All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“Soul receives from soul that knowledge, therefore not by book nor from tongue. If knowledge of mysteries come after emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.”

“and I ask myself and you, which of our visions will claim uswhich will we claimhow will we go on livinghow will we touch, what will we knowwhat will we say to each other.”

“What makes us leave what we love best?What is it inside us that keeps erasing itselfWhen we need it most,That sends us into uncertainty for its own sakeAnd holds us flush there until we begin to love itAnd have to begin again?What is it within our own lives we decline to liveWhenever we find it, making our days unendurable,And nights almost visionless?I still don’t know yet, but I do it.”

“REQUIEMUnder the wide and starry skyDig the grave and let me lie:Glad did I live and gladly die,And I laid me down with a will.This be the verse you grave for me:Here he lies where he long’d to be;Home is the sailor, home from the sea,And the hunter home from the hill.”

“Writing poetry is a passion, ignited by thoughts, fueled by ink. A way to travel through another mind, where souvenirs of tears are tucked away inside your soul. Or leave you with smiles for miles, depending on which route you go.”

“You’re speaking volumes, my friend, and tonight we’re doing short poems only.”

“The library is dangerous—Don’t go in. If you doYou know what will happen.It’s like a pet store or a bakery—Every single time you’ll come out of thereHolding something in your arms.Those novels with their big eyes.And those no-nonsense, all muscleGreyhounds and Dobermans,All non-fiction and business,Cuddly when they’re young,But then the first page is turned.The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,The aroma of coffee being madeIn all those books, something for everyone,The deli offerings of civilization itself.The library is the book of books,Its concrete and wood and glass coversKeeping within them the very big,Very long story of everything.The library is dangerous, fullOf answers. If you go inside,You may not come outThe same person who went in.”

“Tears upon the dry sponge of heartdo not prove I am Promethean.”

“Amor é um fogo que arde sem se ver, é ferida que dói, e não se sente; é um contentamento descontente, é dor que desatina sem doer.É um não querer mais que bem querer; é um andar solitário entre a gente; é nunca contentar se de contente; é um cuidar que ganha em se perder.É querer estar preso por vontade; é servir a quem vence, o vencedor; é ter com quem nos mata, lealdade.Mas como causar pode seu favor nos corações humanos amizade, se tão contrário a si é o mesmo Amor?”

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race.”

“Loving someone who hates themselvesis a special kind of violence.A fight inside the bones.A war within the blood.”

“Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.”

“Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not. Forced feeding leads to excessive thinness (effete). Nobody should experience anything they don’t need to, if they don’t need poetry bully for them. I like the movies too. And after all, only Whitman and Crane and Williams, of the American poets, are better than the movies.”

“You have to imaginea waiting that is not impatientbecause it is timeless.”

“A pine tree standeth lonelyIn the North on an upland bare;It standeth whitely shroudedWith snow, and sleepeth there.It dreameth of a Palm treeWhich far in the East alone,In the mournful silence standethOn its ridge of burning stone.”