Quotes About Poetry

Htio sam da ga pitam, zar do slobode da se do?e nasiljem? Zar se protiv zla mora upotrijebiti zlo? I ko ?e to drugo zlo iskorijeniti? I kako ga zaboraviti? Ali ako to kažem, zamrzi?e me, prezre?e me. Zadrža?u se na poeziji. Ali šta da kažem? I ovdje sam sam, i ovdje sam kriv, i ovdje razbijam zbijeni red, ?vrst kao zid.

Crne o?i koje miruju, odaju?i život negdje unutra, kao duboka voda, lice osvijetljeno ispod kože mlije?nim svjetilj?icama, tijelo što ne zove, ve? zaprepaš?uje, postoji kao celina jer je sklad. Djeluje dirljivo lijepo. Kao muzika. Neodre?eno, a snažno, ne odvajaju?i se, okre?e nas u nas same, živi za sebe a za nas.

You think I'd waste this much time on disposable pussy?" "I want you to write our wedding vows, Ajax. Really. This is like poetry.

chromosomal dance oh, heavenly happenstance rare creation, you -Marcus (Poetry Spam #22)

Plagiarism has been around far longer than the Internet. In fact, I had a poem published in 'Seventeen' magazine when I was 15 years old. About a year later I was informed that there was a girl who used that same poem to win a statewide poetry competition in Alabama. It took months for people to put together that this had happened.

A beautiful poem is like a beautiful sky and a beautiful sky is like a beautiful poem!

wings, as if dancing. When its long, dangling

Stani walks in later, glaring at them both. "Bloody bastards. One minute punching each other, next minute reading poetry. What's wrong with everyone this week?" Tom can tell that

In an instant he forgot Joe's poem about Japan except the part about 'you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,' and a new sound entered his life, like when he was a kid and he first heard the sound of horses clip-clopping and he asked his mother in wonder, "What's that sound, because I've never heard it before?

Sunset was only thirty minutes gone when some pissant vampire waylaid Deacon on his way to Theriault's. One of those younger shits who wrote poetry to Mother Darkness and thought becoming a vampire would make him sparkle.

Before the fifteenth century was out, William Caxton had printed two editions of The Canterbury Tales and they have never been out of print since. They have been enjoyed, imitated, copied, re-translated, put on stage, screen and radio, and generations have rightly regarded Chaucer as the father and founding genius of English literature.

Invariably pure and austere, poets mostly starve to death embracing empty mountains, and when white clouds have no master, they just drift off, idle thoughts carefree.

I used to joke that if acting didn't work out, poetry was my commonsense fallback.

A missanga, todos a vêem. Ninguém nota o fio que, em colar vistoso, vai compondo as missangas. Também assim é a voz do poeta: um fio de silêncio costurando o tempo.

Tristeza de pássaro não inventou lágrima. Dizem: lágrima dos pássaros se guarda lá onde fica a chuva que nunca cai.

Sofro, afinal, a doença da poesia: sonho lugares em que nunca estive, acredito só no que não se pode provar.

I woke up wanting to read a poem by that name, and I found one with a lifeguard's chair, a broken shell, gulls watching egrets, home an ocean away.

On a summer night it can be lovely to sit around outside with friends after dinner and, yes, read poetry to each other. Keats and Yeats will never let you down, but it's differently exciting to read the work of poets who are still walking around out there.

Good-bye, O fairest world, good-bye", I soliloquized. "O blue gem in the heavens, where mankind dwells in love, and no man's hand is lifted against another, and the gifted realize their every dream, and all things sing, and the light grows gold when the bells ring." "Good poetry needn't rhyme", said Xue. "Besides, you shouldn't tell lies." "Lies? No, I was just dreaming.

T.S. Eliot once wrote, "Immature poets borrow. Mature poets steal.

These honors that you give to me are not for me alone. They are for those who, dying young, now sleep in the earth with their unspoken poems, waiting for the Last Day.

Had in him those brave translunary thingsThat the first poets had.

He marveled at the poetry of Emily Dickinson, sensing her kindred spirit. For the last seventeen years of her life, Dickinson rarely left her home in Massachusetts and spoke to visitors only through a partially closed door. "Saying nothing, " she wrote, "sometimes says the most.

Every single soul is a poem.