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Poetry Quotes

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Poetry Quotes

“I believe she adores love. I think love is her absolute language But she is so in denial of this truth that she stems away from it. There's something inside of her that is waiting, I don't know what, but she is. But until then she lies within her silence and smiles at anyone who even dares to cross her path. She is too loving to deny that she yearns for love. She is too selfless to deny that she wants comfort. She is too precious to deny that she is deserving. She is love, whether she wants to admit it or not. She is.”

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Author:Kaelyn Rene
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“The laces, untied, the socks won't match. I won't know what to wear and when to wear it and I am rubbish at the small talk required to fit into places I've never bothered to fit into. There are square pegs that spend their lives trying to squeeze into round holes, but I wasn't even given four straight sides, I am shapes when none are required, I am a million wrongs stuffed into something I never asked if it was right. I am this, and I've never been that, I've no plans to remedy the broken bits.”

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Book:Wildly into the Dark: Typewriter Poems and the Rattlings of a Curious Mind
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“He is a type of our best — our rarest. Electrical, I was going to say, beyond anyone, perhaps, ever was: charged, surcharged. Not a founder of new philosophies — not of that build. But a towering magnetic presence, filling the air about with light, warmth, inspiration. A great intellect, penetrating, in ways (on his field) the best of our time — to be long kept, cherished, passed on... It should not be surprising that I am drawn to Ingersoll, for he is 'Leaves of Grass.' He lives, embodies, the individuality I preach. 'Leaves of Grass' utters individuality, the most extreme, uncompromising. I see in Bob the noblest specimen —American-flavored—pure out of the soil, spreading, giving, demanding light. {Whitman's thought on his good friend, the great Robert Ingersoll}”

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Author:Walt Whitman
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“[H]e initially conceived of Olivier as a man of the greatest promise destroyed by a fatal flaw, the unreasoning passion for a woman dissolving into violence, desperately weakening everything he tried to do. For how could learning and poetry be defended when it produced such dreadful results and was advanced by such imperfect creatures? At least Julien did not see the desperate fate of the ruined lover as a nineteenth-century novelist or a poet might have done, recasting the tale to create some appealing romantic hero, dashed to pieces against the unyielding society that produced him. Rather, his initial opinion -- held almost to the last -- was of Olivier as a failure, ruined by a terible weakness.”

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Book:The Dream of Scipio
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“Felt the pain of Edgar Allen Poe. Annabel Lee loved when novelty, cherished when she was a mere greenhorn. Loved her so affectionately, like an Agape. Described her love with the halo moon, took her to the kingdom by the sea. Enshrined your love for her with the stars, the sun remained envious. Your love made angels green eyed, created a havoc in the heaven places. Annabel Lee you left him young And it killed him.”

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Book:Hannah Cherub: Hannah cherub
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“Passion isn’t everything, but everything is better with passion, especially if you have ADHD. I hope that you all find that passion about something or someone. Never stop looking for it. Once you find it, fight for it with every breath.”

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Book:From Misery to Happiness: A poetic journey through love, loss, and second chances.
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“Our idea was to provide a platform for aspiring poets who can go on to say that they have been published alongside so and so. Often first-time writers are told that they need to experience life and write more. Putting the works side-by-side was to give young talent an edge. For instance, an 18-year-old’s works went alongside Gulzar’s, she (Fouqia) points out. - The New Indian Express”

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Book:Aatish 2
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“The distance between my lips and yours cannot be deciphered from the square root of the sum of the days we have spent wondering what to do with three minutes and ten seconds. The distance between my lips and yours cannot be deduced by the difference in the circumferences of our necks or in how many minutes we can sit in the noon sun. The distance between my lips and yours can only be measured in poems. Tell me, how many are there? Were there? Will there be? (But who knows what to call a poem and what to call a conversation? And who knows whether to call at all?)”

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Author:Vironika Tugaleva
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“স্বপ্ন পান্ডুলিপি কাছে রেখে ধূসর দীপের কাছে আমি নিস্তব্ধ ছিলাম ব'সে; শিশির পড়িতেছিলো ধীরে-ধীরে খ'সে; নিমের শাখার থেকে একাকীতম কে পাখি নামি উড়ে গেলো কুয়াশায়, — কুয়াশার থেকে দূর-কুয়াশায় আরো। তাহারি পাখার হাওয়া প্রদীপ নিভায়ে গেলো বুঝি? অন্ধকার হাৎড়ায়ে ধীরে-ধীরে দেশলাই খুঁজি; যখন জ্বালিব আলো কার মুখ দেখা যাবে বলিতে কি পারো? কার মুখ? —আমলকী শাখার পিছনে শিঙের মত বাঁকা নীল চাঁদ একদিন দেখেছিলো তাহা; এ-ধূসর পান্ডুলিপি একদিন দেখেছিলো, আহা, সে-মুখ ধূসরতম আজ এই পৃথিবীর মনে। তবু এই পৃথিবীর সব আলো একদিন নিভে গেলে পরে, পৃথিবীর সব গল্প একদিন ফুরাবে যখন, মানুষ র'বে না আর, র'বে শুধু মানুষের স্বপ্ন তখনঃ সেই মুখ আর আমি র'বো সেই স্বপ্নের ভিতরে।”

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Book:Selected poems
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“In intimacy there exists a line That can't be crossed by passion or love's art -- In awful silence lips melt into one And out of love to pieces bursts the heart. And friendship here is impotent, and years Of happiness sublime in fire aglow, When soul is free and does not hear The dulling of sweet passion, long and slow. Those who are striving toward it are in fever, But those that reach it struck with woe that lingers. Now you have understood, why forever My heart does not beat underneath your fingers.”

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Author:Anna Akhmatova
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“How spacious are these squares, How resonant bridges and stark! Heavy, peaceful, and starless Is the covering of the dark. And we walk on the fresh snow As if we were mortal people. That we are together this hour Unseparable -- is it not a miracle? The knees go unwittingly weaker It seems there's no air -- so long! You are my life's only blessing, You are the sun of my song. Now the dark buildings are stirring And I'll fall on earth as they shake -- Inside of my village garden I do not fear to awake. Escape "My dear, if we could only Reach all the way to the seas" "Be quiet" and descended the stairs Losing breath and looking for keys. Past the buildings, where sometime We danced and had fun and drank wine Past the white columns of Senate Where it's dark, dark again. "What are you doing, you madman!" "No, I am only in love with thee! This evening is wide and noisy, Ship will have lots of fun at the sea!" Horror tightly clutches the throat, Shuttle took us at dusk on our turn. The tough smell of ocean tightrope Inside trembling nostrils did burn. "Say, you most probably know: I don't sleep? Thus in sleep it can be" Only oars splashed in measured manner Over Nieva's waves heavy. And the black sky began to get lighter, Someone called from the bridge to us, As with both hands I was clutching On my chest the rim of the cross. On your arms, as I lost all my power, Like a little girl you carried me, That on deck of a yacht alabaster Incorruptible day's light we'd meet.”

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Author:Anna Akhmatova
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