Quotes About Poetry

A friend came over to the house a few days ago and read one of my poems. He came back today and asked to read the same poem over again. After he finished reading it, he said, "It makes me want to write poetry."

Thirty days hath November,April, June, and September,February hath twenty-eight alone,And all the rest have thirty-one.

Poetry's always dead, you know? You don't realize how good poetry is until 15 years later.

Would you seek beauty, seek it underground; Would you find strength - the strong are underground; And would you next year seek my love and me, Who knows but you must seek us - underground?

So with Dr. Johnson and John Stuart Mill, and Spencer, and William Shakespeare, and Chaucer, and Milton, and John Bunyan, and others of that royal company of bards, thanks to my father and Mr. Gruffydd, I was acquainted, more than plenty of other boys, and thus had a lasting benefit in school.

a simple machine needing no fuel and little maintenance, one that steadily sequesters carbon, enriches the soil, cools the ground, scrubs the air, and scales easily to any size. A tech that copies itself and even drops food for free. A device so beautiful it's the stuff of poems.

Back in Brooklyn, a poet-nurse to the Union dying writes: A leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars.

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed how far these beauties hers exceed!

Finally, I think the heart space is often opened by "right brain" activities5 such as music, art, dance, nature, fasting, poetry, games, life-affirming sexuality, and, of course, the art of relationship itself.

It was a scary thought. A man could be surrounded by poetry reading and not know it.

A man could be surrounded by poetry readings and not know it.

I gotta say—Apollo broke the silence—these kids did okay. He cleared his throat and began to recite: Heroes win laurels — Um, yes, first class, Hermes interrupted, like he was anxious to avoid Apollo's poetry.

Curse us eh/I'll make you pay!/I don't want to rhyme all day!

Used to be goddy Now uptown feeling shoddy Bah, haiku don't rhyme

We hurtled through the sky like things that hurtle through the sky. The wind whipped my face. The snow blinded me. The cold was so bad it made me cold. Okay, yeah, the mead of poetry definitely wasn't working.

Ow, I muttered, because I was once the god of poetry and have great descriptive powers.

he inadvertently opened the door to a storeroom on the station and found it full of aircrew uniforms on hangers. He thought they must be replacement issue until he looked more closely and saw the brevets and stripes and ribbon medals and realized they had come off the bodies of the dead and injured. The empty uniforms would have provided a poetic image if he hadn't more or less relinquished poetry by then.

the bones of the church, its carcass and ribs, like medieval poetry—apse, chancel, nave, transept, clerestory, sacristy, misericord—

Was there a poet who hadn't written about skylarks?

Suddenly she wants to fall to her knees and pray for the poets. She imagines them with immaculate ravaged faces, with necklaces of ransacked moons, with teeth which are black stubs. Poets are collections of unused crescents and bandages, confused images and terrible departing.

She seemed to have apprehended all of the composer's coldness and none of his poetry.

And I have some poetry that I would like to recite to you in honor of the recent, um, transformations in your life." Tootie put a hand on her chest. "This is Rilke," she said. "'You, sent out beyond your recall, / go to the limits of your longing. / Embody me. / Flare up like flame / and make big shadows I can move in.

Those tears were jewels to crown the heart of any singer, and I shall never forget them.

Farfallina, bella e bianca, vola vola, mai si stanca, gira qua, e gira la- poi si resta sopra un fiore, e poi si resta sopra un fiore... Butterfly, beautiful and white, fly and fly, never get tired, turn here and turn there- she rests upon a flower... and she rests upon a flower.