Quotes About Poetry

Somewhere out there are people who still know her poems, who've hidden scraps of them away in the folds of their minds before setting match to the papers of their hands. He will find them. He will ask them what they remember. He will piece together their recollections, fragmentary and incomplete though they may be, mapping the holes of one against the solid patches of another. And in this way, piece by piece, he will set her back down on paper again.

Mac's Backs supplied him with well-worn copies of On the Road and Dharma Bums, the poems of Frank O'Hara and Rainer Maria Rilke and Pablo Neruda,

Lucille Clifton, Adrienne Rich, Ada Limón,

E scriverò per te, per il tuo ricordo straziante, pochi versi dolenti che tu non leggerai più. Ma a me staranno atroci, inchiodati nel cuore per sempre.»

Ald?rma,hepsi ayn? kap?ya ç?kar. Aram?zdaki aÅŸk hikayesi çarp?ç? olaylardan deÄŸil, en ince sezgilerle dolu iç yaÅŸant?lardan oluÅŸuyor. Åžiir de öyle olmal?. Ama dayan?lmaz bir ac? bu.

Rumahku dari unggun-timbun sajak Kaca jernih dari luar segala nampak Kulari dari gedong lebar halaman Aku tersesat tak dapat jalan Kemah kudirikan ketika senjakala Di pagi terbang entah ke mana Rumahku dari unggun-timbun sajak Di sini aku berbini dan beranak Rasanya lama lagi, tapi datangnya datang Aku tidak lagi meraih petang Biar berleleran kata manis madu Jika menagih yang satu.

This is how we were meant for each other. How we make our living. The lives of frustrated poets and imposters. This, too, how the love works and then doesn't: a mutual spectacle of imagination.

Two fundamental literary qualities: supernaturalism and irony.

When an exquisite poem brings one's eyes to the point of tears, those tears are not evidence of an excess of joy, they are witness far more to an exacerbated melancholy, a disposition of the nerves, a nature exiled among imperfect things, which would like to possess, without delay, a paradise revealed on this very same earth.

France is not poetic she even feels, in fact, a congenital horror of poetry. Among the writers who use verse, those whom she will always prefer are the most prosaic.

The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.

Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.

Always be a poet, even in prose.

When you say, "I fucked up," the action retains its meaning, its sordid origin, its obscenity, and its poetry. Poetry is quite compatible with obscenity.

There is such a thing as the poetry of a mistake, and when you say, "Mistakes were made," you deprive an action of its poetry, and you sound like a weasel.

Why would anyone write a poem in this wrecked world? And really, how could they? Massive doubt, failed love, shitty thoughts, empty spirit, a dead history compelling a transfixed vision, these are devastations that might overwhelm and silence anyone; and silence, for a poet, is a prison. It's where the descent hits bottom, it's where the poet either faces or does not face all the risks of failed comprehension.

The petals of their lips don't have the thorn of bodies. (Les pétales de leur lèvres N'ont pas l'épine des corps)

Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on Boxin' Day.

Oh! they're too beautiful to live, much too beautiful!

Poetry makes life what lights and music do the stage.

She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' sir.

Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!

Ah! poetry makes life what light and music do the stage—strip the one of the false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live or care for?

Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin' or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy.