When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of...

The still watersWrap my lips,Eyes, nose and ears,A clearCellophane I cannot crack.

But when I think of us,in the quiet when I’m on my own,I think of Beauty and the Beast.I, being the beast, and you being the last beautiful thing in this city.

To be or not to be tethered to the sordid, sickly, stinking, sappy apron strings of Hollywood and its endless fondness for fu**ing your sh** up. If Shakespeare were alive today, I bet he’d write...

You see how I tryTo reach with wordsWhat matters mostAnd how I fail.

Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain.

I Hear the sledges with the bells – Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All...

Why covet a knowledge of new facts? Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a few actions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far from having...

Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life, As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife Of semblance with reality, which brings To the delirious eye, more lovely things Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!...

Poems are difficult to silence.

The darkness has ink eyes, and if you stare long enough, you’re going to see it blink black. That’s the moment to start writing.

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

Abraham Lincoln wrote a poem about me once. You might know it as the Gettysburg Address. Men with beards are romantic.

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

Ah güzel Ahmet abim benim İnsan yaşadığı yere benzer O yerin suyuna, o yerin toprağına benzer Suyunda yüzen balığa Toprağını iten çiçeğe Dağlarının, tepelerinin dumanlı eğimine Konyanın beyaz Antebin kırmızı düzlüğüne benzer Göğüne benzer ki...

I USED TOmake love.Now IMake coffee.

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...

Dime si la luz es el reino de lo oscuro como es la noche el día de los astros

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

The bustle in a houseThe morning after deathIs solemnest of industriesEnacted upon earth,–The sweeping up the heart,And putting love awayWe shall not want to use againUntil eternity

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

Success is counted sweetest by those ne’er succeed.

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

With you a part of me hath passed away; For in the peopled forest of my mind A tree made leafless by this wintry wind Shall never don again its green array. Chapel and fireside,...

Poetry keeps mein a highly drunken stateof divinity.

A badly written novel can always be shortened to a poem.

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

Once I knew what I was doingI was there and with it;I had the total knowing.I Googled God and orgasmedAt the amount of Gods andMonsters out there posted about.

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...

You can’t memorize poetry and stay a fake. Sooner or later, you start to understand what these poets are saying, and it makes you feel life has something quite special, with certain layers of meaning...

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.

she thought it was the misfortune of poetry, to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly, were the very feelings which...

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.

Talent is a faucet. When it is on, one must write. Inspiration is a farce that poets have invented to give themselves importance.

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

Souls grow on bones but die beneath bankers’ hours…

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

That’s not a run in your stocking, it’s a hand on your leg.

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...

These poems, with all their crudities, doubts and confusions, are written for the love of man and in Praise of God, and I’d be a damn fool if they weren’t.

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 silent and safe — silence never betrays you; Be true to your word and your work and your friend; Put least trust in him who is foremost to praise you,Nor judge of a road...

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

When wounds are healed by love,The scars are beautiful.

The sea loved the moonWhen she was supposed to love the shore.The moon knewAnd hence made his intentions known. That she should love the shoreWho was destined for her.Yet his protests seemed weak. And even...

In fiction, the characters have their own lives. They may start as a gloss on the author’s life, but they move on from there. In poetry, especially confessional poetry but in other poetry as well,...

The Road Not TakenTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the...

It is the taste of cut steps, bloody fingerprints. Of healed books, smiles on fresh tulips. Of longing and sweet fatigue.

Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country.

Pina colada kisses and cocaine nipsnever lie, swear to me that this feeling is real.