Poetry Quotes - Page 12

Following dark winter's strife, a warm air rises, teemed with life. Birth, rebirth, as the waiting die. Old love, new love sprouts wings to fly.

Phar West Nagle

I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I'm 56 and I often want to write like a child.

Stanley Victor Paskavich

Most of the poems I write take 5 minutes, but the words can give a lifetime of relief. Many people that have read my book say it helped them with their grief.

Stanley Victor Paskavich

I do have a funny perception of mine I'd like to share. Being basically a lifetime poet. I've had many people say "I don't like poetry" But they'll listen to song after song that rhymes on the end in couplets Just a thought...

Stanley Victor Paskavich

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.

Ana Claudia Antunes

She was resilientA brave soldier when life tested herIt didn't matter that she did strange thingslike stand tall under the rainletting the drops kiss her skinthinking the storm was romanticIt was hard to quiet hernot that you would want towhen she spoke, it was captivatingHer heart was like a candlewarm and delicatejust what you needed during darknessSometimes, she'd go off and explore the worldtest her limitslaugh too muchcry when humans were cruelIt wasn't hard to see why people envied herYou'd come to realize she was a lionand she could not be tamed.

The wall between writing and painting is just good grammar. Moderation in moderation. Fun is scary with a happy ending. Just love. If love doesn’t transform that which annoys you, it will be easier to tolerate.

Emily Thornton Calvo

The sonnet, a lyrical poem, the beauty and magic... convey with our hearts the truth of the universe in a single moment briefly.

R.M. Engelhardt (TALON)

You are the poemthat sticks in my throatteaching me to whisperwith the voice of my heart.

Jessica Kristie

I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.

Jessica Kristie

Steep fall to the groundshatteringlike clay pigeons missed by bad shotsand unsteady hands.

Jessica Kristie

Broken.As I search for hope,In the same eyesI lost it.

Jessica Kristie

I build boxesand place them at your feet,to measure the distance between dreams and reality.

Jessica Kristie

I bleed to un-break you,un-mending me.I fall to save you...now who will save me.

Jessica Kristie

I balance you on the end of my pen.Teetering between loveand letting go.

Jessica Kristie

Careful.The fall is quick,steep,and permanent.

Jessica Kristie

I need to work on me.The mewithout you.

Jessica Kristie

Birthing hope from the madnessthat perches on the fenceof our once perfectdreams.

Jessica Kristie

Oh, there are no living poets, Miss Van Damn. We're not entirely sure there ever were. They've found some shreds of sonnets in England and, embedded in a chalk wall of a cave in France, some yet undetermined thing which might be the legendary inward eye. But all evidence, such as it is, suggests that, if there ever were poets, they were all burned into extinction during the interglacial period of despair.

Paddy Chayefsky

It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Paradise for you and meTrust, true love to guide us freeLoneliness shall not fill the dayI will forever be with youOur Love is beautiful like the sunshine lighting the wayYour gentle feelYour caring handsThere is no doubt in your soulNo eerie place in your heart to express this feelingOur compassion flows in the waves just to save and brighten my day My heart has no hoes Awaiting your paceto touch this placeOur love, withstanding all odds Diminishing hate, in our thoughts There is no place I rather be til eternity... Than in your soul, life and in your dreams... I am here to stay with you forever.

Henry Johnson Jr

A touch so tenderBliss of sweet words fills of desire Open Hearts of sweet surrender Nightly poison gas the fire. A quite place to romance Touches as we held hands. No loud words spoken, but whispers Just Heart, promises to be kept No tales being told tonight. No looking back no regrets. Longing for this momentSuch complacent little time. We vowed to another. Being lonely is the only hate within my heart. Tomorrow bringing sorrow. A smoke of Marlboro to release myself. A brief moment of blame with shame With memories reflecting back to those nights. A release from compassion's flames.

Henry Johnson Jr

One must speak in such a way that although someone else, or many others, or an infinite number of people have said it before, it seems as though you said it first.

Juan Ramón Jiménez

I write poems. I'm often laughed at for doing so. My friends and foes, who were born in 1980's or even later aren't savvy with this concept of the reading and writing poems. They're probably not at fault because while they were being brought up in their respective environs, they weren't really taught how to appreciate poetry. Sadly, those same indifferent souls are now raising their children in the same robotic way, keeping them away from an art form as pure as poetry. Anyway, on the path my life, my poems, written and unwritten, are spread throughout like breadcrumbs. Alas! I'm savoring these breadcrumbs alone because no one has chosen to walk by me, maybe because they're skeptic about the taste of these crumbs. They've hypothetically assumed that these crumbs, these poems are bitter. Sigh! They aren't courageous enough to gather the strength to actually taste them. Perhaps this way, the real sweetness of my crumbs, of my poems stays obscured to them. But I haven't let them crush this sweetness beneath their feet and that's why, I've chosen to walk alone instead. How can I not savor these crumbs if I already know that they're leading me to the apex of my life? How can I not write poems if a voice inside me is constantly pecking my hands to give it a form? This voice is my meditation. This voice is my shadow, a shadow which is stubborn enough to remain intact even when I'll be gone. This voice is my concrete, the concrete that I'm made up of. This voice is my power, the power that will shake your senses. This voice is my poetry.

Supriya Kaur Dhaliwal

And then, as I got older,I left the woods and lookedat fading stars, dying stars,eternal stars in their heavens,with lips that would kiss and wordsshaped through love songs,a life of journeys to some placefar from home, unfamiliar,(a wild weird western shore)until sunset across limestoneprompts us to make these,our plagiarised prayersto broken stone.

A novel is a hearty meal, but poems are the Belgian chocolates of the bookshelf. You can pick one and linger over it. Savour the aroma, the taste, the melting texture, the sweet craving it leaves behind! Or you can scoff down as many as you can eat. It’s up to you.

A poem is an event, like a wedding or birth.

When Love Was NewWhen love was newand life was young,and once we walkedin gracious sun,I never dreamt of darker days,or feared that fate had cruel ways.When life was strongand love was free,and time was onceeternity -we never planned for more or less,nor stopped to think we should digress.When love was youngand life was new,and everythingwas once our due,I never doubted what I owned,nor knew the cost was merely loaned.Now love is triedand life is old,and still my feetdrag down the road -not knowing where it all has gone,nor how much more it still goes on.But life grows newand love gets old,and this tired heartstays off the cold -not caring it compares with fools,nor wise enough to fear the rules.-Drea Damara

I am the poet, you are the poem; I hold the pen, you are the words, love is the ink, silence is the blank page.

Reading a stranger's words and finding yourself in them.

Through windows,in wishing wells,whispering in the wind...that's where I find you.

Jessica Kristie

In that wounded place,buried betweenmy ribs and letting go,I miss you.

Jessica Kristie

I die a little,In the echo of your silence.

Jessica Kristie

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

Jessica Kristie

I can't love anymore.Except for you...I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

Jessica Kristie

Bridge burned from end to end,and I don't miss you anymore.You delivered silenceI've birthed freedom.

Jessica Kristie

Nails that claw by a beautiful mind.A pretty face can leave you blind - Poem 'Small Pain' from 'The B Word: The B in LBGTQ Poetry'.

I read somewhere that dedications are like coded love letters, but I always seem to lay us out bare.Sorry for the poems.

Unknown

The fatal problem with poetry: poems.

Poetry is like an unexpected noise in the night: the creak of a door, a footstep on the porch, the soft scuffle of a moth against the screen, which rouses every sense to an instant alert. So comes poetry to the drowsy mind, which startles a moment, wonders, and returns to sleep.

Christopher Morley

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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