All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“Love In AutumnI sought among the drifting leaves, The golden leaves that once were green, To see if Love were hiding there And peeping out between.For thro’ the silver showers of May And thro’ the summer’s heavy heat, In vain I sought his golden head And light, fast-flying feet.Perhaps when all the world is bare And cruel winter holds the land, The Love that finds no place to hide Will run and catch my hand.I shall not care to have him then, I shall be bitter and a-cold — It grows too late for frolicking When all the world is old.Then little hiding Love, come forth, Come forth before the autumn goes, And let us seek thro’ ruined paths The garden’s last red rose.”

“Stardust
If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you. Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you. Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and I.
When we leave this world, we give up all our possessions and our memories. Love is the only thing we take with us. It is all we carry from one life to the next.”

“WINTER’S GHOST:Autumn moonincautious in the dark riverWinter’s ghost walkswith a covered faceand silver bones wait in all animalsto be bone cloth upon her shoulderwait for her happiness in that they are silver”

“The day breaks not: it is my heart.”

“Matched with an aged wife, I mete and doleUnequal laws unto a savage race,That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.”

“Now is History as fast as the mind remembers.”

“If the incision of our words amounts to nothing but a feeling, a slow motion, it will still cut a better swath than the factory model, the corporate model, the penitentiary model, which by my lights are one and the same.”

“Up the airy mountain,Down the rushy glen,We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men.”

“I breathe in…the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.”

“i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated….foreverin my mother’s arms.”

“I care for you, darling, I love you,the only reason I fucked L. is because you fuckedZ. and then I fucked R. and you fucked N.and because you fucked N. I had to fuckY. But I think of you constantly, I feel youhere in my belly like a baby, love I’d call it,no matter what happens I’d call it love, and soyou fucked C. and then before I could moveyou fucked W., so I had to fuck D. ButI want you to know that I love you, I think of youconstantly, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anybodylike I love you.”

“All that we call sacred history attests that the birth of a poet is the principal event in chronology.”

“Poetry is a will to put things right, an imaginary solution, a way of avoiding a catastrophe that already happened. Poetry is an escape, perhaps intelligent, perhaps idiotic, from a senile situation. It is a dialectical movement, it keeps tearing open the wounds while trying to heal them. Here we see the only acceptable path open up towards an existence worthy of human beings. Here the seriousness is unfaltering and absolute. Where it will lead no one knows.”

“The novel is a formidable mass, and it is so amorphous – no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of literature – irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among them.”

“I believe that to be the world’s greatest livingwriterthere must be somethingterribly wrong with you.I don’t even want to be the world’s greatestdead writer.just being dead would be fairenough.”