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The greatness of poetry comes from its struggle to express the rapture of the soul in the contemplation of beauty.
Anthony S. Maulucci
If I wouldn't of 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
All things want to float.
Rainer Maria Rilke
All that we see and seem is but a dream within a dream.
Edgar Allan Poe
The clouds above us join and separate,The breeze in the courtyard leaves and returns.Life is like that, so why not relax?Who can stop us from celebrating?
Lu Yu
For what is a dream if not love first felt and what is mystery if not life itself
Giselle V. Steele
Take the blinders from your visiontake the padding from your earsand confess you've heard me crying and admit you've seen my tears.
Maya Angelou
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
Adrienne Rich
Eggshells become hard to break after walking on them for so long.
Mia Castile
To do something very common, in my own way.
Adrienne Rich
A robin redbreast in a cagePuts all heaven in a rage.A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeonsShudders hell thro' all its regions.A dog starv'd at his master's gatePredicts the ruin of the state.A horse misused upon the roadCalls to heaven for human blood.Each outcry of the hunted hareA fibre from the brain does tear.A skylark wounded in the wing,A cherubim does cease to sing.The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fightDoes the rising sun affright.Every wolf's and lion's howlRaises from hell a human soul.- "Auguries of Innocence
William Blake
I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.
W.B. Yeats
Only union with you gives joy. The rest if tearing down one building to put up another.
Jalaluddin Rumi
I’m going to become a beat poet and a lesbian!
Benjamin R. Smith
I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is groundUpon my flesh t'inflict another wound.Yet dare I not complain, or wish for deathWith holy Paul; lest it be thought the breathOf discontent; or that these prayers beFor weariness of life, not love of thee.
Ben Jonson
PricklyWhen I'm feelingporcupine-y,I get nasty,I get whiny.Stay away orI might stick you.My sharp words arequills to prick you.
Laura Purdie Salas
I eat the hearts of girls and puke slugs and snails.
Raegan Butcher
Even the simplest poemMay destroy your immunity to human emotions.All poems must carry a Government warning. WordsCan seriously affect your heart.
Elma Mitchell
i carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear;and whatever is doneby only me is your doing,my darling)
E.E. Cummings
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Alfred Tennyson
He who mocks the infant's faithShall be mock'd in age and death.He who shall teach the child to doubtThe rotting grave shall ne'er get out.He who respects the infant's faithTriumphs over hell and death.The child's toys and the old man's reasonsAre the fruits of the two seasons.- "Auguries of Innocence
William Blake
I is for immortality, which for some poets is a necessary compensation. Presumably miserable in this life, they will be remembered when the rest of us are long forgotten. None of them asks about the quality of that remembrance--what it will be like to crouch in the dim hallways of somebody's mind until the moment of recollection occurs, or to be lifted off suddenly and forever into the pastures of obscurity. Most poets know better than to concern themselves with such things. They know the chances are better than good that their poems will die when they do and never be heard of again, that they'll be replaced by poems sporting a new look in a language more current. They also know that even if individual poems die, though in some cases slowly, poetry will continue: that its subjects, it constant themes, are less liable to change than fashions in language, and that this is where an alternate, less lustrous immortality might be. We all know that a poem can influence other poems, remain alive in them, just as previous poems are alive in it. Could we not say, therefore, that individual poems succeed most by encouraging revisions of themselves and inducing their own erasure? Yes, but is this immortality, or simply a purposeful way of being dead?
Mark Strand
There is a wilderness we walk aloneHowever well-companioned
Stephen Vincent Benét
I love you just the way you arebut you don't see you like I do.You shouldn't try so hard to be perfect.Trust me, perfect should try to be you.
Bo Burnham
Poetry can be dangerous, especially beautiful poetry, because it gives the illusion of having had the experience without actually going through it.
Jalaluddin Rumi
Sometimes when I'm aloneI Cry, Cause I am on my own.The tears I cry are bitter and warm.They flow with life but take no formI Cry because my heart is torn.I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confide in, I would cry among my treasured friend, but who do you know that stops that long, to help another carry on.The world moves fast and it would rather pass by.Then to stop and see what makes one cry, so painful and sad. And sometimes...I Cry and no one cares about why.
Tupac Shakur
Thoughts thoughts. Are they not mine?I think, I write, I type.Thoughts. Are they wise?Let truth be told in words, compiled together, create a page, a book. Thoughts. Are they master piece?Is it a prize winner?...An Alfred Nobel?Thoughts. Are they not mine? Gift of God?they are not mine.
Edna Stewart
Drink from the ethereal philosophy of Heaven and you may see life as no more no less than a dream made of pure poetry from divine source. AA
Ana Claudia Antunes
My apologies to chance for calling it necessity. My apologies to necessity if I'm mistaken, after all. Please, don't be angry, happiness, that I take you as my due.May my dead be patient with the way my memories fade. My apologies to time for all the world I overlook each second.
Wisława Szymborska
Have I had two roads, I would have chosen their third.
Mahmoud Darwish
She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad! She could have done it differently of course; the colour could have been thinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; that was how Paunceforte would have seen it. But then she did not see it like that. She saw the colour burning on a framework of steel; the light of a butterfly’s wing lying upon the arches of a cathedral.
Virginia Woolf
Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last -- far off -- at last, to all,And every winter change to spring.
Alfred Tennyson
Poems, even when narrative, do not resemble stories. All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory or defeat. Everything moves towards the end, when the outcome will be known.Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded, listening to the wild monologues of the triumphant or the fearful. They bring a kind of peace. Not by anaesthesia or easy reassurance, but by recognition and the promise that what has been experienced cannot disappear as if it had never been. Yet the promise is not of a monument. (Who, still on a battlefield, wants monuments?) The promise is that language has acknowledged, has given shelter, to the experience which demanded, which cried out.
John Berger
We maintain, therefore, that the first essential, the life and soul, so to speak, of Tragedy is the Plot; and that the Characters come second—compare the parallel in painting, where the most beautiful colours laid on without order will not give one the same pleasure as a simple black-and-white sketch of a portrait.
Aristotle
Books measure time in both moments and years. We all grow old but the stories never will.
R.M. Engelhardt (TALON)
One spring patio is for rodeosniggled with iodine figures, weavedtapestries inside vast Tuileries.But that reminds me, how exactlydo words form brittle histories
Adam Fitzgerald
Rain's pouring and it's too cold. All people bored and I even accord What to do but spell a tale told: So once upon a time a land in the shore...
Ana Claudia Antunes
OtherwiseI got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did the work I love.At noon I lay down with my mate. It might have been otherwise. We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks. It might have been otherwise. I slept in a bed in a room with paintings on the walls, and planned another day just like this day. But one day, I know, it will be otherwise.
Jane Kenyon
The true poetic feeling is a feeling of boundless gratitude.
Marty Rubin
Love is prayerfulness groping toward godliness. Love is poetry born out of the sheer joy of being. Love is song, dance, celebration: a song of gratitude, a dance of thankfulness, celebration for no reason at all, for this tremendous gift that goes on showering on us, for this whole universe, from the dust to the divine.
Osho
A revolution in the eyes of man carries purpose.A revolution in the eyes of the awakened carries bliss.
Sal Martinez
It does not matter how strong your gravity is, we were always meant to fly.
Sarah Kay
be good to yourselfyou're the only youyou'll ever get
R H Sin
No matter how hard I try to forget you, you always come back to my thoughts When you hear me singing I am really crying for you.
Jane Bierhorst
I’m fighting my way into existence, and I will keep doing so until the end of time.
Charlotte Eriksson
Imperfection is my ticket, perfection is my pursuit.
Paul Travis
Everything I try to hide ends up screaming from a mountaintop.
Jenim Dibie
Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, Immortal Nature lifts her changeful form: Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame, And soars and shines, another and the same.
Erasmus Darwin
The Wishing BonesA thousand grandmothers ago Pyrrha and Deucalion repopulated the world with rocks, bones of mother Earth, a generation of my ancestors strained from the mud of a drowned planet.But I’m more interested in my earliest grandmothers, their gills and wetness,before they crawled from that blue expanseand learned to carry the sea within them,in their cells, between their cells, in their eyes.The buoyancy of ocean has never left us.It hides in skin’s complex reservoir where we're selectively permeable and our bodies exchange the smallest life.If we had no need to distinguish ourselves from others we’d be missing the skin that defines lovers and enemies and opens itself to both.
Jalina Mhyana
The erotic drive is the great energy that moves through all evolution.What about love? Where does that fit in?Love's simply the handmaiden of the great energy, and an excuse to write suspect poetry.
Peter Milligan
I'm going to Hell in a basketWeaved in from my sinsLike wickerWith little Wiccan tiesAs if I'm a witchAccused
Matthew Little
Start with your heart, and only good can follow!
Ocean
Thing were falling apart. We just could not slow down. We were evolving into something greater, perhaps too much for our own good. And one thing always remained as I moved on. I saved a little bit of love just in case you would ever return home.
Robert M. Drake
As a childI put my finger in the fireto becomea saint.As a teenagerevery day I would knock my head against the wall.As a young girlI went out through a window of a garretto the roofin order to jump.As a womanI had lice all over my body.They cracked when I was ironing my sweater.I waited sixty minutesto be executed.I was hungry for six years.Then I bore a child,they were carving mewithout putting me to sleep.Then a thunderbolt killed methree times and I had to rise from the dead three timeswithout anyone’s help.Now I am restingafter three resurrections.
Anna Swir
Just because she doesn't talk about it, doesn't mean she isn't feeling it. She hurts, but she won't wear it on her sleeve. She will never let an illness, a diagnosis, or a prediction, define her. She doesn't want sympathy, because that type of attention is not her goal. She'd rather you see the woman who smiles in the face of adversity, than be the one who begs you to see her frown.
Alfa H
I respond to many names.Sometimes I am different people.Sometimes I am the me that howls in the night.Sometimes I am the sickening silence.I wear moonlight in my hair and bare my teeth.
Jessica Bates
You'll never be able to silence the woman who was born to write.
Melody Lee
Perhaps pondering words is also a form of seeking justice. If a monologue can invite a chorus, then perhaps it can speak for others as well.
Duo Duo
Our confidence in the future restorative justice of God may even give us confidence to do justice ourselves in the present. We are called then, to stretch out the arms of our minds and hearts and to find ourselves Christ shaped, cross shaped, at the intersection of the past present and future of God’s time and our own time. This is a place of intense pain and intense joy, the sort that perhaps only music or poetry can express or embody.
N.T. Wright
For if our bodies aren’t our own,And justice isn’t ours,And our love is just a sin,And voices by the peopleAre no longer for the people,What have we left to lose?
Phar West Nagle
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