Poets Quotes - Page 8

I breathe in... The sights and smells Of this city I’ve come to know... So well I gaze... Across the turquoise ocean Where the waves Liberate my spirit... From its shell I breathe in... The brilliant sky line Where the birds Emerge shyly From the dappled sunshine I breathe in... The gently... Blowing winds That soothe me Like a mother, around her child I breathe in... The sounds of laughter Pure and pretty Like the golden-green butterfly I’m always after I breathe in... The closeness, I have always shared With people, Who almost knew me, Almost cared I breathe in... The comfort Of my home, The safe walls, The scents of childhood On the pillows I breathe in...the silence Of my own heart Aching with tenderness... With memories.. Of home I breathe... in... The fragrance Of love, and moist sand The one... His roses left... On both my hands And I just keep on breathing Every moment As much as I can Preserving it, in my body For the day It can’t So I breathe in.. Once again.. Feeling life's energy Fizzing through my cells Never knowing What awaits me Or what's going to happen to me.. Next I breathe in This moment... Knowing it's either life Or it's death I close my eyes, And breathe in Just believing in myself.

Sanober Khan

We hold on to poetry because it lights a fire in our soul and keeps our bodies warm.

Sanober Khan

If I began to drawmyself away from youwe’d still be liketwo mixed colors of paintimpossible to separate.

Sanober Khan

May our twilights mix togetherlike breath and breathlessness.

Sanober Khan

a single poemthe thing that can keep melight on my feet,when my soul isheavy with sorrow.

Sanober Khan

The Child Christ lives on from generation to generation in the poets, very often the frailest of men but men whose frailty is redeemed by a child's unworldliness, by a child's delight in loveliness, by the spirit of wonder.Christ was a poet, and all through His life the Child remains perfect in Him. It was the poet, the unworldly poet, who was King of the invisible kingdom; the priests and rulers could not understand that. The poets understand it, and they, too, are kings of the invisible kingdom, vassal kings of the Lord of Love, and their crowns are crowns of thorns indeed.

Caryll Houselander

Poets, you always write about women worth dying for. Write, for a change, something about the ones worth living for!

Ljupka Cvetanova

Cities get built out of poet's dreams.

Marty Rubin

You write poems with your fingertipsAnd I keep listening to the songs written on my skinBy some distant dream, similar wordsBut the verses never meet...

Sanhita Baruah

A big desire is not enough to meet the expectations of lost dreams.

Dejan Stojanovic

Two forces create eternity – a fairy tale and a dream from the fairy tale.

Dejan Stojanovic

But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?

H.P. Lovecraft

Battle for the sake of honor may be a fine thing for bards to sing of, but it is no way to preserve one's homeland

Jacqueline Carey

Pose your questions to people and you will get countless useless answers.

Dejan Stojanovic

As I read you I fell in love with the holes between your words and I loved you most on the days you could not love yourself.

Jenim Dibie

I loved you for a thousand years and missed you in all of them.

Christina Strigas

We have conversations with each other most nights - Sylvia Plath and me!

Avijeet Das

He did not waste time in a vain search for a place in history.

Dejan Stojanovic

Without space, there is no time.

Dejan Stojanovic

Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.

Dejan Stojanovic

In this storyI am the poetYou're the poetry.

Arzum Uzun

Traps!" he said. "Never in the world! Don't think it! Why, Gower is just a necessary olf bore. Nobody's supposed to know much about him--except instructors and their hapless students.

Henry Blake Fuller

You mark and celebrate errors, transforming failures into successes.

Dejan Stojanovic

Omnipotence and omniscience are the end of power and knowledge.

Dejan Stojanovic

You don’t know anything, but I know even less.

Dejan Stojanovic

Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.

Plato

There can be no forced inspiration.

Dejan Stojanovic

The poet is much more the one who inspires,than the one who is inspired.

Paul Éluard

GIVING - Applied tithing is so rewarding. When you give away your time, talent, and treasures you create a huge shift in your prosperity consciousness. So start where you are as you reach for where it is you want to be.

Lisa Washington

I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled [poets] to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.

Socrates

If we were to understand how important it is to say something and say it well, maybe we wouldn’t write a single word, but that would be tragic.

Dejan Stojanovic

I wanted to write the most beautiful poem but that is impossible the world has written its own.

Dejan Stojanovic

The poet or the revolutionary is there to articulate the necessity, but until the people themselves apprehend it, nothing can happen ... Perhaps it can't be done without the poet, but it certainly can't be done without the people. The poet and the people get on generally very badly, and yet they need each other. The poet knows it sooner than the people do. The people usually know it after the poet is dead; but that's all right. The point is to get your work done, and your work is to change the world.

James Baldwin

You are the hybrids of golden worlds and ages splendidly conceived.

Aberjhani

Behold yon rough and flinty roadWhere youth, now youth no more,Gropes whining, seeking crumbs of loavesHe cast away of yore.

Emma Ghent Curtis

When he was in college, a famous poet made a useful distinction for him. He had drunk enough in the poet's company to be compelled to describe to him a poem he was thinking of. It would be a monologue of sorts, the self-contemplation of a student on a summer afternoon who is reading Euphues. The poem itself would be a subtle series of euphuisms, translating the heat, the day, the student's concerns, into symmetrical posies; translating even his contempt and boredom with that famously foolish book into a euphuism.The poet nodded his big head in a sympathetic, rhythmic way as this was explained to him, then told him that there are two kinds of poems. There is the kind you write; there is the kind you talk about in bars. Both kinds have value and both are poems; but it's fatal to confuse them.In the Seventh Saint, many years later, it had struck him that the difference between himself and Shakespeare wasn't talent - not especially - but nerve. The capacity not to be frightened by his largest and most potent conceptions, to simply (simply!) sit down and execute them. The dreadful lassitude he felt when something really large and multifarious came suddenly clear to him, something Lear-sized yet sonnet-precise. If only they didn't rush on him whole, all at once, massive and perfect, leaving him frightened and nerveless at the prospect of articulating them word by scene by page. He would try to believe they were of the kind told in bars, not the kind to be written, though there was no way to be sure of this except to attempt the writing; he would raise a finger (the novelist in the bar mirror raising the obverse finger) and push forward his change. Wailing like a neglected ghost, the vast notion would beat its wings into the void.Sometimes it would pursue him for days and years as he fled desperately. Sometimes he would turn to face it, and do battle. Once, twice, he had been victorious, objectively at least. Out of an immense concatenation of feeling, thought, word, transcendent meaning had come his first novel, a slim, pageant of a book, tombstone for his slain conception. A publisher had taken it, gingerly; had slipped it quietly into the deep pool of spring releases, where it sank without a ripple, and where he supposes it lies still, its calm Bodoni gone long since green. A second, just as slim but more lurid, nightmarish even, about imaginary murders in an imaginary exotic locale, had been sold for a movie, though the movie had never been made. He felt guilt for the producer's failure (which perhaps the producer didn't feel), having known the book could not be filmed; he had made a large sum, enough to finance years of this kind of thing, on a book whose first printing was largely returned.

John Crowley

A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.

Aberjhani

Writing poetry is supernatural. Or, it should be.

Katerina Stoykova-Klemer

We are all poets, really.

Walter Lowenfels

Be a poet in action as well as in words.

Marty Rubin

I never have time to write anymore. And when I do I only write about how I never have time. It's work and it's money and I've written more lists than songs lately. I stay up all night to do all these things I need to do, be all these things I want to be, playing with shadows in the darkness that shouldn't be able to exist. Empty bottles and cigarettes while watching the sunrise, why do I complain? I have it all, everything I ever asked for.

Charlotte Eriksson

The Throes of Poetry - Hymns formed from groans of acquaintance, its rhythm weaving between tranquility, compassions, and peril - like bare feet stomping on broken glass - bleeds, recoils, then steps again.

Traci Lea LaRussa

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

Sanober Khan

the next time you hear someone in a workshop remarking on how good a particular free-verse line or passage sounds, scan it. The odds are that it will fall into a regular metrical pattern.

Annie Finch

. . .criticism is to poetry as air is to a noise: it allows it to be heard; and even if we can't see it or feel it, it is there, shaping how we hear.

Annie Finch

. . . poetry, like all imaginative creations, divines the human enterprise. This is poetry's social value.

Major Jackson

I recall that now and I recall everything for what do we have but the past to parent us?

Kathleen Driskell

The birth of a true poet is neither an insignificant event nor an easy delivery. Complications generally begin long before the fated soul carries its dubious light into whatever womb has been kind enough to volunteer the intricate machinery of its blood and prayers and muscles for a gestation period much longer than nine months or even nine years.

Aberjhani

A true poet is one who can appreciate the disciplines and structures of any and all styles of poetry.

David J. Delaney

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffrings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. People corwd around the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much to say, "May new sufferings torment your soul.

Søren Kierkegaard

Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

Karen Tei Yamashita

I am talking about the responsibility of the poet, who is irresponsible by definition, an anarchist enamored of a solar order and never of the new order or whatever slogan makes five or six hundred million men march in step in a parody of order.

Julio Cortázar

There’s no money in poetry, but there’s no poetry in money, either

Robert Graves

I suppose I'm saying that defiance is actually part of the lyric job

Seamus Heaney

… the fisherman’s daughter grinding serenity in her coffee grinder.

Yiannis Ritsos

Thirsty for being, the poet ceaselessly reaches out to reality, seeking with the indefatigable harpoon of the poem a reality that is always better hidden, more re(g)al. The poem’s power is as an instrument of possession but at the same time, ineffably, it expresses the desire for possession, like a net that fishes by itself, a hook that is also the desire of the fish. To be a poet is to desire and, at the same time, to obtain, in the exact shape of the desire.

Julio Cortázar

This dream the world is having about itselfincludes a trace on the plains of the Oregon trail,a groove in the grass my father showed us allone day while meadowlarks were trying to tellsomething better about to happen.

William Stafford

It is ferocious, life, but it must eat . . .

Lucia Perillo

August is dust here. Droughtstuns the road,but juice gathers in the berries.

Robert Hass

no poet can know what his poem is going to be like until he has written it.

W.H. Auden

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Poets Quotes - Page 8

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