What Is Poetry Quotes

On I’ll pass, dragging my huge love behind me.On whatfeverish night, deliria-ridden, by what Goliaths was I begot – I, so bigand by no one needed?

we're lost where the mind can't find usutterly lost

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps outLooking, with its hooks, for something to love.

Come windless invaderI am a carnival ofStars, a poem of blood.

The first time I saw her, Everything in my head went quiet.

Kill what you can't savewhat you can't eat throw outwhat you can't throw out buryWhat you can't bury give awaywhat you can't give away you must carry with you, it is always heavier than you thought.

You have to imaginea waiting that is not impatientbecause it is timeless.

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.

Why love what you will lose?There is nothing else to love.

and I ask myself and you, which of our visions will claim uswhich will we claimhow will we go on livinghow will we touch, what will we knowwhat will we say to each other.

it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too, have been bruised...by beauty.

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving meI shall stop loving you little by little.If suddenlyyou forget medo not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

Will you walk into my parlour?" said the Spider to the Fly

A FEATHER.A feather is trimmed, it is trimmed by the light and the bug and the post, it is trimmed by little leaning and by all sorts of mounted reserves and loud volumes. It is surely cohesive.

I am too full of lifeto be half-loved.

I have been to lots of partiesand acted perfectly disgracefulbut I never actually collapsedoh Lana Turner we love you get up

if youdon't want toend up insomeone else'spoem, then maybeyou shouldstarttreatingpeoplebetterfor achange.- an unapologetic poet.

Where do the words gowhen we have said them?

We, all who live, haveA life that is livedAnd another life that is thought, And the only life we haveIt's the one that is dividedIn right or wrong.

Love, our subject:we've trained it like ivy to our walls.

I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.

Love me in actions, not in words.

My heart is strong, I will not fail, I won't be wronged, I will prevail.

because some thingssometimesaren't ours to hold, but just beautiful to listen to.

Here we go mother on the shipless ocean.Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.

Armed I am with love. Disarmed I am.

Love is the poetry of the senses!

before the gate --my walking stick's made a riverof melting snow

It is not our job to remain whole.We came to lose our leavesLike the trees, and be born again, Drawing up from the great roots.

Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.[Songs of Longing]

I have no doubt at all the Devil grins, As seas of ink I spatter. Ye gods, forgive my "literary" sins --The other kind don't matter.

Through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown...

I don't want tobecause boysdon't write poetry.Girls do.

The exceeding brightness of this early sunMakes me conceive how dark I have become.

Sometimes it feels like someone else is wearing my body.

Darling, do you rememberthe man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.

And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom.

La heradera del dia destruida.(The heiress of the destroyed day.)

A door jumpsout from shadows, then jumps away. Thisis what I've come to find:the back door, unlatched.Tooled by insular wind, itslams and slamswithout meaningto and without meaning.

Everything you invent is true: you can be sure of that. Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.

Think of what starlight And lamplight would lack Diamonds and fireflies If they couldn’t lean against Black. . . .

Any healthy man can go without food for two days--but not without poetry.

What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare?

The poem must resist the intelligenceAlmost successfully.

loneliness can fly a helicopter through a cut-out shapeof a helicopter the same size as the helicopterand that's it's only skilland it isn't good enoughbut it's still amazing.

When I can feel you breathing into me i, like a stone gargoyleatop some crumbling building, spring to lifea resuscitated angel.

Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary, imperial joy and sorrow of human existence, the dreamed as well as the lived—what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?

I had forgotten. Disgust shadows desire.Another life is never safely envied.

Air goes in and outof my nose, throat, lungs, blood, heartbrain - and so I am

In a fieldI am the absenceof field.This isalways the case.Wherever I amI am what is missing.