"poets"タグの名言

It isn't possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.

Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.

In this story I am the poet You're the poetry.

When Great Trees Fall When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety. When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken. Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away. We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.

Blessed are the weird people: poets, misfits, writers mystics, painters, troubadours for they teach us to see the world through different eyes.

Even if you are alone you wage war with yourself.

A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.

They grew; they did not talk about growing.

You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.

From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.

Arrival in the world is really a departure and that, which we call departure, is only a return.

Teaching others, he corrected himself.

A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.

The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.

A poet or philosopher should have no fault to find with his age if it only permits him to do his work undisturbed in his own corner; nor with his fate if the corner granted him allows of his following his vocation without having to think about other people.

It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.

For a game, you don’t need a teacher.

Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.

I bargained with Life for a penny, And Life would pay no more, However I begged at evening When I counted my scanty store; For Life is just an employer, He gives you what you ask, But once you have set the wages, Why, you must bear the task. I worked for a menial's hire, Only to learn, dismayed, That any wage I had asked of Life, Life would have paid.

A poet is not an apostle; he drives out devils only by the power of the devil.