Every attempt to fix eternity is an escape from reality. I will be plaguing my days with moments and minutes. For ever is too far!

My silence knot is tied up in my hair; as if to keep my love out of my eyes. I cannot speak to one for whom i care. A hatpin serves as part of my...

Some who grow dull religious straight commenceAnd gain in morals what they lose in sense.

Cook was a captain of the powder-days When captains, you might have said, if you had been Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side, Or gaping at them up companionways, Were more like warlocks...

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

Shelley’s servant”. Wasn’t that a wonderful gesture of humility by someonewho was such a great poet himself? And later, Bharatiyar had his own dasan, the poet Subburathinam, who tookthe pen name Bharathidasan. Subburathinam’s poetry inspired...

Love flows like flowers, and grows like water. I’m so thirsty for romance I could drink a dozen roses.

Yes You Are!Like the Blossoming rose,Like the Rays of hope.Like a deer in the forest,Like an athlete full of zest.Like a lamp in temple,Like the life feeling ample.Like the feel of the dawn,Like the grace...

Cheapen words and they’ll cheapen you

I can weave words together and create magic,it’s like knitting and crocheting words with pen and paper, some call it Poetry.

Ultimately not one amongst usWill ever be denied that,The glimmer of a chance to shine.

Be Visionary …

The poet knows that he speaks adequately, then, only when he speaks somewhat wildly.

Maggunitanay ta, unya binanwagan sa bituon, / Latason ta ang hataas nga patag sa kagabhion.(Let us hold hands, and guided by the stars, / Let us tread the long pathway of the night.)

It is humor’s job to laugh at the futility oft engendered by the improbable; but it is poetry’s job to dream of the potentiality of that which is not impossible.

Poems are difficult to silence.

Each loved one went silently down;bubbles bursting leaving behindimages they heldto stick on the glass of memory.

We are the reflections for the stars to gaze upon, upon a sea of glass.

Poetry is as necessary to comprehension as science. It is as impossible to live without reverence as it is without joy.

There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.

The best grammarian still can’t write a verse.

The man is in his work,read it if you want to know about him.

(1)BEING A POETis like opening a car door& exposing yourself.(2)BEING A GOOD POETis like opening the door& exposing the passengeras well.

We are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning togetherHeadpiece filled with straw. Alas!Our dried voices, whenWe whisper togetherAre quiet and meaninglessAs wind in dry grassOr rats’ feet over broken glassIn our dry cellarShape without...

Hungry for beautiful words, the fox comes rooting around in the hedge, almost too close to the fire. He reads my mind with one glance and is gone. All my poetry is now trotting around...

inherited by the world,interconnected by the youth;Mind,Body,Spirit.Believe in it

We do not play on Graves—Because there isn’t Room—Besides—it isn’t even—it slantsAnd People come—And put a Flower on it—And hang their faces so—We’re fearing that their Hearts will drop—And crush our pretty play—And so we...

Baseball is to our everyday experience what poetry often is to common speech — a slightly elevated and concentrated form.

The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide, Earth a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth...

It is kind of ridiculous that a poet is expected to live in the real world.

…what the Man-Moth fears most he must do..

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

Poetry rhymes, a song our souls need to nourish upon. Poetry is a drum, a sound our bodies wish to have. Poetry is organized, a reading our eyes wish to view. Poetry is refined, a...

Uncontradicting solitudeSupports me on its giant palm;And like a sea-anemoneOr simple snail, there cautiouslyUnfolds, emerges, what I am.

Fuck I hate fucksWho think they’re so fucking greatThey know everything about fucking,When they’re just fucking fucks fucking!And no one changes the fucking worldWhen they keep fucking to another fuck’s fuck.

Empty-page staring again tonight. It’s maddening. I suppose people who don’t write (like the Connollies) imagine anything that can be though can be expressed. Well, I don’t know. I can’t do it. It’s this sort...

God, A Poem ‘I didn’t exist at Creation, I didn’t exist at the Flood, And I won’t be around for SalvationTo sort out the sheep from the cud-‘Or whatever the phrase is. The fact isIn...

be the kiss in my hairthat no one seesmove, when i movesigh, when i sigh…be that line from a poemthat i hold in my eyes.

Think of your woods and orchards without birds!Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beamsAs in an idiot’s brain remembered wordsHang empty ‘mid the cobwebs of his dreams!

Wordsare powerfulforces of nature.they are destruction.they are nourishment. they are flesh. they are water.they are flowers and bone.they burn. they cleansethey erase. they etch. they can eitherleave youfeelinghomelessor brimmingwith home.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature’s monotony. The sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed. The order which we find in nature, and which is only...

Poems are soft kitten furs. smoothing out the rough edges of my world.

I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?

Carry out your literary dream, no matter how unlikely it may seem…

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas! / You really are beautiful! Pearls, / harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins!

The tides are in our veins, we still mirror the stars, life is your child, but there is in meOlder and harder than life and more impartial, the eye that watched before there was an...

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

We don’t always get the answers we want, sometimes a simple look can haunt us enough to know some ghosts need their rest.

Be true to your word and your work and your friend.

On the canvas of life,Every sweep of the brush matters,Counts for something…