Poetry Quotes - Page 11

Under a night’s skyFilled with a hundred billion starsIs it so crazy to believeOur paths were destined to cross?

We look at your eyes. The eyes carry the wounds. The eyes know damage. Damaged people recognize other damaged people, and we let you in. We are kindred. - Broken Places

Rachel Thompson

you remind me of someone i knew. looked just like you but kind.

Taylor Rhodes

when you allow that man. to walk through your children. plant his feet. in their veins. hold their voices. necks. bodies. inside his violence. you are no longer a mother. when you give him the key to that door. because you need to be loved by someone. you have seasoned them for the wolf. burned their childhood into a fantasy. it’s going to take a third of their lives. all the courage. from their cells to their hair. to learn the alchemetic formula that turns that kind of betrayal. a demothering. soft. liveable. – before you get that key made

Nayyirah Waheed

This is the hardest part— That boy is not made of fists. That boy learned how to braid my hair. These things do not un-truth themselveswhen the first door slams.I did not stop loving himall the months I was holding my breath.

Brenna Twohy

Complexity is not an aesthetic criterion. It is a quality associated only with division and organization of labor.

Christopher Caudwell

Love alters all. Unblood my instinct, love.

Theodore Roethke

The panther that has stalked yousince you were a childis old now. No longer wild,and tired of guarding the treasureyou yourself left behind - blind and deaf, she will give it all to youif you just let her go.

Pat Schneider

HYMN OF THE DIVINE DANDELION I am born as the sun, But then turn into the moon, As my blonde hairs turn Grayish-white and fallTo the ground, Only to be buried again, Then to be born again, Into a thousand suns And a thousand Moons. Suzy Kassem

Suzy Kassem

A newborn is murderous/but can't do anything about it.

Kathleen Ossip

If I wouldn’t have spent so much time shooting spit wads at my English teacher, I’d know how to punctuate. Good thing I normally write poetry.

Stanley Victor Paskavich

Registration Day' by Gavin Gunhold (1899— ) Toronto Review of Poetry, 1947On registration day at taxidermy schoolI distinctly saw the eyes of the stuffed mooseMove.

Gordon Korman

She's burning and out of control and everything I love about fire.

Melody Lee

Final DispositionOthers divided closets full of mother's things.From the earth, I took her poppies.I wanted those fandango foldsof red and black chiffon she doted on,loving the wild and Moorish music of them,coating her tongue with the thin skinof their crimson petals.Snapping her fingers, flamenco dancer,she'd mock the clack of castanetsin answer to their gypsy cadence.She would crouch toward the flounce of flowers,twirl, stamp her foot, then kick it outas if to lift the ruffles, scarletalong the hemline of her yard.And so, I dug up, soil and all,the thistle-toothed and gray-green clumpsof leaves, the testicle seedpods and hairy stemsboth out of season, to transplant them in my less-exotic garden. There, they bloomher blood's abandon, year after year,roots holding, their poppy heads noddinga carefree, opium-ecstatic, possibly forever sleep.

Jane Glazer

My mama steps out of her dressand drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet.She stands alone: bathed, blooming,burdened with nothing of this world.Her body is naked and beautiful,her wings gray and scorched,her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine.I watch her departure, her flapping wings:She doesn’t look back, not even once,not even to whisper my name

Brenda Sutton Rose

With red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze.

Brenda Sutton Rose

We aim to bemen who’ll makeour mothers proud,but we end upmaking them cry,and are onlyslightly betterthan our fathers,at best

Phil Volatile

a storm that walked on legs of lightning,dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.

Ted Kooser

Between the desireAnd the spasm,Between the potencyAnd the existence,Between the essenceAnd the descent,Falls the Shadow.

T.S Eliot

Poetry has its uses for despair. It can carve a shape in which a pain can seem to be; it can give one’s loss a form and dimension so that it might be loss and not simply a hopeless haunting. It can do these things for one person, or it can do them for an entire culture. But poetry is for psychological, spiritual, or emotional pain. For physical pain it is, like everything but drugs, useless.

Christian Wiman

And I am weary of the anguishIncreasing winters bear;Weary to watch the spirit languishThrough years of dead despair.So, if a tear, when thou art dying,Should haply fall from me,It is but that my soul is sighing,To go and rest with thee.

Emily Brontë

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in Hell must lieIf this night before God's throne should stand.

Oscar Wilde

Dividing earth and skyis not the right wayto think about this wholeness.It only allows one to liveat a more precise address--were I to be searched forI'd be found much faster.My distinguishing marksare rapture and despair.From 'Sky', in the collection 'Miracle Fair

Wisława Szymborska

We are all just humans trying to survive in this crazy world, in the spaces between birth and death.

Melody Lee

The vastest things are those we may not learn.We are not taught to die, nor to be born,Nor how to burnWith love.How pitiful is our enforced returnTo those small things we are the masters of.

Mervyn Peake

Big Brown MooseI'm a big brown moose,I'm a rascally moose,I'm a moose with a tough, shaggy hide;and I kick and I prancein a long-legged dancewith my moose-mama close by my side.I shrug off the coldand I sneeze at the windand I swivel my ears in the snow;and I tramp and I trompover forest and swamp,'cause there's nowhere a moose cannot go.I'm a big brown moose, I'm a ravenous mooseas I hunt for the willow and yew;with a snort and a crunch,I rip off each bunch,and I chew and I chew and I chew.When together we slumpin a comfortable clump --my mountainous mama and I --I give her a nuzzleof velvety muzzle.Our frosty breath drifts to the sky.I'm a big brown moose,I'm a slumberous moose,I'm a moose with a warm, snuggly hide;and I bask in the moonas the coyotes croon,with my moose-mama close by my side.

Joyce Sidman

...I would not engage the wombatIn any form of mortal combat.

Ogden Nash

No revolutionary movement is complete without its poetical expression.

James Connolly

Poetry is the beauty of life.

Debasish Mridha

Poetry is the essence and evidence of life.

Debasish Mridha

Let your heart dance with pen and paperNow fill the paper with dancing letters.

Debasish Mridha

Today is such a lovely day, my heart is dancing with joy.My mind is flowing with timeand my soul is longing for your soul.

Debasish Mridha

Focus on beauty, not on feardance with stress to let it clear

Debasish Mridha

Dreams are the poetry of life to be written with love and actions.

Debasish Mridha

To heal, love.To understand, feel.To let go, forgive.To care, be kind.

Debasish Mridha

Do not feel alone.You are connected to everyoneyesterday, today, and for days to come connected with a threadless garlandthat is love.

Debasish Mridha

Tranquil breeze Glittering beach Dancing water Bluest skyMy mind flies high with joyful laughter.

Debasish Mridha

Friend who has fired the kingfishers and flamed the dragonflies – they catch your light however they move and beam it out of their eyes.

Bryana Johnson

Your job is to abide in my pastureEating sweet grass and drinking pure water,And sharing both with others—That is a lamb’s business.

Jessica Coupé

All mothers breed dead children.

Mie Hansson

Adorn ritual; decorate shrines of love, hope, tranquility. Be significant. Arrive deliberate. . .

Cathleen Margaret

Old McDonald had a restaurant,E, I, E, I, O,And in that restaurant was some beef,E, I, E, I, O,With a moo moo here,And a moo moo there.Here a moo, there a moo,Everywhere a moo moo cholesterol filled death trap burger.

Harry Whitewolf

Is the phrase 'pay' or 'play the piper'I inquire, why'Cause I admire a desire to flip the switchYeah make a way to face the music likeLife savings for a mosh pit riotListen to a mixRock the tickets, higher volumeVelocity which shakes a cockpit's pilot

Criss Jami

You must make love to him like his touch is your salvation.

Charlotte Eriksson

I will forever walk alone in a world overflowing with those that will never understand my meaning of “Learning to See” I’m always teaching myself to see beauty in all aspects of reality, yearning to learn the beauty in others, from their vision of everyday life to their deepest secrets of their dreams. As the sun rises I must smile, smile for those with the beautiful mind and soul. I’m so passionate for the visions I see, and the dreams I wish the world could be.

Michael Jones

a politician is an arse uponwhich everyone has sat except a man

E.E. Cummings

The machines are too dull when weare lion-poems that move & breathe.

Michael McClure

You write poetry?" Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one."Just a little bit," Isadora said modestly. "I write poems down in this notebook. It's an interest of mine.""Sappho!" Sunny shrieked, which meant something like, "I'd be very pleased to hear a poem of yours!

Lemony Snicket

The Ph.D is one of the chosen who know that some things can never be fathomed, no matter how hard you try. What good are explanations? There is no possibility of explaining how such a work [Mozart's Requiem, in the instance] could ever have come into being. (The same holds true for certain poems, which should not be analyzed either.)

Elfriede Jelinek

[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality.(cristaux deposes apres l'effervescent contact de l'esprit avec la realite)

Pierre Reverdy

Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not blur the nuanceit is now or never the momentto be sensitive to poetry for it dominatesall dreadfullyGuillaume Apollinaire]

Guillaume Apollinaire

The rat isthe mous-tacheinthetrache.the wrong-doerinthesoer.

J. Patrick Lewis

2.07 WALK OF LIFELife but like a cycle that you be riding,You will fall if you ever stop peddling,Life not of good cards you be holding,But those held and how you be playing.[68]t- 4

Munindra Misra

True poetry is embarrassing.

Julien Torma

Poems are lenses, mirrors, and X-ray machines.

David Mitchell

Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous pretensions. The poet was meant to be a seer; he was designed to run toward the intensities and magnificences of life, to bathe his hands in reality. But where the mystic ran toward Reality in silence and lost himself in it, the poet as soon as he had experienced it, ran back toward humanity crying the good news and putting it into shimmering webs of words.

Francis Beauchesne Thornton

The burning off and the gathering together are one.

Billy Marshall-Stoneking

My religion consists of a dwelling admiration of illimitable spirit, with no hate in place, a whole heart to Love and care about the human race. There is lust within each of us, it's sometimes self center, that we call our heart. We were born with it. It is never completely grace, but the state to Love others and appreciates the human race in a unique way is left to "question". I am convinced that it is a fundamental energy of the human spirit that can create diversity, and can also stop the caste system, racism, segregation and sexism

Henry Johnson Jr

Where the mind is without pain Where knowledge is gain; With you, life is not vain Where hate is a burdenFaith in humanity is not entwine The traces of you is meI am you and you are me Where dreams are not metWhere the sun set and yet;we still strive towards perfection;Where the clear stream of democracyhas not lost its way into a struggling nation frozen snow of dead end;The traces of you is found with in young soul that rise up with faith and knowing that positive activism is the way to create a just society.

Henry Johnson Jr

Time slips by; our sorrows do not turn into poems,And what is invisible stays that way.

Mark Strand

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Poetry Quotes - Page 11

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