All Quotes By Tag: Poem

“BEWARE OF THOSEBeware of those who are bitter,For they will never allow youTo enjoy your fruit.Beware of those who criticize youWhen you deserve some praise for an achievement,For they secretly desire to be worshiped.Beware of those who are needy or stingy,For they would rather sting youThan give you anything.Beware of those who are always hungry.They will feed you to the wolvesJust to get paid.Beware of those who speak negativelyAbout everything and everybody.A negative person will never sayA positive thing about you.Beware of those who are boredAnd not passionate about life.They will bore you with reasons for not living.Beware of those who are too focused withPolishing and beautifying their outer shells.They lack true substance to understandThat genuine beauty is in the heartthat resides inside.Beware of those who step in the path of your dreams.They only dream to have the abilityTo take half your steps.Beware of those who steer you awayFrom your heart’s true happiness.It would make them happy to see youSteer yourself next to them,Sitting with both your hearts bitter.Those who are critical don’t like being criticized,And those who are insensitive have a deficiency in their senses.And finally,Beware of those who tell you to BEWARE.They are too aware of everything –And live alone, scared.BEWARE OF THOSE by Suzy Kassem”

“People drink democracy in a glass of teabut night falls, again.”

“The language of a river inscribesover eyes of moths and fliesthe navel of the land is a lake.”

“Sunrise, Grand Canyon We stand on the edge, the fallInto depth, the ascentOf light revelatory, the canyon walls movingUp out ofShadow, litColors of the layers cuttingDown through darkness, sunrise as itPasses aPrecipitate of the river, its burnt tangerineFlare brief, jaggedBleeding above the far rim for a splitSecond I have imaginedYou here with me, watching day’s onslaught Standing in your bones-they seemImplied in the record almostBy chance- fossil remains heldIn abundance in the walls, exposedBy freeze and thaw, beautiful like a theory statingWho we are isCarried forward by the xChromosome down the matrilineal lineRecessive and riverine, you likeMe aberrant and bittersweet…Riding the highColorado Plateau as the opposingContinental plates force it overA mile upward without buckling, smoothTensed, muscular fundament, your bonesYet to be wrapped around mine-This will come later, when I returnTo your place and time…The geologic cross section Of the canyonDroppingFrom where I stand, hundreds millions of shades of terra cotta, of copperManganese and rust, the many varieties of stone-Silt, sand, and slate, even “greenRiver rock…”my body voicing its immenseGenetic imperatives, human geology falling awayInto aDepth i am still unprepared forThe canyon cutting down to The great unconformity, a layer So named by the lack Of any fossil evidence to hypothesizeAbout and date suchA remote time by, at last no possibleRetrospective certainties…John Barton”

“I think maybe today a poem I hopeafter breakfast I start tryingpulling it out of my own gutmostly by force”

“Take a tram ride today.
Recognise a dear friend in everyone around. 
Speak kindly to yourself.
It is only your thoughts that bring you fear.
You’ve been through a lot. 
There is perfect peace in this moment.”

“You know that thingYou do so well,That little sparkYou hideIn the dark,That you thinkNobodyKnowsAboutButYou?Well,Did you knowThatThere’sA sheenThat you beam,When you talkOr doAnything,That everyoneKnowsAboutButYou?SOUL SHINE by Suzy KassemRISE UP AND SALUTE THE SUN, 2010”

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

“One of poetry’s great effects, through its emphasis upon feeling, association, music and image — things we recognize and respond to even before we understand why — is to guide us toward the part of ourselves so deeply buried that it borders upon the collective.”Staying Human: Poetry in the Age of Technology”

“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.”

“padamu senja aku tak bisa tuk tak jatuh cinta, meski padamu pun engkau menenggelamkannya”

“YOU ARE JUSTYou are not just for the right or left,but for what is right over the wrong.You are not just rich or poor,but always wealthy in the mind and heart.You are not perfect, but flawed.You are flawed, but you are just.You may just be conscious human,but you are also a magnificentreflection of God.”

“My heart’s been broken in a thousand pieces I’ve lived and died a thousand times And in each of those lifetimes With all of those pieces I chose you…A million times.”

“I’ll keep looking- till that watery reflection of mine in your eye, rolls down as a tear. I’ll keep looking till we finally look away like our lives never met. Let’s cheat destiny as if we never knew each other. Let’s do this last thing together.”

“I don’t write about you because you don’t deserve to be immortalised in my words.I’ll leave you to float around in my mind until forgetfulness comes to take you away.”