Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure.

When flying dreams hit the soil of reality, all that remains are the imprints of experience.

Far over misty mountains coldTo dungeons deep and caverns oldWe must away, ere break of day,To find our long-forgotten gold.

Danse Russe If I when my wife is sleeping and the baby and Kathleen are sleeping and the sun is a flame-white disc in silken mists above shining trees,– if I in my north room...

Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved,Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened,Thee, my serenity,A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind,Thee, my serenity, one can not...

Science is the poetry of reality.

The night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.

Nick and the CandlestickI am a miner. The light burns blue. Waxy stalactitesDrip and thicken, tearsThe earthen wombExudes from its dead boredom. Black bat airsWrap me, raggy shawls, Cold homicides.They weld to me like plums.Old...

That was not sex. That was naked poetry.

Petals don’t ask Where to landThey just fall With grace.

I have defined poetry as a ‘passionate pursuit of the Real.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?

You call it hope — that fire of fire!It is but agony of desire.

The QuitterWhen you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle To cock your revolver...

All that we see and seem is but a dream within a dream.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite the sounding furrows

The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one: Yet the...

I have lost my smile,but don’t worry.The dandelion has it.

Let Your Inhibitions Run Free

I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán...

Calligraphy may well be simply an artistic version of another form, that is the ideograms which make up the poem, but then not only does it reflect the character and temperament of the artist but...

Para mim cada poema é um mundo próprio, um habitat bizarro de memórias, pessoas, sentimentos, conclusões. Cada verso é um retrato, um objecto precioso, um pedaço que recolho do mundo e visto com palavras. Devolver...

Poetry doesn’t pay. But I need it. And so do you.

This is the way the world endsNot with a bang but a whimper.

Kiss the lips upon me once, and I shall never tell.

No Child of YoursI saw a child hide in the cornerSo I went and asked her nameShe was so naive and so petiteWith such a tiny frame. ‘No one,’ she replied, that’s what I am...

I’m nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell! They ’d banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell...

O how we call each other namesYou call me schizophrenicI call you GodBut we do agree on oneDeluded are we both.

The Scholars”Bald heads forgetful of their sins,Old, learned, respectable bald headsEdit and annotate the linesThat young men, tossing on their beds,Rhymed out in love’s despairTo flatter beauty’s ignorant ear.They’ll cough in the ink to the...

We never know how high we areTill we are called to rise;And then, if we are true to plan,Our statures touch the skies.The heroism we reciteWould be a daily thing,Did not ourselves the cubits warpFor...

I live there…Far above the song-filled clouds,where the dewdrops touch my skin so bareI live there.

Dulce Et Decorum EstBent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge....

One has to commit a painting,’ said Degas,’the way one commits a crime.

Though we tremble before uncertain futuresmay we meet illness, death and adversity with strengthmay we dance in the face of our fears.

believe me when i say this.when you lovesomeone.you can travel the worldin their laugh.

grief is a housewhere the chairshave forgotten how to hold usthe mirrors how to reflect usthe walls how to contain usgrief is a house that disappearseach time someone knocks at the dooror rings the bella...

to be a poet meansto live with a permanent wound forever susceptibleto either the shade of the skyor someone’s eyes.

Painting is so poetic, while sculpture is more logical and scientific and makes you worry about gravity.

your gazeacrossmy cheeksturned theminto strawberry fields.

Resolve, and thou art free. But breathe the airOf mountains, and their unapproachable summitsWill lift thee to the level of themselves.

The world is thinningand the earth…it’s still spinningmy world is thinningand it’s all because of one person I’m missing.

There are horrible events going on all over the world. Human beings are really fucking up. Poets, we can’t just write poems. We have to put poems into action.

They mutilate they torment each otherwith silences with wordsas if they had anotherlife to livethey do soas if they had forgottenthat their bodiesare inclined to deaththat the insides of men easily break downruthless with each...

Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw…

From the mind which thinks to die, let my soul sleep tonight.

You just go on your nerve.

I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen, and so I swung into action and wrote a poem, and it was miserable, for that’s how I thought poetry worked: you digested experience and shat...

Come on up, boys-I’m dead.

We somehow must become what we are not, sacrificing what we are, to inherit the masquerade of what we will be.

One breath taken completely; one poem, fully written, fully read – in such a moment, anything can happen.