Quotes About Poem

Afterwards they lie for a long time in silence. There is nothing. Their poem is scattered about them. The days have fallen everywhere, they have collapsed like cards. The air has a chill in it. He pulls the covers up. She is so perfectly still she seems asleep. He touches her face. It is wet with tears.

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed in her white kimono, writing in a notebook with an ink pen she dipped in a bottle. 'Never let a man stay the night,' she told me. 'Dawn has a way of casting a pall on any night magic.' The night magic sounded lovely. Someday I would have lovers and write a poem after.

Neutrinos alone, among all the known particles, have ethereal properties that are striking and romantic enough both to have inspired a poem by John Updike and to have sent teams of scientists deep underground for 50 years to build huge science-fiction-like contraptions to unravel their mysteries.

No poem in the world could do my mom justice. Despite circumstance and adversity, she had an unwavering love for her kids and a faith-based, boundless capacity for forgiveness.

I always tell students that writing a poem and publishing it are two quite separate things, and you should write what you have to write, and if you're afraid it's going to upset someone, don't publish it.

A writer's work often reflects what he or she has been exposed to in life; experiences which are the groundwork of a poem or a story.

Let the storm have its will of man – but let storm and poem reach their end, I pray, each at the same time!

When Cynthia smiles, said young Bingo, the skies are blue; the world takes on a roseate hue; birds in the garden trill and sing, and Joy is king of everything, when Cynthia smiles. He coughed, changing gears. When Cynthia frowns - What the devil are you talking about? I'm reading you my poem. The one I wrote to Cynthia last night. I'll go on, shall I? No! No? No. I haven't had my tea.

When Emerson's poem BRAHMA appeared in the ATLANTIC MONTHLY in 1857, most the readers were bewildered. Emerson chuckled. "Tell them," he said, "to say 'Jehovah' instead of 'Brahma' and they will not feel any perplexity.

The tide was a poem that only time could create, and I watched it stream and brim and makes its steady dash homeward, to the ocean.

I've always felt a vague sense of guilt that I search for plunder and inspiration in every book or poem or story I pick up. Other people's books are treasures when stories emerge in molten ingots that a writer can shape to fit his or her own talents. Magical theft has always played an important part of my own writer's imagination.

Song of the Turtle" is a poem that dates back to the Ghanaian period: We lived in freedom Before man appeared: Our world was undisturbed, One day followed the other joyfully. Dissent was never heard. Then man broke into our forest, With cunning and belligerence. He pursued us With greed and envy: Our freedom vanished.

Inferno is the underworld as described in Dante Alighieri's epic poem The Divine Comedy, which portrays hell as an elaborately structured realm populated by entities known as "shades"—bodiless souls trapped between life and death.

I have just removed a dozen of my best men from Vatican City on the eve of conclave. And I have done this to stake out the Pantheon based on the testimony of some American I have never met who has just interpreted a four hundred-year-old poem.

Overnight, Dante's work solidified the abstract concept of hell into clear and terrifying vision - visceral, palpable, and unforgettable. Not surprisingly, following the poem's release, the Catholic Church enjoyed an enormous upstick in attendance from terrified sinners looking to avoid Dante's updated version of the underworld.

I retitled my poem The Hyperion Cantos. It was not about the planet but about the passing of the self-styled Titans called humans. It was about the unthinking hubris of a race which dared to murder its homeworld through sheer carelessness and then carried that dangerous arrogance to the stars...

The cybrid allows me to carry out my role in the datumplane community." "As poet?" Johnny smiled again. "More as poem," he said. "A poem?" "An ongoing work of art Ã¢â'¬Â¦ but not in the human sense. A puzzle perhaps. A variable enigma which occasionally offers unusual insights into more serious lines of analysis.

The poem celebrated love and loyalty but teetered on the brink of nihilism with its constant thread of corruption through love of power, human ambition and intellectual

in the prohibited Cantos. That poem had talked about empathy being the key to human spiritual evolution. The Church had corrected that, pointing out that obeying God's Will was the source of revelation and salvation.

When you think about it, the cause-effect begins to resemble some mad logic-loop by the data artist Carolus or perhaps a print by Escher: the Shrike had come into existence because of the incantatory powers of my poem but the poem could not have existed without the threat/presence of the Shrike as muse. Perhaps I was a bit mad in those days. In

It doesn't mean, she shrugged. It just is - like a poem.

The question stands and waits, to be asked and asked, never finally to be answered, which he believes affirms a kind of faith. The world is fitted together, is held in its place in the great sky, has held together so far, through the worst of human damage so far, and by no human's power to save or make or know. That he can sometimes fit a mere poem's parts together is his fallback position, a sign of his limits, his formal ignorance, his faith in the great coherence.

The poet thinks with his poem...

The province of the poem is the world. When the sun rises, it rises in the poem and when it sets darkness comes down and the poem is dark