Quotes About Poetry

The flavor of wine is like delicate poetry

Wie is nu dichter en wie niet? Gij en ik kunnen het zijn, zonder het misschien zelf te weten! In u kan een verlangen zijn, een vreemde stuwkracht die u naar de pen doet grijpen om neer te schrijven wat ge gezien, gehoord en zeer diep gevoeld hebt. Het moet niet altijd in rijm zijn om kunst te zijn.

When reading, one needs to remember that poets and philosophers are not prescribing courses of action but exploring aspects of existence.

I'm hopefully touring with Colin Baker next year in Perfect Strangers. I have performed with Sylvia Simms in poetry and music evenings. I would love to do those for the rest of my career - they are so fun and witty.

No, I'm fine. And yes, I mean that sort of FINE," said Reine-Marie, making reference to the title of one of Ruth's poetry books, where FINE stood for Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.

You too?" She asked Ruth. "How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said.

Books were everywhere in their large apartment. Histories, biographies, novels, studies on Quebec antiques, poetry. Placed in orderly bookcases. Just about every table had at least one book on it, and oftern several magazines. And the weekend newspapers were scattered on the coffee table in the living room, in front of the fireplace. If a visitor was the observant type, and made it further into the apartment to Gamache's study, he might see the story the books in there told.

There's more, but I won't go on. It's a poem by Rupert Brooke. He was a soldier in the First World War. It helped him in the hellhole of the trenches to think of the things he loved. It helped me too. I made mental lists and followed the things I love, the people I love, back to sanity. I still do.

How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said. "Isn't that normally just a cocktail olive lodged there?" Olivier asked. "Once," Ruth admitted. "Wrote quite a good poem before I coughed it up.

At this discovery Matthew Croft's legs gave way and he sank to the cold concrete floor, to a place no rhyming verse existed. He had finally been hurt beyond poetry.

There's something about her, something bitter, that resents happiness in others, and needs to ruin it. That's probably what makes her a great poet, she knows what it is to suffer. She gathers suffering to her. Collects it, and sometimes creates it.

Ruth's last book of poetry was called I'm FINE. Which sounded good until you realized, often too late, that "F.I.N.E." stood for "Fucked-Up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Egotistical.

He wanted them to soar. To find, if not heaven, then at least happiness. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth," said Gamache. "You quoted the poem 'High Flight' when we first talked." "Charles's favorite. He was a naval aviator in the war. And danced the skies on laughter silvered wings. Beautiful.

You were going to say the Death Star, weren't you?" "Well, yes. If you can quote poetry, I can reference Star Wars.

My father taught me poetry. We'd go for long walks through Outremont and onto Mont Royal, and he'd recite poetry. I'd repeat it. Not well, most of the words meant nothing to me, but I remembered it all, every word. Only later did I realize what it meant." "And what did it mean?" "It meant the world," said Gamache. "My father died when I was nine.

Paul Hiebert's Sarah Binks, the cover said.

I me memorize a lot of poetry, too, so I'l have something to be saying to myself on long walks. A poem to repeat, either aloud or silently, will help you over a hill or on a long mile as surely as a neighbour who stops his team and gives you a lift.

The glorious Dryden, refiner and purifier of English verse, did less for rhyme than he did for metre.

Every limited mind demands a certain freedom of expression, and the man who cannot express himself satisfactorily without the stimulation derived from the spirited mode of two centuries ago should certainly be permitted to follow without undue restraint a practice so harmless, so free from essential error, and so sanctioned by precedent, as that of employing in his poetical compositions the smooth and inoffensive allowable rhyme.

So far as English versification is concerned, Pope was the world, and all the world was Pope.

Behold great Whitman, whose licentious line Delights the rake, and warms the souls of swine; Whose fever'd fancy shuns the measur'd pace, And copies Ovid's filth without his grace. In his rough brain a genius might have grown, Had he not sought to play the brute alone; But void of shame, he let his wit run wild, And liv'd and wrote as Adam's bestial child.

The monotony of a long heroic poem may often be pleasantly relieved by judicious interruptions in the perfect successions of rhymes, just as the metre may sometimes be adorned with occasional triplets and Alexandrines.

Only those of our poets who kept solidly to the Shakespearean tradition achieved any measure of success. But Keats was the last great exponent of that tradition, and we all know how thin, how lacking in charm, the copies of Keats have become.

Poetry, far more than fiction, reveals the soul of humanity.