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...

I bring you with reverent handsThe books of my numberless dreams.

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.

We thought everything would be forgotten, but I still remember yourclaws running down my back.I wonder if you still think about us,the way I do.How our legs would crash into each other in the middle...

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.

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.

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.

If you can’t beat em: Poem.

The summer in youcalms the winter in me.

Change the world so that nothing else is changed.

The rain to the wind said,You push and I’ll pelt.’They so smote the garden bedThat the flowers actually knelt,And lay lodged–though not dead.I know how the flowers felt.

Loving you is kissing the night, exposing the scars, words in flames, for every drop and for every life.

One difference between poetry and lyrics is that lyrics sort of fade into the background. They fade on the page and live on the stage when set to music.

I have nothing to say And I am saying it And that is poetry

I almost gave my life long ago for a thingThat has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes—It is strange how often a heart must be brokenBefore the years can make it wise.

She was the unlucky lover,who loved everyone but herself

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

I’ll Die For Your Sins If You Live For mine.

But that so many scholars are barbarians does not much matter so long as a few of them are ready to help with their specialized knowledge the few independent thinkers, that is to say the...

She didn’t do anything at allexcept arrived without warningin the middle of the night(right when I least expected it)She walked by me, with a strut in her stepsmelling like summercausing me to turn my head(even...