When poetry separates from song, then the words have to carry all the rhythm themselves; they have to do all the work. They can't rely on the singing voice.
It happens like this. "One day you meet someone and for some inexplicable reason, you feel more connected to this stranger than anyone else--closer to them than your closest family. Perhaps this person carries within them an angel--one sent to you for some higher purpose;...
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Lang Leav
A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous.
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Ingrid Bergman
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold, That is, the madman: the lover,...
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William Shakespeare
Two words. Three vowels. Four constenants. Seven letters. It can either cut you open to the core and leave you in ungodly pain or it can free your soul and lift a tremendous weight off you shoulders. The phrase is: It's over.
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Maggi Richard
Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?
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Jandy Nelson
More Quotes By Edward Hirsch
Works of art imitate and provoke other works of art, the process is the source of art itself.
I did not know the work of mourning Is like carrying a bag of cement Up a mountain at night The mountaintop is not in sight Because there is no mountaintop Poor Sisyphus grief I did not know I would struggle Through a ragged underbrush...
If you had told me, though, when I was twenty-four that I would write about Skokie, Illinois, where I grew up, I would have said, ‘You’re out of your mind. Why would I have Skokie in a poem?’ But you become resigned. Your job is...
Why did the sun rise this morning It's not natural I don't want to see the light It's not time to close the casket Or say Kaddish for my son I've already buried two fathers With a mother to come Isn't that enough Lord who...
Friedrich Rückert wrote 425 poems After his two youngest children Died from scarlet fever Within sixteen days of each other In 1833 and 1834 he could not cope And often thought they had gone out For a while "they'll be home soon" He told himself...
