Quotes About Poetry

Pressure cranks and presses Life, squeezing out essence of self, aromatic with bittersweet memories, pungent adversities, and the honey-musk of desire — vapors hover over our inkpots, and if we are willing and able to pick up the feather, it becomes our poetry.

A poet is a lone wolf howling soul at impossible questions— Poetry is the answer.

Poetry is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.

A poem is a carefully gathered bucket of stars.

Nathless I'll drive me to thy deepest sweet, Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beat From me to thee, for oft these pollens be Fine dust from wars that poets wage for thee. But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shine Upon the universal Jessamine... Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to me Hid in thy nectary!

When winter gets deep into languishing hearts, poetry promises spring.

A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs.

poetry leafs out like trees words rustle in the breeze punctuate — birds & bees

My poetry, I should think, has become the way of my giving out what music is within me.

A poem compresses much in a tight space and adds music, thus heightening its meaning.

[I]f I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once a week; for perhaps the parts of my brain now atrophied would thus have been kept active through use. The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature.

Poetry staggers, drunken but wise, amongst the stars. Philosophy plots its own steady course to the sun.

Re Ezra Pound — poetry happens to be an art ;and artists happen to be human beings.

Prose is a photograph, poetry a painting in oil-colors.

By poetry we mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an illusion on the imagination, the art of doing by means of words what the painter does by means of colours.

A poet swallows life and exhales painted words.

Her poetry cries crimson roses and laughs in spritely daisies.

A poet rips his flesh on the thorn of language and bleeds raw ink onto paper petals.

Emily Dickinson's poetry is life — blood — spirit. Her passion fills all the poems, till they are like alabaster filled with flame.

I bleed words, Ink drops, and Poetry merges— Blackish-crimson Autobiography

Ink kisses dripping crimson words and with blood-red lips leaves prints on her finest poetry.

There can be poetry in the writings of few men; but it ought to be in the hearts and lives of all.

It's easier to write poetry on a bad day, when your heart has been halved and emotions bleed out through the pen.

Poetry cries melodic tears of verse.