As Borges has taught us, all the books in the library are contemporary. Great poems are like granaries: they are always ready to enlarge their store.

Used to be hewas my heart’s desire.His forthright gaze,his expert hands:I’d lie on the couch with my eyesclosed just thinking about it.Never about the factthat everything changes,that even this,my best passion,would not be immune.No, I...

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and...

The skies bend, the time stops, the lanes move and the fires dance,It can mean only one thing that I am with you.You are enigmatic yet so beautiful that I have lost my sense, You...

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.

The Tao Te Ching is partly in prose, partly in verse; but as we define poetry now, not by rhyme and meter but as a patterned intensity of language, the whole thing is poetry. I...

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And...

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too...

Being a blesséd writer is a cursed attribute, when you wish to no longer be encompassed by someone and yet you are surrounded by loose leaf papers filled with the sound of his voice.

there have been morningsso quiet and tenderlike a poem, on Thursday’s lipsthat I wonderedif I’d been kissed at all…

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...

Let bricks of truth fill the skies and send their walls of conformity crashing downAnd let the heavens echo with the blows of our liberation

the saddest thing is to bea minute to someone,when you’ve made them your eternity.

As Henry Moore carvedor modelled his sculpture every day,he strove to surpass Donatello4. and failed, but woke the next morningelated for another try.

my love is a winter’s mistgently dissolvingthrough the windowat the nape of your neck.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

i am alwaysstalking you, my dear. with my thoughtsmy words.my breath.

John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.

poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.

Make me, dear Lord, polite and kind, To everyone, I pray.And may I ask you how you find Yourself, dear Lord, today?

The computer is incredibly fast, accurate, and stupid.Man is unbelievably slow, inaccurate, and brilliant.The marriage of the two is a force beyond calculation.

Energy manipulation took place completely in mind,same way believing in telepathy caused telepathic abilities to grow STRONGER.

I am republicI am maoistI am activistand I am thisand I am thatbut why?Why can’t; I be

For if my poems have always been about survival–and I believe they have been–then survival too keeps revealing itself as an art of the unexpected.

To evade such temptations is the first duty of the poet. For as the ear is the antechamber to the soul, poetry can adulterate and destroy more surely then lust or gunpowder. The poet’s, then,...

No matter the disappointment, you simply cannot divorce your favorite team.

The spirit, my love,is stronger than laughter,stronger than the hungry pantingof reckless lionsthat paw and shuffle underneath the canopy of bowed trees,stronger than the pace of a dying heart, that awaits to be pumped to...

Give me another Chance Then, You will Get Less than I Gain…

Open the doors of your heart and they will come…And for every cruel arrow,Sweet caresses of delirium alsoTo nourish your soul.

Poetry’s not a thing of pretty round phrases or noisy invocations. It’s life itself, with the tang of the raw world in it – not a sweetmeat for middle-class women in parlours.

Your Smile Ignites a Spark Down Deep In My Heart That Makes My Soul Shiver!

These are all direct quotes, except every time they use a curse word, I’m going to use the name of a famous American poet:’You Walt Whitman-ing, Edna St. Vincent Millay! Go Emily Dickinson your mom!”Thanks...

Fireflies in the GardenBy Robert Frost 1874–1963 Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never...

Poetry is life distilled.

I Have Loved Hours at SeaI have loved hours at sea, gray cities,The fragile secret of a flower,Music, the making of a poemThat gave me heaven for an hour;First stars above a snowy hill,Voices of...

To be the other womanis to be a seasonthat is always about to end,when the air is floweredwith jasmine and peach,and the weather day after dayis flawless,and the forecastis hurricane.

Strike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with Apollo’s golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until...

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnellleaving is not enough; you muststay gone. train your heartlike a dog. change the lockseven on the house he’s nevervisited. you lucky, lucky girl.you have an apartmentjust your size. a bathtubfull...

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d, Such seems your beauty still.

Bloody bastards. One minute punching each other, next minute reading poetry. What’s wrong with everyone this week?”Tom can tell that

Madness is loving the unsolvable puzzle of your soul and replacing the lost pieces with my own.

Any hand can condem, but it takes a helping hand to build.

There is no single thing… that is so cut and dried that one cannot attend to its secret whisper which says ‘I am more than just my appearance’. If each object quivers with readiness to...

and everyone wants to read the poem we’re afraid to write.

I bleed myself to be your drink:Is not the blood of poets—ink?

Oh, I know that I’ll never be perfectI’m just alive

EdgesI am a child throwing rocks into the stream.Challenging the rushing water.Raising my fist and daring fate to do it worst.I am a dancer in the waves of the ocean.Swaying in time with the tide.Pirouetting,...

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air.

…fine love poetry tends to be written when the object of one’s affection is at a safe distance; also, it often reflects a love of words more than a love of women…

There is no poetry where there are no mistakes.