All Quotes By Tag: Poetry

“The townspeople took the prince for deadWhen he never returned with the dragon’s headWhen with her, he stayedShe thought he’d be too afraidBut he loved her too much instead.”

“… imaginary gardens with real toads in them …… if you demand on one hand,the raw material of poetry inall its rawness andthat which is on the other handgenuine, then you are interested in poetry.”

“The Author To Her BookThou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,Who after birth did’st by my side remain,Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,Who thee abroad exposed to public view,Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).At thy return my blushing was not small,My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.I cast thee by as one unfit for light,The visage was so irksome in my sight,Yet being mine own, at length affection wouldThy blemishes amend, if so I could.I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.In better dress to trim thee was my mind,But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.In this array, ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.In critic’s hands, beware thou dost not come,And take thy way where yet thou art not known.If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;And for thy mother, she alas is poor,Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.”

“The way through the worldIs more difficult to find than the way beyond it.”

“I am waiting for the war to be fought which will make the world safe for anarchy”

“All a poet can do today is warn.”

“The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.”

“How you die out in me:down to the lastworn-out knot of breathyou’re there, with a splinter of life.”

“The Apache don’t have a word for love,” he said. “Know what they both say at the marriage? The squaw-taking ceremony?””Tell me.””Varlebena. It means forever. That’s all they say.”

“Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.”

“I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”-In the yellow time of pollen”

“during my worst timeson the park benchesin the jailsor living withwhoresI always had this certaincontentment-I wouldn’t call ithappiness-it was more of an innerbalancethat settled forwhatever was occuringand it helped in thefactoriesand when relationshipswent wrongwith thegirls.it helpedthrough thewars and thehangoversthe backalley fightsthehospitals.to awaken in a cheap roomin a strange city andpull up the shade-this was the craziest kind ofcontentmentand to walk across the floorto an old dresser with acracked mirror-see myself, ugly,grinning at it all.what matters most ishow well youwalk through thefire.”

“When wounds are healed by love,The scars are beautiful.”

“I tended to find lines of poetry beautiful only when I encountered them quoted in prose, in the essays my professors had assigned in college, where the line breaks were replaced with slashes, so that what was communicated was less a particular poem than the echo of poetic possibility. Insofar as I was interested in the arts, I was interested in the disconnect between my experience of actual artworks and the claims made on their behalf; the closest I’d come to having a profound experience of art was probably the experience of this distance, a profound experience of the absence of profundity.”

“Surprised by joy- impatient as the WindI turned to share the transport– Oh! with whomBut thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind–But how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss? — That thought’s returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;That neither present time, nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.”