Pada sebuah buku yg berbicara tentang masa depan, aku melihat wajahmu menjelma pagi yang terbit di tiap halaman bersama asaku.

Go. Think. Turn black into white.Night into day. I am tired of thinking.I know where it will lead me and I don’tWant to be there.Go love. Do your thinking.

Pray that the summer mornings are many when with such pleasure, with such joy you will enter ports seen for the first time

Hesitancy is the surest destroyer of talent. One cannot be timorous and reticent, one must be original and loud. New metaphors, new rhythms, new expressions of emotion can only spring from unhindered gall. Nothing should...

È difficile comprendere da dove provenga quest’orgoglio dei poeti, se sovente si vergognano che appaia la loro debolezza.

I’ve triedto become someone else for a while,only to discover that he, too, was me.

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, “On! on!” — but o’er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering...

But he never forgot how once by not knowing time,He escaped into the clockless land of ever,Where time hides tick-less waiting to be born.

For our generation walks as in Hades, without the divine.

She was mined for the childrenin her, one daughter, then another, a short seam, quick to clay, and not a single son to save them.

Just as in the second part of a verse bad poets seek a thought to fit their rhyme, so in the second half of their lives people tend to become more anxious about finding actions,...

Many have referred to [Lewis] Carroll’s rhymes as nonsense, but in my childhood world — Los Angeles in the ’50s — they made perfect sense.

seized with a violent trembling,” as he later told his grandson. Both electrified and terrified by the discovery, he hid the book in his lunch bucket until the workday ended and then took it home....

Faith is the poetry of our dreams; action is the builder of our reality.

don’t wait for the man standing in the snowto cut off his arm help him now

In the hours waking,when we’re still all still,and you can hear the floorboards creaking,and you can feel the shades blow in,the night we slept with,we’ll never kiss like that again.Our lips, will sever, our memories,...

April is the cruelest month, breedinglilacs out of the dead land, mixingmemory and desire, stirringdull roots with spring rain.

What exists in this heart is not imaginary. This hand would not grasp air in trying to hold you, nor this eye blind itself in searching for you in vain.

I am alive to a usual objection to what is clearly part of my programme for the metier of poetry. The objection is that the doctrine requires a ridiculous amount of erudition (pedantry), a claim...

How happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And doesn’t care about careers,And exigencies never fears;Whose coat of elemental brownA passing universe put on;And independent as the sun,Associates or glows alone,Fulfilling absolute decreeIn...

Poetry is the sound of the human animal.

While I was fearing it, it came,But came with less of fear,Because that fearing it so longHad almost made it dear.There is a fitting a dismay,A fitting a despair.’T is harder knowing it is due,Than...

give mea pillow of strongever-dependable shouldersthat i can bury my head in.

How—I didn’t know anyword for it—how “unlikely”. . .How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn’t?

when whisperedwhat an exquisitesong, it makes-your name.

A poet is someone who stands outside in the rain hoping to be struck by lightning.

Look, moonI turned silver for you.

The philosophy of poetry must acknowledge that the poetic act has no past, at least no recent past, in which its preparation and appearance could be followed.

kisses… areand always will be the only language that I will have ever truly known.

I often repeat repeat myself,I often repeat repeat.I don’t don’t know why know why,I simply know that I I Iam am inclined to say to saya lot a lot this way this way-I often repeat...

and the afterglow…of your gaze…is the onlysweater that I need.

I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeonIn the round-tower of my heart.And there will I keep you forever,Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls...

our feet are grape-squashed in memoriesour skins are still flushedfrom the touch of summer’s lips.

Words are fossilized butterfly wings,pretty to look at sometimes,but only good for Museums.I want to miserably burn down the Museums.

When someone offers you lines like that, he must be Mephistopheles and you must be Faust. You know you shouldn’t succumb to such language, but you succumb.

Promise me no promises, So will I not promise you: Keep we both our liberties, Never false and never true: Let us hold the die uncast, Free to come as free to go: For I...

we inhale life and exhale words. that’s just what writers’ do–

My heart born nakedwas swaddled in lullabies.Later alone it worepoems for clothes.Like a shirtI carried on my backthe poetry I had read.So I lived for half a centuryuntil wordlessly we met.From my shirt on the...

A woman knows very well that, though a wit sends her his poems, praises her judgment, solicits her criticism, and drinks her tea, this by no means signifies that he respects her opinions, admires her...

Could any State on Earth Immortall be,Venice by Her rare Goverment is She;Venice Great Neptunes Minion, still a Mayd,Though by the warrlikst Potentats assayed;Yet She retaines Her Virgin-waters pure,Nor any Forren mixtures can endure;Though, Syren-like...

Uni on varannut heidät itselleenkoko yöksi

as some strings, untouched,sound when no one is speaking.So it was when love slipped inside us.

A permanent pathThat, once illuminated,Goes ever onward – a way home…

Every pain, addiction, anguish, longing, depression, anger or fearis an orphaned part of usseeking joy, some disowned shadow wanting to returnto the lightand homeof ourselves.

Usually when your imagination is bigger then one’s comprehension, this normally means you’ve out grown the small circle. Get with like-mined people and go after your vision.By T-cupp

Let them Teach,Let them learn,let them pray,for the world is theirs.

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.

Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they’ll make your soul impervious to the world’s soft decay.

Music straightjackets a poem and prevents it from breathing on its own, whereas it liberates a lyric. Poetry doesn’t need music; lyrics do.

He needed some sort of membrane between himself and experience, which, for him, became language.(Jeanette Winterson on T.S.Eliot)