He drove his mind into the abyss where poetry is written.

Otter! Otter! Otter!Don’t lead cows to slaughter!I love you, and I knowI should’ve told you soon-aBut you didn’t buy the dolphin-safe tuna!

clouds very high looknot one word helped them get up there

Freud thought that a psychosis was a waking dream, and that poets were daydreamers too, but I wonder if the reverse is not as often true, and that madness is a fiction lived in like...

I define influence simply as literary love, tempered by defense. The defenses vary from poet to poet. But the overwhelming presence of love is vital to understanding how great literature works.

Who is the third who walks always beside you?When I count, there are only you and I togetherBut when I look ahead up the white roadThere is always another one walking beside youGliding wrapt in...

I know the placeI know the place.It is true.Everything we doCorrects the spaceBetween death and meAnd you.

Poetry surrounds us everywhere, but putting it on paper is, alas, not so easy as looking at it.

He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What...

As often as we made love I remembered what my poet told me, that this man was born of a goddess, the force that moves the stars and the waves of the sea and couples...

Il sempre è fatto di attimi.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

Everything is all right,When you’re here,When you’re right next to me,When my hand is in yours,Don’t leave me,Don’t leave me empty handed.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

Free verse is like free love; it is a contradiction in terms.

Morning, noon & bloody night,Seven sodding days a week,I slave at filthy WORK, that mightBe done by any book-drunk freak.This goes on until I kick the bucket.FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT FUCK IT

Facerea lumiiŞi a fost seară.Şi a fost dimineaţă.Dar asta a fost demult.Şi o singură dată.

you are here.the moontides are here.and that’s all that matters.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.

You touched my heart…ever so softlyand I realizedtears had never been…merely saltand the rainOh the Rain!had never been merely water.

I regret to say I’munable to reply to your unexpressed desires.

Poems can getsleepless tooand becomethe loneliest thingin the universe.

Don’t ask me what it means; ask me how it felt.

Pain, too, comes from depths that cannot be revealed. We do not know whether those depths are in ourselves or elsewhere, in a graveyard, in a scarcely dug grave, only recently inhabited by withered flesh....

..giving power to negative thoughts or fears was bringing ideas to life in physical world,idea in mind became emotion in heart,emotion turned into words spoken,written,painted,strummed across guitar strings,or vibrantly held note by Tibetan singing bowl,...

Life is unbearable pain.

Poetry is a bit like a prayer, you’re speaking to the universe. The universe made you, and the only way to describe the relationship between you and it is by breathing out the words that...

Now begins to rise in me the familiar rhythm; words that have lain dormant now lift, now toss their crests, and fall and rise, and falls again. I am a poet, yes. Surely I am...

You are not worthless. Even if you’ve been called that your entire life.

Unlike the bough that shook off her dead leaves violentlylike a wet terrier,unlike the beating of the butterfly, her wings, against the cocoon, some dreams never made a move.

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like… like poems turned into landscapes.””‘Poems turned into landscapes.'” he murmured with a slight smile. “And what of Vestenveld’s gardens? Do you see poems in them?””Your gardens are...

I am just like you,Destined to play my part.And leave,In the nature of my departure at least,Some kind of sweet message behindIn the fathomless pattern I make.

Ted: A fucking good poem is a weapon. It’s– and not like a–a popgun or something.- It’s a bomb.It’s like a bloody big bomb. Sylvia: That’s why they make childrenlearn them in school.They don’t want...

Stars in the night,’ he said. ‘Something something something something, some delight

Thirsty for being, the poet ceaselessly reaches out to reality, seeking with the indefatigable harpoon of the poem a reality that is always better hidden, more re(g)al. The poem’s power is as an instrument of...

A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.

I sit in my treeI sing like the birdsMy beak is my penMy songs are my poems.

WisdomWhen I have ceased to break my wings Against the faultiness of things, And learned that compromises wait Behind each hardly opened gate, When I can look Life in the eyes, Grown calm and very...

winter plumbnot plumb

alfrescothe sommelier decantsa red sunset

A man of my acquaintance once wrote a poem called “The Road Less Traveled”, describing a journey he took through the woods along a path most travelers never used. The poet found that the road...

A lover goes toward his beloved as enthusiastically as a schoolboy leaving his books, but when he leaves his girlfriend, he feels as miserable as the schoolboy on his way to school. (Act 2, scene...

I primarily use poetry as a purge, a self-medication device when I’m in the depths of loneliness, anxiety or in the throes of depression. When I’m lost in the darkness of mental illness, I spill...

O, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast;Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.O, learn to read what silent love...

The future says:Dear mortals;I know you are busy with your colourful lives;I have no wish to waste the little time that remainsOn arguments and heated debates;But before I can appearPlease, close your eyes, sit stillAnd...

And this is when I knew I was black for real.This is when I knew black was a citywhose walls were constantly under siege….

Maybe if I could slip into Sylvia’s mind, sort out the spices in her rack, alphabetize them and dust them off. Maybe then I’d understand how it’s the little things that pull you under.

Many CastlesOn My Travels i have been A guest in Many castles Yet the Monument Which i Find Divine Is the oasis Where the heart And the silence Intertwine.

permission” to be creative and to be a creator too.

Old age doth in sharp pains abound;We are belabored by the gout,Our blindness is a dark profound,Our deafness each one laughs about.Then reason’s light with falling rayDoth but a trembling flicker cast.Honor to age, ye...