Poetry Quotes - Page 26

How envious I am that the sun may kiss your porcelain skin and forever change how the world sees you.

What haunts me most about her eyes is the pain I put in them... In the corner of my dark soul Her passion is dark like a kohl She is giving new meaning to these feelings She is complete she is whole.

Dinesh Kumar Biran

There's no one to mourn for a life that love stole.

Phar West Nagle

you make autumn misttaste like champagne and turn winter raininto the elixir of life itself.

Sanober Khan

my love is a winter’s mistgently dissolvingthrough the windowat the nape of your neck.

Sanober Khan

my lovefor youwill always belike a mountain stream.quiet. persistent. continuous.

Sanober Khan

rassool jibraeel snyman

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

Sanober Khan

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep...and last night’sdream.

Sanober Khan

you cross the field in the snow leaving tracks in perfect whiteness ...disturbing my placid universe...marking the landscape within me ...

John Geddes

Haven’t you seen and heard that every word I seed for you is a feeling, and every thought I bloom bears a meaning? Rivers of words, blending together for the same course, the action of my being: my universe, your beauty.

Soar

I am in love with the serendipitous poetry with which this universe expresses itself.

Steve Maraboli

...look up and see the madnessorganized in the stars.

Kelli Russell Agodon

There is a point where the universe can deliver you from the verge of regret. I know your love for me will take you there.

Lawren Leo

Things began happening with odd synchronicity, as if the universe itself was conspiring on behalf of their love story.

John Mark Green

Her kiss dissolves the universe. In that moment, I am unmade and then reborn.

John Mark Green

I love the stars they always find a way to pull me away.

Melody Lee

...for poets, at least, experiencing something inexpressible does not mean silence. It's precisely the inexpressible something that poetry is meant to help us see or feel. If it were merely expressible - if there were nothing ineffable about it - there would be no need for a poem. But everywhere in the Bible we meet reality that exceeds our expectations.

John Piper

I too was pinched off from a piece of clay, I too modeled by omnipotence and flankedby things too wonderful for me

Bryana Johnson

nothing is lifelesswhen the moon writes its screedon the silvern sand silence-From the poem:"The Universe In Blossom

Munia Khan

...there are times when silence is a poem.

John Fowles

Reading haiku is as much an art as writing it. The reader needs to pause and listen to the silences, to feel the spaces between the words, and to journey into the depths of many multi-colored worlds.

Harley King

I never spoke — unless addressed —And then, 'twas brief and low —I could not bear to live — aloud —The Racket shamed me so —And if it had not been so far —And any one I knewWere going — I had often thoughtHow noteless — I could die —

Emily Dickinson

I've ceased to smile long ago, The bitter winds now chill my lips, Another hope was just let go, Another song was added since. Against my will, I'll cede this song To people's laughter and offense, Because love's silence for the soul Is too unbearably immense.

Anna Akhmatova

Enjoy TheSound Of Silence.

Timothy Salter

... the silenceHolds with its gloved handThe wild hawk of the mind.

R.S. Thomas

When the silence of the night becomes the chanting of poetry, the departure of con-cavity

Goitsemang Mvula

I keep thinkingThat poetry is something else:A form of love that exists only in silence,In a secret place between two people,Almost always between two strangers

José Emilio Pacheco

poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.

Sanober Khan

...the winter is kind and leaves red berries on the boughs for hungry sparrows...

John Geddes

...you disappoint me -I am the worst liar in the world - I can't hide my pain or my need so I make a bouquet of my sorrows and give them to you ...

John Geddes

Lies I've told my 3 year old recently Trees talk to each other at night.All fish are named either Lorna or Jack.Before your eyeballs fall out from watching too much TV, they get very loose.Tiny bears live in drain pipes. If you are very very quiet you can hear the clouds rub against the sky.The moon and the sun had a fight a long time ago.Everyone knows at least one secret language.When nobody is looking, I can fly.We are all held together by invisible threads.Books get lonely too.Sadness can be eaten.I will always be there.

Raúl Gutierrez

And Death it calls as the stone crow breaks. Streaks of blood malform its face.Death becomes its withered eyes and the shadows whisper, “Lies.” Excerpt from "Lies

Angela B. Chrysler

The I you know isn’t me, you said, truthtelling liarMy roots are not my chainsAnd I to you: Whose hands have grownthrough mine? Owl-voiced I cried then: Who?But yours was the one, the only eye assumedDid we turn each other into liars?holding hands with each others’ chains?

Adrienne Rich

How long will you fake at living life? What will it take for you to see the beauty you've neglected while wearing the dirty lies expected of you?

Alfa H

He welcomes the chance to do fatherly things with the little girl, and those ten morning minutes with dear little four-year-old Ruby, with her deep soulful eyes, and the wondrous things she sees with them, and her deep soulful voice, and the precious though not entirely memorable things she says with it, and the smell of baby shampoo and breakfast cereal filling the car, that little shimmering capsule of time is like listening to cello music in the morning, or watching birds in a flutter of industry building a nest, it simply reminds you that even if God is dead, or never existed in the first place, there is, nevertheless, something tender at the center of creation, some meaning, some purpose and poetry.

Scott Spencer

I know you don't think that any tongue I speak is mine; it must be rented. I am always denial, or pretense. A child born mid-flight has no nation. I can pull on either culture, but they always melt like a dream, trickle away, water on the oiled pelt of foreign.

Jasmine Ann Cooray

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

Sanober Khan

Oh, I know that I'll never be perfectI'm just alive

Maddy Kobar

That men, who might have tower'd in the vanOf all the congregated world, to fanAnd winnow from the coming step of timeAll chaff of custom, wipe away all slimeLeft by men-slugs and human serpentry,Have been content to let occasion die,Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium.

John Keats

I said ”I love you so much it’s killing me”and you kept saying sorryso I stopped explainingfor it never made sense to youwhat always did to meto let what you love kill youand never regret. As Romeo is dying Juliet says”I am willing to die to remain by your side”and love was never a static place of restbut the last second of euphoriawhile throwing yourself out from a 20 store windowto be able to say”I flew before I hit the ground”,and it was glorious.Don’t be sorry.The fall was beautiful, dear.The crash was beautiful.

Charlotte Eriksson

It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be, with no effort or trying and slowly we found each other’s hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a simple sign of hopethat things will go on and get betterand that things and people and views are still out there, yet to be found.

Charlotte Eriksson

you areas fleetingly beautifulas a mother’s tearsand a father’s pranksa brother’s bachelorhoodand a best friend’s bad mooda bride’s glittering jittersand a handsome stranger’s smile.

Sanober Khan

That day and night, the bleeding and the screaming, had knocked something askew for Esme, like a picture swinging crooked on a wall. She loved the life she lived with her mother. It was beautiful. It was, she sometimes thought, a sweet emulation of the fairy tales they cherished in their lovely, gold-edged books. They sewed their own clothes from bolts of velvet and silk, ate all their meals as picnics, indoors or out, and danced on the rooftop, cutting passageways through the fog with their bodies. They embroidered tapestries of their own design, wove endless melodies on their violins, charted the course of the moon each month, and went to the theater and the ballet as often as they liked--every night last week to see Swan Lake again and again. Esme herself could dance like a faerie, climb trees like a squirrel, and sit so still in the park that birds would come to perch on her. Her mother had taught her all that, and for years it had been enough. But she wasn't a little girl anymore, and she had begun to catch hints and glints of another world outside her pretty little life, one filled with spice and poetry and strangers.

Laini Taylor

she's gotoceanstucked awayin her hairpoems swimunder her skin.

Sanober Khan

the mostbeautiful tideis the sweepof your heartagainst mine.

Sanober Khan

Yes You Are!Like the Blossoming rose,Like the Rays of hope.Like a deer in the forest,Like an athlete full of zest.Like a lamp in temple,Like the life feeling ample.Like the feel of the dawn,Like the grace of the swan.Like the melody of sitar,Like the rage of guitar.Like a group of angels in the sky,Like the pot that makes you high.Like the peacock's dance,Like she is the romance.Like the silent talk,Like the wine from Medoc.Like the colors of life,Like the music from the fife.Like the calmness of the cold windLike the beauty of the hind.

Ameya Agrawal

REFLECTIONS OF A MIRRORBeautiful is he who recognizes what is truly beautiful,Even if the surface is ugly.Truthful is he who says what is true,Even if the truth is ugly.Ugly is he who measures beauty by its exterior,Without first weighing the interior.And ugly is the man who judges harshly what he sees looking out,Without first judging what he sees in the mirror.

Suzy Kassem

Just a drop in the ocean," you say,And that may be true,But the ocean wouldn't be as full,If it weren't for you.

Kyra Jackson

Those things that take my breath away become the ocean-complex and deep-and I'm prone to drowning in beautiful things. Like you.

Melody Lee

From the perspective of my old laptop,I am a numbers man,something like thatevery instruction he gives me is a one or a zeroI remember wellI have information about him before he left for his new toythinner, younger, able to keep up with him,I have information about himmay 15th 2008, he listened to a songfive times in succession it was titled Everybody, open parenthesis, Backstreet's Back, close parenthesisit included the lyric'Am I sexual, yeaaaaah'He said once, computers like a sense of finality to themwhen I write something I don't want to be able to run from itthis was a liehe was addicted to my ability to keep his secretsI am a numbers man,every instruction he gives me is a one, or a zeroI remember wellJanuary, 7th 2007I was youngjust two week awakehe gave me, a new series of one's and zerosthe most sublime sequence I have ever seenit had curves, and shadow, it was himhe gave his face in numbersand trusted me to be the artist, and I wasdo not laughI have read about your Godyou kill each other over your grand fathers memory of himI still remember the fingertips of my God dancing across my bodyAfter I learnt to draw himhe trusted with more art rubricjpeg 1063 was his favouriteHim, and that woman, resting her head in the curve of his nickI read his correspondenceshe hasn't written him back in yearsbut he asks for it, constantly,jpeg 1063, jpeg 1063, jpeg 1063it was my master piece it looked so, .., life likeI wanted to tell himThat's not herthat is methat is not her facethose are my ones and zeroswaltzing in space for youshe is nothing more than my shadow puppetyou do not miss her, you miss me,I am a numbers man,every instruction he gives is a one or a zeroI remember wellbut he taught me to be a Da Vinci and I sit here, with his portraits waiting for him to returnI do not think he willIs that what it means to be humanto be all powerful, to build a temple to yourselfand leaveonly the walls to pray

Phil Kaye

Poetry, I tell my students,is idiosyncratic. Poetryis where we are ourselves,(though Sterling Brown said"Every 'I' is a dramatic 'I'")digging in the clam flatsfor the shell that snaps,emptying the proverbial pocketbook.Poetry is what you findin the dirt in the corner,overhear on the bus, Godin the details, the only wayto get from here to there.Poetry (and now my voice is rising)is not all love, love, loveand I'm sorry the dog died.Poetry (here I hear myself loudest)is the human voice,and are we not of interest to each other?

Elizabeth Alexander

Can somebody please explain how humans can be so inhumane?

Delano Johnson

I climb the door instead of a treeJust to crawl with myself walking freeWhat if I’m a lizard beneath my skinChanging my colours of the human I’ve been

Munia Khan

...I recall that day on the beach - the sand so brilliant, the clouds so massive, and the wind punishing your hair...

John Geddes

...we went to watch the waves that bitter day and the wind took your red cap and mittens - blew them into the sea...

John Geddes

...strands of your hair and tendrils of the wind spin into nothingness the memories of that day...

John Geddes

...before you, life was desolate - the past hardly worth remembering - and now, each moment a keepsake I can't throw away ...

John Geddes

Thoughtful for Winter’s future sorrow,Its gloom and scarcity;Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow,Toiled quiet Memory.’Tis she that from each transient pleasureExtracts a lasting good;’Tis she that finds, in summer, treasureTo serve for winter’s food.And when Youth’s summer day is vanished,And Age brings Winter’s stress,Her stores, with hoarded sweets replenished,Life’s evening hours will bless.

Charlotte Brontë

you wereand always will bethat first ever touchto have fertilizedthe groundbeneath my life’s treesthat first ever roseto have fragrancedthe rest of my memories.

Sanober Khan

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Poetry Quotes - Page 26

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