Poetry Quotes - Page 41

I can see myself before myself—A being through dark scenery.

Dejan Stojanovic

Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.

Dejan Stojanovic

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

Dejan Stojanovic

And this that you call solitude is in fact a big crowd.

Dejan Stojanovic

Life eats life to live.

Dejan Stojanovic

Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.

Dejan Stojanovic

Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.

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

The man is in his work,read it if you want to know about him.

R.M. Engelhardt (TALON)

One hand I extend into myself, the other toward others.

Dejan Stojanovic

I travel, always arriving in the same place.

Dejan Stojanovic

My mathematics is simple: one plus one = one.

Dejan Stojanovic

We will go far away, to nowhere, to conquer, to fertilize until we become tired. Then we will stop and there will be our home.

Dejan Stojanovic

What you gain here, you lose on the other side.

Dejan Stojanovic

Long ago we conquered our passions looking at ourselves in the mirror of eternity.

Dejan Stojanovic

In greatness, life and death merge.

Dejan Stojanovic

From one bell all the bells toll.

Dejan Stojanovic

Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.

Dejan Stojanovic

They are both spectacular, Life and death.

Dejan Stojanovic

While gazing at myself from yourself, I was beautiful.

Dejan Stojanovic

He will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.

Dejan Stojanovic

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

Real poetry is art at its purest sense. It is never a commodity, but a breath of eternity.

Writing poetry is a state of free float

Margaret Atwood

I don't write poems to melt your heart.I write them,so our heartscan melt together.

Spend the glittering moonlight therePursuing down the soundless deepLimbs that gleam and shadowy hair,Or floating lazy, half-asleep.Dive and double and follow after,Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,With lips that fade, and human laughterAnd faces individual,Well this side of Paradise! . . .There's little comfort in the wise.

A midst deceit I found the truth;there in the rough I found a diamond.And from the moment we met,I think of no one elseToday I choose to be, to live and breathe;to dream, to weep, and to sing in free verse.And you, the object of my delight:a like-minded opposite I am myself with,a mind-fuck times six, seven, eight thousand and three.I know that you love me with every inch of your deep.

Donato DiCristino

Poetry is a good medium for revolutionary hope.

A rural Venus, Selah rises from thegold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweepspetals of water from her skin. At once,clouds begin to sob for such beauty.Clothing drops like leaves."No one makes poetry,my Mme.Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,”I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it withour souls.”Desire illuminates the dark manuscriptof our skin with beetles and butterflies.After the lightning and rain has ceased,after the lightning and rain of lovemakinghas ceased, Selah will dive again into thesunflower-open river.

George Elliott Clarke

If I could describe myself, I'd say that I am a poetic gerd. (A geek and nerd combo) I love Shakespeare and romance, but sci-fi and action have a big slice of my heart. When I meet a man who can quote some Hitchcock out of thin air, do a perfect ''Timey Whimey'' impression, play me some classic rock when I'm sad and can give a 'Gone with the Wind' kiss, I will have my soul mate.

Melanie Kay Taylor

I wish I’d known those words on the day I watched those German troops land, plane-load after plane-load of them—and come off ships down in the harbor! All I could think of was damn them, damn them, over and over. If I could have thought the words "the bright day is done and we are for the dark," I’d have been consoled somehow and ready to go out and contend with circumstance—instead of my heart sinking to my shoes.

Mary Ann Shaffer

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

Poetry, Shakespeare and opera, are like mumps and should be caught when young. In the unhappy event that there is a postponement to mature years, the results may be devastating.

Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved,Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened,Thee, my serenity,A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear,Seeing thee wail, whine, cry,Like a gloomy, mourning brume,Thee, my serenity,Soared through fervor and delight,To the crown of heavens, the Almighty Myth,One can not bear, Seeing thee prostrate, razed, demure,Upon the dimmed streets, crawling, for a sight of the lune,Thee, my birdy in love, What befall to thy song, The very chant of my life, Cut short, stopped, along with all I gasp,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear,Seeing thee, caged in thy own night, Encumbered, through thy own heart,Lean on my shoulders now,My beautiful, wonderful Lily,That thee shall not fear, the sorrow of,Of being lonely, apart, not having a peer,As I promise, to my most dear,The girl to my heart, always near,Come what may, don’t age a year,That I will be, forever here,

Hamidreza Bagheri

A fortress built long ago,Walls made timeless by historic glory.The small girl in the boat slows,To listen to its story.

Ocean waves gently rock the boat,As if to the tune of a lullaby.She sits still as the boat silently floatsUnder the infinite blue sky.

What is hell to a writer? Hell is being too busy to find the time to write or being unable to find the inspiration. Hell is suddenly finding the words but being away from your notebook or typewriter. Hell is when the verses slip away through your fingers and they never return again.

R.M. Engelhardt (TALON)

As Borges has taught us, all the books in the library are contemporary. Great poems are like granaries: they are always ready to enlarge their store.

William H. Gass

The poet is a faker / Who's so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

Fernando Pessoa

I can hear the library humming in the night, a choir of authors murmuring inside their books along the unlit, alphabetical shelves, Giovanni Pontano next to Pope, Dumas next to his son, each one stitched into his own private coat, together forming a low, gigantic chord of language.

If we go on in this way, we shall have a new art of poetry, of which one of the first rules will be: To remember to forget that there are any such things as sunshine and music in the world.

Thomas Love Peacock

Well-wrought poems and works of imaginative literature can do for us what stone-cold prose can never do. They can help us grasp the full dimension of ways of life other than our own.

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

writing home"here in the wilderness of australiawriting home becomes easyin spite of the spreading wild firesthere is less heat, more certainty.writing home, writing thisi think of those without real homes–our city, people say, provides houseswhich do not, often, bring one home.

You can't memorize poetry and stay a fake. Sooner or later, you start to understand what these poets are saying, and it makes you feel life has something quite special, with certain layers of meaning to it.

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

Alliah "Lenzkie" Tabaya

It is naive to suppose that something that has been expressed in one form can be expressed in another without significantly changing its meaning, texture or value. Much prose translates fairly well from one language to another, but we know that poetry does not; we may get a rough idea of the sense of a translated poem but usually everything else is lost, especially that which makes it an object of beauty. The translation makes it into something it was not.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

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

LatelyI’ve been dreaming about youAbout usSharing our secretsTalking, even if we arguedKept talking, till we sleptMaybe I woke upOn the wrong side of bedMaybe I thought about youJust a little too much

I grow weary of the loveThat lasts for a nightWhen it should be thereThe next sunrise

When my words are concealedWith lies and disguises, truth and beyondInsecurities in the veil of trustBetrayal in bounds of liesIt’s just the charm of words darlingGiving the illusion of happiness inside misery

A chronic poet should always be an inveterate nature-lover.

InsomniaI wonderIf those talks matterFew done in the clarity of dayOr the manyDone at 3 a.m. in the morning

It was pretty silly quoting poetry around free and easy like that. It was the act of a silly damn snob. Give man a few lines of verse and he thinks he's the Lord of all Creation. You think you can walk on water with all your books. Well, the world can get by just fine without them.

Of all the art forms, poetry is the most economical. It is the one which is the most secret, which requires the least physical labor, the least material, and the one which can be done between shifts, in the hospital pantry, on the subway, and on scraps of surplus paper. Over the last few years, writing a novel on tight finances, I came to appreciate the enormous differences in the material demands between poetry and prose. As we reclaim our literature, poetry has been the major voice of poor, working class, and Colored women. A room of one's own may be a necessity for writing prose, but so are reams of paper, a typewriter, and plenty of time.

Moon is the light from a lantern in heaven

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