All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“Poetry led me by the hand out of madness.”

“I want to unfold.I don’t want to be folded anywhere,because where I am folded,there I am a lie.”

“Zero HoldingI grow to like the baretrees and the snow, the bones and furof winter. Even the greynessof the nunneries, they are so grey,walled all around with grey stones—and the snow piled up on ledgesof wall and sill, those greyplanes for holding snow: this is howit will be, months now, all so still,sunk in itself, only the cold alive,vibrant, like a wire—and all thebusy chimneys—their ghost-breath,a rumour of lives warmed within,rising, rising, and blowing away.”

“I am not soft. I do not have that luxury. I am the wolf in girl’s clothing; all snarls and claws. My mother once told me: be gentle, be kind. She forgot to mention that the world was full of beasts, and if I wanted to survive I would have to become one myself.”

“Humans have the ability to rewrite history. Within a few decades it is not even questioned. Stories of the past become as real as the world you walk through today. Wars are waged over false history. Sins are denied. All for mankind to move forward and feel comfortable about its past. Your true history is written in the stars. Look up, breathe in, and be humbled by the ones who came before you. The ones who have suffered, who have endured, who have overcome. Their blood is alive in you. Their spirits roam freely in the heavens above.”

“It is warmer here. Can you see the light? Trust it. It is safe. It has lived a long time. It has seen much more than you. You fight a demon that you once knew but the demon is already slain. And from the corner of your eye you will see the scattered, sacred fire reform again. Settle, settle. Peace, peace”

“The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.”

“More than nakedness,for there is no cover to take.The fire in your eyesis ringed with water; wide and cool.We are far from the brutal place,but you do not think so.You take my hand and disappear like you were never there, except that I am now somewhere else.”

“ЖЕНАТА МАРИЯС диви круши и резенче хляб във торбататя пристигна – хвърли в ръцете ми шалаи прошепна: “Аз съм Мария… Аз съм женатана всички мъже и на мъртвите даже.”Завъртя като перка главата ми, скри се в чаршафа -аз припаднах до двете й връхчета тънки…И притиснати в тъмното като дини пращяхме,докато не напука гърба си старото слънце.Но напразно горя мойта свещ и напразно се стичаот окото на чайника топлото мляко -както в праха на игрите се губи детето и тича,така се изгуби и тя подир бялата пара на влака.С диви круши и резенче хляб във торбататя сега е при друг и навярно се готви да каже:”Аз пристигнах… Аз съм Мария – женатана всички мъже и на мъртвите даже…”Но угасва накрая фитила и тя ще стане съпругана някой човечец ревнив и със злато назъбен.Ще виси на ръката му и ще мъкне живота му глупав,окован със токи, с вратовръзки увързан.А преди да умре, ще излезе отвън и ще лъснеобувките прашни – за смъртта ще се стяга.После ще литне към облака подир ятото гъски,без да помаха дори на човека, останал на прага.С диви круши и резенче хляб във торбататя ще спре на небето и ще викне към райската стража:”Аз пристигнах… Аз съм Мария – женатана всички мъже и на мъртвите даже.”

“No jewels, save my eyes, do I own, but I have a rose which is even softer than my rosy lips. And a quiet youth said: ‘There is nothing softer than your heart.’ And I lowered my gaze…”

“You ask my love completest,As strong next year as now,The devil take you, sweetest,Ere I make aught such vow.Life is a masque that changes,A fig for constancy!No love at all were better,Than love which is not free.”

“Walk a bit further. There is a different land not far away. The people in it have the magic to break the icy fingers of the great death.I heard that you don’t even have to pay.However, you have to find their door.It is only found by those who pay the other price.”

“[…] but she cannot make him eat, like you.”

“Does my soul sufferWhen my body breaks downWhen I feel mortalWhen my body is weakDoes the soul rejoiceThe end is near”

“you rupturedthe love lakes of my longingand scattered the continents of my heart.”