Poems Quotes - Page 3

LOVE the hideous in order to find the sublime core of it.

Mina Loy

Poetry": What kind of art assumes the dislike of its audience and what kind of artist aligns herself with that dislike, even encourages it? An art hated from without and within.

A little bump in the road is just a bump. There's more ahead until you reach your destination.

I've been writing poems since I was sixteen. Back then, poems were an obvious release for all the frustrations and anxieties associated with adolescence. Mostly, they were a way for me to impress girls, even though I never remember any girls being impressed.

Tony Magistrale

We think we owe everyone something. We think we need to explain ourselves and we think too much about thinking too much.And it is funny how we think we know it all, but the reality is this: everything we think that brings us together is everything that sets us further apart. And over thinking of how different we all are; is failing to recognize of how connected we all could really be.

Robert M. Drake

The attention was flattering. For the first five minutes. Now I know how poems feel.

I have never cared for castles or a crown that grips too tight,Let the night sky be my starry roof and the moon my only light,My heart was born a Hero,My storm-bound sword won't rest,I left this harbour long ago on a never-ending quest.I am off to the horizon,Where the wild wind blows the foam,Come get lost with me, love,And the sea shall be our home.

Cressida Cowell

How would you start to write a poem? How would you put together a series of words for its first line—how would you know which words to choose? When you read a poem, every word seemed so perfect that it had to have been predestined—well, a good poem.

Her breast is fit for pearls,But I was not a "Diver" - Her brow is fit for thronesBut I have not a crest,Her heart is fit for home-I- a Sparrow- build thereSweet of twigs and twineMy perennial nest.

Emily Dickinson

He walked out the door and with each step my heart breaks.He'd be gone for days with long silences between each breath.I know I'm his one of many and he knows he's my one of one. The only one who holds him down.Yet, he still leaves.He walks through the door and with each step my heart leaps.He crumbles to the ground in tears telling me he's sorry.He says he needs me and he's nothing without me.How can he be so attached and detached at the same time?I swear, this man loves to see me in pain.

J.A. ANUM

It made me happy that poems are referred to in the present tense even when the poet is in the past tense.

Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.

Dejan Stojanovic

A poem is its own name and cover.

Dejan Stojanovic

I believe that poems die the moment they are outwardly expressed.

Maurice Maeterlinck

You said we can't happen, but darling, we started happening the very first day we met.

J.A. ANUM

I am a master wordsmith. I have the ability to bend words at will and invoke feelings with the stroke of my pen. But I'm yet to master the art of finding the right words to describe what happens in my heart when I see you.

J.A. ANUM

No baby, you didn't hurt me. You wrecked me. Know the difference.

J.A. ANUM

We left dents on each other. Mine was in her heart, and hers was on my car.

J.A. ANUM

Let me be the drink in your cup. I know how to intoxicate you.

J.A. ANUM

I'll gladly settle for amnesia if I had to live in a world where I couldn't remember how much you mean to me.

J.A. ANUM

I'll stop loving you the day my shadow stops following me around. Because on that day, nothing will make sense.

J.A. ANUM

The first time I saw your face, my lips said, "hello" and my heart said, "that's your wife.

J.A. ANUM

He pulled me close and said, "Katie, don't leave me, you're my breath, I refuse to live without you."It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, but I still walked away, because my name is Anne Marie.

J.A. ANUM

I tasted danger on his lips and became an addict.A slave to adrenaline and irrational behaviour.We lived recklessly in a dramatic whirl;Clubbing and Cutting,Drinking and Driving,Fighting and Fucking,Smoking and Snorting,Overdoing and Overdosing. I tasted danger on his lips and lost my way.

J.A. ANUM

There's something about her.It's not her smile or grace,It's not her beauty or race,It's not her scent or warm embrace,Maybe it's her laugh or the shape of her face.No, that's not the case.It's just her.

J.A. ANUM

Roses are red Violets are blueI don't go on this accountSo go away SHOO!

bob C Cow

My uncle read me Omar Khayyam. In Arabic. Not Turkish or even English. I tried so hard to understand it. I would ask him what it all meant but he always said the pleasure was in the finding out... the discovery. He said you can keep some poems by you your whole life and they will only reveal parts of themselves to you when you are ready to hear them. (Ottmar)

Miranda Emmerson

poetry is not—except in a very limited sense—a form of self-expression. Who on earth supposes that the pearl expresses the oyster?

Cecil Day-Lewis

How do poems grow? They begin deep down in the pit of the soul as a seedling of a thought …

Nanette L. Avery

All the drawing lacksis the final touch: To addeyes to the dragon

If I knew where poems came from, I'd go there.

Michael Langley

But who are we, where do we come fromWhen all those yearsNothing but idle talk is leftAnd we are nowhere in the world?"= MEETING =

Boris Pasternak

Oh captain my captain

I believe in your kiss... your touch and the way you make me feel. I believe in your eyes... that make me see the good in most. I believe in your mouth... and your sweet taste... and the softness of the words that flow from you. I believe your love has taken me places, I never dreamed possible. I believe in your laughter... your tears of caring and your muted look of understanding. I believe that your love has made me a better human being. I believe your compassion and patience have enriched all who have come to know you. I believe because of you, I'm the luckiest person on the face of the earth. I believe in you... in everything you say and do. I believe... that you have made this world a better place

Joe Fazio

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself.

i am like a dead begoniahanging upside down because like a dead begonia I don't give a fuck

only kindness that raises its headfrom the crowd of the world to sayit is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywherelike a shadow or a friend.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Good folk, I have no coin,To take were to purloin:I have no copper in my purse,I have no silver either,And all my gold is on the furzeThat shakes in windy weatherAbove the rusy heather.

Christina Rossetti

Beer bottles, whiskey bottles, brown glass, green. They fell to the lawn and I'd feel serene. Adam was king to my stilted queen.

Kate Bernheimer

I have a rendezvous with death... I will not fail that rendezvous

Most Like an Arch This MarriageMost like an arch—an entrance which upholds and shores the stone-crush up the air like lace. Mass made idea, and idea held in place. A lock in time. Inside half-heaven unfolds.Most like an arch—two weaknesses that lean into a strength. Two fallings become firm. Two joined abeyances become a term naming the fact that teaches fact to mean.Not quite that? Not much less. World as it is, what’s strong and separate falters. All I do at piling stone on stone apart from you is roofless around nothing. Till we kissI am no more than upright and unset. It is by falling in and in we makethe all-bearing point, for one another’s sake, in faultless failing, raised by our own weight.

Evening by eveningAmong the Brookside rushes,Laura bow'd her head to hear,Lizzie veil'd her blushes:Crouching close togetherIn the cooling weather,With clasping arms and cautioning lips,With tingling cheeks and fingertips."lie close," Laura said,Pricking up her golden head:"We must not look at Goblin men,We must not buy their fruits:who knows upon the soil they fedTheir hungry thirsty roots?""Come buy," call the GoblinsHobbling down the glen

Christina Rossetti

...in that rich earth a richer dust concealed.(I'm flogging a dead horse w/ this one but this is the 1st time I've even seen this quotes feature! I just wanted to post something.)

After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires,There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin daysCrowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes, and torments, and desires,Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze,He beckons us to follow, and across Cool verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air?Why are we haunted with a sense of loss?We do not wish the pain back, or the heat;And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Is stuffed, de world, wif feeding girls.

Poems are not often simply emotions butOne has enough emotions -- they're experienceExperience themselves are not important....

There are anonymous poems and poets without poems.

Dejan Stojanovic

The kind of poetry to avoid in the pretty-pretty kind that pleased our grandmothers, the kind that Longfellow and Tennyson, good poets at their best, wrote at their worst.

Clifton Fadiman

I rushed through the door.You had bitten a way for me.

She winced and covered her ears as Eric,onstage, wrestled with his microphone."Sorry about that, guys!" he yelled. "All right. I'm Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'" He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. "Come my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!"Simon slid down in his seat. "Please don't tell anyone I know him."Clary giggled. "Who uses the word 'loins'?""Eric," Simon said grimly. "All his poems have loins in them."'Turgid is my torment!" Eric wailed. "Agony swells within!""You bet it does," Clary said.

Cassandra Clare

Every moment of the nightForever changing placesAnd they put out the star-lightWith the breath from their pale faces

Edgar Allan Poe

I love not man the less, but nature more

George Gordon Byron

November comesAnd November goes,With the last red berriesAnd the first white snows.With night coming early,And dawn coming late,And ice in the bucketAnd frost by the gate.The fires burnAnd the kettles sing,And earth sinks to restUntil next spring.

Some people like me, some don't. I don't understand, Where the difference comes from. My heart like them all. For a simple childish reason. We all are created equal, we all are humans.

Ourchestra:So you haven't got a drum, just beat your belly.So I haven't got a horn-I'll play my nose.So we haven't any cymbals-We'll just slap our hands together,And though there may be orchestrasThat sound a little betterWith their fancy shiny instrumentsThat cost an awful lot-Hey, we're making music twice as goodBy playing what we've got!

Shel Silverstein

EnnuiTea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,designing futures where nothing will occur:cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning shewill still predict no perils left to conquer.Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knightfinds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheardof, while blasé princesses indicttilts at terror as downright absurd.The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,while bored arena crowds for once look eager,hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizesshall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

nothing's news.it's the same old thing indisguise.only one thing comes without adisguise and you only see itonce, ormaybe never.like getting hit by a freighttrain.makes us realize that all ourmoaning about long lost girlsin gingham dressesis not so importantafterall.

Charles Bukowski

I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask.I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.

Catullus

We may know who we are or we may not. We may be Muslims, Jews or Christians but until our hearts become the mould for every heart we will see only our differences.

Jalaluddin Rumi

A thousand years or more ago,When I was newly sewn,There lived four wizards of renown,Whose name are still well-known:Bold Gryffindor from wild moor,Fair Ravlenclaw from glen,Sweet Hufflepuff from valley broad,Shrewd Slytherin from fen.They share a wish, a hope, a dream,They hatched a daring plan,To educate young sorcerers,Thus Hogwarts school began.Now each of these four foundersFormed their own house, for eachDid value different virtues,In the ones they had to teach.By Gryffindor, the bravest werePrized far beyond the rest;For Ravenclaw, the cleverestWould always be the best;For Hufflepuff, hardworkers wereMost worthy of admission;And power-hungry SlytherinLoved those of great ambition.While still alive they did divideTheir favourates from the throng,Yet how to pick the worthy onesWhen they were dead and gone? 'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,He whipped me off his headThe founders put some brains in meSo I could choose instead!Now slip me snug around your ears,I've never yet been wrong,I'll have alook inside your mind And tell where you belong!

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