Quotes by Poets - Page 188

There are things that are not sayable. That's why we have words.
Amy King
DESPITE THE INVENTION OF TIME MACHINES, WE KEEP BEING LINEAR.
Amy King
THE AMPUTATED HEARTBEATS HARDER
Amy King
OMG! I DESIGNED THIS NEW SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORM! IT'S CALLED "POETRY" - YOU HAVE TO READ AMY KING'S POEMS TO GET AN INVITE ~
Amy King
SOME PEOPLE SIMPLY DO NOT EXIST ANYMORE. GET USED TO IT. QUESTION MARK.
Amy King
WORDS SHLD BE FREE. RELEASE THEM FROM THEIR SENTENCES.
Amy King
HER BARBED-WIRE SMILELIFTED YOU TO HEAVENBUT I HAVE TO ASKDID GOD LOOK LIKE HER VOICE
Amy King
IT'S NOT THE HONEY WHISKEY IN A FRIDAY NIGHT - IT'S THE MANIC SHOW OF POETRY TWEETS THAT TURNS ME ON.
Amy King
In writing I try to pare down the descriptive bits. If I feel that I could say something in as few words as possible, then I would rather do it than to go on padding. One should describe sufficiently to give the reader a sense of what one feels, but not at the same time overwhelm the reader in any way. For example, I feel that if you use lots of adjectives they have a mutually cancelling effect. If you can describe a scene well enough, without having to use far too many words, I would rather do so.
Arthur Yap
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: To make a poet black, and bid him sing.
Countee Cullen
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,In vain our fate in sighs deplore;Remembrance only can remain,But that, will make us weep the more.
George Gordon Byron
We will spend the rest of the day inventing a kind of love that no longer exists in the world, a kind of love no army can pillage at the outposts, no rumor could bring to its knees like a traitor.
Richard Jackson
Maybe I should just lie quietly inside you while our old selves slip in and out of the back rooms of the soul.
Richard Jackson
Each oneFrom one’s little nooseCranes outYells and shoutsGroans aloudAnd grows stoutAnd the noose tightensLeaving no way to creap outTill at the endSwollenSpent outBecomes silent.I am also having my turn among all.
Anuradha Bhattacharyya
it's springand the goat-footedballoonMan whistlesfarandwee
E.E. Cummings
To truly understand poetry one must understand themselves from within one’s self.
Richard M. Knittle Jr.
The poet Mallarmé listened to the painter Degas complaining about his inability to write poems even though “he was full of ideas.” “My dear Degas,” Mallarmé responded, “poems are not made out of ideas. They’re made out of words.
Stéphane Mallarmé
The tongues of hell are dull.
Sylvia Plath
Poetry in the dark of the night you are my torch.Poetry makes you believe in the freedom in your own home.Poetry causes the increase of the human race.Poetry ennobles the spirit of man.Poetry is like a noble fragrance that caresses your soul.Poetry is the royal essence of beauty.
Kristian Goldmund Aumann
If you believe it, it is.
Adele Kenny
I wonder at the starry pattern in the skyAre they little pieces of moon which want to fly..?
Munia Khan
Now I think poetry will save nothing from oblivion, but I keep writing about the ordinary because for me it's the home of the extraordinary, the only home.
Philip Levine
I am just like you,Destined to play my part.And leave,In the nature of my departure at least,Some kind of sweet message behindIn the fathomless pattern I make.
Scott Hastie
We keep asking where they have gonethose years we remember and wereach for them like hands in the night
W.S. Merwin
the moon is just another kind of clock
Kelli Russell Agodon
Poetry is the royal essence of beauty.
Kristian Goldmund Aumann
There is a Moment in each Day that Satan cannot find
William Blake
Authority forgets a dying king
Alfred Tennyson
Pray that the summer mornings are many when with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time
Constantinos P. Cavafis
How can I blame the cherry blossomsFor rejecting this floating world And drifting away as the wind calls them
Shunzei's daughter
It was not Death, for I stood up,And all the Dead, lie down—It was not Night, for all the BellsPut out their Tongues, for Noon.
Emily Dickinson
his abusemakes her an anvilwithout spark
Munia Khan
She dances in a ring of fire and throws off the challenge with a shrug.
Jim Morrison
She dances in a ring of fire and throws of the challenge with a shrug.
Jim Morrison
the dolphins stitch sky to sea.
Ellen Bass
I'm not worried about plagiarism, I don't care if every person between here and Hell's creation put their name on my work as long as it ends up in the eyes of someone that found peace in the words
Stanley Victor Paskavich
As a way of getting in touch with my originsevery night I set the alarm clockfor the time I was born so that waking upbecomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
David Berman
Moonlight drifts from overA hundred thousand milesTo fall upon a cemeteryIt reads a hundred epitaphsAnd then smiles at a nest ofBaby owls
Richard Brautigan
When the last leaf falls,what will die within us?
Sheniz Janmohamed
Did you tell people that songs weren’t the same as a warm body, a soft mouth?
Warsan Shire
Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer.
A.E. Housman
This is hell, but I planned it. I sawed it,I nailed it, and I will live in it until it kills me.I can nail my left palm to the left-hand crosspiece butI can’t do everything myself. I need a hand to nail the right,a help, a love, a you, a wife.
Alan Dugan
A town loved with bitter love.
Anna Akhmatova
No Brasil não há outonomas as folhas caem- In Brazil there is no autumnbut the leaves fall
Carlos Drummond de Andrade
The mere ambition to write a poem is enough to kill it.
Henri Michaux
Alas! this is not what I thought life was.I knew that there were crimes and evil men,Misery and hate; nor did I hope to passUntouched by suffering, through the rugged glen.In mine own heart I saw as in a glassThe hearts of others ... And whenI went among my kind, with triple brassOf calm endurance my weak breast I armed,To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woeful mass!
Percy Bysshe Shelley
I've been told by many the art of poetry's dead, I believe it's alive on pages they haven't read
Stanley Victor Paskavich
God’s justice in the one, and his goodness in the other, is exercised for evermore, as the everlasting subjects of his reward and punishment.
Sir Walter Raleigh
Latefor the present, I supposeaccentuated each timeyou see, quick enoughthis fraction of earthunderfootthat upright speechimprints,like the whole of beingresumesWe’ve hit on something like lightning strikes
Deborah Heissler
And thenwe no longer distinguish far nor nearThey sleepdreamgather branchesfor this firethe cloud brewsagainst the powerless day —Long line of fugitivesbeneath the snow
Deborah Heissler
Silence. First it’s a cloud of apricot trees in flower, yellow or ivory, like a thousand little butterflies sown in the fresh grass, moving in the glow of lamplight when night ascends. Fragments of dreams. You can see the red sun setting on the foliage, like an enormous mass of incandescent steel.Then there were the trees a little farther off, straightening their fragile frames, the woolen blue pincushion flower like an eye and that tumult of milk in the deep stone, and finally the moan of the air beaten by a flock of blue woodpigeons– a silken challenge perhaps, or one of crackled leather.
Deborah Heissler
Everything had become song. The curve of the road beneath the clouds here, and there the strokes of dark earth, the green and the gray, the torn pink of clay and gravel under fingertips. The consonance was above all that of the muffled shadow and grass to the depths of sky, where a flutter of cheerful feathers quivered.In these dreams there are also black walnut trees, and then a forest that opens in a breeze. Nothing. Nothing more than the obstinate sound of wind.
Deborah Heissler
I'm two days away from day after tomorrowCounting the hours to my upcoming sorrow Suddenly I lookinto the eyes of my childThen all sadness goneas I smile the way she smiled
Munia Khan
Someone will remember us I sayEven in another time
Sappho
Poetry is an attempt to penetrate the dense reality to find a place where the simplest things look as new as through the eyes of a child.
Czesław Miłosz
Love is like a white geranium.It grows like a weedoverpowering the ground–if you don’t take care of itprune itshape itit climbs wallsand hidesinsectsthat slowly eat at itmaking it die.Easily grownand easily withered.
Isabel Quintero
Poems arrive. They hide in feelings and images, in weeds and delivery vans, daring us to notice and give them form with our words. They take us to an invisible world where light and dark, inside and outside meet.
Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge
Do tears not yet spilledwait in small lakes?Or are they invisible riversthat run toward sadness?
Pablo Neruda
I have wished a bird would fly away,And not sing by my house all day;Have clapped my hands at him from the doorWhen it seemed as if I could bear no more.The fault must partly have been in me.The bird was not to blame for his keys.And of course there must be something wrongIn waiting to silence any song.
Robert Frost
Do not forget about the thorns on the roseswhen you say that love is like a red red rose.
Isabel Quintero