What Is Poetry Quotes
And in the end, she left a scarand I knew that washow she wanted tobe remembered.She wanted to leaveher mark in theworldwithout gettingher heart tooattached to it.
On the shining yards of heavenSee a wider dawn unfurled. . . . The eternal slaves of beautyAre the masters of the world.
There have been times I've felt so much art in my soul I grew sick of artists.
What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring, That my songs do not show me at all?For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire, I am an answer, they are only a call
If Springtime crawls out of thewild mouths of flowers, thensurely, Winter crawls out of mine.
How they had dreamed together, he and she... how they had planned, and laughed, and loved. They had lived for a while in the very heart of poetry.
Straight between them ran the pathway, Never grew the grass upon it
Then all the charm Is broken--all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other.
You are not worthless. Even if you've been called that your entire life.
as some strings, untouched, sound when no one is speaking.So it was when love slipped inside us.
There's a book of poetryin the lines of my handsthat no one wants to read
These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions, are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I'd be a damn fool if they weren't.
Un día habré dormido con un sueño tan largo que ni tus besos puedan avivar el letargo. Un día estaré sola, como está la montaña entre el largo desierto y la mar que la baña.
Her belly ruptures full of parasites, Her eyes sink back in her skull Her butchered wrists, dangle From the edge of the bathtubHer children cuddle against her Desperate for love she cannot give
we want it visible to showwhen even the most visible joy will reveal itselfonly when we have transformed it within.there’s nowhere, my love, the world can existexpect within.
I’ve been here before, dreaming myselfbackwards, among grappling hooks of light.True to the seasons, I’ve lived every wordspoken. Did I walk into someone’s nightmare?
Again I see you, But me I don't see!, The magical mirror in which I saw myself has been broken, And only a piece of me I see in each fatal fragment - Only a piece of you and me!...
The BALLPOINT PENGUINS, black and white, Do little else but write and write.Although they've nothing much to say, They write and write it anyway....
We wrote our names in the sandYou crossed mine out: I can't getback to the way I was.
Our friends through cables and computer screens are as real as the light and sound waves we alter through thought.
holding a tiny dixie cup in my hand makes me feel like a giant human being that can crush things
And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
And wonder, dread and warhave lingered in that landwhere loss and love in turnhave held the upper hand.
He remembers which sisterI like least and askshow she is doing.(lines 9-11 of the poem 'Divorce')
In this quiet place on a quiet streetwhere no one ever finds usgently, lovingly, freedom gives back our pain.--from poem In a Quiet Place on a Quiet Street
We speak in (rich) monotones. Our poetry is haunted by the music it has left behind. Orpheus shrinks to a poet when he looks back, with the impatience of reason, on a music stronger than death.
Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia's mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I'd understand how it's the little things that pull you under.
A wind starts to blow, without feelings, A song falls in love, without singing, A life will begin in melodies of the strings, May you find all pleasure of the light, God bless, Warrior of Light!
Criticism is like politics: if you don't make your own you are by default accepting the status quo and are finally yourself responsible for whatever the status quo does to you.
Cansado, sobre todo, de estar siempre conmigo, de hallarme cada día, cuando termina el sueño, allí, donde me encuentre, con las mismas naricesy con las mismas piernas...
May your love for me be likethe scent of the evening seadrifting inthrough a quiet windowso i do not have to runor chase or fall... to feel youall i have to dois breathe.
the onewho will jolt awakeall the unwrittenthe unsungand the unlived in me. i am waitingfor him.
i hope thatwhoever you arewherever you areand no matter howyou are feelingyou will always have somethingto smile about.
be the kiss in my hairthat no one seesmove, when i movesigh, when i sigh...be that line from a poemthat i hold in my eyes.