First, I thought, almost despairing,This must crush my spirit now;Yet I bore it, and am bearing-Only do not ask me how.

It’s best to watch out for men, like me.

In all ages woman has been the source of all that is pure, unselfish, and heroic in the spirit and life of man…..poetry and fiction are based upon woman’s love, and the movements of history...

I’m Reginald Clark, I’m afraid of the darkSo please do not close this book on me.

Oh! That was poetry!” said Pippin. “Do you really mean to start before the break of day?

You lethargic, waiting upon me,waiting for the fire and Iattendant upon you, shaken by your beautyShaken by your beauty Shaken.

A poem needs imaginative rhythms as well as imaginative transformation of content.

[P]oetry resembles metaphysics: one does not mind one’s own, but one does not like anyone else’s.

WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning...

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete...

Here’s a haiku/palindrome I wrote called, “Obsession.”Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffrings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. People...

You know you possess the soul of an artist when, each time you sit down to create, the whole universe lays itself at your feet.

… in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will have to bury children, and support themselves through grief.

Results and RosesThe man who wants a garden fair,or small or very big,With flowers growing here and there,Must bend his back and dig.The things are mighty few on earthThat wishes can attain.Whate’er we want of...

Poetry must be as new as foam, and as old as the rock.

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

Sure, we thought the acresThat we tilled were sacred,But how could we have knownThat wheat can haunt like ghosts

We talk so abstractly about poetry because all of us are usually bad poets.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, ‘Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody...

I sell black markers on the black market. I am personally responsible for 50% of all truck stop urinal poetry.

Early Morning in Your RoomIt’s morning. The brown scoops of coffee, the wasp-likeCoffee grinder, the neighbors still asleep.The gray light as you pour gleaming water–It seems you’ve traveled years to get here.Finally you deserve a...

Writing poetry is about learning to pare down the poem to the most essential words. Every word used has to be crucial to the poem.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another til I drop.

Would you like some warm Spring pie?Then, take a cup of clear blue sky.Stir in buzzes from a bee,Add the laughter of a tree.A dash of sunlight should sufficeTo give the dew a hint of...

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand...

Think neither fear nor courage saves us.Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism. Virtues are forced upon us by our impudent crimes. These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

Poetry is man’s rebellion against being what he is.

HappinessSo early it’s still almost dark out.I’m near the window with coffee,and the usual early morning stuffthat passes for thought.When I see the boy and his friendwalking up the roadto deliver the newspaper.They wear caps...

To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie—True Poems flee—

I had embraced you…long before i hugged you.

Back BurnerPut the stress on the back burnerIt only burns its way backPut your thoughts on the futureand it becomes the past…”excerpt from my poem Back Burner from The Poetic Diary of Love and Change...

Breezy daysdeserve the unionof two old friends.

I think of New York City lost in starsforgotten as a blue haired pet of childhood love Tonight the night is full;

There is bad in all good authors: what a pity the converse isn’t true!

Dining at the rare reasonTo get between the circumstanceAnd start milking the Caesars For what enters the earsAnd is for their eyes to air and advise.

The poetic impulse is distinct from ideas about things or feelings about things, though it may use these. It’s more like a desire to separate a piece of one’s experience & set it up on...

Yes, there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer, and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe: ‘Schade, daß die Natur nur...

Someday I will walk under the soul-blossom tree with my hand eternally woven in yours.

I have been used to consider poetry as “the food of love” said Darcy.”Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what isstrong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort...

Now I think poetry will save nothing from oblivion, but I keep writing about the ordinary because for me it’s the home of the extraordinary, the only home.

Know that there is often hidden in us a dormant poet, always young and alive.

Jika cintaku kepada Sita dianggap terlarang, itu artinya kau merendahkan takdir Tuhan. Kau sendiri tahu, aku tak akan pernah mampu menentukan kepada siapa aku dilahirkan, maka sekarang aku juga tak akan pernah bisa memilih kepada...

You shall create beauty not to excite the sensesbut to give sustenance to the soul.

The very essence of I is being killed by You.

I wouldn’t want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days!

Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

What wretched poverty of language! To compare stars to diamonds!

It’s not magic. I remember because I make comparisons. Not in terms of better or worse, just different. And not all of these memories are great, but they’re mine.Which lends way to believe, that none...