All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“poems open doors;that don’t even exist.”

“كان يشعر بالوحشةوحشة من يموت الليلةكأن جماعة من الموتى أو الملائكةينتظرونه كي يأخذوه معهمحيث لا رجعة أبدامرات عدة أفلت النوم منهوظل قلبه يحوم بأرجاء البيتكعصفور أضاع سبيله ليدخل غرفة بالصدفة”

“To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape. And my feelings, at the end of that wretched term, were those of a man who knows he’s in a cage, exposed to the jeers of all his old ambitions until he dies.”

“I would like The Discovery of Poetry to be a field guide to the natural pleasures of language – a happiness we were born to have.”

“…much of poetry in the making is the fiddle with a few items. You lay a word against another and wait. You try another word. And another. Yet another. You wait. You begin again. Listening. Looking. For the elusive inevitable thing which has to arrive before it is recognised. And, like Odysseus, may not be recognised at first.”

“A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.”

“Here they have no time for the fine gracesof poetry, unless it freely growsin deep compulsion, like water in the well,woven into the texture of the soilin a strong pattern.”

“Poetry purrs like a kitten on the tip of our tongue. Each word fluidly floating from our lips, like little crystalline snowflakes, before settling onto an emotional wonderland of forgotten feelings. It has the power to pull our deepest emotions to the surface of consciousness and to serenade our soul with the haunting melody of a self, lost… and finally found.”

“the glory of the protagonist is always paid for by a lot of secondary characters”

“Man is no star, but a quick coalOf mortal fire:Who blows it not, nor doth controlA faint desire,”

“The computer is incredibly fast, accurate, and stupid.Man is unbelievably slow, inaccurate, and brilliant.The marriage of the two is a force beyond calculation.”

“As when, O lady mine,With chiselled touchThe stone unhewn and coldBecomes a living mould,The more the marble wastes,The more the statue grows.”

“Still must the poet as of old,In barren attic bleak and cold,Starve, freeze, and fashion verses toSuch things as flowers and song and you;Still as of old his being giveIn Beauty’s name, while she may live,Beauty that may not die as longAs there are flowers and you and song.”

“Where were you then?Who else was there?Saying what?Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?”

“An orphan’s curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.”