Poems Quotes - Page 6

Overmodulation
By Charlotte M Liebel-Fawls

You're a cavity in my oasis,
You're a porthole in my sea,
You're a stretch of the imagination
every time you look at me.

You're an ocean in my wineglass,
You're a Steinway on the beach,
You're a captivating audience,
an exciting Rembrandt,

A Masterpiece.

the glory of the protagonist is always paid for
by a lot of secondary characters

[Fiction and poetry] are medicines, they're doses, and they heal the rupture that reality makes on the imagination.

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

No one could say the stories were useless
for as the tongue clacked
five or forty fingers stitched
corn was grated from the husk
pathwork was pieced
or the darning was done...

(from 'The Storyteller Poems')

What else is a poem about?
The rhythm and the images buried in the language. All the ways you can build an emotion with words, but you can't just write 'I feel sad.' I mean, you can, but it's not poetry... I think it has to be experienced instead of studied. You step into it.

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.

According to [Galway] Kinnell, to make a poem you need the creatures of the world, language, and the unconsious brought together.

Every poet will forever try to write the greatest poem ever written, I have found that this kind of poem can be written with “One” word. And that word consists of a beauty beyond any measure to man and one of the most beauty creations to grace the presents of man. That one word poem is…….. “YOU

I drift like a cloud,
Across these venerable eastern lands,
A journey of unfathomable distances,
An endless scroll of experiences...
Lady Zhejiang here we must part,
For the next province awaits my embrace.
Sad wanderer, once you conquer the East,
Where do you go?

The kind of poetry to avoid in the pretty-pretty kind that pleased our grandmothers, the kind that Longfellow and Tennyson, good poets at their best, wrote at their worst.

Some people make you want to be a better person, and that, for me, is the purest form of love.

Reading a stranger's words and finding yourself in them.

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like... like poems turned into landscapes."

"'Poems turned into landscapes.'" he murmured with a slight smile. "And what of Vestenveld's gardens? Do you see poems in them?"

"Your gardens are like your country's poetry. Very frilly and organized.

Our past sins, our fractured lives-soon nothing but drowned stars in dark skies.

Through windows,
in wishing wells,
whispering in the wind...
that's where I find you.

I was just an option.
Blown easily to pieces
and offered to the sky
by the sweet laced pain
upon your lips.

I balance you
on the end of my pen.
Teetering between love
and letting go.

I can't love anymore.
Except for you...
I love you so much it hurts to breathe.

In that wounded place,
buried between
my ribs and letting go,
I miss you.