Quotes by Poets - Page 131

Your eyes make me pick up my pen and write.
Avijeet Das
The madness of the eyes is the lure of the abyss. Sirens lurk in the dark depths of the pupils as they lurk at the bottom of the sea, that I know for sure - but I have never encountered them, and I am searching still for the profound and plaintive gazes in whose depths I might be able, like Hamlet redeemed, to drown the Ophelia of my desire.
Jean Lorrain
Your eyes will always be closer to your soul than to any other part of your body except the heart.
Sorin Cerin
His eyes were the same colour as the sea in a postcard someone sends you when they love you, but not enough to stay.
Warsan Shire
Only in the eyes of love you can find infinity.
Sorin Cerin
Almost nothing need be said when you have eyes.
Tarjei Vesaas
I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy.
Sylvia Plath
Sincerity like this staggers me; I've seen too little and too much of it one way and another; I've valued it so highly that when someone hands it to me as directly as you have, I'm not sure whether I should jump for joy or burst into tears. — Gwendolyn MacEwen to Milton Acorn, 1960 (age 19)
David Eso
she died of internal weeping
Erica Jong
Feeling like, life has been so unfair to me, but what can I say except, "I'm still here." So I'm determined to make the best out of it, take every opportunity as a blessing, and live the rest of my life to the fullest.
Jonathan Anthony Burkett
Farewell, ungrateful traitor, Farewell, my perjured swain;Let never injured creature Believe a man again.The pleasure of possessingSurpasses all expressing,But 'tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain.'Tis easy to deceive us In pity of your pain;But when we love you leave us To rail at you in vain.Before we have descried itThere is no bliss beside it,But she that once has tried it Will never love again.The passion we pretended Was only to obtain,But when the charm is ended The charmer you disdain.Your love by ours we measureTill we have lost our treasure,But dying is a pleasure When living is a pain.
John Dryden
He loved her; in some ways he was devoted to her. But he couldn't reach her, and it was the same on her side. It was as if they'd drunk some fatal potion that would keep them forever apart, even though they lived in the same house, ate at the same table, slept in the same bed.
Margaret Atwood
My heart was on the verge, if not of explosion than of collapse, hurtling to an inward oblivion, sucking down with it the very ground I stood on.
C.S.E. Cooney
The shattering of a heart when being broken is the loudest quiet ever.
Carroll Bryant
Religion is treasured when it brings goodness out of a person.
Gugu Mona
Good men's actions are naturalWhile a scoundrel's charityIs carefully planned to please.
Abu al-Ala al-Ma'arri
i can't prove this but i can't prove you're a good person though i suspect you're a good person.
Bob Hicok
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
William Shakespeare
In that time while he was still aware, which was the worse, I wonder: the agony of his physical torture or the horror of their utter hatred, of their moral certainty that he was so beyond the bounds of what they could accept that he deserved not just a death but one of such brutality, such inhumanity, as would make the seraphs who burned Sodom bow their heads in cold respect? What is it like, I wonder, to learn the full capacity of hatred in a lesson hammered home with bone broken on wood and skin ripped on barbed wire?
Hal Duncan
Devil has to offer many diabolical grimaces: One of these caricatures is prejudice, it stirs up hatred.
Kristian Goldmund Aumann
No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.
George Gordon Byron
Before you speak words of hatred, so count with peace in your voice to ten.
Kristian Goldmund Aumann
National hatred is something peculiar. You will always find it strongest and most violent where there is the lowest degree of culture.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
All I ask the haters--and I, too, am one--is that they strive to perfect their contempt, even consider bringing it to bear on poems, where it will be deepened, not dispelled, and where, by creating a place for possibility and present absences (like unheard melodies), it might come to resemble love.
Ben Lerner
Most of us carry at least a weak sense of a correlation between poetry and human possibility that cannot be realized by poems. The poet, by his very claim to be a maker of poems, is therefore both an embarrassment and accusation.
Ben Lerner
The old sporadic fanaticism of religious hatred had been skillfully perverted into the cold, steady fanaticism of national hate.
Franz Werfel
I seeIn many an eye that measures meThe mortal sickness of a mindToo unhappy to be kind.Undone with misery, all they canIs to hate their fello
A.E. Housman
The hatred is not a feeling; it is a poisoning disease of mental and heart. One should eliminate before it outbreaks since it undermines the prestige, pride and national image.
Ehsan Sehgal
The administration, whether it is small or large, it is, as a company or a state, it is with uniform or not. If the ignorant, immoral, loose-lips, uncultured and without etiquette, opportunistic, liar, mentality vain, dishonest and unfair people are there, I am just sure of it that the destination is the destruction, chaos, slavery and hatred.
Ehsan Sehgal
there is enough treachery , hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day
Charles Bukowski
the kiss and the bite are such close cousins that in the heat of love they are too readily confounded
Heinrich von Kleist
This misfortune you find is of your own manufacture.Keep hold of what you have, it will harm no other,for hatred comes home to the hand that chose it.
Simon Armitage
Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.
William Shakespeare
Hate, it has caused a lot of problems in the world, but has not solved one yet.
Maya Angelou
Beware of advice—even this.
Carl Sandburg
The difficulty of literature is not to write, but to write what you mean.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Real friends, are really hard to come by.
Anthony Liccione
The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts while the stupid one are full of confidence".
Charles Bukowski
Go lovingly into each moment and experience your infinite being as you truly are. Feel, learn, play!
Jay Woodman
Captain," said the squire, "the house is quite invisible from the ship. It must be the flag they are aiming at. Would it not be wiser to take it in?""Strike my colours!" cried the captain, "No sir, not I"...
Robert Louis Stevenson
It must be October, the trees are falling away and showing their true colors.
Charmaine J.Forde
Be yourself. An original is worth more than a copy.Style is King, 2008.
Suzy Kassem
Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.
William Shakespeare
[defines a madman as] a man who preferred to become mad,in the socially accepted sense of the word, rather than forfeit a certain superior idea of human honor.
Antonin Artaud
Tell me what you read and I'll tell you who you are" is true enough, but I'd know you better if you told me what you reread.
François Mauriac
Madness and witchery as well as bestiality are conditions commonly associated with the use of the female voice in public.
Anne Carson
An exaltation of spirit lifted me, as it were, far above the earth and the sinful creatures crawling on its surface; and I deemed myself as an eagle among the children of men, soaring on high, and looking down with pity and contempt on the grovelling creatures below.
James Hogg
All my means are sane, my motive and my object mad.
Herman Melville
The real madness probably is not another thing that the wisdom itself that, tired of discovering the shames of the world, has taken the intelligent resolution to become mad
Heinrich Heine
My girl was mad and I loved her. Upon a night, she read my poetry; and kissing me madly she cried, ‘You are a genius, my love!’ To which I replied, ‘My girl,’ whispering, ‘Every doctor in this land with a prescription pad is more of a genius than I.
Roman Payne
I would rather go mad, gone down the dark road to Mexico, heroin dripping in my veins, eyes and ears full of marijuana, eating the god Peyote on the floor of a mudhut on the border or laying in a hotel room over the body of some suffering man or woman; rather jar my body down the road, crying by a diner in the Western sun; rather crawl on my naked belly over the tincans of Cincinnati; rather drag a rotten railroad tie to a Golgotha in the Rockies; rather, crowned with thorns in Galveston, nailed hand and foot in Los Angeles, raised up to die in Denver, pierced in the side in Chicago, perished and tombed in New Orleans and resurrected in 1958 somewhere on Garret Mountain, come down roaring in a blaze of hot cars and garbage, streetcorner Evangel in front of City I-Tall, surrounded by statues of agonized lions, with a mouthful of shit, and the hair rising on my scalp, screaming and dancing in praise of Eternity annihilating the sidewalk, annihilating reality, screaming and dancing against the orchestra in the destructible ballroom of the world, blood streaming from my belly and shoulders flooding the city with its hideous ecstasy, rolling over the pavements and highways by the bayoux and forests and derricks leaving my flesh and my bones hanging on the trees.
Allen Ginsberg
I wonder why the wind, even the wind doth seemTo mock me now, all night, all night, andHave I strayed among the cliffs hereThey say, some day I'll fallDown through the sea-bit fissures, and no moreKnow the warm cloak of sun, or batheThe dew across my tired eyes to comfort them.They try to keep me hid within four walls.I will not stay!
Ezra Pound
How bizarre, i think to myself, to be on a train and to actually not want to arrive anywhere? What kind of madness is that?
Jackie Kay
How stand I, then,That have a father killed, a mother stained,Excitements of my reason and my blood,And let all sleep, while to my shame I seeThe imminent death of twenty thousand menThat for a fantasy and trick of fameGo to their graves like beds, fight for a plotWhereon the numbers cannot try the cause,Which is not tomb enough and continentTo hide the slain? O, from this time forthMy thoughts be bloody or be nothing
William Shakespeare
...and I realized no matter what you do it’s bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.
Jack Kerouac
The bast, dispersing in shreds in the sunset whispered "Time has begun." The son, Adam, stripped naked, descended into the Old Testament of his native land and arrayed himself in bast; a wreath of roadside field grass he placed upon his brow, a staff, not a switch, he pulled from the ground, flourishing the birch branch like a sacred palm. On the road he stood like a guard. The dust-gray road ran into the sunset. And a crow perched there, perched and croaked, there where the celestial fire consumed the earth.There were blind men along the dust-gray road running into the twilight. Antique, crooken, they trailed along, lonely and sinister silhouettes, holding to one another and to their leader's cane. They were raising dust. One was beard-less, he kept squinting. Another, a little old man with a protruding lip, was whispering and praying. A third, covered with red hair, frowned. Their backs were bent, their heads bowed low, their arms extended to the staff. Strange it was to see this mute procession in the terrible twilight. They made their way immutable, primordial, blind. Oh, if only they could open their eyes, oh if only they were not blind! Russian Land, awake!And Adam, rude image of the returned king, lowered the birch branch to their white pupils. And on them he laid his hands, as, groaning and moaning they seated themselves in the dust and with trembling hands pushed chunks of black bread into their mouths. Their faces were ashen and menacing, lit with the pale light of deadly clouds. Lightning blazed, their blinded faces blazed. Oh, if only they opened their eyes, oh, if only they saw the light!Adam, Adam, you stand illumined by lightnings. Now you lay the gentle branch upon their faces. Adam, Adam, say, see, see! And he restores their sight.But the blind men turning their ashen faces and opening their white eyes did not see. And the wind whispered "Thou art behind the hill." From the clouds a fiery veil began to shimmer and died out. A little birch murmured, beseeching, and fell asleep. The dusk dispersed at the horizon and a bloody stump of the sunset stuck up. And spotted with brilliant coals glowing red, the bast streamed out from the sunset like a striped cloak. On the waxen image of Adam the field grass wreaths sighed fearfully giving a soft whistle and the green dewy clusters sprinkled forth fiery tears on the blind faces of the blind. He knew what he was doing, he was restoring their sight.("Adam")
Andrei Bely
Love is a madman,working his wild schemes, tearing off his clothes,running through the mountains, drinking poison,and now quietly choosing annihilation.
Jalaluddin Rumi
We are all subjected to two distinct natures in the same person. I myself have suffered grievously in that way.
James Hogg
He shook hands. With greening faces, with eyes full of sparks, his two friends leaned upon their canes. One had on a crushed bowler (why?)... Both were weary. Both knew that what was approaching was the end. Both had spent the day in their offices and when they interrupted their work with an indiscreet nod, when they turned the conversation toward that end, both broke in "Lord, we have strayed from our business." And ever deeper sunk their eyes, a deathly shadow was descending. The words of his friends had been bought with blood, but they were stolen. Someone, listening, recorded them on a phonograph and thousands of cylinders began to twang. A new enterprise opened, on sale a bronze throat, a screaming cavity; an experienced mechanic installed the throat phonograph. The purchased throat squealed day and night and his friends grew exhausted and one day he said to them both "Lord, I am going." He grinned. And they grinned: they understood everything. Now they stood on the platform, stood with him and saw him off. Someone long and dark with the face of an ox, shoulders crooked as a sorrowful cemetery cross and wrapped up in a frock-coat, swept into the coach. And then the bell rang, and then they waved their bowlers; three wooden arms swung in the air.("Adam")
Andrei Bely
In how many minds should I go crazy? Whom should I ask?
Suman Pokhrel