What Is Poetry Quotes

Escóndeme en tus brazospor esta noche sola, mientras la lluvia rompecontra el mar y la tierrasu boca innumerable.

I have been happy, though in a dream.I have been happy-and I love the theme:Dreams! in their vivid colouring of lifeAs in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife

And medecine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love: these are what we stay alive for.

No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge.

I found the poems in the fields, And only wrote them down.

A tough life needs a tough language—and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers—a language powerful enough to say how it is.

Anyone who has no need of anybody but himself is either a beast or a God."Aristotle

...if you do not even understand what words say, how can you expect to pass judgementon what words conceal?

Don't you know no one can escapethe power of creatures reaching outwith breath alone?

In fact she herself once blamed meKyprogeneiabecause I prayed this word:I want.

You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow

For books are more than books, they are the lifeThe very heart and core of ages past, The reason why men lived and worked and died, The essence and quintessence of their lives.

I see your picture and in that picture I didn't see you.

I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.

so much of the world is plunged in darkness and chaos...So ring the bells that still can ringForget your perfect offeringThere is a crack in everythingThat’s how the light gets in.

Who could have foretoldthe heart grows oldfrom touching others

And marbled clouds go scudding byThe many-steepled London sky.

Self love is an oceanand your heart is a vessel. Make it full, and any excess will spill overinto the lives of the peopleyou hold dear. But you must come first.

I am sore wounded but not slainI will lay me down and bleed a whileAnd then rise up to fight again

Even this late it happens:the coming of love, the coming of light.

You will come away bruised.You will come away bruisedbut this will give you poetry.

And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with youall through my life?-sharing my fire, my bed, Sharing-oh, worst of all things!-the same head?-And, when I feed myself, feeding you too?

Good poetry makes the universe reveal a secret.

Ali ipak uz mene se može, mada je neobično, Sa mnom je opasno hteti, ja nikad ne odustajem.

When you cried, I learned what helplessness tastes like. Because all I could do was swallow.

I am a work in progress.

When no one is looking, I swallow deserts and cloudsand chew on mountainsknowing they are sweet bones!When no one is lookingand I want to kiss God, I just lift my own hand to my mouth.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.I don't plan it.When I'm outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

so much dependsupona red wheelbarrowglazed with rainwaterbeside the whitechickens.

Your war drum ain't / louder than this breath.

I am suggesting that the radical of poetry lies not in theresolution of doubts but in their proliferation

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

I regret to say I'munable to reply to your unexpressed desires.

How to Write a PoemCatch the airaround the butterfly.

ولأنني رغم القبور..ورغم موت الأرضأرفض أن أموت

O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away

Sometimes I think, I need a spare heart to feel all the things I feel.

Like poetry, fashion does not state anything. It merely suggests

I am that last, thatfinal thing, the bodyin a white sheet listening,

Not everything can be felt and not everything will be ever understood.

...but it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night wondering whether you are any good or not and the only decision you can make is that you did it...

Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas. El barco sobre la mar y el caballo en la montaña.

I like the posture, but not the yoga. I like the inebriated morning, but not the opium. I like the flower but not the garden, the moment but not the dream. Quiet, my love. Be still. I am sleeping.

A black cat among roses, phlox, lilac-misted under a quarter moon, the sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. The garden is very still.It is dazed with moonlight, contented with perfume...

you will never catch up.Walk around feeling like a leafknow you could tumble at any second.Then decide what to do with your time.--The Art of Disappearing

But I don't shut up and I don't die.I liveand fight, maddeningthose who rule my country.For if I liveI fight, and if I fightI contribute to the dawn.

If you can not be a poet, be the poem.

Tears upon the dry sponge of heartdo not prove I am Promethean.

But for their cries, The herons would be lostAmidst the morning snow.