I have nothing to say And I am saying it And that is poetry

I almost gave my life long ago for a thingThat has gone to dust now, stinging my eyes—It is strange how often a heart must be brokenBefore the years can make it wise.

She was the unlucky lover,who loved everyone but herself

I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.

I’ll Die For Your Sins If You Live For mine.

But that so many scholars are barbarians does not much matter so long as a few of them are ready to help with their specialized knowledge the few independent thinkers, that is to say the...

She didn’t do anything at allexcept arrived without warningin the middle of the night(right when I least expected it)She walked by me, with a strut in her stepsmelling like summercausing me to turn my head(even...

If there is passion, let me feel its heat.I want my heart to beat fast,my breath raspy, my skin to burn.

… unfools of unbeing … means quite clearly people who are too stereotyped to be eccentric – people who are too dead spiritually to exist at all and who call alive individual fools

I have brushed my teeth.This day and I are even.

I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.

So sweet and delicious do I become,when I am in bed with a manwho, I sense, loves and enjoys me,that the pleasure I bring excels all delight,so the knot of love, however tightit seemed before,...

Tis the witching hour of night,Orbed is the moon and bright,And the stars they glisten, glisten,Seeming with bright eyes to listenFor what they listen?

I’m going to Hell in a basketWeaved in from my sinsLike wickerWith little Wiccan tiesAs if I’m a witchAccused

One can not understand language because language cannot understand itself; does not want to understand

At first first nothing will happen to usand later on it will happen to us again.

On LivingLiving is no laughing matter:You must take it seriously.So much so and to such a degreethat, for example, your hands tiedbehind your back,your back to the wallor else in a laboratoryin your white coat...

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.

Maybe you could be mine / or maybe we’ll be entwined / aimless in this sexless foreplay.

The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

He will one day meet his true love… A fellow traveler on the road… Her eyes will be his ocean… In her ocean he will sail forever….

It is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far...

How shall we distinguish that whichis good in pleasure from that which is not good?”Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is thepleasure of the bee to gather honey...

A litany of headlights blinding her, she stands unsteady on the dotted traffic line, takes timid steps toward rolled up windows behind which any horror could crouch….

At the round earth’s imagined corners blowYour trumpets, angels, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberless infinitiesOf souls, and to your scattered bodies go ;All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,All whom war, dea[r]th,...

I remainMistress of mine own self and mine own soul

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

As the future ripens in the past,so the past rots in the future –a terrible festival of dead leaves.

There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.

It’s just me throwing myself at you,romance as usual, us times us,not lust but moxibustion,a substance burning closeto the body as possiblewithout risk of immolation.

White IrisThe iris danced acrossthe ancient Grecian skiesgliding with her embossedsatiny milken sides …

The appropriation of the creativity-procreativity metaphor by women is a conscious challenge to traditional poetics and beyond that to traditional metaphysics, for the gynocentric vision is not that Logos condescends to incarnate itself, but that...

Nos enseñaron desde niñoscómo se forma un cuerposus órganos sus huesossus funciones sus sitiospero nunca supimosde qué estaba hecha el alma

Good poetry does not exist merely for the sake of itself, but rather, is a byproduct of yearning and growth; great poetry canonizes that yearning for the growth of others.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

Laser technology has fulfilled our people’s ancient dream of a blade so fine that the person it cuts remains standing and alive until he moves and cleaves. Until we move, none of us can be...

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming...

I offer you my mouth—Let me marry my lips to the tops of your thighs,I kneel between your legs. I offer you my hands—Your name written all over my palms,the fingers I press against you.I...

in der Fußgängerzone kam Wind auf wie immer Wind aufkommt bei der Suche nach jenem richtigen Ort der sich stets weit entfernt zeigt, die Abfallpapiere am Boden verrutschten, mein Mantel flatterte, und, als wäre dies...

I’m falling apart, one part after another. Falling down on the world like snow. Half of me is already on the ground, watching from below.

Poetry isn’t like any writing I’ve ever heard before. I don’t understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.

—Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!

You have my life,My heart,My soul in your hands

The ambitions are wake up, breathe, keep breathing.

HER BARBED-WIRE SMILELIFTED YOU TO HEAVENBUT I HAVE TO ASKDID GOD LOOK LIKE HER VOICE

Door of passage to the other side, the soul frees itself in stride.

some moments are nice, some arenicer, some are even worthwritingabout.

But how wonderful when the tale is told,And the message that is meant for usOpens like the scents of a mountain flower!

Vernal Equinox The scent of hyacinths, like a pale mist, lies between me and my book;And the South Wind, washing through the room,Makes the candles quiver.My nerves sting at a spatter of rain on the...

Immortal amarant, a flower which onceIn paradise, fast by the tree of life,Began to bloom; but soon for man’s offenceTo heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows,And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life,And...