Quotes About Poetry

Correva verso il lago con un volo costante che non pareva corrispondere alla misura del passo umano

Does poetry - or language or philosophy or music or architecture, even that of our temples - really need to dance to the same tune as our political beliefs or our religious convictions? Is the strict harmony of our cultural identities a virtue to be valued above others that may come from the accommodation of contradictions?

imaginary gardens with real toads in them ... ... if you demand on one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Let's do it on the antimacassar, on the antimacassar -from Twenty Five Haiku

What is gentlest in love is love's violence. Losing yourself in love, you reach love's goal. Love makes you suffer, as love makes you whole. Love steals your everything and makes you rich. Love is both meaningless and poetry. Captured by love, by love you are set free.

feeling that old thrill of dread and compulsion, he knew circumstances had once again put him too close to a fragile thing. He said, Look at the life we live, Della. I have to sneak over here in the dark just to steal a few words with you. Is that language, or is it noise? She said, It's noise that you have to do it, and language that you do it, anyway. She said softly, Maybe poetry.

La cultura puede ser experimento y reflexión, pensamiento y sueño, pasión y poesía y una revisión crítica constante y profunda de todas las certidumbres, convicciones, teorías y creencias. Pero ella no puede apartarse de la vida real, de la vida verdadera, de la vida vivida, que no es nunca la de los lugares comunes, la del artificio, el sofisma y el juego, sin riesgo

Making love to Aurelia was like rummaging through a card catalog in a deserted library, searching for one very obscure, little-read entry on Hungarian poetry.

Wir sind alle Anthologien. Wir sind Tausende von Seiten lang, voller Märchen und Poesie, Geheimnisse und Tragödien und vergessener Geschichten ganz am Ende, die nie jemand lesen wird.

There are those fortunate hours when the world consents to be made into a poem.

Poetry scares her, with its glimpses of the abyss between the slats of the swaying bridge.

Rome was not meant to move, but to be beautiful. The wind was supposed to be the fastest thing here, and the trees, bending and swaying, to slow it down. Now

Writing beautifully—calligraphy—was China's first graphic art form. Although elsewhere in the world people drew first and learned to write later, in China, the reverse was true. First you learned to write beautifully, and then you painted. After mastering those twin skills, you could move on to writing poetry, but many chose to remain just calligraphers, a highly appreciated art form in China. Another

If we can read it silently, it is not a valid poem: a poem demands pronunciation.

The Bible has noble poetry in it... and some good morals and a wealth of obscenity, and upwards of a thousand lies.

Bad poetry is almost always bad because it attempts to claim for itself the real power of whatever it describes in ten lines: a sky full of stars, first love, or Niagara Falls.

She burned for two hours without changing, without bending or leaning—only glowing within, like a building fire glimpsed through silhouetted walls, like a hollow saint, like a flame faced virgin gone to God, while I read by her light, kindled, while Rimbaud in Paris burned out his brains in a thousand poems, while night pooled wetly at my feet.

The potential biographies of those who die young possess the mystic dignity of a headless statue, the poetry of enigmatic passages in an unfinished or mutilated manuscript, unburdened with contrived or banal endings.

I sometimes think you despise poetry,' said Phineas. 'When it is false I do. The difficulty is to know when it is false and when it is true.

Here would be a rock! And such a handsome man as he was, too, — not exactly a Corsair, as he was great in authority over the London police, — but a powerful, fine fellow, who would know what to do with swords and pistols as well as any Corsair; — and one, too, no doubt, who would understand poetry! Any such dream, however, was altogether unavailing, as the major had a wife at home and seven children.

In poetry, she was familiar with names as late as Dryden, and had once been seduced into reading "The Rape of the Lock;

While she was at the deanery there sprung up a renewed friendship between her and Lizzie. It was, indeed, chiefly a one-sided friendship; for Lucy, who was quick and unconsciously capable of reading that book to which we alluded in a previous chapter, was somewhat afraid of the rich widow. And when Lizzie talked to her of their old childish days, and quoted poetry, and spoke of things romantic, — as she was much given to do, — Lucy felt that the metal did not ring true.

She did like reading, and especially the reading of poetry, — though even in this she was false and pretentious, skipping, pretending to have read, lying about books, and making up her market of literature for outside admiration at the easiest possible cost of trouble

She read on and on, enraptured. She could not understand half, but it excited her oddly, like words in a foreign language sung to a beautiful air. She followed the poem vaguely as she followed the Latin in her missal, guessing, inventing meanings for herself, intoxicated by the mere rush of words. And yet she felt she did understand, not with her eyes or her brain, but with some faculty she did not even know she possessed.