A LamentO world! O life! O time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more — Oh, never more!Out of the day and...

I’d rather be thin than famousbut I’m fatpaste that in your broadway show

Happy Easter to you, my friend!This day’s light shall have no end.For Christ did riseIn the golden mornAnd by His life are we reborn.Happy Easter to one and all!The night is over, the sun is...

Women who focus on style over substance usually find themselves in a big fucking hole, with other men who want to fuck the hole. Oh so smooth, and none sophistacted. Because, you know, how sophisticated...

In this brief transit where the dreams crossThe dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these thingsFrom the wide window towards the granite shoreThe white sails still...

How do you knowyou’re a girl?I’m wearing a frock.And if you take it off?I get cold, so I putit back on.If I was a boy, I don’t know what I’d do.

Happiness. It comes onunexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,any early morning talk about it.

Is Bliss then, such Abyss,I must not put my foot amissFor fear I spoil my shoe? I’d rather suit my footThan save my Boot –For yet to buy another Pairis possible,At any store — But...

stronger than mountains.a place where my heart feels the safest- underneath his shirt.

How are poets able to unzip what they see around them, calling forth a truer essence from behind a common fact? Why, reading a verse about a pear, do you see past the fruit in...

savorwith methe lushnessof a lingering sleep…and last night’sdream.

Poetry lets me pour out my various emotions even the suppressed ones we didn’t know exist inside us’ til the moment you start jotting down what you’re feeling. It’s more than an escape into the...

we are all like poems. some of us rhyme. some don’t. some are Pulitzer prizessome are just scribblesand yet, we all possessa special kind of beautythat can either heal or cut to the boneone that...

They tell me to be quietWhen I’d rather cause a riotAnd have everyone screamingOut their eccentric meaning.

you are ever the only onei want to giveall the peachesin my heart tothe only one by whomi want them bruised.

Butterfly upon my hand, A voice of wonder within my mind, not my own but the butterfly’s.

love canembellish its beginningsing its blossomingand engrave its eternitiesbut can never explain its loss.

Straight between them ran the pathway,Never grew the grass upon it

wordslike mysterious mermaids come and live permanentlyin the soft sweepsand scars of my skin.

La poesía, en un primer impulso, destruye los objetos que aprehende, los restituye, mediante esa destrucción, a la inasible fluidez de la existencia del poeta, y a ese precio espera encontrar la identidad del mundo...

poetrymelts my bones.enters my blood.and changesits composition.

A Pause of ThoughtI looked for that which is not, nor can be,And hope deferred made my heart sick in truthBut years must pass before a hope of youthIs resigned utterly.I watched and waited with...

If I can see pain in your eyes then share with me your tears. If I can see joy in your eyes then share with me your smile.

Kerouac: You’re ruining American poetry, O’Hara.O’Hara: That’s more than you ever did for it, Kerouac

Cut lose your ties with expectation. Your dreams are charlatans, your memories, stalemating quarks. Listen only to the pull of your atoms and follow the discordant hum of your personal entropy.

Some people react physically to the magic of poetry, to the moments, that is, of authentic revelation, of the communication, the sharing, at its highest level…A good poem is a contribution to reality. The world...

Eros, again now, the loosener of limbs troubles me,Bittersweet, sly, uncontrollable creature….

Ah! The anguish, the vile rage, the despairOf not being able to expressWith a shout, an extreme and bitter shout,The bleeding of my heart.

The sacred bequestOf times long spent with your heartThat saturate and illuminate you nowSo piercingly…

If I never meet you In this lifeLet me feel the lackA glance from your eyesThen my life Will be yours

To Lucasta, Going to the Wars Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now...

True poetry is embarrassing.

Blankly expressing oneself can be stronger than words.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!

More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts.

All of my insecuritiesshine in the dark.

Blue SquillsHow many million Aprils cameBefore I ever knewHow white a cherry bough could be,A bed of squills, how blue!And many a dancing AprilWhen life is done with me,Will lift the blue flame of the...

In the great green room, there was a telephoneAnd a red balloonAnd a picture of a cat jumping over the moon…

A poet’s autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.

AnchorIt took twenty horses to lug methrough the shipyardon the back of a cartlike a fifteen-and-a-half tonpantomime dame.My spitting image was weighedon the other side of the bow:two fat men in drag; we felt as...

Sonnet 65Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea But sad mortality o’ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O! how...

Symptoms of Love…The quickening of my heart I can hear my breath as it passes through my body like wind through branches of a tree.The sensation in my chest the dreams in my head my...

Wonder of time,’ quoth she, ‘this is my spite,That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.’Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:It shall be waited on with...

Believing in yourself is the best poetry.

Gardens are poemsWhere you stroll with your hands in your pockets.(Les jardins sont des poemes Ou l’on se promene les mains dans les poches.)

Watch me go. Watch me. Because you said i couldn’t. Because you thought I wouldn’t. Go on, cry now. Cry.

Sonnet IIf thee must say that I am not who I am,That I am not real or true,Then thou must say you are not as well,For we either walk in fairytales and dance to our...

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art–Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.

I do not write to you, but of you,/because the paper that we write on/is our perishable skin.

There is a difference between a poem and a writing incrusted with a feel of Poetry to fall within range