100 Quotes About Poet

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. E.m. Forster

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

When Great Trees FallWhen great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker downin tall grasses, and even elephantslumber after safety. When great trees fallin forests, small things recoil into silence, their senseseroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomeslight, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see witha hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind wordsunsaid, promised walksnever taken. Great souls die andour reality, bound tothem, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon theirnurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formedand informed by theirradiance, fall away. We are not so much maddenedas reduced to the unutterable ignoranceof dark, coldcaves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and alwaysirregularly. Spaces fillwith a kind ofsoothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, neverto be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and bebetter. For they existed. Maya Angelou

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

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

For a game, you don’t need a teacher. Dejan Stojanovic

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. Jessie B. Rittenhouse

Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud- Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? William Knox

The poet's job is to put into words those feelings we all have that are so deep, so important, and yet so difficult to name, to tell the truth in such a beautiful way, that people cannot live without it. Jane Kenyon

God is a cloud from which rain fell. Dejan Stojanovic

The life we’re given is on a thread, so wear it well. Benny Bellamacina

We don’t know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side. Dejan Stojanovic

Each young person is a poet of sorts, trying to sort out the poetics of their inner life and its relation to the great world around it. Each elder is a philosopher of sorts, trying to sort out the meanings and gleanings of a life as well as the necessary implications of the presence of death. Michael Meade

In the case of Michel Angelo we have an artist who with brush and chisel portrayed literally thousands of human forms; but with this peculiarity, that while scores and scores of his male figures are obviously suffused and inspired by a romantic sentiment, there is hardly one of his female figures that is so, –the latter being mostly representative of woman in her part as mother, or sufferer, or prophetess or poetess, or in old age, or in any aspect of strength or tenderness, except that which associates itself especially with romantic love. Yet the cleanliness and dignity of Michel Angelo's male figures are incontestable, and bear striking witness to that nobility of the sentiment in him, which we have already seen illustrated in his sonnets. Edward Carpenter

Bless the poets, the workers for justice, the dancers of ceremony, the singers of heartache, the visionaries, all makers and carriers of fresh meaning– We will all make it through, despite politics and wars, despite failures and misunderstandings. There is only love. Joy Harjo

You giver of light.you lover of love.you beautifulbeautifulhuman being you. Ava

Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one. Robert Frost

I took a night drive.i needed to get away.i needed to knowit's okay to goand have no destination, where time moves slowor doesn't exist.that life can be like this, aimless wandering, just breathing, living, driving forever underneath the stars. Ava

I am changingand i am loving change. Ava

I'm so hookedon how your mind works, on what you notice, on everything that excites you.i'm so caught up inhow you see the world, how you see everythingand still offer up your lovefor all to take it.you give me a glimpse of your heartand i can't tell youhow much you turn me on. Ava

I know it all ends the same, but i was interested in seeinghow you would break my heart. AVA.

In a worldfull oftemporary thingsyou area perpetual feeling. Sanober Khan

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire. He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought . Arthur Rimbaud

To hear never-heard sounds, To see never-seen colors and shapes, To try to understand the imperceptible Power pervading the world; To fly and find pure ethereal substances That are not of matter But of that invisible soul pervading reality. To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul; To be a lantern in the darkness Or an umbrella in a stormy day; To feel much more than know. To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain; To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon; To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves; To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching. To be a smile on the face of a woman And shine in her memory As a moment saved without planning. . Dejan Stojanovic

Want of imagination makes things unreal enough to be destroyed. By imagination I mean knowledge and love. I mean compassion. People of power kill children, the old send the young to die, because they have no imagination. They have power. Can you have power and imagination at the same time? Can you kill people you don’t know and have compassion for them at the same time? Wendell Berry

The aching in my chest isn't because I miss you, it's realizing that you have become someone I no longer know, your fears, your 4 am thoughts, your achievements, are things I no longer have an equivalent to. Who we were and who we are are four different people, and the me from now doesn't relate to the me from then, let alone to the you from now.- Tanzy Sayadi and Jarod Kintz Tanzy Sayadi

Nobody reads poetry, we are told at every inopportune moment. I read poetry. I am somebody. I am the people, too. It can be allowed that an industrious quantity of contemporary American poetry is consciously written for a hermetic constituency; the bulk is written for the bourgeoisie, leaving a lean cut for labor. Only the hermetically aimed has a snowball's chance in hell of reaching its intended ears. One proceeds from this realization. A staggering figure of vibrant, intelligent people can and do live without poetry, especially without the poetry of their time. This figure includes the unemployed, the rank and file, the union brass, banker, scientist, lawyer, doctor, architect, pilot, and priest. It also includes most academics, most of the faculty of the humanities, most allegedly literary editors and most allegedly literary critics. They do so--go forward in their lives, toward their great reward, in an engulfing absence of poetry--without being perceived or perceiving themselves as hobbled or deficient in any significant way. It is nearly true, though I am often reminded of a Transtromer broadside I saw in a crummy office building in San Francisco:We got dressed and showed the house You live well the visitor said The slum must be inside you. If I wanted to understand a culture, my own for instance, and if I thought such an understanding were the basis for a lifelong inquiry, I would turn to poetry first. For it is my confirmed bias that the poets remain the most 'stunned by existence, ' the most determined to redeem the world in words. C.D. Wright

I'd spent way more years worrying about how to look like a poet -- buying black clothes, smearing on scarlet lipstick, languidly draping myself over thrift-store furniture -- than I had learning how to assemble words in some discernible order. Mary Karr

The pure playfulness of certain wholly whimsical portions of (Charles) Cros’s work should not obscure the fact that at the center of some of his most beautiful poems a revolver is leveled straight at us. Unknown

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds — like those horses that are equally good for saddle and carriage, the worst kind, that can neither jump a ditch nor pull a plow. Gustave Flaubert

Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. A.E. Housman