Poetry Quotes - Page 2

Stephen kissed me in the spring,
Robin in the fall,
But Colin only looked at me
And never kissed at all.

Stephen’s kiss was lost in jest,
Robin’s lost in play,
But the kiss in Colin’s eyes
Haunts me night and day.

I know you're tired but come, this is the way.

I am no longer in love with her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."

(Sonnet 116)

some moments are nice, some are
nicer, some are even worth
writing
about.

A truth should exist,
it should not be used
like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?

That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.

She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules or customs. 'Time' for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water.

Falling in love is very real, but I used to shake my head when people talked about soul mates, poor deluded individuals grasping at some supernatural ideal not intended for mortals but sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, we met, and everything changed, the cynic has become the converted, the sceptic, an ardent zealot.

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

You must give everything to make your life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in your imagination.

Love is a game
of tic-tac-toe,
constantly waiting
for the next x or o.

I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.

We join spokes together in a wheel,
but it is the center hole
that makes the wagon move.

We shape clay into a pot,
but it is the emptiness inside
that holds whatever we want.

We hammer wood for a house,
but it is the inner space
that makes it livable.

We work with being,
but non-being is what we use.

Were knowledge all, what were our need
To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?

There's two kinds of women-those you write poems about and those you don't.

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee
And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.

Whereas story is processed in the mind in a straightforward manner, poetry bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the limbic system and lights it up like a brushfire. It's the crack cocaine of the literary world.

If you're reading this...
Congratulations, you're alive.
If that's not something to smile about,
then I don't know what is.

Unbeing dead isn't being alive.