"poem"タグの名言

Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.

You ask me why I don't speak Not a word at will But write so much worth well over a mill' Well I value words like I value kisses A sober one, a closer one penetrates the heart Darling it's how it mends it

We made love outdoors—without a roof, I like most, without stove, my favorite place, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and dripping with dew, and our love for each other was seen. Our love for the world was new.

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes, A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your room And made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking up From your book, saw it the moment it landed. That's all There was to it.

Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody's head off.

I say every dog looks like no other but that isn't true. Not entirely. Difference is slippery.

an English girl might well believe that time is how you spend your love.

In summer the empire of insects spreads.

the poem doesn’t have stanzas, it has a body, the poem doesn’t have lines,/ it has blood, the poem is not written with letters, it’s written/ with grains of sand and kisses, petals and moments, shouts and/ uncertainties.

ONE WORD One word — one stone in a cold river. One more stone— I'll need many stones if I'm going to get over.

I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.

I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab which is typical and not just of modern life

A lonely face aglow on high. You mean the moon. A flower, red, has caught his eye. A rose in bloom. He cannot touch her, though he try. In darkness glints the tears he cries. I see mere stars; you boldly lie. Nay, poetry to draw your sigh. I am immune.

After the final no there comes a yes. And on that yes the future world depends. No was the night. Yes is this present sun.

I never have time to write anymore. And when I do I only write about how I never have time. It's work and it's money and I've written more lists than songs lately. I stay up all night to do all these things I need to do, be all these things I want to be, playing with shadows in the darkness that shouldn't be able to exist. Empty bottles and cigarettes while watching the sunrise, why do I complain? I have it all, everything I ever asked for.

The Pressure- Maybe one day, after centuries, we can become brilliant gems in crystal caves and we will be immortal after all.

The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance starts when you try to convert it into language. Language itself is a kind of resistance to the pure flow of self.

a man was found floating dead in the San Francisco bay. a note in his pocket read: I won't jump if someone smiles at me today.

Let my toes teach the shore how to feel a tranquil life through the wetness of sands Let my heart latch the door of blackness, as all my pain now blue sky understands