All Quotes By Tag: Poetry
“Does my soul sufferWhen my body breaks downWhen I feel mortalWhen my body is weakDoes the soul rejoiceThe end is near”
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“you rupturedthe love lakes of my longingand scattered the continents of my heart.”
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“If you ask a twenty-one-year-old poet whose poetry he likes, he might say, unblushing, “Nobody’s,” In his youth, he has not yet understood that poets like poetry, and novelists like novels; he himself likes only the role, the thought of himself in a hat.”
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“Let my toes teach the shore how to feel a tranquil lifethrough the wetness of sands Let my heart latch the doorof blackness, as all my pain now blue sky understands”
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“The books [poetry collections] may not sell, but neither are they given away or thrown away. They tend, more than other books, to fall apart in their owners’ hands. Not I suppose good news in a culture and economy built on obsolescence. But for a book to be loved this way and turned to this way for consolation and intense renewable excitement seems to me a marvel.”
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“You become a house where the wind blows straight through, because no one bothers the crack in the window or lock on the door, and you’re the house where people come and go as they please, because you’re simply too unimpressed to care. You let people in who you really shouldn’t let in, and you let them walk around for a while, use your bed and use your books, and await the day when they simply get bored and leave. You’re still not bothered, though you knew they shouldn’t have been let in in the first place, but still you just sit there, apathetic like a beggar in the desert.”
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“I remember yoursaying: “make itor break it.”neither happened anditwon’t.”
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“Fire is calling my name. It is whispering words of encouragement, sweet things. It wants out, for me to fan the heat until it’s a vortex that can’t and won’t be stopped.”
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“Without the wetness of your love, the fragrance of your water, or the trickling sounds of your voice I shall always feel thirsty.”
“What do they think has happened, the old fools,To make them like this? Do they somehow supposeIt’s more grown-up when your mouth hangs open and drools,And you keep on pissing yourself, and can’t rememberWho called this morning? Or that, if they only chose,They could alter things back to when they danced all night,Or went to their wedding, or sloped arms some September?Or do they fancy there’s really been no change,And they’ve always behaved as if they were crippled or tight,Or sat through days of thin continuous dreamingWatching the light move? If they don’t (and they can’t), it’s strange; Why aren’t they screaming?”
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“FRUITS AND NUTSKeep jumping around them like monkeys.The clones,Commercialized zombies,And the TV junkies.Keep throwing berries,Twigs,And nuts at them.Until they wake upTo see what’s up And figure out whyWe’re laughing at ’em.”
“A versifier passes through the sound; sounds go through a poet.”
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“Only one is a wanderer.And when she was sad, she’d go into the streets to be with people.”
“I don’t need the facts. I’m a Pisces.”
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