Poetry is the art of using language to transcend language.

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the...

Life is beautiful. Death is astonishing.And love is the just breaths taken in between

Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.

She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think...

holding a tiny dixie cup in my hand makes me feel like a giant human being that can crush things

Yo, múltiple, como en contradicción

when you’re younga pair offemalehigh-heeled shoesjust sittingalonein the closetcan fire yourbones;when you’re oldit’s justa pair of shoeswithoutanybodyin themandjust aswell.

Our love was bornoutside the walls,in the wind,in the night,in the earth,and that’s why the clay and the flower,the mud and the rootsknow your name.

Most people ignore most poetry because poetry ignores most people.

Brimming. That’s what it is, I want to get to a place where my sentences enact brimming.

When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.

I never wanted to be saved, just loved in ways that would make the Gods jealous.

Hope springs eternal in the human breast; Man never Is, but always To be blest. The soul, uneasy, and confin’d from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Here is a greedy man who keeps to himselfThe beautiful pears ripe in his garden.

I’ve written some poetry I don’t understand myself

The nature of poemsIs a matter of words and deedsAn intimate encounter of voiceIn the ache of the heartIn the labor of breathingA hesitant casting of eyesAway from the mundane to seeThat delicate and shiny...

Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

…my heart is a desolate field over which geese vee, the sky turns and the days lie fallow…

Poetry is an orphan of silence.

Failure: the renewable resource.

There is no competition of sounds between a nightingale and a violin.

If I could make people feel, just for a day or an hour, what it’s like to love with infiniteness, then they would be animals no longer, but some greater creature, deserving of that title...

Since there is no real silence, Silence will contain all the sounds, All the words, all the languages, All knowledge, all memory.

Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.

All people are enslaved by something.

As for political poetry, as it’s usually defined, it seems there’s very little good political poetry.

Long ago an uncalled rain fell and a called-upon God stayed equally distant.

If the poets offered us nothing more than another make-believe world, they would be mere sellers of drugs or, at best, sweetmeats.

If emptiness is empty, how can something be borne or awaken from it?

To be human is to be broken and broken is its own kind of beautiful.

If you are the lantern, I am the flame;If you are the lake, then I am the rain;If you are the desert, I am the sea;If you are the blossom, I am the bee;If you...

A wealth you cannot imagineflows through you.Do not consider what strangers say.Be secluded in your secret heart-house,that bowl of silence.

Winter is already a lost shape, forgottenin the ground. Instead, here is Springwith all the grace of a womansmoothing out her apron.

Magic is when you live your life the way you didn’t picture it and leave nothing behind.

Is there a better method of departure by night than this quiet bon voyage with an open book, the sole companion who has come to see you off, to wave you into the dark waters...

If you must write prose or poems, the words you use should be your own. Don’t plagiarize or take ‘on loan’. There’s always someone, somewhere, with a big nose, who knows, who’ll trip you up...

Disease often comes with a smiling face.

I’d rather write poetry than watch TV it allows me to share the wide screen in me.

Universe is the Sun watching its own self.

මගේ හිත පිරිනිවිල යනවකෙත්වතු, උයන් දකිද්දීහොඳයි නරකයි දෙයක් නෑඅවබෝධයයි වටින්නේ

True beauty lies not upon gilded veneers,But found in the soul within.

The blue of daylightfades and chills as the sun sinksbeneath clouds of fire.

We aren’t suggesting that mental instability or unhappiness makes one a better poet, or a poet at all; and contrary to the romantic notion of the artist suffering for his or her work, we think...

Do I Love You”I stand in the night and stare up at a lone star, wondering what love means. You whisper your desire—do I love you? I dare say yes. But my eyes drift back...

Such was a poet and shall be and is-who’ll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam’s architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain’s heartbeat in his...

In the prison of his daysTeach the free man how to praise

My candle burns at both ends;It will not last the night;But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—It gives a lovely light!

if what is true brings us sorrow, / if what sorrow brings is truth

[Poetry] was a form of incantation, a means of welding the world inside his head to the one that surrounded him, words the fiery chain that bound it all together.