Poetry Quotes - Page 8

Show me slowly what I onlyknow the limits ofDance me to the end of love
Leonard Cohen
Love songs or poetry?Ambrose: Love songs–you get the best of both, poetry set to music.And you can't dance to poetry.
Amy Harmon
Dancing is very like poetry.
Martha Graham
A dalliance with poetry before we dance.
Delano Johnson
Hidden by diaphanous clouds of mist and fog floating gracefully over vales of heather and flowing runnels, she began to dance.
Lawren Leo
Our lives may not have fit together, but ohhh did our souls know how to dance...
K. Towne Jr.
In poems, equally as in philosophic disquisitions, genius produces the strongest impressions of novelty while it rescues the most admitted truths from the impotence caused by the very circumstance of their universal admission.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Concrete breathes sun's heat.
Cameron Conaway
Aegean Islands 1940-41Where white stares, smokes or breaks,Thread white, white of plaster and of foam,Where sea like a wall falls;Ribbed, lionish coast,The stony islands which blow into my mindMore often than I imagine my grassy home;To sun one's bones beside theExplosive, crushed-blue, nostril-opening sea(The weaving sea, splintered with sails and foam,Familiar of famous and deserted harbours,Of coins with dolphins on and fallen pillars.)To know the gear and skill of sailing,The drenching race for home and the sail-white houses,Stories of Turks and smoky ikons,Cry of the bagpipe, treadingOf the peasant dancers;The dark breadThe island wine and the sweet dishes;All these were elements in a happinessMore distant now than any date like '40,A. D. or B. C., ever can express.
Bernard Spencer
What are days for?Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over.They are to be happy in: Where can we live but days?Ah, solving that questionBrings the priest and the doctor In their long coatsRunning over the fields.
Philip Larkin
The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality.
T.S Eliot
There was also something about the smell of bookshops that was strangely comforting to her. She wondered if it was the scent of ink and paper, or the perfume of binding, string, and glue. Maybe it was the scent of knowledge. Information. Thoughts and ideas. Poetry and love. All of it bound into one perfect, calm place.
Alyson Richman
Always dream big and dare to believe!
Melinda Rabin
Be careful, darling. Your footsteps land heavy here. Your racket will wake the dragons.
Sarah Kay
...these vignettes I sketch for you - what are they? watercolors ..yes and dreams blurred with tears ...
John Geddes
We are all running towards a destination which doesn't exist. On our way, dogs of life keep barking at us where we respond to some and some we throw stones at. Every dog teaches a lesson we are better off without. Every knife stabs a little deeper than we deserve. Every bruise stays a lot longer than it is meant to. Encumbered by forceful lessons of life we fight for the air of elation from the breaths we take to covert them into the moments of our real existence. Everything starts with life's tyrannical dominance and ends with our impelled submissiveness. We are the puppets of external circumstances and still we believe it's all on the inside. We should be laughing at our plight, someone has framed it with such sublimity. But all we do is ache at every shred of it because that's what keeps it alive.
Abhita Jain
My soul is crushed under the weight of tears I can’t spill.
J.A. ANUM
Painting is so poetic, while sculpture is more logical and scientific and makes you worry about gravity.
Damien Hirst
I traded in myfreedom fora needy, whinyand defiantfour-year-old,a junky girlfriend,and a relationshipriddled withsomeone else’sproblemsNow, I stareout of openwindows likea wild mustangcraving openfieldsI clench mycrotch, wheremy ballsused to be,and I hum aloathsome tune,like an out-of-work castratowho’s realized his dreams of someday having his own familyare gone
Phil Volatile
It’s sadthat burnt marshmallowsmake me think ofmethamphetamine,when theyshould bringback childhoodmemories ofs’mores
Phil Volatile
Pain is an old friend who left briefly and has now returned. Starvation without sustenance, I had grown acquaint. Satiety was a stranger who invaded my deepest being, and now I cannot live without.
Melanie A. Gabbard
You are the Worst Kind of Animal. A Butcher by Day and a Pussy Cat by Night.
Monroe Ariel
I don’t bother with rhyme. RarelyAre two trees the same, one beside the other.I think and write like flowers have colorBut with less perfection in my way of expressing myselfBecause I lack the divine simplicityOf wholly being only my exterior.I see and I’m moved,Moved the way water runs when the ground is slopingAnd what I write is as natural as the rising wind...
Alberto Caeiro
they saythey only wantflowersto grow frommy mouth,so i willlook themdeadin theeyeas ishovesoft petalspastmy lips,chewwithmy jawcompletelyunhinged,& spitthemdownattheir feet-i will never be your expectations of me
Amanda Lovelace
And oft the blessed time foretellsWhen all men shall be free;And musical, as silver bells,Their falling chains shall be.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
These are the woes of Slaves;They glare from the abyss;They cry, from unknown graves,"We are the Witnesses!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Only those who will love longer than they expected to can truly love pecan pie, which doesn't explain its status as death rows most requested last dessert, or why chopped pecans, corn syrup, directions from the Karo bottle's cherry-red side are what mercy taste like to some. But there you have it.
Kate Lebo
...dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field...
John Geddes
But glad to have sat underThunder and rain with you,And grateful tooFor sunlight on the garden.
Louis MacNeice
Seulement la terre qui obéit,sait bien qu'elle tourne en rond,tandis que nous vers l'infininous précipitons.Translation:But the obedient Earth well knowsthat she moves round and round,whereas we hurtle downtoward infinity.
Rainer Maria Rilke
I am fascinated by the dailies, what is daily.
Juan Ramón Jiménez
Space is entirely poetic.
Mary-Louise Parker
Knowing that it is the earth we tread, we learn to tread carefully, lest it be rent open. Realizing that it is the heavens that hang above us, we come to fear the echoing thunderbolt. The world demands that we battle with others for the sake of our own reputation, and so we undergo the sufferings bred of illusion. While we live in this world with its daily business, forced to walk the tightrope of profit and loss, true love is an empty thing, and the wealth before our eyes mere dust.
Sōseki Natsume
I've been mistaken to assume that in this little village in the spring, so like a dream or a poem, life is a matter only of the singing birds, the falling blossoms, and the bubbling springs. The real world has crossed mountains and seas and is bearing down even on this isolated village, whose inhabitants have doubtless lived here in peace down the long stretch of years ever since they fled as defeated warriors from the great clan wars of the twelfth century. Perhaps a millionth part of the blood that will dye the wide Manchurian plains will gush from this young man's arteries, or seethe forth at the point of the long sword that hangs at his waist. Yet here this young man sits, beside an artist for whom the sole value of human life lies in dreaming. If I listen carefully, I can even hear the beating of his heart, so close are we. And perhaps even now, within that beat reverberates the beating of the great tide that is sweeping across the hundreds of miles of that far battlefield. Fate has for a brief and unexpected moment brought us together in this room, but beyond that it speaks no more.
Sōseki Natsume
Sleepless nightsSpent looking at the ceilingSearching in those etched patternsFor some sort of adhesiveTo glue together the broken piecesOf a soul crushedBy the weight of the fact thatLife is profoundly sad.
Justin Wetch
Fate is the cruelest of masters, takingLife when it pleases or at random, handingRigged decks to whom it pleases, cheatingAll alike and none the wiser, takingEverything away from those with nothing.
Justin Wetch
Our fate liesin the handsof the things we loveand sometimesthe things we loveare the thingsthat lead usto the fatal destructionof ourselves.
Robert M. Drake
She was the death of me,the beginning and the end.And I never understood her,for how could someoneSo beautiful be the causeof so much destructionafter all.
Robert M. Drake
By(e) pen, I've tried my hand at poetry; only to see how boring it is to me. That is, unless I get a chance to destroy each and every piece while doing it as I please.
Criss Jami
If one proceeds philosophically before proceeding poetically, and this is central to the philosopher, pleasure is crushed, But if one begins by having pleasure, it is like knowing how to swim: one never forgets it [Clarice Lispector, The Stream of Life, trans Elizabeth Lowe & Earl Fitz, Foreword by Hélène Cixous trans Verena Conley, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989].
Hélène Cixous
too much explanation can take the pleasure out of any poetry.(Preface, vii)
Harold G. Henderson
It's not pain. It's raw material.
Jo Bell
T.S. Eliot said to me 'There’s only one way a poet can develop his actual writing – apart from self-criticism & continual practice. And that is by reading other poetry aloud – and it doesn’t matter whether he understands it or not (i.e. even if it’s in another language.) What matters above all, is educating the ear.' What matters, is to connect your own voice with an infinite range of verbal cadences & sequences – and only endless actual experience of your ear can store all that in your nervous system. The rest can be left to your life & your character.
Ted Hughes
Here is a greedy man who keeps to himselfThe beautiful pears ripe in his garden.
Bashō Matsuo
O God bid my poor body to ariseOn that bright day triumphant through the skies!
Timothy Salter
The dead” we say   as if speakingof “the people” whogave up on making historysimply to get throughSomething dense and null   groanwithout echo   undergroundand owl-voiced I cry Whoare these dead people theselovers who if ever didlisten no longer answer: We :
Adrienne Rich
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOUWhen I hold a rose,I see the soft, velvety petalsand smile, becausetucked betweenthose precious petalsis a special gift -the one of a fragrance,pure and sweet.When you hold a rose,you see the thornsalong the stem,and you frownbecause those thornscan bring you painand cause you to bleed.I see the gift.You see the tragedy.More and moreI fear that one of these dayssomeone will hand me a roseand all I will seeare thorns.Talk about tragedy.
Lisa Schroeder
She thought men were saviors......And she looked for more in them than what they were...Only to rescue herself from those she wished would rescue her...And isn't that the most tragic lie...The lie where we tell what we wished were true and believe it...?She had an artificial memory, a prosthesis to a past that never was...She was like a party that no one ever went to...Like a cure...without a disease...And isn't that the greatest fear of all...to be ready with the answersto questions that no one asks anymore?
Merrit Malloy
Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.O hateful error, Melancholy's child,Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of menThe things that are not? O Error, soon concieved,Thou never com'st unto a happy birth,But kill'st the mother that engendered thee.
William Shakespeare
I define influence simply as literary love, tempered by defense. The defenses vary from poet to poet. But the overwhelming presence of love is vital to understanding how great literature works.
Harold Bloom
And when you are foolish enough to identify yourself as a poet, your interlocutors will often ask: A PUBLISHED Poet? And when you tell them that you are, indeed, a published poet, they seem at least vaguely impressed. Why is that? Its not like they or anybody they know reads poetry journals. And yet there is something deeply right, I think, about this knee-jerk appeal to publicity. It's as if to say: Everybody can write a poem, but has your poetry, the distillation of your innermost being, been found authentic and intelligible by others? Can it circulate among persons, make of its readership, however small, a People in that sense? This accounts for the otherwise bafflingly persistent association of Poetry and fame - baffling since no poets are famous among the general population. To demand proof of fame is to demand proof that your songs made it back intact from the dream in the stable to the social world of the fire, that your song is at once utterly specific to you and exemplary for others.
Ben Lerner
Life without strife is a rose without thorns.Alive as one is thriving today towards tomorrow,Nowhere is the past but simply a school of memory.Dreams, wishes, goals then becomes a wheel of “wills,”Spirit of a unique being on each soul breathing.Care to ponder some matter or another?Awareness sliding towards discovery gliding…Peace, contentment, fulfillment,Enwrapped like a mirage enchantment.Soaring freely, excitingly, happily home-love-bound!Over precious moments in a breathing of a soul,Flowing high emotions, feelings, hearts in bliss.All around any season of one's existence, one asks: “Anyone out there? A heart of a soul that didn’t harden? A touch of a soul that didn’t hurt? A life of a soul that didn't love?”Sands of time, rough, warm, indefinite, simply spreading, transforming, mounting.Oasis of a soul from a desert journey, flourishing with endless beauty and security.Utmost bliss, fulfillment and contentment, under covers a struggling, hopeful soul,Laboring service, living justice, loving peace and tranquillity passed on to humanity!�
Angelica Hopes
Idols of the injury,dug in behind the least understoodmotor plan information.The vile abomination temporal lobes andThe four loathsome memory walls andThe four reasoning, arithmetic beastsare found for all behind pain and planes.Portrayed as a house,Go in, function, cause blindness fromThe house's hearing spirit, judgment andThe court's four bronze woes andThe functioning brain lobe wings,Go in, hearing and perception,I dig under door fronts, pain and plans.
Bill Ectric
Emotional pain was the price I paid on the path to becoming a woman. So excuse me if I’m not clueless like a little girl.
J.A. ANUM
Love's night and a lampJudged our vows:That she would love me everAnd I should never leave her.Love's night and you, lamp,Witnessed the pact.Today the vow runs:"Oaths such as these, waterwords."Tonight, lamp,Witness her lying- In other arms.
Meleager
...Feel no fear before the multitude of men, do not run in panic,but let each man bear his shield straight toward the fore-fighters,regarding his own life as hateful and holding the dark spirits of death as dear as the radiance of the sun.
Tyrtaeus
The world has never favored the experimental life. It despises poets, fanatics, prophets and lovers.
Randolph Bourne
Come on up, boys-I'm dead.
Dylan Thomas
Some, they didn't make it.The temptation just too strong.How can darkness cloud the mindTo what I know as wrong?
Kimberly Nalen
Not much more than a broke disgrace who's hooked on tonics, so excuse him if his poker face has puke on it.
Hannibal Lecture

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