Poetry Quotes - Page 90

If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.

Oh I know it's cliché but yeah they say that great men make it in-To places few others who even do take the risk've ever been

Criss Jami

Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sands of time;Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solemn main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Άλλα ζητεί η ψυχή σου, γι’ άλλα κλαίει·

Constantinos P. Cavafis

When I say that I love animals, I mean to say that I am IN love with them. Because they don't know evil and have never been tempted by it. Because they are the purest image of any higher being I have ever known. Because their souls are made of a much larger magic than my own, and if you let them, they will show it to you. Because this world is theirs, they were here first. And we should all love them a little more for graciously allowing us to have so much of it.

Mia Hollow

a woman will tell youevery home she has ever inhabitedhas been broken intostarting with her body

Suheir Hammad

¡Los suspiros son aire y van al aire!¡Las lágrimas son agua y van al mar!Dime, mujer, cuando el amor se olvida¿sabes tú adónde va?

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.

Paul Celan

In a world gushing blood day and night, you never stop mopping up pain.

Aberjhani

Otter! Otter! Otter!Don’t lead cows to slaughter!I love you, and I knowI should’ve told you soon-aBut you didn’t buy the dolphin-safe tuna!

T.J. Klune

A Note Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off; and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another, mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

Wisława Szymborska

Women Are Not RosesWomen have no beginningonly continualflows.Though rivers flowwomen are notrivers.Women are notrosesthey are not oceansor stars.i would like to tellher this buti think shealready knows.

Ana Castillo

Hay menos tiempo que lugar, no obstante, hay lugares que duran un minuto y para cierto tiempo no ha lugar.

Mario Benedetti

Till Human voices wake us, and we drown.

T.S Eliot

The Garden En robe de parade. - SamainLike a skein of loose silk blown against a wallShe walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,And she is dying piece-mealof a sort of emotional anaemia.And round about there is a rabbleOf the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.They shall inherit the earth.In her is the end of breeding.Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.She would like some one to speak to her,And is almost afraid that I will commit that indiscretion.

Ezra Pound

Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

A book,a book fullof human touches,of shirts,a bookwithout loneliness, with menand tools,a bookis victory.

Pablo Neruda

hate blows a bubble of despair intohugeness world system universe and bang-fear buries a tomorrow under woeand up comes yesterday most green and young

E.E. Cummings

I wrote poetry from the time I could write. That was the only way I could begin to express who I was but the poems didn't make sense to my teachers. They didn't rhyme. They were about the wind sounds, the planets' motions, never about who I was or how I felt. I didn't think I felt anything. I was this mind more than a body or a heart. My mind photographing the stars, hearing the wind.

Francesca Lia Block

Reclaiming the sacred in our lives naturally brings us close once more to the wellsprings of poetry.

Robert Bly

I sit in my treeI sing like the birdsMy beak is my penMy songs are my poems.

David Almond

People with yuan fen are destined to like one another;Friendship develops even if a thousand miles apart.But should yuan fen be absent between two individuals,They will remain strangers despite sitting face-to-face

Adeline Yen Mah

Most of my friends like words too well. They set them under the blinding light of the poem and try to extract every possible connotation from each of them, every temporary pun, every direct or indirect connection - as if a word could become an object by mere addition of consequences. Others pick up words from the streets, from their bars, from their offices and display them proudly in their poems as if they were shouting, "See what I have collected from the American language. Look at my butterflies, my stamps, my old shoes!" What does one do with all this crap?

Jack Spicer

Poetry [is] more necessary than ever as a fire to light our tongues.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos, el que lo perdiò todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.

Pablo Neruda

I offer you what I have myPoverty

W.S. Merwin

When she left me I stood out in the thunderstorm, hoping to be destroyed by lightning. It missed, first left, then right.

Ted Kooser

This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

John Clare

True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'dWhat oft was thought, but ne'er so well express'd;Something whose truth convinced at sight we find,That gives us back the image of our mind.As shades more sweetly recommend the light,So modest plainness sets off sprightly wit.

Alexander Pope

You are that one breath. that puts all the remaining breaths. back into my body.

Sanober Khan

Loneliness clarifies. Here silence standsLike heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken, Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken, Luminously-peopled air ascends; And past the poppies bluish neutral distance Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence: Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.

Philip Larkin

All the rest is silenceOn the other side of the wall;And the silence ripeness,And the ripeness all.

W.H. Auden

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

William Wordsworth

Here is a story that’s stranger than strange. Before we begin you may want to arrange:a blanket, a cushion, a comfortable seat,and maybe some cocoa and something to eat.I’ll warn you, of course, before we commence, my story is eerie and full of suspense, brimming with danger and narrow escapes, and creatures of many remarkable shapes.Dragons and ogres and gorgons and more, and creatures you’ve not even heard of before. And faraway places? There’s plenty of those! (And menacing villains to tingle your toes.)So ready your mettle and steady your heart. It’s time for my story’s mysterious start...

Robert Paul Weston

Clear, unscalable, aheadRise the Mountains of Instead,From whose cold, cascading streamsNone may drink except in dreams.

W.H. Auden

Silver hidden in the gold,Young man hidden in the old,Laughing lord with weeping eyes,Bring king and ring before sunrise! -Hilarion, The Great and Terrible Quest

Margaret Lovett

How weightlesswords are when nothing will do.

Philip Levine

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

Robert W. Service

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.

Sylvia Plath

In visions of the night, like dropping rain, Descend the many memories of pain

Aeschylus

look, you know i don't wanna come on ungrateful, but that warren report, you know as well as me, just didn't make it. You know, like they might as well have asked some banana salesman from des moines, who was up in toronto on the big day, if he saw anyone around looking suspicious/...

Bob Dylan

I have been here before, But when or how I cannot tell: I know the grass beyond the door, The sweet keen smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I do think that poetry is important though, if you don’t strive at it, if you don’t fill it full of stars and falseness.

Charles Bukowski

Welcome, thou kind deceiver!Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,Even steal us from ourselves.

John Dryden

Fascists always attack minorities,Which is an irony,'Cos fascists are a minority.

Harry Whitewolf

I can't think of a case where poems changed the world, but what they do is they change people's understanding of what's going on in the world.

Seamus Heaney

here’s a toast to Alan Turingborn in harsher, darker timeswho thought outside the containerand loved outside the linesand so the code-breaker was brokenand we’re sorryyes now the s-word has been spokenthe official conscience woken– very carefully scripted but at least it’s not encrypted –and the story does suggesta part 2 to the Turing Test:1. can machines behave like humans?2. can we?

Matt Harvey

The poem must resist the intelligenceAlmost successfully.

Wallace Stevens

loneliness can fly a helicopter through a cut-out shapeof a helicopter the same size as the helicopterand that's it's only skilland it isn't good enoughbut it's still amazing.

Tao Lin

Stain BoyOf all the super heroes,the strangest one by far,doesn't have a special power,or drive a fancy car.next to Superman and batman, I guess he must seem tame.But to me he is quite special,and Stain Boy is his name.He can't fly around tall buildings,or outrun a speeding train,the only talent he seems to haveis to leave a nasty stain.Sometimes I know it bothers him,that he can't run or swim or fly,and because of this one ability,his dry cleaning bill is sky-high.

Tim Burton

When I can feel you breathing into me i, like a stone gargoyleatop some crumbling building,spring to lifea resuscitated angel.

Saul Williams

You can tell it's a poem because it's swimming in a little gel pack of white space. That shows it's a poem.

Nicholson Baker

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

Wallace Stevens

What is the colour of Christmas?Red? The red of the toyshops on a dark winter’s afternoon,Of Father Christmas and the robin’s breast?Or green?Green of holly and spruce and mistletoe in the house, dark shadow of summer in leafless winter?One might plainly add a romance of white, fields of frost and snow;thus white, green, red- reducing the event to the level of a Chianti bottle. But many will say that the significant colour is gold, gold of fire and treasure, of light in the winter dark; and this gets closer, For the true colour of Christmas is Black.Black of winter, black of night, black of frost and of the east wind, black of dangerous shadows beyond the firelight.I am not sure who wrote this. I got it from page nine of “A Book of Christmas” by William Sansom. Google didn’t help. It is rather true I think, that the true color of Christmas is black. For like the author said in succeeding sentences “The table yellow with electric light, the fire by which stories are told, the bright spangle of the tree- they all blazé out of shadow and out of a darkness of winter

William Sansom

A song is the exultation of the mind dwelling on eternal things, bursting forth in the voice.

Thomas Aquinas

Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary,imperial joy and sorrow of human existence,the dreamed as well as the lived—what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?

Louise Glück

I had forgotten. Disgust shadows desire.Another life is never safely envied.

Robert Wells

I wouldn’t want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days!

Frank O'Hara

Air goes in and outof my nose, throat, lungs, blood, heartbrain - and so I am

Matthew Quick

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Poetry Quotes - Page 90

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