Poetry Quotes - Page 38

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

some words bring warmthjust bybeing next to each other.

what ismore beautifultears, in someone’s eyesfor meor in my eyesfor them.

Another one of your quippy japes?

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

i am alwaysstalking you, my dear. with my thoughtsmy words.my breath.

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

The sky was like ebony and the only illumination was the harsh white light of the central streetlamp, which cast shadows so hard it seemed you might cut yourself on them.

…although her mouth uttered fond words, her eyes spoke only venom.

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

I waited for the seasons of love to pass from this cold winter to the summer heat I dreamed of.

Shannon L. Alder

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.

And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air.

Everything that drowned me taught me how to swim.

Rap in its form is poetry, meaning the point of convergence is words.

It was more than a string of letters put togetherit was a thick cloak in the coldand a strong defense against an enemyIt was more than the naked heart on paperit was a way to undress sadness … and sinsand an olive branch for the desperateWriting was her prayer and the words were felt.

words are a border collie’s worst nightmare.

Thomas Lloyd Qualls

Poems are word paintings. Poetry doesn’t belong to time. That’s why often you feel as if poems are speaking directly to you.

Salil Jha

When I try to achieve greatness, it spits on me the night before.

How strange and ironic it is- all the words i long to sayare lost in words.

A single poemis worth a hundredcozy winter nightskind wordsand healed wounds.

in the endit is wordspoetry. sunsetssomeone’s deep blue silk voice.mountain scents.someone’s smile.eyes. that we haveno defenses against.

One word can turn into a book just as one poem should never be overlooked.

I write these words to touch you,My love, In places my hands can only dream of.

O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast;Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

William Shakespeare

Let thy words be few. I agree, but only if my ink can relentlessly run.

I am not sad anymore. I am not weak or tender or quiet like you remember because the second you said those words and closed that door, I sold my soul to the part of myself I had buried in order to love you, to let you touch every inch of my rotten body, for I wanted to be touchable and not so strange. Not so sad and tender, like I’ve always been, they say, so I changed. And then your glances and words throwing knives with no return about my change of habits and ways of living, being, and I nodded and smiled, dying silently a little bit inside.

Charlotte Eriksson

Zoe let the poetry flow over her, like shadows on water, sunlight against stone: timeworn words shaped like stars, like shells, like the ruins of lost temples, soft as the breaths of mystics.

Christine Brodien-Jones

A Writer in Love.I was just a word weaverWhat did I know of love?Only thatSome days when the words weren’t enough,I knewI was in love.

Saiber

Tongue on your words to taste you thereCouldn’t read what youhad never written therePlayed your message overfeeling badPlayed your message over it was all I hadTo tell me what and whereforethis is what it said:I’m tired of you asking me whyI’m tired of words like the chatter of birdsGive me a pass, let me just get by

Poetry without words, you are, the beat to my hearts rhythm.

N'Zuri Za Austin

ROSEMARY Beauty and Beauty’s son and rosemary— Venus and Love, her son, to speak plainly— born of the sea supposedly, at Christmas each, in company, braids a garland of festivity. Not always rosemary— since the flight to Egypt, blooming differently. With lancelike leaf, green but silver underneath, its flowers—white originally— turned blue. The herb of memory, imitating the blue robe of Mary, is not too legendary to flower both as symbol and as pungency. Springing from stones beside the sea, the height of Christ when thirty-three— it feeds on dew and to the bee “hath a dumb language”; is in reality a kind of Christmas-tree.

In the days of Prismatic Colornot in the days of Adam and Eve, but when Adam was alone; when there was no smoke and color was fine, not with the refinement of early civilization art, but because of its originality; with nothing to modify it but the mist that went up, obliqueness was a variation of the perpendicular, plain to see and to account for: it is no longer that; nor did the blue-red-yellow band of incandescence that was color keep its stripe

Poetry is painting with words where you create a masterpiece by spilling your feelings and emotions onto the blank paper.

And there he would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry, till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, when he had found the word, and her husband said, "Poor old Augustus--he's a true poet," which was high praise from her husband.

TO VICTOR HUGO OF MY CROW PLUTO “Even when the bird is walking we know that it has wings.”—VICTOR HUGO Of: my crow Pluto, the true Plato, azzurronegro green-blue rainbow— Victor Hugo, it is true we know that the crow “has wings,” however pigeon-toe- inturned on grass. We do. (adagio) Vivorosso “corvo,” although con dizionario io parlo Italiano— this pseudo Esperanto which, savio ucello you speak too— my vow and motto (botto e totto) io giuro è questo credo: lucro è peso morto. And so dear crow— gioièllo mio— I have to let you go; a bel bosco generoso, tuttuto vagabondo, serafino uvaceo Sunto, oltremarino verecondo Plato, a

TO A GIRAFFE If it is unpermissible, in fact fatal to be personal and undesirable to be literal—detrimental as well if the eye is not innocent-does it mean that one can live only on top leaves that are small reachable only by a beast that is tall?— of which the giraffe is the best example— the unconversational animal. When plagued by the psychological, a creature can be unbearable that could have been irresistible; or to be exact, exceptional since less conversational than some emotionally-tied-in-knots animal. After all consolations of the metaphysical can be profound. In Homer, existence is flawed; transcendence, conditional; “the journey from sin to redemption, perpetual.

I could be that tenebrous enigma that floods out your words with sighs and frustration.

Moonshine Noire

Paint me perfect poetry.

N'Zuri Za Austin

So it became,the law of universe,to have the,profoundest,of the words,cloaked in the,darkest of the masks.

Jasleen Kaur Gumber

For with his little secret that he cannot divulge, the poet buys this power of the word to tell everybody else's dark secrets. A poet is not an apostle; he drives out devils only by the power of the devil.

Søren Kierkegaard

Words have never belonged to those who wrote them. Always to those who needed then.

Darnell Lamont Walker

Pay attention, and use your imagination.

R.M. Engelhardt (TALON)

Gazing from the moon, we see one earth, without borders, Mother Earth, her embrace encircling one people, humankind.

Frederick Glaysher

Sun is a hearthstone, a merry-go-round of extinguished hearthstones.

Dejan Stojanovic

Real geniuses would like that what we think of ourselves is true.

Dejan Stojanovic

Deceit dispels the boredom of the Absolute.

Dejan Stojanovic

Procreation annihilates eternity.

Dejan Stojanovic

The universe is God's son.

Dejan Stojanovic

Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.

Dejan Stojanovic

Absolute is a game with only one player where Absolute forgets itself so it would have a reason to fulfill the motion while returning.

Dejan Stojanovic

This town of churches and dreams; this town I thought I would lose myself in, with its backward ways and winding roads leading to nowhere; but, I found myself instead. -Magic in the Backyard (excerpt from American Honey)

Infinity is the end. End without infinity is but a new beginning.

Dejan Stojanovic

Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.

Dejan Stojanovic

Life is only a flicker of melted ice.

Dejan Stojanovic

Get close to grass and you’ll see a star.

Dejan Stojanovic

Eternity is a glorious word, but eternity is ice.

Dejan Stojanovic

Existence is the end of endless eternity without a beginning or an end.

Dejan Stojanovic

Universe is the Sun watching its own self.

Dejan Stojanovic

Sunbathe from within.

Dejan Stojanovic

Previous 1 … 36 37 38 39 40 … 121 Next