Have you ever lost yourself in a kiss? I mean pure psychedelic inebriation. Not just lustful petting but transcendental metamorphosis when you became aware that the greatness of this being was breathing into you. Licking...

Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willow. May...

Where are we going? It’s not an issue of here or there. And if you ever feel you can’t take another step, imagine how you might feel to arrive, if not wiser, a little more...

once I trained for the Olympics but panic is not a sport

EntropyThe Disintegrating Integration ofCheez-Whiz Squirts Insipid InspirationQuoth the Oblong Eclipse ofNether-Knowledge Never KnowingDecaying Matter in a Decaying OrbitOrangutans of ScienceStudy Ignorance of WhatThe Cows Already Know.

FRIENDSLooking out the window, I see you looking in.You are the sunshine,That fills my soul.

What if you slept?What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if In your dream You went to heaven And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower And what...

…sombra que sucesivo anhela el viento…

My heart is small, like a love of buttons or black pepper.

Has it ever occurred to you,’ he said, ‘that the whole history of English poetry has been de-termined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?

Lift Not The Painted VeilLift not the painted veil which those who liveCall Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,And it but mimic all we would believeWith colours idly spread,–behind, lurk FearAnd Hope, twin Destinies;...

born born everything is always bornthinking about it try not to

…until summer becomes ein Zimmer in einem Traum — a room in a dream.

For you she learned to wear a short black slipand red lipstick,how to order a glass of red wineand finish it. She learned to reach outas if to touch your arm and then nottouch it,...

…and then, I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?

Lie beside me, oh my beloved! For thy thorns are more pleasurable than the petals of the world.Hold me in thy arms of hope, for the truth of separation can rest tonight.

This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang but a whimper.

There’s a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

Aeneas’ mother is a star?””No; a goddess.”I said cautiously, “Venus is the power that we invoke in spring, in the garden, when things begin growing. And we call the evening star Venus.”He thought it over....

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul…

For youi have saved poemsunder my skin.

Mr. Morris’s poem is ushered into the world with a very florid birthday speech from the pen of the author of the too famous Poems and Ballads,—a circumstance, we apprehend, in no small degree prejudicial...

Fall in lovewith the energyof the morningstrace your fingers along the lullof the afternoonstake the spirit of the eveningsin your armskiss it deeply and thenmake loveto the tranquilityof the nights.

Even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon.

One can,’ said Ernest ‘remain unmoved before a cloud as before an automatic ticket machine. I don’t like poetry, I don’t like flowers, I don’t like machines, I don’t like sugar, I don’t like pepper,...

The great error consists in supposing that poetry is an unnatural form of language. We should all like to speak poetry at the moment when we truly live, and if we do not speak it,...

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

And in despair I bowed my head;”There is no peace on earth,” I said;”For hate is strong,And mocks the songOf peace on earth, good-will to men!”Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:”God is not...

fierce lovers.and battle warriorsboth comefrom the same place. there is bound to be,some bloodshed.

He was weary of himself, of cold ideas and brain dreams. Life a poem? Not when you went about forever poetizing about your own life instead of living it. How innocuous it all was, and...

a silent night. – the most eloquent poem i have ever read.

Don’t ask me what it means; ask me what it felt.

Haiku is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life.

..home INSIDE is home shining brightly above all homes in physical world.

The answer to our existence lies in existence itself.

Poetry isn’t just words that describe reality. Poetry is the fire that burns everything it touches. Poetry isn’t just words that describe reality. Poetry is the fire that burns everything it touches. Poetry is God,...

Poetry can have varied and useful functions; and seduction is apparently something worth writing poetry for.

I refuse to consider Art a drain-pipe for passion, a kind of chamberpot, a slightly more elegant substitute for gossip and confidences. No, no! Genuine poetry is not the scum of the heart.

Why are you so hard on yourself?I love you just the way you are,with your withered coat and wet scarf dangling like a spotless chandelier.The snow banks in Montreal are high, but I can see...

May be its mine bad-luck Or yours not to get me But I still have hope Of being yours

The gilded spiralOf longings within.Our very own cathedralThat points persistently to heaven.

To translate a poem from thinking into English takes all night.

Write to me your most perfect epitaph, or I shall compare a poet to a lecturer. Thou art more Spartan than a ballad monger who makes his living as a Wal-Mart greeter;

It is probably always disastrous not to be a poet.

I would not come in.I meant not even if asked,And I hadn’t been.

Live not for Battles Won.Live not for The-End-of-the-Song. Live in the along.

If I Must GoIf I must go to heaven’s endClimbing the ages like a stair,Be near me and forever bendWith the same eyes above me there;Time will fly past us like leaves flying,We shall not...

comingdownwithsomethinggoingawaywithnothing

our love likestepping on to a planesitting down in a carwalking on unknown land will either take us to where we belongor throw us into darkness

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.