There were poets before Homer.

Poetry is not an art, it’s a symptom.

I chase the wind and get lost in the clouds. I’m sweep into darkness in my search for the light.

Dance is the ritual of immortality

For if it is rash to walk into a lion’s den unarmed, rash to navigate the Atlantic in a rowing boat, rash to stand on one foot on top of St. Paul’s, it is still...

you and i live in societieswhere our behaviourand the systems, policies and practicesthat rule usare set up to treatsome better than others.because of how much moneythey seem to have.

Intelligence is not to make no mistakes, but quickly to see how to make them good.

You are not your poetry. Your self-esteem shouldn’t depend on whether you publish, or whether some editor or writer you admire thinks you’re any good.

Beneath it allI kept faith with Ithaca, travelled,Travelled and travelled,Suffering much, enjoying a little;Met strange people singingNew myths; made myths myself.But this lion of the seaSalt-maned, scaly, wondrous of tail,Touched with power, insistentOn this brief...

Enjoy a life of poverty. Become a poet.

Tom prilikom Kafka mi reče: “Vi opisujete pesnika kao nekog čudesno velikog čoveka čije noge su na zemlji dok mu glava nestaje u oblacima. To je, prirodno, sasvim uobičajena slika u okviru malograđanskih konvencionalnih predstava....

Where is Philosophy sleeping this saturday afternoon? Are the philosophers already dead? Are the poets gone from the planet? I look through the window and all I see are advertisments.

Echo of the waves appears in the sky, their lights reflected in your eyes. I’m back in our world and happy again. The sound of your voice, compassionate embrace… The power in your touch, serenity...

…you called me poet-priest – I am. …devoted to my art, faithful to you…or, is the other way around?…

for sometime now I have believed that it is our own force, all our own force that is still too great for us. It is true that we do not know it; but is it...

You don’t have to be a poet to express you feelings to her, just say whats in your mind and she will relate.

Every style of dance is a tribute to the elements of the spirit.

How to be a Poet (to remind myself)Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill-more of each than you have-inspiration work, growing older, patience, for...

A poet in his senses knocks vainly at the gates of poetry.

Romance her, enhance her, desire her, put her first.

Some people make you want to be a better person, and that, for me, is the purest form of love.

To be a poet is a love affair, not a desire to dare.

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

A perfect poem owes its perfection to sounding the voice of the heart and the melodies of the conscience, as well as its ability to reflect the considerations, beliefs, opinions, and horizons of thought of...

Legend has it that while drinking wine in a boat on the river, [8th century Chinese poet Li Po] tried to grab the moon’s reflection on the surface and tumbled in, which is probably the...

If you were destined to be a poet, then you won’t brainstorm for lines that rhymes. If you were destined to be a celebrity, then you shouldn’t start searching for fans. If you are truly...

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...