Quotes About Poetry

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end.

When I say be creative I don't mean that you should all go and become great painters and great poets. I simply mean let your life be a painting, let your life be a poem.

Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets.

A thousand was the number Agamemnon's bards had started using; one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six didn't fit well in a line of verse.

Island of Lesbos

Il semble que punir les femmes soit le passe-temps favori des poètes. Comme s'il ne pouvait pas y avoir d'histoire à moins que nous ne rampions en pleurant.

Humillar a las mujeres parece ser el pasatiempo predilecto de los poetas

He's half of my soul, as the poets say.

Humillar a las mujeres parece ser el pasatiempo predilecto de los poetas. Como si no pudiese haber historia a menos que nos arrastrásemos y sollozásemos.

He is half my soul, as the poets say>"

He was half my soul, as the poets say

He is half of my soul, as the poets say...

Her limbs lift into the grey waves like the steady beats of wings.

Iphigenia. A tripping name, the sound of goat hooves on rock, quick, lively, lovely.

Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep

One problem with lyrical waxing, as Snediker has it, is that it often signals (or occasions) an infatuation with overarching concepts or figures that can run roughshod over the specificities of the situation at hand.

Please take your time. I want you to kill me slowly so I can write my last poem to my wife's heart. They laughed, and took from me only the words dedicated to my wife's heart.

May poetry and God's name have mercy on us!

I know who opens the door to the jasmine tree as it makes our dreams blossom for the evening's guests.

In Damascus: poems become diaphanous They're neither sensual nor intellectual they are what echo says to echo . . .

Don't say that poetry, my friend, is beautiful or powerful for there is no powerful or beautiful poetry There is poetry that strikes you, secretly with the diseases of writing and schizophrenia, and you rave and your self leaves you for another

Later, we'll look up what was recorded in our history about yours in faraway lands. Then we'll ask ourselves, "Was Andalusia here or there? On earth, or only in poems?

May life suddenly open on the wing of a butterfly fluttering over a rhyme for those who do not care about meaning.

I'll emerge, with wings, from the banner I am, bird that never alights on trees in the garden— I will shed my skin and my language. Some of my words of love will fall into Lorca's poems; he'll live in my bedroom and see what I have seen of the Bedouin moon. I'll emerge from almond trees like cotton on sea foam