Poetry Quotes - Page 4

our feet are grape-squashed in memoriesour skins are still flushedfrom the touch of summer’s lips.

… and now and then we could look up and give each other a thought, because I think he could have beautiful thoughts,and we could just let each other be less lonely in our loneliness.

Charlotte Eriksson

Writing is the light of imagination playing over shadow of thoughts.

I don’t believe we should carry backupplans in life’s suitcase—they’re too easy to unpack like living a life in yoga pants, so comfortable our hips spreadinto new timezones...

Kelli Russell Agodon

Sonnet: Political GreatnessNor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,History is but the shadow of their shame,Art veils her glass, or from the pageant startsAs to oblivion their blind millions fleet,Staining that Heaven with obscene imageryOf their own likeness. What are numbers knitBy force or custom? Man who man would be,Must rule the empire of himself; in itMust be supreme, establishing his throneOn vanquished will, quelling the anarchyOf hopes and fears, being himself alone.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I'm pretty lost in becoming all this frost. Bitter, like Winter. Strung-out like a string of pearls.

Ashly Lorenzana

Only tears can hear the sound of pain when warm blood reddens discolored stain

There lives a weeperin each of us-a silent mourner honoring our despairwhen our willingness slain by helplessness continues to resurrect to be slaughtered again

I left smiles on your wordless lipsThe night roads- dismal and narrow,dream’s path remains shadowy wideas our lone hearts felt that arrowFrom the Poem 'My Tomorrow

It was a very ordinary day, the day I realised that my becoming is my life and my home and that I don't have to do anything but trust the process, trust my story and enjoy the journey. It doesn't really matter who I've become by the finish line, the important things are the changes from this morning to when I fall asleep again, and how they happened, and who they happened with. An hour watching the stars, a coffee in the morning with someone beautiful, intelligent conversations at 5am while sharing the last cigarette. Taking trains to nowhere, walking hand in hand through foreign cities with someone you love. Oceans and poetry. It was all very ordinary until my identity appeared, until my body and mind became one being. The day I saw the flowers and learned how to turn my daily struggles into the most extraordinary moments. Moments worth writing about. For so long I let my life slip through my fingers, like water. I'm holding on to it now,and I'm not letting go.

Charlotte Eriksson

Raindrops fall from clouds of gray.The fragile flowers grow.Teardrops seem all I can say.They speak of endless woe.Your fingers wipe my grief away.A seed of love you sow.A hardened heart reverts to clay.You mold my love just so.

Richelle E. Goodrich

Tomorrow camewith the illusion of todayeven more fleeting than yesterdayit camelike it always comesand wentlike it’s always gonelike a favorite song in its final secondsTomorrow came and leftleaving nothingnothing...but a familiarlingeringsense of loss behind.

When you left you left behind a fieldof silent flowers under a sky full of unstirred clouds...you left a million butterfliesmid-silky flutters You left like midnight rain against my dreaming ears Oh and how you left leaving my coffee scentless and my couch comfortless leaving upon my fingers the melting snow of you you left behind a calendar full of empty days and seasons full of aimless wanders leaving me alone with an armful of sunsets your reflection behind in every puddle your whispersupon every curtain your fragranceinside every petal you left your echoes in between the silence of my eyes Oh and how you leftleaving my sands footless and my shores songless leaving me with windows full of moistened moonlight nights and nightsof only a half-warmed soul and when you left... you left behind a lifetime of moments untouched the light of a million starsunshed and when you left you somehowleft my poem...unfinished. (Published in Taj Mahal Review Vol.11Number 1 June 2012)

A book about books is like a poem about poetry:Books are knowledge, paid for, all.Readers - horses in a stall.Stallions should always run.Lest they stale become, in turn.Running waters are most clear.In some books, you disappear –lose yourself, and track of time.How I wish that one was mine...Mine, to have, to write, to read...Mine, just like a flying steed.Mine, forever, - to improve.Would I then, of me, approve?I would not, I can't... myself.I'm but dust, swept off a shelf.Fly, can I, just 'til I'm settled,down, beside my flower, petalled.

On the canvas of life,Every sweep of the brush matters,Counts for something…

The gilded spiralOf longings within.Our very own cathedralThat points persistently to heaven.

I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.

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

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

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

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

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

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

Moonshine Noire

After Homer and Dante, is a whole century of creating worth one Shakespeare?

Dejan Stojanovic

How alive is thought, invisible, yet without thought there is no sight.

Dejan Stojanovic

We built tall buildings, but we have not become any taller.

Dejan Stojanovic

Teaching others, he corrected himself.

Dejan Stojanovic

All those big words produce disgust today.

Dejan Stojanovic

It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.

Dejan Stojanovic

The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.

Dejan Stojanovic

Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?

Dejan Stojanovic

Trying too hard to be too good, even when trying to be bad, is too good for the bad, too bad for the good.

Dejan Stojanovic

A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

Dejan Stojanovic

To go against the grain is the secret of bravery.

Dejan Stojanovic

To expect to be kissed having bad breath is the secret of a fool.

Dejan Stojanovic

No reason for a feverish rush For we will all arrive in the same place At the right time. Justice will be served. There will be no better or worse, No big and small, no rewards, no punishment, No guilt, no judges, no hierarchies; Only silent equality.

Dejan Stojanovic

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

Dejan Stojanovic

To leave out beautiful sunsets is the secret of good taste.

Dejan Stojanovic

In every sound, the hidden silence sleeps.

Dejan Stojanovic

There are no clear borders, Only merging invisible to the sight.

Dejan Stojanovic

In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.

Dejan Stojanovic

From what you didn’t say, lies that you did say.

Dejan Stojanovic

All dust is the same dust. Temporarily separated To go peacefully And enjoy the eternal nap.

Dejan Stojanovic

He awaits himself while walking, out of the icy circle to escape.

Dejan Stojanovic

Instead of imitating me, you simply loiter.

Dejan Stojanovic

To jump over centuries In one step is impossible. Jump too high or far, You’ll be way too late.

Dejan Stojanovic

In the end, the world returns to a grain.

Dejan Stojanovic

They are both spectacular, Life and death.

Dejan Stojanovic

If you cannot be a sun that illuminates the light, be a moon that never tires of reflecting the light.

I Don't Write Because God Gives Me A Fresh Word Everyday, I write Because of The Words He Has Already Spoken Yesterday That Changed Today.

The Prolific Penman

I am no longer a writer. Just an emotion. An emotion that is unable to stay within its own body, and is therefore, trying to make its way into yours.

Zaeema J. Hussain

Even the new things thatI less than know,I keep trying, did againuntil perfect.

Alliah "Lenzkie" Tabaya

[Y]ou, one day, will knock lips with Turkish-coffee-clad veils whose beds our kin must tuck in misty-eyed.

Moon is the light from a lantern in heaven

I hear talk of that slippery slope, and my heart catches for a beat. But there is the musky truth I'm standing in that I can't deny, and it tastes of so much holy. That old way, the narrow line, I see now that was a slippery, saccharine surface where my soul could gain no purchase. For the first time, my feet feel sure beneath me, and that sense is twining its way up from my ankles, racing toward my knees, my thighs, my secret places, my heart. It's in my blood now, and I can't deny it. I can't deny it. I open my eyes, because I could see even through my clutched-closed lids that the darkness is light, that the blindness has given way to searing vision. I can't deny it.

Even in the broken state, my mind find waysto connect with you.

Anjum Choudhary

MotherHushed and sacred silencefills the dawning skyI ponder in this momentof our journey which is nigh...

Muse

The aesthetic construct, and nothing else, has taught us to expose ourselves to a non-enslaving experience of rank differences. The work of art is even allowed to 'tell' us, those who have run away from form, something, because it quite obviously does not embody the intention to confine us. 'La poesie ne s'impose plus, elle s'expose' Something that exposes itself and proves itself in this test gains unpresumed authority. In the space of aesthetic simulation, which is at once the emergency space for the success and failure of the artistic construct, the powerless superiority of the works can affect observers who otherwise take pains to ensure that they have no lord, old or new, above them.

Peter Sloterdijk

The artistic methods of poetry, painting, photography, and writing share certain commonalities of deep composition: spirit, rhythm, thought, and scenery.

Kilroy J. Oldster

Don’t try to present your art by making other people read or hear or see or touch it; make them feel it. Wear your art like your heart on your sleeve and keep it alive by making people feel a little better. Feel a little lighter. Create art in order for yourself to become yourselfand let your very existence be your song, your poem, your story.Let your very identity be your book.Let the way people say your name sound like the sweetest melody.

Charlotte Eriksson

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