"poetry-quotes"タグの名言

Within my reflection I see tears, for what I see is the truth, are my greatest fears.

 ‘Paradise Lost’ was printed in an edition of no more than 1,500 copies and transformed the English language. Took a while. Wordsworth had new ideas about nature: Thoreau read Wordsworth, Muir read Thoreau, Teddy Roosevelt read Muir, and we got a lot of national parks. Took a century. What poetry gives us is an archive, the fullest existent archive of what human beings have thought and felt by the kind of artists who loved language in a way that allowed them to labor over how you make a music of words to render experience exactly and fully.

moonlight disappears down the hills mountains vanish into fog and i vanish into poetry.

I breathe in... the fragrance of love, and moist sand the one his roses left on both my hands I just keep on breathing every moment as much as I can preserving it, in my body for the day it can’t.

there is some aching that will only heal... in the mosque of sleep.

Tell me..how do you stand there? filling the doorway....of my life.

i want to stay curled and cosied and chocolated....forever in my mother’s arms.

Live as many lives as you can.

I love being able to see an un-written future.

Sevgili Güllük; Yastık kanepenin üzerine konur. Tekme atılarak düşürülür o. Pazar günleri kuru fasulye yenir. Karşılıklı, alt alta, üst üste ve daha değişik şekillerde durulur. Islak vardır. Portakalın içi de dışı gibi portakal rengidir. Köstebeklerin uçma kabiliyeti bulunmaz. Kamyonlar yük taşırlar. Kaza olur. Kaza yaparlar. Süleyman, Çetin, Atıf, Kemal, Necdet gibi erkek isimleri; Zeynep, Burçak, Burçak ve Burçak gibi kız isimleri vardır. Patates cinsleri vardır; kızartmalık ve haşlamalık. Çeşitli ebatlarda düğün pastaları olur. Muz olur.

What am I to do? What is my destiny? I have no idea, not a clue Feeling lost and empty. What is my dream? What is my future? I beg thee to listen to me, I beg thee to answer.

Poetry is never abandon it is only remixed.

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.

In the moment between sleep and wake I kiss my blanket Kissing you goodbye

People start to lie more once they start to care less.

The books [poetry collections] may not sell, but neither are they given away or thrown away. They tend, more than other books, to fall apart in their owners’ hands. Not I suppose good news in a culture and economy built on obsolescence. But for a book to be loved this way and turned to this way for consolation and intense renewable excitement seems to me a marvel.

The question ‘Why poetry?’ isn’t asking what makes poetry unique among art forms; poetry may indeed share its origins with other forms of privileged utterance. A somewhat more interesting question would be: “What is the nature of experience, and especially the experience of using language, that calls poetic utterance into existence? What is there about experience that’s unutterable?” You can’t generalize very usefully about poetry; you can’t reduce its nature down to a kernel that underlies all its various incarnations. I guess my internal conversation suggests that if you can’t successfully answer the question of “Why poetry?,” can’t reduce it in the way I think you can’t, then maybe that’s the strongest evidence that poetry’s doing its job; it’s creating an essential need and then satisfying it.

I want to read every book that’s written hear every song that was sung I want to gaze at every cloud and hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.

Without the wetness of your love, the fragrance of your water, or the trickling sounds of your voice ― I shall always feel thirsty.

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