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Poem Quotes

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Poem Quotes

“I left the bank because they wouldn’t deposit my cheque of poems. So I went to the store, but they didn’t accept my currency of words. So I boxed all my stories and took them to charity. But they refused my donation and asked me to give blood instead. I opened the notebooks and made them look, 'What do you think I wrote these in?”

WritingStoriesPoetryBloodBooksPoetPoemQuoteCharityWordsPoemsWriterCurrencyKamandKojouriKamand KojouriDonationAcceptBankStoreWroteDepositNotebooksChequeBoxed
Author:Kamand Kojouri
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“This is a George Floyd moment for both Israelis and Palestinians. Actually scratch that. It’s a George Floyd moment for both Americans who sympathize with Israel and Americans who sympathize with Palestinians. It’s a holy fuck moment for anyone who cares about human life. Upstairs the bathtub is filling with blood. How big would the swimming pool have to be to hold all the red salty stuff spilled the last week? Who will recline in the fresh blood bath? What swimmers will adjust their goggles and freestyle the miles of blood?”

WarDeathPoetryBloodPoemIsraelGazaReckoningGeorge Floyd
Author:Jeffrey McDaniel
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“به کجا چنین شتابان؟ گون از نسیم پرسید - دل من گرفته زین جا هوس سفر نداری ز غبار این بیابان؟ - همه آرزویم اما چه کنم که بسته پایم. به کجا چنین شتابان؟ - به هر آن کجا که باشد به جز این سرا، سرایم - سفرت به خیر اما تو و دوستی، خدا را چو از این کویر وحشت به سلامتی گذشتی به شکوفه‌ها، به باران برسان سلام ما را”

PoemSadIntresting
Book:در کوچه‌باغهای نشابور
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“After Your Death First, I emptied the closets of your clothes, threw out the bowl of fruit, bruised from your touch, left empty the jars you bought for preserves. The next morning, birds rustled the fruit trees, and later when I twisted a ripe fig loose from its stem, I found it half eaten, the other side already rotting, or—like another I plucked and split open—being taken from the inside: a swarm of insects hollowing it. I’m too late, again, another space emptied by loss. Tomorrow, the bowl I have yet to fill.”

DeathPoetryLossGriefPoemMourningFigsTidying
Book:Monument: Poems New and Selected
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“I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my power to escape unconquered. I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive at thy feet.”

PoetryPoem
Book:Gitanjali
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“March 15, 1998 Let me forget when the hanged man looks in the window. Outside, the desperate speak in a lost language. Let us in, they sigh, with the tongues of waterfalls. But you, out of breath, category of the misplaced; serial-killer of my days; while my left ventricle pumps the exact pressure of the universe . . . in spite of your default, with no substantial reason, I speak for you as though you are still here. We are arranged like that. A sad mistake, a Mendelbrot, a fractal glitch, a gift from zero.”

PoetryPoemSadIn The Next GalaxyRuth Stone
Book:In the Next Galaxy
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“Naked. Fatigue of the body transparent as a glass-tree. Near yourself you hear the brutal rumor of inextricable desire. Night blindly mine. You're farther gone than me. Horror of checking for you in the screams of my poem. Your name is the disease of things at midnight. They had promised me one silence. Your face is closer to me than my own. Phantom memory. How I'd love to kill you —”

InspirationPoetryPoemSadMemoryRevengeMuseAlejandra PizarnikThe Galloping HourMy Favorite Poem
Book:The Galloping Hour: French Poems
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“From the bonny bells of heather, They brewed a drink long syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in blessed swound, For days and days together, In their dwellings underground. There rose a King in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead. Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell, But the manner of the brewing, Was none alive to tell. In graves that were like children’s On many a mountain’s head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead. The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer’s day; And the bees hummed and the curlews Cried beside the way. The King rode and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather, And lack the Heather Ale. It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free upon the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Roughly plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his aged father – Last of the dwarfish folk. The king sat high on his charger, He looked down on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again. Down by the shore he had them: And there on the giddy brink – “I will give thee life ye vermin, For the secret of the drink.” There stood the son and father And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: “I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. “Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret”, Quoth the Pict to the King. His voice was small as a sparrow’s, And shrill and wonderful clear: “I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear. “For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour, Under the eye of my son. Take him, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it’s I will tell the secret That I have sworn to keep.” They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten; And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men. “True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage, That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall not avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of the Heather Ale.”

WarCouragePoemSadSymbolicHeatherHeather Ale
Author:Robert Louis Stevenson
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“You have haunted me in my dreams, Followed me in my memory, And enamoured me… …Nirvana… Your name echoes in the most silent parts of my mind, Brought to life by the memory of your touch, And the gentle sway of our bodies to the jazz music You have become my obsession, Of which I will never tire. Salvatore”

PoemObsessionObsessedPoemsDark RomanceAlpha MaleMafia RomanceObsessive LoveAntiheroObsessed Hero
Book:GODLY OBSESSION: How badly does she want her freedom?
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“Compañera usted sabe que puede contar conmigo no hasta dos o hasta diez sino contar conmigo si alguna vez advierte que la miro a los ojos y una veta de amor reconoce en los míos no alerte sus fusiles ni piense qué delirio a pesar de la veta o tal vez porque existe usted puede contar conmigo si otras veces me encuentra huraño sin motivo no piense qué flojera igual puede contar conmigo pero hagamos un trato yo quisiera contar con usted es tan lindo saber que usted existe uno se siente vivo y cuando digo esto quiero decir contar aunque sea hasta dos aunque sea hasta cinco no ya para que acuda presurosa en mi auxilio sino para saber a ciencia cierta que usted sabe que puede contar conmigo”

LovePoetryTrustPoemContar Conmigo
Author:Mario Benedetti
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“KEY OF LIFE The key of life Symbolizes the map Of existence. Once you free yourself From all resistance, Your path will become white - For the remainder of the distance. Poetry by Suzy Kassem”

LifeInspirationalSuccessPoetryFearFreedomWhiteAttitudeCouragePathSuccessfulDoubtRegretPerspectivePoemLivingDistanceResistanceWarriorFearlessPeace Of MindFreeFearlessnessKeyCourage In LifeFree YourselfResistFree Your MindFearless Direction
Book:Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem
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“The concierge, I realized, had been standing beside me. Do not be sad, he said. You have begun your own journey, not into the world, like your friend’s, but into yourself and your memories. As they fall away, perhaps you will attain that enviable emptiness into which all things flow, like the empty cup in the Daodejing— Everything is change, he said, and everything is connected. Also everything returns, but what returns is not what went away—”

PoetryChangeMemoriesPoemJourneys
Book:Winter Recipes from the Collective
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“Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness; You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs, And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory. Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance, Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot And not to be trapped by withering laurels. And in you I have found aloneness And the joy of being shunned and scorned. Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield, In your eyes I have read That to be enthroned is to be enslaved, And to be understood is to be leveled down, And to be grasped is but to reach one’s fullness And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed. Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion, You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences, And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings, And urging of seas, And of mountains that burn in the night, And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul. Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage, You and I shall laugh together with the storm, And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us, And we shall stand in the sun with a will, And we shall be dangerous.”

LifeInspirationalPoetryPoemDefeatManhood
Author:Kahlil Gibran
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“We treat each other with exceeding courtesy; we says, it’s great to see you after all these years. Our tigers drink milk. Our hawks tread the ground. Our sharks have all drowned. Our wolves yawn beyond the open cage. Our snakes have shed their lightning, our apes their flights of fancy, our peacocks have renounced their plumes. The bats flew out of our hair long ago. We fall silent in mid-sentence, all smiles, past help. Our humans don’t know how to talk to one another.”

HumansPoetryTalkingCommunicationPoemSpeechAnimals
Book:View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems
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