Quotes About Poetry

Loneliness is necessary for pure poetry. When someone intrudes into the poet's life (and any sudden personal contact, whether in the bed or in the heart, is an intrusion) the poet loses his or her balance for a moment, slips into being what he or she is, uses his or her poetry as one would use money or sympathy. The person who writes the poetry emerges, tentatively, like a hermit crab from a conch shell. The poet, for that instant, ceases to be a dead person.

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises Tougher than anything. No one listens to poetry. The ocean Does not mean to be listened to. A drop Or crash of water. It means Nothing. It Is bread and butter Pepper and salt. The death That young men hope for. Aimlessly It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No One listens to poetry. — Jack Spicer, "This ocean, humiliating in its disguises," The Collected Books of Jack Spicer. (Black Sparrow Books; First Edition edition July 1975)

This ocean, humiliating in its disguises" This ocean, humiliating in its disguises Tougher than anything. No one listens to poetry. The ocean Does not mean to be listened to. A drop Or crash of water. It means Nothing. It Is bread and butter Pepper and salt. The death That young men hope for. Aimlessly It pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. No One listens to poetry.

Nick Makoha's Kingdom of Gravity (Peepal Tree Press) is a bold and brilliant poetry debut that does not avert its gaze from trauma and atrocity (exploring along the way the brutal rule of Idi Amin and the civil war) and yet is light on its feet and fills you with hope. The Guardian

Poetry is in rude health. People are turning to it more and more to try and make sense of the world we are living in. In these particular times, poetry finds its place" Wise words from

She whispered into the ear of the dreaming bear. If I said that my love for you was like the spaces between the notes of a wren's song, would you understand? Would you perceive my love to be, therefore, hardly present, almost nothing?

I know in my heart , Tiago whispered, the language we like to speak is music and poetry and even cold, sweet piraguas on hot, hot summer days. But it feels like this place wants to break my heart. It feels like every day it tries to make my mom feel tinier and tinier, like the size of Perrito's head in my hands.

first book There are seven of them, haikus mostly but rhyming ones, too. Not enough for a real book until I cut each page into a small square staple the squares together, write one poem on each page. Butterflies by Jacqueline Woodson on the front. The butterfly book complete now.

I wrote some bad poetry that I published in North African journals, but even as I withdrew into this reading, I also led the life of a kind of young hooligan.

La poésie […] n'existe, ne s'absente, ne surgit, que pour refuser la réponse. Et pour s'approcher de la question[…] elle ne réponde pas aux questions, elles les pose.

A major section of modern art and poetry unconsciously guides us in the direction of madness; and, indeed, for the modern man there is no other way. Only madness is inaccessible to the machine.

by Baudelaire! things are pretty hot!

A certificate tells me that I was born. I repudiate this certificate: I am not a poet, but a poem. A poem that is being written, even if it looks like a subject.

The reason we go to poetry is not for wisdom, but for the dismantling of wisdom

Poetry proceeds from the totality of man, sense, imagination, intellect, love, desire, instinct, blood and spirit together.

Je treba poveda?, že umelec slúži kráse a poézii, slúži teda absolútnu, miluje absolútno, je v zajatí absolútna lásou, ktorá si vyžaduje celú jeho bytos?, telo aj dušu. nemôže súhlasi? so žiadnym rozdelením. kúsok neba skrytý v temnom príbytku jeho ducha...

poézia je nutná práve do tej miery, nako?ko je neužito?ná a slobodná, pretože ?u?om prináša zjavenie skuto?nosti mimo skuto?nos?, skúsenos? skrytých významov vecí, tajomné spolo?enstvo so svetom krásy, bez ktorého ?udia nemôžu ani ži?, ani vies? mravný život.

Léo ferré disait de la mélancolie: « C'est un désespoir qui n'a pas les moyens. »

Quand la mort lui parle de l'amour la vie frémit Quand la vie lui parle de la mort l'amour sourit.

Rhetoric is perverted poetry.

Por qué eres tan hermosa? ¿Te acunaron en versos? ¿Leche de flor bebiste? ¿Quién te modeló sobre mi corazón, quién te tatuó sobre mis ojos?

Poetry, is music to the ears, as the first cry of a newborn baby to its mother ears."

A garden must combine the poetic and he mysterious with a feeling of serenity and joy.

País Tus ojos son de donde La nieve no ha manchado La luz y entre las palmas El aire Invisible es de claro.