Poem 967 Quotes

Pain - expands the Time - / Ages coil within / The minute Circumference / Of a single Brain - / Pain contracts - the Time - / Occupied with Shot / Gamuts of Eternities / Are as they were not - ~ Emily Dickinson

Darlin', you're nothing but Love in disguise, when you smile you can't hide it, it shines from your eyes. ~ Laura Jaworski

The first test any poem must pass is no longer, 'Is it true to nature?' but a criterion looking in a different direction: namely, 'Is it sincere? Is it genuine?' ~ M.H. Abrams

Please remind them that none of us have all the time we think we have in this troubled but still beautiful world. ~ Edwidge Danticat

Read thought-provoking books. Give long hugs. Grow your own vegetables. Help a neighbor grow theirs. Grind your own coffee. Take a walk in the sunshine. Talk to strangers. Ask questions. Look deeply into people's eyes. Listen. Listen some more. Go somewhere alone. Listen to your own soul. Make something beautiful. Make something messy. Write a letter. Write a poem. Go to the park. Play with your children. Ask them questions. Listen. Listen some more. Make your life beautiful. Plant flowers. Chase dreams. Smile. Cry. Laugh. Hope. Try. Fail. Try again. And again.
Peace and happiness come from you, not to you. Don't seek them. Create them.
And then help others to do the same.
You get one life. Live it well. ~ L.R. Knost

Travellers

We study to travel in life.
We study to travel in the light.

There is a large space of love for us.
There is a large space of death in the night.

We are travellers from world to world.
We are travellers from dream to dream.

We need a simple thing.
We need a space of beginning.

All the emotions of our trip
are the emotions of different lives.

We remind the travellers as dreams
which were made of an incredible light. ~ Ekaterina Yakovina

Our moments of inspiration are not lost though we have no particular poem to show for them; for those experiences have left an indelible impression, and we are ever and anon reminded of them. ~ Henry David Thoreau

Each piece of writing I undertake, whether a story, novel, play, or poem, begins with an image. ~ Norman Lock

Discouragement, fear, and depression -
three villains who lurk in the dark.
They slip inside souls with a blindfold and goals
to shatter your dreams and extinguish your spark.

Their tactics are highly effective.
They crush a great many each day.
And under their spell it is easy to dwell
On fiascoes and failures that end in dismay.

The heart and the mind are left heavy.
The last speck of will is erased.
And nothing stays on when these villains are gone
but a mouthful of bile with the bitterest taste.

Alas! You must conquer the scoundrels!
Elude, dodge, and keep them at bay!
To feel fear slink in, boring under your skin,
is a sign that his brothers are well on their way.

So reach for your weapons against them!
Take hope and hard work in each hand!
Strap faith on your hips and a prayer on your lips
and show those debasers how firmly you stand!

Discouragement, fear and depression -
the truth should be known of these cads.
They're empty and weak; it is your strength they seek.
Deny them and life is your wish in the bag. ~ Richelle E. Goodrich

Write the seventh version of a poem
you know you will never share; there are
some things you are not willing to admit yet. ~ Jared Singer

It was quite a sad thing,
the way I watched you sleep like nothing could go wrong and I did not want to harm it, I did not want to blur it, but how could I not
when everything I've ever known has slowly gone away. ~ Charlotte Eriksson

There are no words
that could describe
how loving of beloved feels.
Nor the joy of opening
arms into a hug. ~ Tatjana Ostojic

In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain
the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman's eyes.
You have used up the years and they have used up you,
and still, and still, you have not written the poem. ~ Jorge Luis Borges

The events of life have never fallen into the form of the short story or the form of the poem, or into any other form.Yourown consciousnessisthe only formyouneed. ~ William, Saroyan

Poetry, whatever the manifest content of the poem, is always a violation of the rationalism and morality of bourgeois society. ~ Octavio Paz

Four Years Since

Today I remember the day but to be honest it is everyday
That day then, the moment then, when you left us all here
More than just a father I call, a gem I treasure, that day I lost
We four girls, my mom's other half, my brothers best bud, our first love, we lost
Holding the key to the future called You, I stand still facing the gate of the past

Why I keep on asking the same question?
Why you? Why out of all those people? Why too soon? Why?
It has been years, 4 years exact, it seems like yesterday yes
You were taken too soon, words aren't enough to express
It's not fair, but who I am to blame, who Am I to question?

My eyes express longing you cannot fathom
From my open mouth my broken heart pours
Words that try to capture that image so faint
He is the picture I could not ever paint
Yet our memories is in the solid bowl being kept

Spare me even just 5 or 10 minutes of your presence
To build up this longing I feel, I am asking
I want to hear your nag; I want to hear your laugh
In my dreams please see me there
I won't get afraid nor get frightened

Like a waterfalls my tears keeps on flowing
Like a bubble your voice keeps on vanishing
He, his shadow, he himself starts from fading
I don't want to forget you please stop time from ticking
I don't want to open my eyes don't wake me from dreaming

You are t ~ Venancio Mary Ann

I've thought of the last line of some poems for years and tried them out, It wouldn't work because the last line was much too beautiful for the poem. ~ Howard Nemerov

If I were dead, I wouldn't be sad, and I wouldn't be glad, because I wouldn't be. ~ Marcus Sedgwick

For a creative person there's just as much pleasure in writing an eight-line poem as there is in writing a blockbuster play ... of the old '50s type. ~ Tennessee Williams

Hanged"
I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,
the point is I hanged myself today and I'm still
hanging.

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that
someone will come home and cut me down
but then I keep remembering that if I knew
someone like that I wouldn't be up here. Bit
ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read
somewhere that, like, anything funny is,
in some way, ironic. But I don't know if it's
funny or not. I don't think my brain owns
"funny", you know?

I feel taller. I like that.
I've never been away from my shadow for
this long. It had always clung to my feet,
parting momentarily for a quick dive into
the swimming pool. But never for five
hours. I like it. There's three feet of space
between my two and the floor.

I wanted something this morning. I may be
stuck. But at least I'm three feet closer to it. ~ Bo Burnham

The Butcher's Shop

The pigs are strung in rows, open-mouthed,
dignified in martyrs' deaths. They hang
stiff as Sunday manners, their porky heads
voting Tory all their lives, their blue rosettes
discarded now. The butcher smiles a meaty smile,
white apron stained with who knows what,
fingers fat as sausages. Smug, woolly cattle
and snowy sheep prance on tiles, grazing
on eternity, cute illustrations in a children's book.
What does the sheep say now?
Tacky sawdust clogs your shoes.
Little plastic hedges divide the trays of meat, playing farms.
playing farms. All the way home
your cold and soggy paper parcel bleeds. ~ Angela Topping

...Both a baby and a poem masquerade as something we've created, when we know that they arrive from somewhere beyond us, that they are gifts. ~ Beth Ann Fennelly

The poem is not, as someone put it, deflective of entry. But the real question is, 'What happens to the reader once he or she gets inside the poem?' That's the real question for me, is getting the reader into the poem and then taking the reader somewhere, because I think of poetry as a kind of form of travel writing. ~ Billy Collins

To Feel
The weight of death, the weight of fear,
the burden of stress, pain is here.
Never to know, never to guess.
Never to know, how much the mess
Do not show care,
do not feel joy,
do not have love,
life's not a toy
and yet we feel,
we have,
we show,
who knows ...
I do not know.
I do not know.
(2007) September 9 ~ Esther Earl

...thought with totality as its content has to be considered as an art form, like poetry, whose function is primarily to give rise to a new perception, and to action that is implicit in this perception, rather than to communicate reflective knowledge of "how everything is." This implies that there can no more be an ultimate form of such thought than there could be an ultimate poem (that would make all further poems unnecessary). ~ David Bohm

I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance. I can
eat as I go.
("Stepping Westward") ~ Denise Levertov

And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the green azure where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;
Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium
And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,
The bitter redness of love ferments! ~ Rimbaud Arthur

Afghan Girl

Ice blue eyes that look to the morning sky as I knit the pieces and remnants of my life. I have No books, no paper, no pencils, and no black boards. I look at the holes in my life as I see the hills of the Appalachians that echo. I think to myself, who will I marry? Is my life-like Pari?

These strings please come together.

Snowflakes give me hope, and my dreams dance all around me. I'll put another log on the fire. I watch the brown paper bag over the broken glass pane letting the cold wind in; I'll take some of these remnants and stuff it.

These strings are come together.

Mama told me that life would be hard. I bartered for flour the other day, and the chickens ain't laying no eggs. I struggle with life and these strings. My hands are worn and tired. Now, I have granny square hands.
I am unclean, unblemished, and finished,

Afghan girl. ~ Edna Stewart

The other Miller was different. Quieter. Sad, maybe, but at peace. He'd read a poem many years before called "The Death-Self," and he hadn't understood the term until now. A knot at the middle of his psyche was untying. All the energy he'd put into holding things together - Ceres, his marriage, his career, himself - was coming free. He'd shot and killed more men in the past day than in his whole career as a cop. He'd started - only started - to realize that he'd actually fallen in love with the object of his search after he knew for certain that he'd lost her. He'd seen unequivocally that the chaos he'd dedicated his life to holding at bay was stronger and wider and more powerful than he would ever be. No compromise he could make would be enough. His death-self was unfolding in him, and the dark blooming took no effort. It was a relief, a relaxation, a long, slow exhale after decades of holding it in. ~ James S.A. Corey

A beautiful bridge is a poem. ~ Tessa De Loo

Is there a sound? There is a forest.
What is the word? The word is wilderness.
What is the answer? The answer is the world.
What is the beginning? A beginning is happiness.
What is the end? No one lives there now.
What is a beginning? The beginning is light.

(poem "Trouble Deaf Heaven: Sonnet 29") ~ Bin Ramke

He really believes that to write a poem in praise of my mother (her eyes, her hair, her lips) and come by to read it aloud will soften her, make him welcome in his own house. ~ Ian McEwan

David Henderson's 1970 poem "Keep on Pushing," also analyzed the geographies of urban warfare in the Summer of 1964's Harlem Riots. Henderson warned of the crude mathematics of wide avenues that can swallow protest pickets, easily dismantle popular barricades, and muster five hundred cops in fifteen minutes, but he also suggests how, "For Harlem/ reinforcements come from the Bronx / just over the three-borough Bridge. / a shot a cry a rumor / can muster five hundred Negroes / from idle and strategic street corners / bars stoops hallways windows. ~ Anonymous