Quotes About Poetry

Tennyson shall have his day, and Donne his eclipse.

That discourse one might call the poetry of transgression is also knowledge. He who transgresses not only breaks a rule. He goes somewhere that the others are not; and he knows something the others don't know.

Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.

The chaos of the mind cannot constitute a reply to the providence of the universe. All it can be is an awakening in the night, where all that can be heard is anguished poetry let loose.

If poetry introduces the strange, it does so by means of the familiar. The poetic is the familiar dissolving into the strange, and ourselves with it. It never dispossesses us entirely, for the words, the images (once dissolved) are charged with emotions already experienced, attached to objects which link them to the known.

La poesía no es un conocimiento de sí, y menos aún la experiencia de un lejano posible (de lo que anteriormente no existía) sino la simple evocación con palabras de posibilidades inaccesibles.

Poetry reveals a power of the unknown. But the unknown is only an insignificant void if it is not the object of a desire. Poetry is a middle term, it conceals the known within the unknown: it is the unknown painted in blinding colors, in the image of a sun.

only poetry, exempt from all practical applications, permits one to have at its disposal, to a certain extent, the brilliance and suffocation that Marquis de Sade tried so indecently to provoke.` Georges Bataille, Visions of Excess. Selected Writings 1927-1939, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 2004, p. 93

only poetry, exempt from all practical applications, permits one to have at its disposal, to a certain extent, the brilliance and suffocation that Marquis de Sade tried so indecently to provoke.

I approach poetry: but only to miss it.

A poet doesn't justify-he doesn't accept-nature completely. True poetry is outside laws. But poetry ultimately accepts poetry.

Poetry removes one from the night and the day at the same time. It can neither bring into question nor bring into action this world that bids me.

I will not listen to your verse on an empty stomach! declared the Vicomte. You have no soul, said Philippe sadly. But I have a stomach, and it cries aloud for sustenance. I weep for you, said Philip. Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?

Cecilia could have told him that Mr. Fawnhope's intrepidity sprang more from a sublime unconsciousness of the risk of infection than from any deliberate heroism; but since she was not in the habit of discussing her lover with her brother he continued in a happy state of ignorance, himself too practical a man to comprehend the density of the veil in which a poet could wrap himself.

It's my belief, Kit, the woman's touched in her upper works.' 'No, she is merely addicted to poetry,' explained Kitty.

My heart aches for you! But don't despair! I am persuaded you will come about! Recollect what the poet says! I'm not sure which poet, but very likely it was Shakespeare, because it generally is, though why I can't imagine!

It is dreadfully tedious to be obliged to listen to poetry, even when it has been composed in one's honour. But in another– oh, Kit, you won't understand, but to be three- and- forty, and still be able to attach foolish boys, is such a comfort!

Well, I've never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I *did* write about you I shouldn't call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose--one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent! said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme. Nonsense! she said briskly. You would be very much more likely to call me a plum partridge, or a Spanish fritter!

Well, I've never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I *did* write about you I shouldn't call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose--one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent! said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme. Nonsense! she said briskly. You would be very much more likely to call me a plump partridge, or a Spanish fritter!

Quill was full of glories ineffable. Feelings scrabbled about in him like a mouse inside an owl.

Experience is the basis of poetry. ?Art is a language, therefore, a social function ?Music comes from the heart and should reach the heart again ?Experience is the basis of poetry. ?Art is a language, therefore, a social function

A cool red rose and a pink cut pink, a collapse and a sold hole, a little less hot. - Red roses.

I wish to remain to remember that stanzas go on

SUSIE ASADO Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea. Susie Asado. Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea. Susie Asado. Susie Asado which is a told tray sure. A lean on the shoe this means slips slips hers.