How you die out in me:down to the lastworn-out knot of breathyou’re there, with a splinter of life.

Break a vase, and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

Dahulu aku sering bertanya sendiri; kalau puisi itu berwujudakan seperti apakah dia? Matahari? Bulan? Bintang? Gunung?Laut? Bertahun lalu aku temukan puisi memancar mancar dari matamu,masuk ke dalam tubuhku. Seperti yang kau duga pada akhirnyaaku tahu...

I would love to saythat youmake meweak in the kneesbutto be quite upfrontand completelytruthfulyoumake my bodyforgetit has kneesat all.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky;The dew shall weep thy fall tonight,For thou must die.

We are all poets, really.

He’d been let down so oftenHis brow was on the floorBut then they foundA small hole in the groundAnd let him down some more

Bring to me, it said, continual proof / you’ve been alive.

maybe silent hurting is the new Mid-Western love

My Inner LifeTis true my garments threadbare are,And sorry poor I seem;But inly I am richer farThan any poet’s dream.For I’ve a hidden life no oneCan ever hope to see;A sacred sanctuary noneMay share with...

With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence: they must not — they cannot at will be excited, with an eye to the paltry...

The many men, so beautiful!And they all dead did lie:And a thousand thousand slimy thingsLived on; and so did I.

…mi corazón es reino del espanto.

I think that at a certain age, say fifteen or sixteen, poetry is like masturbation. But later in life good poets burn their early poetry, and bad poets publish it. Thankfully I gave up rather...

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...