Poet Quotes - Page 3

If I had a soul I sold it
for pretty words
If I had a body I used
it up spurting my essence

Allen Ginsberg warns you
dont follow my path
to extinction

I act as the tongue of you,
... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

She lends her pen,
to thoughts of him,
that flow from it,
in her solitary.

For she is his poet,
And he is her poetry.

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern, that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel, that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety on the chords of emotion-a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.”
-In the yellow time of pollen

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n,
and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light

Every good poem asks a question, and every good poet asks every question.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

we want it visible
to show
when even the most
visible joy
will reveal itself
only when we have
transformed it within.

there’s nowhere, my love, the
world can exist
expect within.

A poet is simply an artist whose medium is human emotions.  A poet chisels away at our own sensibilities, shaping our vision while molding our hearts.  A poet wraps words around our own feelings and presents them as fresh gifts to humanity.

I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you're an artist, by children if you're not.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Live for everything, or die for nothing

No thought is a stupid thought, those who are thoughtless are thought of as stupid.

When a poet settled down to write a poem, could he foresee the lines he would write? Did his head constantly spin with riddles and rhymes and was his only job to put them down? What if he couldn’t get them to make sense, and no one, not even the person he cared for most, could have pleasure in reading it? What would he do?

A poet dares be just so clear and no clearer... He unzips the veil from beauty, but does not remove it. A poet utterly clear is a trifle glaring.

Poetry is not an art, it's a symptom.

Poetry is the whispering of a truth by the shouting of the best possible lies

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

Any hand can condem, but it takes a helping hand to build.