The image of a wood has appeared often enough in English verse. It has indeed appeared so often that it has gathered a good deal of verse into itself; so that it has become a...

There is nothing like scrubbing toilets for a living to make you question the choices you have made in life.

If emptiness is endless, then everything rests in emptiness.

To love is to soar in the wild unexpectedly.

Get out, but don’t cause unneeded accidents.

Maybe what this is. What we have, is something that will save us from ourselves.

Too often, feelings arrive too soon, waiting for thoughts that often come too late.

Car j’ai vécu de vous attendre,Et mon coeur n’était que vos pas.

The fly lands on the swatter.The movie runs backwardsand catches fire in the projector.This species apes us wellby talking only about itself

When I took my poetry class in school. I read an e. e. cummings poem. I don’t mind eels except how they feels and maybe as meals. I knew there was hope for me.

Now that we are all so smart, we don’t easily find resolutions.

I started writing poetry and philosophy when I was 17 years old and my mind so was wild. Now I’m 56 and I often want to write like a child.

Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.

Deep down,I lay dormant inside her head,Deep down,I lay the rules inside her head,Deep down,I lay inside inside her heart,Deep down,I know she will never move onBecause deep down, I am always there

Her magnificence is deeper than skin.

History says, Don’t hopeOn this side of the grave,But then, once in a lifetimeThe longed-for tidal waveOf justice can rise up,And hope and history rhyme

This weekin live currentevents: your eyes.All power can bedangerous:Director alternating,you, socket to me.Plugged in and the gridis humming,this electricity,molecule-deep desire:particular friction, a chargestrong enough to stopa heartor start itagain; volt, re-volt–I shudder, I stutter, I...

He was my North, my South, my East and West,My working week and my Sunday rest,My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

Today is such a lovely day, my heart is dancing with joy.My mind is flowing with timeand my soul is longing for your soul.

Your smile is poetry to my soul igniting flames of old

Second FigSafe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Historical sense and poetic sense should not, in the end, be contradictory, for if poetry is the little myth we make, history is the big myth we live, and in our living, constantly remake.

It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India—a hundred Indias—whispered outside...

REFLECTIONS OF TRUTHWhere you find TruthIs where you find your reflectionAnd where you find your reflectionIs where you find loveAnd where you find loveIs where you find lightAnd where you find lightIs where you find...

Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.

Kebenaran indah. Kepalsuan juga didendangkan indah. Maka, kebenaran itu palsu?” Memang –kebenaran memiliki imam tersendiri kecuali ketika engkau melihat makmum di belakang terkial-kial mengikutinya lalu bermufaraqah.

Alleen al het feit dat je bij een Vlaamse poëzievoorlezing of een Hollandse toneelvoorstelling onveranderlijk naar gewichtsverlies verlangt is voldoende reden n ooit een Hollandse poëzievoorstelling of Vlaamse toneelvoorstelling te willen bijwonen.

The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.

When a group of people get up from a table, the table doesn’tknow which way any of them will go.

I want my own will, and I wantsimply to be with my will,as it goes toward action.And in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times,when something is coming near,I want to be with those who knowsecret...

I want my life to be the greatest story. My very existence will be the greatest poem.Watch me burn.Love always, Charlotte

I swearwe’d lose ourhearts ifthey weren’twith elasticand butterflypinclasped safelyin.

This meeting’s done!I now see where he gets it from—you act just like your son!

When it comes, you’ll be dreamingthat you don’t need to breathe;that breathless silence isthe music of the darkand it’s part of the rhythmto vanish like a spark.

Poetry helps heal wounds.Makes them tangible.At the poetry reading I reada poem.A prophecy I wrote down. Almost couldn’t go through with it.But it came outhurried and hotand by the endmy tongue was on fire.

Real poetry is art at its purest sense. It is never a commodity, but a breath of eternity.

…the Moon, the enemy of poets…(“Merchant’s Two Sons”)

Song of MyselfI have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. There was never any more inception...

Ho sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno un milione di scalee ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino.Anche così è stato breve il nostro lungo viaggio.Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi...

Beautiful feelings soar freely, while true care roots deeply. Real love can only bedefined by them both.

You are either in a state of perfection or a state of learning. Reading is one of the best ways to learn about our lives and purpose!

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.

The touch of your fingersgrazing minedelicate asa single drop of winein a crystal goblet.Rolling it round,I savor it on my tongue,try tomake it lastforever.The words Iloveyouform in the airand melt. Your palm againstmy cheek,light asa...

Voodoo GirlHer skin is white cloth,and she’s all sewn apartand she has many colored pinssticking out of her heart.She has many different zombieswho are deeply in her trance.She even has a zombiewho was originally from...

Sudahkah kau minum puisimu hari ini?

I fancied you’d return the way you said,But I grow old and I forget your name. –From the poem “Mad Girl’s Love Song

Yet you stand, too ashamed to run, too fearful to embrace. God I see so much ofwhat I love in that face.

Since poetry deals with the singular, not the general, it cannot – if it is good poetry – look at things of this earth other than as colorful, variegated, and exciting, and so, it cannot...

ConnubialBecause with alarming accuracy she’d been identifying patterns I was unaware of—this tic, that tendency, like the way I’ve mastered the language of intimacy in order to conceal how I felt— I knew I was...

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.