo we didn't light itBut we tried to fight it

She lends her pen, to thoughts of him, that flow from it, in her solitary.For she is his poet, And he is her poetry.

Kerouac: You're ruining American poetry, O'Hara.O'Hara: That's more than you ever did for it, Kerouac

God moves in mysterious waysHis wonders to performs

LightLightThe visible reminder of Invisible Light.

I really don't know what "I love you" means.I think it means "Don't leave me here alone.

I am ashamed of my century, but I have to smile.

You shall create beauty not to excite the sensesbut to give sustenance to the soul.

Rocket shipsare excitingbut so are roseson a birthday.

O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one.

I choose to love this time for oncewith all my intelligence-from "Splittings

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

part memory part distance remainingmine in the ways that I learn to miss you

Unasked, Unsought, Love gives itself but is not bought

I'd rather be thin than famousbut I'm fatpaste that in your broadway show

So the freshness lives onin a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

The profoundest of all sensualitiesis the sense of truthand the next deepest sensual experienceis the sense of justice.

All those other girls are cake...I'm Crème brûlée...Tiramisu, if you will. Just a few notches above.

the only thing required to be a woman is to identifyas one.- period, end of story.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.And be it gash or gold it will not comeAgain in this identical disguise.

Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that showsNothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!As tho’ to breathe were life!

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

sekali berarti sesudah itu mati

When you write about what you dream, you become a writer.When you dream about what you write, you become haunted by a curse.

A fallen blossomreturning to the bough, I thought --But no, a butterfly.