Quotes by Poets - Page 224

tears swell in the wells of my eyes.love is a constant side effect of mine.
K.Y. Robinson
love riddeni searched for youin corridors,open doorsand in endless seas of similesand metaphorsbut we never were on the same page.
K.Y. Robinson
Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time futureAnd time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.What might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.
T.S Eliot
They want to knowwho I write these poems for.Tell them it's for all loversbecause I don’t see a differencebetween our loveand their love.
Kamand Kojouri
Already the ripening barberries are redAnd the old asters hardly breathe in their beds.The man who is not rich now as summer goesWill wait and wait and never be himself.The man who cannot quietly close his eyescertain that there is vision after vision inside,simply waiting for nighttimeto rise all around him in darkness-it's all over for him, he's like an old man.Nothing else will come; no more days will openand everything that does happen will cheat him.Even you, my God. And you are like a stonethat draws him daily deeper into the depths.
Rainer Maria Rilke
A poem is about something the way a cat is about the house.
Allen Grossman
Where’s the trail to Cold Mountain?Cold Mountain? There’s no clear way.Ice, in summer, is still frozen.Bright sun shines through thick fog.You won’t get there following me.Your heart and mine are not the same.If your heart was like mine,You’d have made it, and be there!
Han-shan
If grief could burn outLike a sunken coal,The heart would rest quiet, The unrent soulBe still as a veil; But I have watched all nightThe fire grow silent, The grey ash soft:And I stir the stubborn flintThe flames have left, And grief stirs, and the deftHeart lies impotent.
Philip Larkin
If I knew what safety looked like, I would have spent less time falling into arms that were not
Rupi Kaur
I sought Him where my logic led. “This friend is always sure and right; His lantern is sufficient light.I need no Star,” I said.I sought Him in the city square. Logic and I went up and down The marketplace of many a town,But He was never there.I tracked Him to the mind’s far rim. The valiant intellect went forth To east and west and south and north,But found no trace of Him.We walked the world from sun to sun, Logic and I, with Little Faith, But never came to Nazareth,Nor met the Holy One.We sought in vain. And finally, Back to the heart’s small house I crept, And fell upon my knees, and wept;And Lo! He came to me!
Sara Henderson Hay
When all that's left mediocrity and each day just bleeds into the next.
Andy Carrington
Which Are You?"There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,You must first know the state of his conscience and health.Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying yearsBring each man his laughter and each man his tears.No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,Are always divided in just these two classes.And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.In which class are you? Are you easing the load,Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?Or are you a leaner, who lets others shareYour portion of labor, and worry and care?
Ella Wilcox Wheeler
I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple--or a green field--a place to enter, and in which to feel.
Mary Oliver
Sitting makes us think of standingOur current stance keeps on demanding We wish to fly without the wings Puppets move before pulling the strings
Munia Khan
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea,But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—
Edgar Allan Poe
aboutour argument tonightwhatever it wasaboutand no matterhow unhappyit made usfeelremember thatthere is acatsomewhereadjusting to thespace of itselfwith a delightfulwonderment ofeasiness.in other wordsmagic persistswithout usno matter whatwe doagainst it.
Charles Bukowski
In snow thou comestThou shalt go with resuming groundThe sweet derision of thx crowAnd Glee's advancing sound
Emily Dickinson
DO IT NOWIf with pleasure you are viewingany work a man is doing,If you like him or you love him,tell him now;Don’t withhold your approbationtill the parson makes orationAnd he lies with snowy lilies on his brow;No matter how you shout ithe won’t really care about it;He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed;If you think some praise is due himnow’s the time to slip it to him,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.More than fame and more than moneyis the comment kind and sunnyAnd the hearty, warm approval of a friend.For it gives to life a savor,and it makes you stronger, braver,And it gives you heart and spirit to the end;If he earns your praise – bestow it,if you like him let him know it,Let the words of true encouragement be said;Do not wait till life is overand he’s underneath the clover,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
Burton Braley
Persephone had it right.If you must go, might as welltake all of spring with you—
Cathy Linh Che
But the rare herb, Forgetfulness, / It hides away from me.
Jeanne Robert Foster
The other day I chanced to meet An angry man upon the street — A man of wrath, a man of war, A man who truculently bore Over his shoulder, like a lance, A banner labeled “Tolerance.
Phyllis McGinley
Be nothing which thou art not
Edgar Allan Poe
Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.
Rainer Maria Rilke
In all the flames of fire fume’s left the traceInto the bluest sea the sky is drownedThe miracles of life can you embraceFrom the poem 'Can You Embrace?
Munia Khan
In a real poem a sound does not swallow a letter, but a letter swallows a sound.
Dejan Stojanovic
Do you love me?" I ask.In your hesitation I found my answer.
Lang Leav
Death lurks in the shadows, just out of view. Now and then I see his reaching hand, uncertain of the blurry image that passes before my eyes, but conscious of the crippling influence of his touch. Some say Death rears an ugly head, so hideous a view the beholder can scarcely gasp their last breath. Others call him beautiful, a sweet relief to look upon. But these are rumors babbled by the unknowing. For Death is like the gorgon, Medusa, who when perceived, turns the body to stone. Those who know Death take the knowledge of his shadowed face with them to wherever it is he leads our dearly departed by the hand. All who are left behind must wait their turn to glance into the eyes of the one who will close our mouths forever.
Richelle E. Goodrich
What if dragons breathed bubbles and purred when they cuddled and giggled at chivalrous knights for their troubles?What if dragons felt soft, having scales made of cloth,and they moved rather slow like a brown-throated sloth?What if dragons were shyand did easily crywhen confronted by characters callous and sly?What if dragons did goodbut were misunderstoodso men mercilessly slew the beasts right where they stood?What if dragons aren’t missedbecause there is no listof extinct types of quarry that now don’t exist?
Richelle E. Goodrich
Sipping teawith gleebeneath a gooseberry tree.I wish Alice were here.Oh, my dear,do not fear,she will be.
Richelle E. Goodrich
Touch was absolutelyout of the question. I couldn’t stop sweating. My heart, a butterfly pinnedto a glacier. Empires fell inside my mouth. I touched myself like a pogrom& broke my sex into a history of inconsequential shames. I wept viciouslyinside of my own stomach & had it condemned. From an upside-down bellI drank silence, subsisted on the memory of someone else’s hands. Wolvessang & I did not answer. I forgot their names. Mornings were the worst, thenthere were days & evenings. Streetlights & darkened sycamore & suburbangrief so full it made me foolish. I shattered my fist on the Lord’s jaw. Sorrowsat, licking my wrists & my neck. I slept at its convenience. O, uncelebratedbody. My penis, a lighthouse on the bottom of the ocean, shining shadowsat the undersides of boats. Nobody drowned for so many years. Desperatefor the making of those candy-throated ghosts, I found the rooms betweenthe violence of comets. I threw myself into anything’s path. Even the skybent around me. How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill. (So I Locked Myself Inside A Star for Twenty Years)
Jeremy Radin
A poem does not radiate from the name, but the name emanates from the poem.
Dejan Stojanovic
The name does not deserve the poem, but the poem deserves the name.
Dejan Stojanovic
You werewater to medeep and bold and fathoming' - Praise Song For My Mother by Charlotte Mew
Charlotte Mew
You weremoon's eye to mepull and grained and mantling' - Praise Song For My Mother by Charlotte Mew
Charlotte Mew
Silly little monster” all would say.They’d scratch its head and turn awayuntil it snatched their tiny noses.They couldn’t even smell the roses!Ever after, every childdreaded monsters, fierce or mild.
Richelle E. Goodrich
A dragon grows in leaps and bounds,Like troubles mounting by the pound.Its stature heightens day to day,Imposing dread and deep dismay.A paralyzing roar it gainsWhile from its snout hot fire rains.It sees you shrink. Your fear it knows.And by the hour the nightmare grows.Unless you slay the dragon soon,Your troubles may become your doom.
Richelle E. Goodrich
You tell me that yes, I can do it. I know. And I may do it, if I so choose.You tell me that no, I cannot. I say, Oh? I shall do it, since you refuse!
Richelle E. Goodrich
His gaze, bluntedby the unnumbered processionof iron bars, uncountedas his softly padded steps.Smooth motion of blood and sinewturning in its own, small circleprescribed by bars and walls...and skin, confined.Suddenly, without warning,a flash of light and imagepierces the caged brain,and passing through its beating heartto stillness finds its way.
Rainer Maria Rilke
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight, the weight we carry is love. Who can deny? In dreams it touches the body, in thought constructs a miracle, in imagination anguishes till born in human-- looks out of the heart burning with purity-- for the burden of life is love, but we carry the weight wearily, and so must rest in the arms of love at last, must rest in the arms of love. No rest without love, no sleep without dreams of love-- be mad or chill obsessed with angels or machines, the final wish is love --cannot be bitter, cannot deny, cannot withhold if denied: the weight is too heavy --must give for no return as thought is given in solitude in all the excellence of its excess. The warm bodies shine together in the darkness, the hand moves to the center of the flesh, the skin trembles in happiness and the soul comes joyful to the eye-- yes, yes, that's what I wanted, I always wanted, I always wanted, to return to the body where I was born.
Allen Ginsberg
They find me odd, and whisper behind hands…And my brutal desires sink hooks into their lips…
Arthur Rimbaud
For this,let gardens grow, where beelines end,sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;where bees pray on their knees, sing, praisein pear trees, plum trees; beesare the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.
Carol Ann Duffy
Don't be polite.Bite in.Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon.For there is no coreor stemor rindor pitor seedor skinto throw away.
Eve Merriam
When I was young and miserable and prettyAnd poor, I'd wishWhat all girls wish: to have a husband,A house and children. Now that I'm old, my wishIs womanish:That the boy putting groceries in my carSee me.
Randall Jarrell
A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.
Dejan Stojanovic
You weresunrise to merise and warm and streaming.' - Praise Song For My Mother by Charlotte Mew
Charlotte Mew
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time,Who countest the steps of the Sun:Seeking after that sweet golden climeWhere the traveller's journey is done. Where the Youth pined away with desire,And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow: Arise from their graves and aspire, Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
William Blake
As a perfume doth remain In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me; all things leave me -You remain. Other thoughts may come and go, Other moments I may know That shall waft me, in their going, As a breath blown to and fro, Fragrant memories; fragrant memories Come and go. Only thoughts of you remain In my heart where they have lain, Perfumed thoughts of you, remaining, A hid sweetness, in my brain. Others leave me; all things leave me -You remain.
Arthur Symons
El remanso de airebajo la rama del eco.El remanso del aguabajo fronda de luceros.El remanso de tu bocabajo espesura de besos.*The still waters of the airunder the bough of the echo.The still waters of the waterunder a frond of stars.The still waters of your mouthunder a thicket of k
Federico García Lorca
All letters of love are Ridiculous. They wouldn’t be love letters if they were not Ridiculous.
Fernando Pessoa
Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
George Gordon Byron
Iron helmets will not save/Even heroes from the grave/Good man's blood will drain away/While the wickid win the day.
Heinrich Heine
People need people and the happiest people aresurrounded with friendly flesh.If you have ten kids they'll be so sweet --ten really sweet kids! Have twelve!What if there were 48 pro baseball teams,you could see a damn lot more games!And in this fashion we get awayfrom tragedy. Because tragedy comes when someone gets too special.
Mark Halliday
If I wrote the word flower,would it still grow like a flower?If I wrote a poem concerning a river,would the water still flow in the eyes of the reader?
Zakariya Amataya
Is Virgin you trying to fathom me
Jack Kerouac
America, the plum blossoms are falling.
Allen Ginsberg
I have studied many timesThe marble which was chiseled for me—A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.In truth it pictures not my destinationBut my life.For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.And now I know that we must lift the sailAnd catch the winds of destinyWherever they drive the boat.To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,But life without meaning is the tortureOf restlessness and vague desire—It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.
Edgar Lee Masters
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
George Gordon Byron
ANY FOOL CAN GET INTO AN OCEAN BUT IT TAKES A GODDESS TO GET OUT OF ONE.
Jack Spicer
Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deniest me is; Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this Our mariage bed and mariage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, we are met, And cloisterd in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence? Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee? Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
John Donne
Just looking at themI grow greedy, as if they werefreshly baked loaveswaiting on their shelvesto be broken open--that oneand that--and I make my choicein a mood of exalted luck,browsing among themlike a cow in sweetest pasture.For life is continuousas long as they waitto be read--these inked pathsopening into the future, pageafter page, every bookits own receding horizon.And I hold them, one in each hand,a curious ballast weighing mehere to earth.
Linda Pastan