Quotes About Poetry

The ordinary-sized stuff which is our lives, the things people write poetry about—clouds—daffodils—waterfalls—what happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes in—these things are full of mystery, as mysterious to us as the heavens were to the Greeks.

Recuerdo que una vez le dijo a la raza que leyeran los poemas en voz alta porque la voz era la semilla del amor en la oscuridad.

Amy King is a true bard.

Society's dark hull drifts further and further away. It is this place - the place of our separation, our distinction - that much of his poetry occupies.

The rose is red, the violet's blue, The honey's sweet, and so are you. Thou art my love and I am thine; I drew thee to my Valentine. The lot was cast and then I drew, And fortune said it should be you.

Poetry's the speech of kings. You're one of those Shakespeare gives the comic bits to: prose! All poetry (even Cockney Keats?) you see 's been dubbed by [Us] into RP, Received Pronunciation, please believe [Us] your speech is in the hands of the Receivers.

Maybe every talk about poetry is a defense of poetry...

The goal of the poem is not to conceal uncertainty and to deliver an airtight argument, or proclamation, or insight, not to arrive at some truth, but rather to display the nature of the speaker's "real-time" sensibility, including its tendency toward indecisiveness and self-contradiction.

O'Hara famously said that a poem was something one wrote instead of making a phone call to a friend, and his poems are indeed as conversational and friendly as phone calls.

I've been writing poems since I was sixteen. Back then, poems were an obvious release for all the frustrations and anxieties associated with adolescence. Mostly, they were a way for me to impress girls, even though I never remember any girls being impressed.

Even though no one else cares for my poems, I have to write them because it dulls the sorrow and longing in my heart.

I sink into a sweet melancholy and rhythmic waves of words stream through me again.

Engang vil jeg skrive alle de ord ned, der gennemstrømmer mig. Engang skal andre mennesker læse dem i en bog og undre sig over, at en pige alligevel kunne blive digter.

Måske skal et barn, der i alt hemmelighed holder af digte, engang finde den der, læse digtene og føle noget ved det, noget hendes omgivelser ikke forstår.

Someday I'll write down all of the words that flow through me. Someday other people will read them in a book and marvel that a girl could be a poet, after all . . . I want so badly to write down the words, but where in the world would I hide such papers?

I carried the cups out to the kitchen, and inside of me long, mysterious words began to crawl across my soul like a protective membrane. A song, a poem, something soothing and rhythmic and immensely pensive, but never distressing or sad, as I knew the rest of my day would be distressing and sad. When these light waves of words streamed through me, I knew that my mother couldn't do anything else to me because she had stopped being important to me.

It was enough for me anyway to write the poems; there was no hurry to show them to a world that so far had only laughed and scorned them.

The arabesques sank into the ground and turned green with moss, and the trees slipped deeper and deeper into each other's arms as time went by.

So much of my poetry begins with something that I can describe in visual terms, so thinking about distance, thinking about how life begins and what might be watching us.

This is why I love poems: they invite me to sit down and listen to a voice speaking thoughtfully and passionately about what it feels like to be alive.

One of poetry's great effects, through its emphasis upon feeling, association, music and image — things we recognize and respond to even before we understand why — is to guide us toward the part of ourselves so deeply buried that it borders upon the collective. "Staying Human: Poetry in the Age of Technology

This is why I love poems: they require me to sit still, listen deeply, and imagine putting myself in someone else's unfamiliar shoes. The world I return to when the poem is over seems fuller and more comprehensible as a result.

A poem can lie.)

Instead, while Sticky helped them practice, she composed a poem about a bunch of bossy gargoyles who liked to eat cat food and pick their ears. It was an unpleasant poem, and the gargoyles' names, not very cleverly disguised, were Kateena, Reynardo, and Georgette