Quotes About Poetry

And patience flees my heart, And reason flees my mind. Oh, how drunk can I get to be, Without your love's security?

I think I love humor in poetry, but not that slapstick cheap easy humor, but that uncomfortable, "did she say that out loud?" kind of humor.

You've got to love libraries. You've got to love books. You've got to love poetry. You've got to love everything about literature. Then, you can pick the one thing you love most and write about it.

We've given up making a living, its all this crazy love poetry now!

Reading some poetry early in the morning is a habit—I read it before I start to work. Whenever people say, Nobody reads poetry anymore, I think, Well, I do." —

The Judas grace (composed, they say, by Christopher Whitrid himself) is noted for its length and for the excellence of its Latinity.

Here commenced a scene of horrors," the dramatist Friedrich von Schiller later wrote, "for which history has no language, poetry no pencil.

Fairy tales are experienced by their hearers and readers, not as realistic, but as symbolic poetry.

Allen Ginsberg instructs: First thought, best thought. Oh, to have my every spontaneous thought count as poetry! No draft after draft like a draft horse. Clayton Eshleman, laughing, said, 'First thought best thought' is not 'First word best word ' Ginsberg does rewrite. I'm sure he does.

I know that I myself have felt that prickling of the scalp that Emily Dickinson tells us is the sign of recognition before a true poem.

We have to make myths of our lives; it is the only way to live them without despair. ...The inner world, the world of poetry, is as much nourished by the bad times as by anything.

It was a painful week, swung between doubt and hope. I knew that tension well. It is just the same before I begin to write a book or a poem. It is the tension of being on the brink of a major commitment, and not being quite sure whether one has it in one to carry it through - the stage where the impossible almost exactly balances the possible, and a thistledown may shift the scales one way or another.

One thing is certain, and I have always known it—the joys of my life have nothing to do with age. They do not change. Flowers, the morning and evening light, music, poetry, silence, the goldfinches darting about …

I had found one of the places on earth where any sensitive being feels exposed to powerful invisible forces and himself suddenly naked and attacked on every side by air, light, space - all that brings the soul close to the surface. There the poems flowed out.

Poetry puts starch in your backbone so you can stand, so you can compose your life.

I had read a Tale of Two Cities and found it up to my standards as a romantic novel. She opened the first page and I heard poetry for the first time in my life...her voice slid in and curved down trough and over the words. She was nearly singing.

Soft you day, be velvet soft, My true love approaches, Look you bright, you dusty sun, Array your golden coaches. Soft you wind, be soft as silk My true love is speaking. Hold you birds, your silver throats, His golden voice I'm seeking. Come you death, in haste, do come My shroud of black be weaving, Quiet my heart, be deathly quiet, My true love is leaving.

Poetry is music for the human voice. Until you actually speak it or someone speaks it, it has not come into its own.

A Conceit Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry. Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love. For me Give me your hand.

Soft you day, be velvet soft, My true love approaches, Look you bright, you dusty sun, Array your golden coaches. Soft you wind, be soft as silk, My true love is speaking. Hold you birds, your silver throats, His golden voice I'm seeking. Come you death, in haste, do come, My shroud of black be weaving, Quiet my heart, be deathly quiet, My true love is leaving.

Of falling leaves and melting snows, of birds In their delights Some poets sing their melodies tendering my nights sweetly.

I realized Michael was right. I mean, I am always writing in this journal. And I do compose a lot of poetry, and write a lot of notes and emails and stuff. I mean, I feel like I am always writing. I do it so much, I never even thought about it as a talent. It's just something I do all the time, like breathing.

You were young," Rainey said. "Of course you expected to escape. That kind of luck can convince you you're immortal." Caitlin touched her right arm, where the tattoo read, the whole sky. Rainey didn't know about its meaning to her. It was a line from Rita Dove's poem "Dawn Revisited." The whole sky is yours to write on, blown open

It's not that he lacked poetry. But his poetry was of the body, not the mind. He spoke it in the way he moved, the way he held a hammer, rowed a boat, built a fire. I, on the other hand, was like a brain in a box, a beating heart in a coal scuttle.