Katanya,Kalau jodoh, alam semestapun akan ikut mendukung.Tapi ini BUKAN.Waktu tak pernah berpihak.Bahkan hatimu TIDAK.Bukan sekali, tapi 3 kali ketukan.Aku pikir itu cukup.Cukup untuk 1 kesimpulan.

A FEATHER.A feather is trimmed, it is trimmed by the light and the bug and the post, it is trimmed by little leaning and by all sorts of mounted reserves and loud volumes. It is...

TeenagerMe—a teenager? If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me, would I need to treat her as near and dear, although she’s strange to me, and distant? Shed a tear, kiss her brow for the...

The trouble with poetry is it’s often written to the sound of a drum only the poet may hear; nonetheless, blessed are those poets who always manage to find unshakeable pleasure in their own works.

O Me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who...

steeples and ‘scrapers” of an inquisitive mind. The poems are at once syllogistic, hard-edged, satirical, reflective, and finally as playful as love notes. The true joy of this book is that we are deliciously engaged...

…imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to...

But could words bethe end of me?

Hi”. The use and the meaning you replenish them with become the mirror of yourself, eventually of an entire humanity. (Soar)

Maybe when water yearned for fire / it invented waves / so one day they might become flames

So much dependsuponA red wheelbarrowGlazed with rainwaterBeside the whitechickens.

Life has sadness, joy, beauty, like poetry.So be passionate and write a great story.

Robot BoyMr. an Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life.They were a normal, happy husband and wife.One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad.Mrs. Smith would would be a momwhich would make him the...

Cinta adalah rasa yang kuucap dalam setiap desah dan cuaca, tak sampai-sampai getarnya padamu.

Empty, I echo to the least footfall

Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous...

The wind is the moon’s imagination wandering.

Don’t be afraid to be afraid. Have fear, and then conquer the shit out of it.

Now and then I am asked as to ‘what books a statesman should read,’ and my answer is, poetry and novels – including short stories under the head of novels.

I believe that open-heart surgery is a mustfor all human beings

Nature enhances her beauty, to the eye of loving men, from their belief that the poet is beholding her shows at the same time. He is isolated among his contemporaries by truth and by his...

LET’S GO BACK HOMEI can’t think about you,Without smiling.What I wouldn’t give,To go back there,Take you in my arms,Kiss you, And tell you,”I still love you.”It’s been three decades now,And still your smile’s with me,Your...

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

poetry is the tombstone of experience,nothing i write is my own.~from “the damned

. . . I suppose one starts out, as a child, being romantic and dreaming of adventure. Poetic. Then reality comes along, and with it, a whole lot of prose.

For if in careless summer daysIn groves of Ashtaroth we whored,Repentant now, when winds blow cold,We kneel before our rightful lord;The lord of all, the money-god,Who rules us blood and hand and brain,Who gives the...

Music, When Soft Voices DieMusic, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap’d for the...

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

My mind is heavenMy eyes are the sun and the moonMy awareness shines like the morning star.

i want to love you with simple,like a bare singular matchstick.onestroketo ignitewith no words spokenby the heated flames of the timber of crimsoned scarlet fire.as it crackleswith closeseparationentangled with the intimacy of firefly asheschoosing to...

EphemeraYour eyes that once were never weary of mine Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids, Because our love is waning.”And then she: “Although our love is waning, let us stand By the lone border...

Father, R.I.P., Sums Me Up at Twenty-ThreeShe has no head for politics,craves good jewelry, trusts too readily,marries too early. Thenone by one she sends away her friendsand stands apart, smug sapphire,her answer to everything a...

LightLightThe visible reminder of Invisible Light.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain;Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,How could I seek the empty world again?

To write a poem you must have a streak of arrogance– not in real life I hope. In real life try to be nice. It will save you a hell of a lot of trouble...

Inebriate of Air — am I —And Debauchee of Dew —Reeling — thro endless summer days —From Inns of Molten Blue —

some winterswill never meltsome summerswe’ll never freezeand some things will only… live in poems.

If you were coming in the Fall, I’d brush the Summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As Housewives do a Fly. If I could see you in a year, I’d wind...

this heart yearns…for the salt of unsmelt airunswept thunderstorms…unknown adventures.

Earth is crammed with heaven, and every bush is aflame with the glory of God. But only those who see take of their shoes; the rest just pick the berries.

the ocean mist engulfs me, like a lifetime’s friendship honored.

You say you are a poet of law; I saw you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden

I feel the only thing you can do about life is to preserve it, by art if you’re an artist, by children if you’re not.

The pleasure we feel, reading a poem, is our assurance of its integrity.

you wereand always will bethat first ever touchto have fertilizedthe groundbeneath my life’s treesthat first ever roseto have fragrancedthe rest of my memories.

A Psalm of LifeTell me not in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not...

Poems are invisible flowers on my skin.

Stop that!” Do not mention this when you answer his letter, however. It is quite controversial and Mrs. Mandell is a poet besides.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones,The labor of an age in pilèd stones,Or that his hallowed relics should be hidUnder a star-y-pointing pyramid?Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,What need’st thou such...

The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.