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and discussion search Home My Books Groups Recommendations genres listopia giveaways popular goodreads voice ebooks fun trivia quizzes quotes community creative writing people events Explore quote Quotes About Poetry Quotes tagged as "poetry" (showing 1,441-1,470 of 3,000) Jeffrey McDaniel I used to think love was two people sucking on the same straw to see whose thirst was stronger, but then I whiffed the crushed walnuts of your nape, traced jackals in the snow-covered tombstones of your teeth. I used to think love was a non-stop saxophone solo in the lungs, till I hung with you like a pair of sneakers from a phone line, and you promised to always smell the rose in my kerosene. I used to think love was terminal pelvic ballet, till you let me jog beside while you pedaled all over hell on the menstrual bicycle, your tongue ripping through my prairie like a tornado of paper cuts. I used to think love was an old man smashing a mirror over his knee, till you helped me carry the barbell of my spirit back up the stairs after my car pirouetted in the desert. You are my history book. I used to not believe in fairy tales till I played the dunce in sheep s clothing and felt how perfectly your foot fit in the glass slipper of my ass. But then duty wrapped its phone cord around my ankle and yanked me across the continent.

And now there are three thousand miles between the u and s in esophagus. And being without you is like standing at a cement-filled wall with a roll of Yugoslavian nickels and making a wish. Some days I miss you so much I d jump off the roof of your office building just to catch a glimpse of you on the way down. I wish we could trade left eyeballs, so we could always see what the other sees. But you re here, I m there, and we have only words, a nightly phone call - one chance to mix feelings into syllables and pour into the receiver, hope they don t disassemble in that calculus of wire. And lately - with this whole war thing - the language machine supporting it - I feel betrayed by the alphabet, like they re injecting strychnine into my vowels, infecting my consonants, naming attack helicopters after shattered Indian tribes: Apache, Blackhawk; and West Bank colonizers are settlers, so Sharon is Davey Crockett, and Arafat: Geronimo, and it s the Wild West all over again. And I imagine Picasso looking in a mirror, decorating his face in war paint, washing his brushes in venom. And I think of Jenin in all that rubble, and I feel like a Cyclops with two eyes, like an anorexic with three mouths, like a scuba diver in quicksand, like a shark with plastic vampire teeth, like I m the executioner s fingernail trying to reason with the hand. And I don t know how to speak love when the heart is a busted cup filling with spit and paste, and the only sexual fantasy I have is busting into the Pentagon with a bazooka-sized pen and blowing open the minds of generals. And I comfort myself with the thought that we ll name our first child Jenin, and her middle name will be Terezin, and we ll teach her how to glow in the dark, and how to swallow firecrackers, and to never neglect the first straw; because no one ever talks about the first straw, it s always the last straw that gets all the attention, but by then it s way too late. ? Jeffrey McDaniel tags: poetry, the-first-straw 31 likes Like Anne Sexton Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run ar ound, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It s as thou gh I could fly. ? Anne Sexton

tags: poetry, writing 23 likes Like ????? ????? ???? ????? ?? ???? ?? ?????? ? ????? ?????, my words my dreams ?????? ?????? tags: micropoetry, poetry 21 likes Like Edmond Rostand ...But...to sing, to dream, to smile, to walk, to be alone, be free, with a voice that stirs and an eye that still can see! To cock your hat to one side, when you please at a yes, a no, to fight, or- make poetry! To work without a thought of fame or fortune, on that journey, that you dream of, to the moon! Never to write a line that's not your own... ? Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac tags: inspirational, poetry, writers-quotes 19 likes Like Vincent Starrett Here dwell together still two men of note/ Who never lived and so can never die:/ How very near they seem, yet how remote/ That age before the world went all awr y./ But still the game s afoot for those with ears/ Attuned to catch the distant v iew-halloo:/ England is England yet, for all our fears / Only those things the hea rt believes are true./ A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane/ As night descen ds upon this fabled street:/ A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,/ The gho stly gas lamps fail at twenty feet./ Here, though the world explode, these two s urvive,/ And it is always eighteen ninety-five. ? Vincent Starrett tags: 221b, fangirling, history, holmes, love, poetry, sherlock, watson 19 likes Like Ted Kooser a happy birthday this evening, I sat by an open window and read till the light was gone and the book was no more than a part of the darkness. I could easily have switched on a lamp, but I wanted to ride the day down into night, to sit alone, and smooth the unreadable page with the pale gray ghost of my hand ? Ted Kooser tags: birthday, poetry, reading 17 likes Like Dante Alighieri Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state, perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and here were every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams--the nectar of which poets sing. ? Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy tags: garden-of-eden, poetry 16 likes Like Edna St. Vincent Millay The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief or grief has drained me clean;

Still it seems a pity No one saw, it must have been Very pretty. ? Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Selected Poetry tags: grief, poetry 14 likes Like Jeffrey McDaniel Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice the ring that s landed on your fin ger, a massive insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt in your voice under a blanket and said there s two kinds of women those you write poems about and those you don t. It s true. I never brought you a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed. My idea of courtship was tapping Jane s Addiction lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M., whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked within the confines of my character, cast as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side. We don t have a past so much as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power never put to good use. What we had together makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught one another like colds, and desire was merely a symptom that could be treated with soup and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now, I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy, as if I invented it, but I m still not immune to your waterfall scent, still haven t developed antibodies for your smile. I don t know how long regret existed before humans stuck a word on it. I don t know how many paper towels it would take to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light of a candle being blown out travels faster than the luminescence of one that s just been lit, but I do know that all our huffing and puffing into each other s ears as if the brain was a trick birthday candle didn t make the silence any easier to navigate. I m sorry all the kisses I scrawled on your neck were written in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you so hard one of your legs would pop out of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you d press your face against the porthole of my submarine. I m sorry this poem has taken thirteen years to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding off the shoulder blade s precipice and joyriding

over flesh, we d put our hands away like chocolate to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy of each other s eyelashes, translated a paragraph from the volumes of what couldn t be said. ? Jeffrey McDaniel tags: poetry 14 likes Like Dylan Thomas This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than p ity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compre ssed. ? Dylan Thomas tags: obscurity, pain, poetry, suffering 13 likes Like Ted Hughes ...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up lab oriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch i t, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words lo ok after themselves, like magic. ? Ted Hughes, Poetry in the Making: An Anthology tags: poem, poetry, writing 12 likes Like Mark Strand Those hours given over to basking in the glow of an imagined future, of being carried away in streams of promise by a love or a passion so strong that one felt altered forever and convinced that even the smallest particle of the surrounding world was charged with purpose of impossible grandeur; ah, yes, and one would look up into the trees and be thrilled by the windloosened river of pale, gold foliage cascading down and by the high, melodious singing of countless birds; those moments, so many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies in the perfumed heat of summer night. ? Mark Strand, Almost Invisible: Poems tags: life, nostalgia, poetry, regret 11 likes Like Jeffrey McDaniel If you heard your lover scream in the next room and you ran in and saw his pinkie on the floor, in a small puddle of blood. You wouldn't rush to the pinkie and say, 'Darling, are you OK? ' No, you'd wrap your arms around his shoulders and worry about the pinkie later. The same holds true if you heard the scream, ran in and saw his hand or -god forbid- his whole arm. But suppose you hear your lover scream in the next room, and you run in and his head is on the floor next to his body. Which do you rush to and comfort first? ? Jeffrey McDaniel tags: death, hunting-for-cherubs, poetry 11 likes Like You cannot devote your life to an abstraction. Indeed, life shatters all abstract ions in one way or another, including words such as "faith" or "belief". If God is not in the very fabric of existence for you, if you do not find Him (or miss Him!) in the details of your daily life, then religion is just one more way to c ommit spiritual suicide. ? Christian Wiman, Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet tags: christianity, poetry, religion 11 likes Like Alexandra Lanc

My heart is strong, I will not fail, I won't be wronged, I will prevail. ? Alexandra Lanc, Lyrics of the Heart tags: inspirational, lyrics-of-the-heart, novellas, poetry, real-life, real-life -struggle, ya-fiction 11 likes Like ??? ????? ???? ?? ????? ?? ????? ?? ????? ?? ???? ??? ????? ?????? ??? ???? ?? ??????? ????? ??????? ??? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ??? ?? ??????/ ?????? ??? ???? ???? ? ??? ????? ????, ?????? ?????? tags: poetry 11 likes Like Jacques Prvert Remember Barbara It rained all day on Brest that day And you walked smiling Flushed enraptured streaming-wet In the rain Remember Barbara It rained all day on Brest that day And I ran into you in Siam Street You were smiling And I smiled too Remember Barbara You whom I didn't know You who didn't know me Remember Remember that day still Don't forget A man was taking cover on a porch And he cried your name Barbara And you ran to him in the rain Streaming-wet enraptured flushed And you threw yourself in his arms Remember that Barbara And don't be mad if I speak familiarly I speak familiarly to everyone I love Even if I've seen them only once I speak familiarly to all who are in love Even if I don't know them Remember Barbara Don't forget That good and happy rain On your happy face On that happy town That rain upon the sea Upon the arsenal Upon the Ushant boat Oh Barbara What shitstupidity the war Now what's become of you Under this iron rain Of fire and steel and blood And he who held you in his arms Amorously Is he dead and gone or still so much alive

Oh Barbara It's rained all day on Brest today As it was raining before But it isn't the same anymore And everything is wrecked It's a rain of mourning terrible and desolate Nor is it still a storm Of iron and steel and blood But simply clouds That die like dogs Dogs that disappear In the downpour drowning Brest And float away to rot A long way off A long long way from Brest Of which there's nothing left. ? Jacques Prvert tags: barbara, english, jacques, poetry, prevert 10 likes Like Jeffrey McDaniel We didn t deny the obvious, but we didn t entirely accept it either. I mean, we said hello to it each morning in the foyer. We patted its little head as it made a mess in the backyard, but we never nurtured it. Many nights the obvious showed up at our bedroom door, in its pajamas, unable to sleep, in need of a hug, and we just stared at it like an Armenian, or even worse hid beneath the covers and pretended not to hear its tiny sobs. ? Jeffrey McDaniel tags: poetry 10 likes Like Jeanette Winterson I wasn t reading poetry because my aim was to work my way through English Literatur e in Prose A Z. But this was different. I read [in, Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot]: This is one moment, / But kn ow that another / Shall pierce you with a sudden painful joy. I started to cry. ( )The unfamiliar and beautiful play made things bearable that day, and the things it made bearable were another failed family the first one was not my fault, but a ll adopted children blame themselves. The second failure was definitely my fault . I was confused about sex and sexuality, and upset about the straightforward prac tical problems of where to live, what to eat, and how to do my A levels. I had no one to help me, but the T.S. Eliot helped me. So when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated mi ddle classes, or that it shouldn t be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange and stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty ea sy. A tough life needs a tough language and that is what poetry is. That is what l iterature offers a language powerful enough to say how it is.

It isn t a hiding place. It is a finding place. ? Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? tags: books, poetry, power-of-words, reading 9 likes Like Adam Zagajewski Read for yourselves, read for the sake of your inspiration, for the sweet turmoil in your lovely head. But also read against yourselves, read for questioning and impotence, for despair and erudition, read the dry sardonic remarks of cynical philosophers like Cioran or even Carl Schmitt, read newspapers, read those who d espise, dismiss or simply ignore poetry and try to understand why they do it. Re ad your enemies, read those who reinforce your sense of what's evolving in poetr y, and also read those whose darkness or malice or madness or greatness you can' t understand because only in this way will you grow, outlive yourself, and becom e what you are. ? Adam Zagajewski, A Defense of Ardor: Essays tags: literature, poetry, reading 9 likes Like Anne Carson Prowling the meanings of a word, prowling the history of a person, no use expecti ng a flood of light. Human words have no main switch. But all those little kidna ps in the dark. And then the luminous, big, shivering, discandied, unrepentant, barking web of them that hangs in your mind when you turn back to the page you w ere trying to translate... ? Anne Carson, Nox tags: poetry, translation, words 9 likes Like Jeffrey McDaniel I surrendered my identity in your eyes. Now I'm just like everybody else, and it's so funny, the way monogamy is funny, the way someone falling down in the street is funny. I entered a revolving door and emerged as a human being. When you think of me is my face electronically blurred? I remember your collarbone, forming the tiniest satellite dish in the universe, your smile as the place where parallel lines inevitably crossed. Now dinosaurs freeze to death on your shoulder. I remember your eyes: fifty attack dogs on a single leash, how I once held the soft audience of your hand. I've been ignored by prettier women than you, but none who carried the heavy pitchers of silence so far, without spilling a drop. ? Jeffrey McDaniel tags: poetry 8 likes Like Mahmoud Darwish I see what I want of Love... I see horses making the meadow dance, fifty guitars sighing, and a swarm of bees suckling the wild berries, and I close my eyes unti l I see our shadow behind this dispossessed place... I see what I want of people: their desire to long for anything, their lateness i n getting to work and their hurry to return to their folk... and their need to s ay: Good Morning... ? Mahmoud Darwish, If I Were Another: Poems tags: poetry, poetry-quotes 8 likes Like

Raegan Butcher anyone who has no feelings for animals has a dead heart. ? Raegan Butcher, Rusty String Quartet tags: animals-love, poems, poetry, prison 7 likes Like ??? ????? ???? ??????? ????? ??????? ??????" ????? ??? ?????? ????? ?? ???? ??????? ???????? ??????? ? ??? ????? ????, ?????? ?????? tags: poetry 7 likes Like Kevin Walker Hate flows from a broken spirit. ? Kevin Walker, These Moments Pass: Poems tags: hate, life, poetry 6 likes Like be awake to the Life that is loving you and sing your prayer, laugh your prayer, dance your prayer, run and weep and sweat your prayer, sleep your prayer, eat your prayer, paint, sculpt, hammer, and read your prayer, sweep, dig, rake, drive and hoe your prayer, garden and farm and build and clean your prayer, wash, iron, vacuum, sew, embroider and pickle your prayer, compute, touch, bend and fold but never delete or mutilate your prayer. Learn and play your prayer, work and rest your prayer, fast and feast your prayer, argue, talk, whisper, listen and shout your prayer, groan and moan and spit and sneeze your prayer, swim and hunt and cook your prayer, digest and become your prayer, release and recover your prayer, breathe your prayer, be your prayer ? Alla Renee Bozarth tags: poetry, prayer, praying, spirituality 4 likes Like Wallace Stevens A poem is a meteor. ? Wallace Stevens tags: poem, poetry, poets, wallace-stevens 4 likes Like Kevin Walker No matter the disappointment, you simply cannot divorce your favorite team. ? Kevin Walker, These Moments Pass: Poems tags: poetry, sports, team 4 likes Like Oscar Wilde The mimicry of passion is the most intolerable of all poses. ? Oscar Wilde, Reviews tags: affectations, algernon-charles-swinburne, literary-criticism, mimicry, pas sion, poetry, poseurs, pretension 3 likes Like previous 1 2 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 99 100 next All Quotes | My Quotes | Add A Quote

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