In past wars only homes burnt, but this timeDon’t be surprised if even loneliness ignites.In past wars only bodys burnt, but this timeDon’t be surprised if even shadows ignite.

I’ll enjoy today while it’s here, using the time wisely. Each day is a gift that soon becomes a memory.

Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on TheeAnd I’ll forgive Thy great big one on me.

Silver hidden in the gold,Young man hidden in the old,Laughing lord with weeping eyes,Bring king and ring before sunrise! -Hilarion, The Great and Terrible Quest

RELUCTANCEOut through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended;I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended;I have come by the highway home, And lo,...

[Fiction and poetry] are medicines, they’re doses, and they heal the rupture that reality makes on the imagination.

Never fear the thing you feel– Only by love is life made real

and if iif i ever let love gobecause the hatred and the whisperingsbecome a phantom dictate i o-bey in lieu of impulse and realities(the blossoming flamingos of mywild mimosa trees)then let love freeze meout.(from i...

Music is poetry with personality

You write poetry?” Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one.”Just a little bit,” Isadora said modestly. “I write poems down in this notebook. It’s an interest of mine.””Sappho!” Sunny...

. . . distant as the death of grocery chickens.

Poetry, playing with your words until you breathe life into them.

Nostalgia locates desire in the past where it suffers no active conflict and can be yearned toward pleasantly.

Only–but this is rare–When a beloved hand is laid in ours,When, jaded with the rush and glareOf the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,When our world-deafen’d earIs by the tones of...

{Letter from Fawcett to the great Robert Ingersoll, 1894}I do so wish, that, in all these big questions, literary men would take you more for a guide than they do, or seem to do. You...

…and I laugh and I spin and dance and frolic in ecstasy and I… I hurt no more, while you…you petrified little man, are left to wonder if it’s you I speak of.

Reluctant hero, drafted again each Fourthof July, I’ll bow and remember you. Whoshall we follow next? Who shall we killnext time?

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

O take me from the busy crowd,I cannot bear the noise!For Nature’s voice is never loud;I seek for quiet joys.The book I love is everywhere,And not in idle words;The book I love is known to...

In many ways, religion comes from the same place in us that art comes from. The language of the human heart if poetry

I want to ripoff your logic and make passionate sense to you.

creativity keeps the world alive, yet, everyday we are asked to be ashamed of honoring it, wanting to live our lives as artists. i’ve carried the shame of being a ‘creative’ since i came to...

Art is the conscious making of numinous phenomena. Many objects are just objects – inert, merely utilitarian. Many events are inconsequential, too banal to add anything to our experience of life. This is unfortunate, as...

the difference between poets and mystics . . . The mystic nails a symbol to one meaning that was true for a moment but soon becomes false. The poet, on the other hand, sees that...

History is a hermaphrodite with many distinguished lovers. We are neither mysteries nor strangers but the living breath of revelation made flesh by the unrestrained desires of a free and universal love. Universal me. Universal...

If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean’s insanity.Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune’s vanity.

Thoughts as warm as a silky summer rain, flowing over the edge of my soul’s gentle.not tides returning them along the shoreline to laughing gulls.

My father’s love was always strongMy mother’s glamour lives on and on.Yet still inside I felt alone, for reasones unknow to me.

Ah, me resisto, mas me tienes toda, tú, que nunca serás del todo mío.

Licence my roving hands, and let them go Before, behind, between, above, below.

funny”, you know?I feel taller. I like that.I’ve never been away from my shadow forthis long. It had always clung to my feet,parting momentarily for a quick dive intothe swimming pool. But never for fivehours....

Think of it: the worlds in this world.

Evet, gün geliyor bıkıyorum sendenAma İstanbul’dan bıkmak gibi bir şey bu,Git, istersen, cüzam kap bir yerlerden,Görmek istersen, nicedir, tutkunluğumu.

From the shadow of domes in the city of domes,A snowflake, a blizzard of one, weightless, entered your roomAnd made its way to the arm of the chair where you, looking upFrom your book, saw...

If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with...

RebukeObstinate regressionbringing untold pathsof deep dark forebodingdepression…

Mon Dieu, la vie est par trop moche.

I’d Drown For YouI opened my heart to youA complete immersionI offered my soul to youA heavenly diversion

THE PRESOCRATIC PROBLEM[all snap flags]Parmenides named his gun The Hot Power of the Stars. His gun was one, uncreated, imperishable, timeless, changeless, perfect, spherical. Spherical was the problem.

It is ferocious, life, but it must eat . . .

The grave’s a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.

Though I play at the edges of knowing, truly I know our part is not knowing, but looking, and touching, and loving

Along the field as we came byA year ago, my love and I,The aspen over stile and stoneWas talking to itself alone.’Oh who are these that kiss and pass?A country lover and his lass;Two lovers...

I write to forget the days that broke me into a million nights.

…how it would be nice if, for every sea waiting for us, there would be a river, for us. And someone -a father, a lover, someone- able to take us by the hand and find...

Poetry puts starch in your backbone so you can stand, so you can compose your life.

Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul,that soft summer morninground a turning in the path,the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones,its legs in the air like a woman in needburning its...

I wanted all thingsTo seem to make some sense,So we could all be happy, yes,Instead of tense.And I made up liesSo that they all fit nice,And I made this sad worldA par-a-dise.

Look upward to himLook to him for everythingLook to him for answersLook to him for a listening ear

One! two! and through and throughThe vorpal blade went snickersnack!He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.