My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,but what I reject is more numerous,denser, more demanding than before.A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable loss.

… Fourier’s great mathematical poem …{Referring to Joseph Fourier’s mathematical theory of the conduction of heat, one of the precursors to thermodynamics.}

Sexual Immorality provides a very pleasurable ride to the grave. Her vehicles are all luxury, but they cannot seat many passengers. She parks her employees nearly everywhere, and makes you feel incredibly good. The temperatures...

Good or bad, positive or negative, there is no comment more insulting to a poet than one displaying that you have not properly read and considered the things they wrote.

Songs of myselfClear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen...

What, after all, is mathematics but the poetry of the mind, and what is poetry but the mathematics of the heart?

WHAT am I, after all, but a child, pleas’d with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over; I stand apart to hear—it never tires me. To you, your name also; Did...

I wish for magic this season,laughter and fun.I wish for mistletoe kisses-those sparkly ones.

rush of pine scent (once upon a time),the unlicensed convictionthere ought to be another wayof sayingthis.

At the Beginning there was Incomplete information,then belief and then an abstract idea but if you reach Pure reasoning then you start to understand the dualities of life itself.The sunset,the sunrise;A star from approximately 93...

I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I’m here.

Dan kerinduan pagi pada matarimemberi jejak pada puisi yang resah senantiasa,memanjati dinding hari dalam dekapan memori,menanti takdir berikutnya bagi cinta tanpa spasi ini

I believein love at first sightbut I will always believe that the peoplewe lovewe have loved before.Many, many, many times beforeand when we stumblethrough grace and circumstance and that brilliant illusion of choiceto finally meet...

I write sappy love poetry. Mostly about bleeding trees.

They say that I am a poetI wonder what they would say if they saw me from the inside I bottleemotions and place them into the sea for others to unbottle ondistant shores I am...

Happy the man, and happy he alone,he who can call today his own:he who, secure within, can say,Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.Be fair or foul, or rain or shinethe joys I...

The South-wind bringsLife, sunshine and desire,And on every mount and meadowBreathes aromatic fire;But over the dead he has no power,The lost, the lost, he cannot restore;And, looking over the hills, I mournThe darling who shall...

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some...

sometimes I hearscreaming like a childand wake upto find it’s me

DICK’S DESIREDick’s eyes-Soft, cold, and blue-Meet Devonshire’s-Dark, sexy, and yearning.Turning away-Dick grabs two packets of sugar-While Devonshire’s eyes-Are still upon him-Pondering his every move.Is Dick a playboy,A ladies’ man,A mans’ man,Or a killer?Does his sex...

Water, water, everywhere,And all the boards did shrink;Water, water, everywhere,Nor any drop to drink.

,De qué sirve presumir,rosal, de buen parecer,si aun no acabas de nacercuando empiezas a morir?

Deep feeling doesn’t make for good poetry. A way with language would be a bit of help.

Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

A good story is like a well-placed punch: quick, effective, and impossible to ignore.

Colliding with the bright lightOf my true self,My illusions scream loudly,Themselves illusionsCreated by other illusions,Finally knowing thatDeep within meBeneath the shellLies the sacred beautyOf my true self.

As Borges has taught us, all the books in the library are contemporary. Great poems are like granaries: they are always ready to enlarge their store.

Used to be hewas my heart’s desire.His forthright gaze,his expert hands:I’d lie on the couch with my eyesclosed just thinking about it.Never about the factthat everything changes,that even this,my best passion,would not be immune.No, I...

You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;They called me the hyacinth girl.’ —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and...

The skies bend, the time stops, the lanes move and the fires dance,It can mean only one thing that I am with you.You are enigmatic yet so beautiful that I have lost my sense, You...

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind—As if my Brain had split—I tried to match it—Seam by Seam—But could not make it fit.

The Tao Te Ching is partly in prose, partly in verse; but as we define poetry now, not by rhyme and meter but as a patterned intensity of language, the whole thing is poetry. I...

I sing to use the waiting, My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house; No more to do have I, Till, his best step approaching, We journey to the day, And...

I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too...

Being a blesséd writer is a cursed attribute, when you wish to no longer be encompassed by someone and yet you are surrounded by loose leaf papers filled with the sound of his voice.

there have been morningsso quiet and tenderlike a poem, on Thursday’s lipsthat I wonderedif I’d been kissed at all…

An artist is identical with an anarchist,’ he cried. ‘You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment...

the saddest thing is to bea minute to someone,when you’ve made them your eternity.

As Henry Moore carvedor modelled his sculpture every day,he strove to surpass Donatello4. and failed, but woke the next morningelated for another try.

my love is a winter’s mistgently dissolvingthrough the windowat the nape of your neck.

Music is the universal language of mankind.

i am alwaysstalking you, my dear. with my thoughtsmy words.my breath.

John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.

poets. have the toughest jobin the universe-of turning silenceinto eloquence.

Make me, dear Lord, polite and kind, To everyone, I pray.And may I ask you how you find Yourself, dear Lord, today?

The computer is incredibly fast, accurate, and stupid.Man is unbelievably slow, inaccurate, and brilliant.The marriage of the two is a force beyond calculation.

Energy manipulation took place completely in mind,same way believing in telepathy caused telepathic abilities to grow STRONGER.

I am republicI am maoistI am activistand I am thisand I am thatbut why?Why can’t; I be

For if my poems have always been about survival–and I believe they have been–then survival too keeps revealing itself as an art of the unexpected.

To evade such temptations is the first duty of the poet. For as the ear is the antechamber to the soul, poetry can adulterate and destroy more surely then lust or gunpowder. The poet’s, then,...