Poetry And Pearls Quotes

If I love you then I will turn you into poetry. ~ N.R. Hart

Now all that is left of education for me, Is to read and write your name, Those blank pages invite me evermore, To fill them over and over, With your memories that ever grows… ~ Piyush Rohankar

Note, to-day, an instructive, curious spectacle and conflict. Science, (twin, in its fields, of Democracy in its) - Science, testing absolutely all thoughts, all works, has already burst well upon the world - a sun, mounting, most illuminating, most glorious - surely never again to set. But against it, deeply entrench'd, holding possession, yet remains, (not only through the churches and schools, but by imaginative literature, and unregenerate poetry,) the fossil theology of the mythic-materialistic, superstitious, untaught and credulous, fable-loving, primitive ages of humanity. ~ Walt Whitman

Why is it called tierra and not tierro? Why is it round, like two breasts sewn together, like the two halves of an orange - a naranja - or the belly of a pregnant woman, and has never had any phallic tendencies, even while it was first forming? Why do we say naturaleza, in the feminine, and not naturalezo? Why did the old poets prefer to write la mar and not el mar, the way most people do today? Why is it la noche, night, la madrugada, dawn, la soledad, solitude, la ternura, tenderness, la felicidad, happiness, la luz, light, la luna, the moon, las constelaciones, the constellations, la voz, a person's voice, las caricias, caresses, las flores, flowers, la melancolía, melancholy? Why would it seem that the really poetic words are in the feminine? But that's nonsense. Mentira, lie, is feminine, and that's not so poetic. And there are lots of poetic words that are masculine: el cielo, the sky, el alba, another word for dawn, el misterio, mystery, el desea, desire, el parto, childbirth, el bien, good as opposed to evil. And speaking of evil, that's masculine in gender, el mal, and so is power, el poder. Although we shouldn't forget el querer, loving, a word that belongs to the strategy of desire. And also has a little bit of goodness in it. Bondad, goodness, is a very pretty word, and very feminine - it's conjugated in the feminine. On the other hand, muerte, death, which is feminine, no matter how she gets herself up to look attractive and profound, could she ever seduce anyone ~ Zoé Valdés

Not to make too much of a claim for poetry, but this is a question that goes to the moral heart of the business of any art: 'How do you see the world, and what right do you have to see the world in the way that you do?' ~ Robert Hass

Sam was saying it didn't matter, but it kind of did, too.
"Save your kraut poetry for Grace," I said, after a pause. "You're getting your weird all over me."
"I'm serious," Sam said. ~ Maggie Stiefvater

It is no use thinking that writing of poems – the actual writing – can accommodate itself to a social setting, even the most sympathetic social setting of a workshop composed of friends. It cannot. The work improves there and often the will to work gets valuable nourishment and ideas. But, for good reasons, the poem requires of the writer not society or instruction, but a patch of profound and unbroken solitude. ~ Mary Oliver

Those who say we should dismantle the role of Poet Laureate altogether, the trick they miss is that being called this thing, with the weight of tradition behind it, and with the association of the Royal family, does allow you to have conversations and to open doors, and wallets, for the good of poetry in a way that nothing else would allow. ~ Andrew Motion

I hate and I love. And if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two. ~ Catullus

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn't know I loved sparks
I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return ~ Nâzım Hikmet Ran

The rain always reminds me of our kisses. ~ Avijeet Das

lovely lion,
with your claws twelve inches long,
won't you sink your teeth
into the back of my neck once more?

won't you parade me around,
march me to and fro,
showing me all there is to know,
and telling me i am your sweetest pet?

lovely hawk,
with your talons made of lonsdaleite,
won't you pluck me
from the earth once more?

won't you soar into the sky,
with me in your clutches,
at blinding speeds,
showing me all i deserve to see,
and telling me i am your only darling?

is this not love
dear lion, dear hawk?
shall i forever wait
in the savannah,
in the meadow,
where you tossed me aside,
longing to be picked up again? ~ Kara Petrovic

And everything I thought I knew - you made me trade it all for you...but, frankly, you're not worth it. ~ Phar West Nagle

Poetry helps deliver messages. Poetry is an art; play with the words, the rhymes and your emotions. Experiment; discover yourself. This is exactly what I expect from you. Be creative, let the words guide you, never hold back, write as it comes, and edit later. ~ Jude Ouvrard

Before the game, he [Vin Scully] waxed poetic about Wrigley Field:
She stands alone at the corner of Clark and Addison, this dowager queen, dressed in basic black and pearls, seventy-five years old, proud head held high and not a hair out of place, awaiting yet another date with destiny, another time for Mr. Right. She dreams as old ladies will of men gone long ago. Joe Tinker. Johnny Evers. Frank Chance. And of those of recent vintage like her man Ernie. And the Lion [Leo Durocher]. And Sweet Billy Williams. And she thinks wistfully of what might have been, and the pain is still fresh and new, and her eyes fill, her lips tremble, and she shakes her head ever so slightly. And then she sighs, pulls her shawl tightly around her frail shoulders, and thinks, This time, this time it will be better. ~ George F. Will

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The great artificer made my mate. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson

The poet dreams of the mountain
Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.
I want to climb some old gray mountains, slowly, taking
The rest of my lifetime to do it, resting often, sleeping
Under the pines or, above them, on the unclothed rocks.
I want to see how many stars are still in the sky
That we have smothered for years now, a century at least.
I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,
And peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.
All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!
How silent the trees, their poetry being of themselves only.
I want to take slow steps, and think appropriate thoughts.
In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall. ~ Mary Oliver

I know my breasts, small
as plums, would win no blue ribbons.
But in your hands they tremble and fill
with song like plump, white birds. ~ Cecilia Llompart

Lermontov became a soldier, escaping from her grandmother and her troublesome love. He exchanged the pen, which is the key to one's soul, for a pistol, which is the key to the gates of the world. ~ Milan Kundera

Shelby looked over to see Andrew silently mouthing syllables to himself, as if he were part of an ecstatic rite. He grinned as he bit fricatives and tongued plosives. He was tasting English origins, mulling over words ripped from bronze-smelling hoards. Words that had slept beneath centuries of dust and small rain, sharp and bright as scale mail. Poetry had never moved her quite so much as drama. She loved the shock of colloquy, the beat and treble of words doing what they had to on stage. Andrew preferred the echo of poems buried alive. ~ Bailey Cunningham

I owe my discovery of the Hot Club of Cowtown to Kinky Friedman, leader of the Texas Jewboys. When I saw that Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys were headlining the 2003 Santa Clarita Cowboy Poetry and Music Festival, I thought it my duty to check out the band that had inspired the Texas Jewboys. ~ Clive Sinclair

SOUL SHINE


You know that thing
You do so well,
That little spark
You hide
In the dark,
That you think
Nobody
Knows
About

But
You?

Well,
Did you know
That
There's
A sheen
That you beam,
When you talk
Or do
Anything,
That everyone
Knows
About

But
You? ~ Suzy Kassem

Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there. ~ John Clare

Pension Love songs in old age have an edge to them like dry leaves. The tree we planted shakes in the wind of time. Our thoughts are birds that sit in the boughs and remember; we call them down to the remains of poetry. We sit opposite one another at table, parrying our sharp looks with our blunt smiles. 1977 ~ R.S. Thomas

The more serious poetry of the race has a philosophical structure of thought. It contains beliefs and conceptions in regard to the nature of man and the universe, God and the soul, fate and providence, suffering, evil and destiny. Great poetry always has, like the higher religion, a metaphysical content. It deals with the same august issues, experiences and conceptions as metaphysics or first philosophy. ~ Joseph Alexander Leighton

Give all your pearls, and the swine will make a pearl necklace, then run off. Don't show all your glory. ~ Anthony Liccione

Did you know that it's not mathematically impossible for two snowflakes to be identical? They're made up of a quintillion molecules that can form in various geometries, so it's just highly improbable."

"A quintillion?"

"Picture a one and then add eighteen zeros." She shrugs and I don't think she pictures it. Which is too bad because the image of a quintillion looks just like a line of poetry. "The point is it's totally possible. Unlikely, of course. The chances are like one in a gazillion. Which is not an actual number but an exaggerative placeholder, but you get my point. It's possible. ~ Julie Buxbaum

I wrote some of the worst poetry west from the Mississippi River, but I wrote. And I finally sometimes got it right. ~ Maya Angelou

HEADMASTER: I was a geographer. I went to Hull.
IRWIN: Oh. Larkin.
HEADMASTER: Everybody says that. 'Hull? Oh, Larkin.' I don't know about the poetry ... as I say, I was a geographer ... but as a librarian he was pitiless. The Himmler of the Accessions Desk. And now, we're told, women in droves.
Art. They get away with murder. ~ Alan Bennett

you said,
"your bones belong in museums"
i said,
"when you kiss me,
fireworks electrocute my spine"
my mother is dying and doesn't play piano anymore,
i tell my mailman about how he should try pecan pie,
when at the supermarket, i always forget about eggs,

i've started collecting paintings,
i go to little art shows all around New York City
and introduce myself as "Rose"
when strange boys stare at my lips, i kiss
them,
i chew poetry and forget to leave tips,
i order wine and leave flowers at graveyards
that don't have any,
when my father calls, i do not answer

everything you say reminds me of brown tangerines,
i want to spill this poem inside of you

i work as a stewardess and the first thing they
teach you is how to respond when someone asks
you to take off your underwear

i wish i could say "sure thing fella, let me wrap it
around your throat until you turn purple"

but instead it's "if there's anything else, please let me
know"

and so when you called, the only thing i could say was
if there's anything else,
please let me
know ~ Irynka

Most lyric poetry is about love, whether yearned after, fulfilled, or wistfully regretted; what isn't tends to consist of laments and cris du coeur over this, that, and the other. ~ Michael Dirda

I pull the veil aside
and step through its portals
dreams rush to meet me. ~ Sun Ra

The Type

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else. -Richard Siken

If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at,
you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands.

Or windows.
Or mirrors.

Let them see what a woman looks like.
They may not have ever seen one before.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch,
you can let them touch you.

Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for.
Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman.

But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian.
Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack.

You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat.
You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses.

If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold,
you can let them hold you.

All day they practice keeping their bodies upright--
even after all this evolving, it still feels unnatural, still strains the muscles,

holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn
what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you,

admit they do not have the answers
they thought they would have by now;

some men will want to hold you like The Answer.
You are not The Answer.

You are not the problem. You are no ~ Sarah Kay

Torture?" Primrose's tone was thoughtful. "Cold tea?" "German poetry." Percy reached to a shelf and offered up an unpleasantly fat leather-bound volume. Rue was arrested. "There's such a thing as German poetry?" Primrose nodded seriously. "Yes. Save yourself. ~ Gail Carriger

Brahma and Airavata
Long ago in lands of golden sand
Brahma turned to Saraswati
and gently kissed her inked hand ... ~ Muse

Personality is that which is most intimate to me - that by which I must act out my life. It is that by which I belong to man, that by which I amable to reach after God; and He has given to me this pearl of great price. It is an immortal treasure; it is mine, it is His, and no man shall pluck it out of His hand. ~ Hugh Reginald Haweis

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration. ~ William Wordsworth

This is the frost coming out of the ground; this is Spring. It precedes the green and flowery spring, as mythology precedes regular poetry. I ~ Henry David Thoreau

Root yourself in this earth
and it will root itself in you. ~ Sheniz Janmohamed

I'd park myself in the bookstore and read with one eye on everyone coming in. I remember reading a Robert Bly book of poetry. ~ Sally Mann

Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits. ~ Carl Sandburg

She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. ~ William Shakespeare