Being in prison for seven years was like being in an army that never drilled, never deployed, and only fought itself.

God takes away the minds of poets, and uses them as his ministers, as he also uses diviners and holy prophets, in order that we who hear them may know them to be speaking not...

On the highest peak of the heavens, angels glanced at the sky and saw a glimpse of a gateway to a world of artists whose guardians were dancers.

Saki says that youth is like hors d’oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don’t notice it. When you’ve had them, you wish you’d had more hors d’oeuvres.

In an age when nations and individuals routinely exchange murder for murder, when the healing grace of authentic spirituality is usurped by the divisive politics of religious organizations, and when broken hearts bleed pain in...

And here face down beneath the sunAnd here upon earth’s noonward heightTo feel the always coming onThe always rising of the night

I must find you. So I travel to the depths of hell and conquer perverse monsters and repulsive demons and the deceitful vicious devil himself to find the truth.

As a poet there is something about joy I find hard to express, whereas every other emotion is rather simple. For instance, you never feel so bad that you can’t describe how bad you feel,...

Life is so beautiful and so short that anything that makes me feel less than too much is nothing at all.

I go out on the side of a hill, maybe hunting deer, and sit there and see the shadow of night coming over the hill, and I can swear to you there is a part...

You write poetry?” Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one.”Just a little bit,” Isadora said modestly. “I write poems down in this notebook. It’s an interest of mine.””Sappho!” Sunny...

A chronic poet should always be an inveterate nature-lover.

Only faith and restraint against the tyrant damns the saint.

My girl was mad and I loved her. Upon a night, she read my poetry; and kissing me madly she cried, ‘You are a genius, my love!’ To which I replied, ‘My girl,’ whispering, ‘Every...

To the poet, to the philosopher, to the saint, all things are friendly and sacred, all events profitable, all days holy, all men divine.

Words of mankind limited in meaning to describe the enchantment that illuminates from aura of a dancer.

I try to stay a civilian, to live as a human, not as a poet.

The arts (painting, poetry, etc.) are not just these. Eating, drinking, walking are also arts; every act is an art.

Poetry is necessary, but is the poet?

To be a poet in today’s technological age means to be underrated and at times, ignored. In a world where the noise of industry reigns supreme, the poet’s voice is being drowned out, but it...

OnceThere was a quiet island,With a name.You must believe me When I say that sunlight, Impure but beautiful, Broke upon the bay, silveredThe unrepentant, burning moon.

If I ever see an alien fishing in Scotland, and witness it catching the Loch Ness Monster, I’d probably assume the world would want me to write a poem about the event, rather than take...

The poet is a faker / Who’s so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world – there I am a child – there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance – I...

Surely there is a knowing behind it all. There is a teacher, an expresser, a creator, an artist perhaps, a poet certainly that has designed and presented all of the clues that we need to...

…a bard’s down-to-earth love: My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red and when she walks, treads on the ground…

Who has not sat before his own heart’s curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.

And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare...

Movements of the body are a reflection of the soul.

Who is that blond child laughing as he runs after his colored marbles? [my marbles]It’s meAnd who is the poet writing this poem?That blond child who laughed as he ran after his colored marbles

The so-called poet with his vague dreams and ideals is indeed no better than a harmless lunatic; the true poet is the worker, who grips life’s throat and wrings out its secret, who selects austerely...

Impulsive passion please set me free.

And this is what being an artist means, being a poet? To sacrifice yourself for your art, sacrifice your heart for your art, because it’s only through something broken that something beautiful can grow.

A poet, any real poet, is simply an alchemist who transmutes his cynicism regarding human beings into an optimism regarding the moon, the stars, the heavens, and the flowers, to say nothing of the spring,...

The Poets light but Lamps-Themselves-go out-

Poetry can be more eloquent than the most eloquent sermons, and it becomes a weapon more formidable than the sharpest of swords; whenever such a poem–which finds its correct tune and conveys the excitement of...

In Irena’s head the alcohol plays a double role: it frees her fantasy, encourages her boldness, makes her sensual, and at the same time it dims her memory. She makes love wildly, lasciviously, and at...

Marko Vešović sjedi u Staroj Grčkoj na bijelom kamenu…nad njim nebo..

There is an old Latin quotation in regard to the poet which says ‘Poeta nascitur non fit’ the translation of which is— the poet is born, not made.

God would seem to indicate to us and not allow us to doubt that these beautiful poems are not human, or the work of man, but divine and the work of God; and that the...

Audience of angels descend in the ambiance reciting praises in your glory, when you wear your dance shoes, when you arrive at the stage and with every step you take beneath your feet heaven moves....

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.

Through the ingenuousness of her age beamed an ardent mind, a mind not of the women but of the poet; she did not please, she intoxicated.

He said, ‘I can’t teach someone how to write,’ … He just thought if you were a poet, you wrote poetry.

Creation of a pregnant imagination.

Create with the heart; build with the mind.

Love is wind for the soul

An artist is identical with an anarchist,’ he cried. ‘You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment...

A Poet = A willingness to be vulnerable & to trust the inner voice.

I am the Constellation of my own