Quotes from Terri Guillemets

Photographs are wordless history.

You don't need a camera all the time — the soul, heart, eyes, spirit, and all your other senses capture moments beautifully too.

For some, pleasure is a fever they can't shake. For others, it's a disease they cannot seem to catch.

Two most important things in a writer's wallet: library card and poetic license.

Prose is too coarse, too heavy for romance — We need poetry for love & all things of chance.

A poet is too impatient for prose. He needs an expressway to his emotions.

When you unprose language, does it become poetry?

I eat bad poetry like a goat — and eat good poetry like a gourmand.

I am searching for my feelings through shelves of dusty books can't help but feel I've left them in some forgotten ancient nooks as if an author long before me captured my emotions in his day and saved them in fine poetry for future me to find someway

Writing poetry is letting go— once the words leave your pen they're out of your soul and the therapy has begun.

A poet cannot stop writing poems — an ink-stained soul compels his obsession.

Poets smoke nature and beauty and angst and exhale swirling plumes of poetry.

A poet can translate birdsong much more faithfully than the biologist ever could.

If a poet writes in gibberish, his soul yet understands.

Poetry is an inky soulprint.

Poetry treks through our souls and tells us in rhyme of the adventure.

Pressure cranks and presses Life, squeezing out essence of self, aromatic with bittersweet memories, pungent adversities, and the honey-musk of desire — vapors hover over our inkpots, and if we are willing and able to pick up the feather, it becomes our poetry.

A poet is a flaming phoenix — burnt up with each and every poem.

A poet is a storm with a pen — splattering swashes of ink across the sky in bursts of fervor with words on fire whirling tempest-emblazoned rhyme

A poet is inmate, and warden, to his own mind.

A poet is a lone wolf howling soul at impossible questions— Poetry is the answer.

A poem is a carefully gathered bucket of stars.

When winter gets deep into languishing hearts, poetry promises spring.

Winter surfaces in the poet by late summer, and spring is already in his inkpot with the first snow.