All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“How can the bird that is born for joySit in a cage and sing?How can a child, when fears annoy,But droop his tender wing,And forget his youthful spring?”

“Again I see you, But me I don’t see!, The magical mirror in which I saw myself has been broken, And only a piece of me I see in each fatal fragment – Only a piece of you and me!…”

“I searched for my own heartand long after I had lost my wayin the days trailing past with their foliagein the aloof sky blue with distanceI thought I’d find my heartwhere I’d kept your eyes two brown butterfliesand I saw the swallows swoopand shadows starlings”

“The muffled syllables that Nature speaksFill us with deeper longing for her word; She hides a meaning that the spirit seeks,She makes a sweeter music than is heard.”

“All war is based in deception (cfr. Sun Tzu, “The Art of War”).Definition of deception: “The practice of deliberately making somebody believe things that are not true. An act, a trick or device entended to deceive somebody”.Thus, all war is based in metaphor.All war necessarily perfects itself in poetry.Poetry (since indefinable) is the sense of seduction.Therefore, all war is the storytelling of seduction, and seduction is the nature of war.”

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art–Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.”

“This is where I belong, burning in these flames. For everything I have done wrong, I know I am to blame.”

“I went down not long agoto the Mad River, under the willowsI knelt and drank from that crumpled flow, call itwhat madness you will, there’s a sicknessworse than the risk of death and that’sforgetting what we should never forget.Tecumseh lived here.The wounds of the pastare ignored, but hang onlike the litter that snags among the yellow branches,newspapers and plastic bags, after the rains.Where are the Shawnee now?Do you know? Or would you have to write to Washington, and even then,whatever they said,would you believe it? SometimesI would like to paint my body red and go intothe glittering snowto die.His name meant Shooting Star.From Mad River country north to the borderhe gathered the tribesand armed them one more time. He vowedto keep Ohio and it took himover twenty years to fail.After the bloody and final fighting, at Thames,it was over, excepthis body could not be found,and you can do whatever you want with that, sayhis people came in the black leaves of the nightand hauled him to a secret grave, or thathe turned into a little boy again, and leapedinto a birch canoe and wentrowing home down the rivers. Anywaythis much I’m sure of: if we meet him, we’ll know it,he will still beso angry.”

“seeing a woman cough today made me sense a vague fear of death”

“Just know I amNot there to catch youBut I am there for you”

“الشعر لم يكتب من أجل تحليله ودراسته ، بل من أجل أن يبعث الإلهام في النفوس دون سبب واضح ، و أن يلمس الوجدان دون فهم واع”

“In this universe there are no time machines or keys that can turn hearts back around.”

“I could not have climbed any mountains while looking from the ground… I would not have flown… or dived… or surfed… or swum… I am not a tourist nor a spectator… this is the life I have left, and I will not waste it like some rubber-neck”

“Un día habré dormido con un sueño tan largo que ni tus besos puedan avivar el letargo. Un día estaré sola, como está la montaña entre el largo desierto y la mar que la baña.”

“The campus, an academy of trees,under which some hand, the wind’s I guess,had scattered the pale lightof thousands of spring beauties,petals stained with pink veins;secret, blooming for themselves.We sat among them.Your long fingers, thin body,and long bones of improbable genius;some scattered gene as Kafka must have had.Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles.That simple that was myself, half conscious,as though each moment was a pagewhere words appeared; the bent hammer of the typestruck against the moving ribbon.The light air, the restless leaves;the ripple of time warped by our longing.There, as if we were paintedby some unknown impressionist.”