How can love’s spaciousnessbe conveyed in the narrowconfines of one syllable?

A song is the exultation of the mind dwelling on eternal things, bursting forth in the voice.

I carry my heart like a crucifix, but I remember once you told me that sorrow can be a blessing too. You told me that what is coming is better than what is gone. You’ve...

My relationship stays strong because I serenade her with my actions and I write poetry in her heart with my deeds. My endless love is expressed with more than just my words; my love is...

It was as important to live poetically as to write poems.

Ey t lih! Ölümden de beterdir bu karanlık;Ey aşk! O gönüller sana m l oldular artık;Ey vuslat! O şıkları efsûnuna r m et!Ey tatlı ve ûlvi gece! Yıllarca dev m et!

Love is like the wild rose-briar;Friendship like the holly-tree.The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,But which will bloom most constantly?The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,Its summer blossoms scent the air;Yet wait till winter...

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless,That only men incredulous of despair,Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight airBeat upward to God’s throne in loud accessOf shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn souls, as countries, lieth silent-bareUnder...

i want to stay curled and cosiedand chocolated….foreverin my mother’s arms.

But let us laugh carelessly like other men. Let us be timid even among fools. Let us knot silence around our throats.For they would surely kill us.

Next, PleaseAlways too eager for the future, wePick up bad habits of expectancy.Something is always approaching; every dayTill then we say,Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear,Sparkling armada of promises draw near.How slow they are!...

Poetry has its uses for despair. It can carve a shape in which a pain can seem to be; it can give one’s loss a form and dimension so that it might be loss and...

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

Go then, O my inseperable, this once more,

i writebecauseit is the only wayi can reach you.

The Arrow and the SongI shot an arrow into the air,It fell to earth, I knew not where;For, so swiftly it flew, the sightCould not follow it in its flight.I breathed a song into the...

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

We are each what never leaves us, what we never seethe back ofis the self. But what loves usis at the back, as Eurydice wasescorting him outwithout his knowing.

I live there…where the birds are infiniteeverywherewhere they fleeit’s a place your eyes can wanderbut never seeWhere everyone accepts me,Without any pretenseIt’s a place your mind can picturebut never really comprehend.

My heart aches for you! But don’t despair! I am persuaded you will come about! Recollect what the poet says! I’m not sure which poet, but very likely it was Shakespeare, because it generally is,...

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings and attempt to...

All of these teeth had once been in real, live people. They had talked and smiled and eaten and sang and cursed and prayed. They had brushed and flossed and died. In English class, we...

Neither shall you know nor meMan is the killer and creator of thee

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you.

Right words are born in courage, which results from our struggle to make sense of our various predicaments. Cheer is what words are “trying to tell us/… It’s native to the words/and what they want...

To be great, be whole;Exclude nothing, exaggerate nothing that is not you.Be whole in everything. Put all you areInto the smallest thing you do.So, in each lake, the moon shines with splendorBecause it blooms up...

The poet is a faker / Who’s so good at his act / He even fakes the pain / Of pain he feels in fact.

Everyday can be extraordinaryAnd ripe,Like a flower burst,If the will is there.

Through the darkest hours of the nightand through the dreamers realm I seek,Far beyond the starry skyand beyond galaxies I am free.Through the grimmest memoriesand past a seasons air I cannot breathe,Far beyond this mortal...

This, this indeed is to be accursed, For if we mortals love, or if we sing, We count our joys not by what we have, But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

In the beginning was the word, and primitive societies venerated poets second only to their leaders. A poet had the power to name and so to control; he was, literally, the living memory of a...

A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.

Dreams, the veins of the universe.

My heart in the East But the rest of me far in the West— How can I savor this life, even taste what I eat? How, in the bonds of the Moor, Zion chained to...

There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.

In The WoodI heard the water-fall rejoiceSinging like a choir,I saw the sun flash out of itAzure and amber fire. The earth was like an open flowerEnamelled and arrayed, The path I took to find...

I don’t understand the whole thrilling verse, but I love the way poetry turns ordinary words into winged things that rise up and soar!

NexusI wrote stubbornly into the evening.At the window, a giant praying mantisrubbed his monkey wrench head against the glass,begging vacantly with pale eyes;and the commas leapt at me like wormsor miniature scythes blackened with age.the...

Little CinderGirl, they can’t understand you.You rise from the as-heap in a blazeand only then do they recognize you as their one true love.While you pray beneath your mother’s tree you carrve a phoenix into...

Find that gem amongst your so-called, “friends.

If that poem idea is in your head NOW, write it down. Right now. Or lose it. For when it’s gone, it’s gone forever…

Foggy nights bring some comfort.He can get lost in the mistand there is no one to stare or question.

Everything is an echo of something I once read.Dream, hope, and celebrate life!Love always comes back in a song.One thing we all have in common is a love for food and drink.Memories never die, and...

I sing the song of my heartstrings, alone in the eternal muteness, in the face of God.

Sing your life; any fool can think of words that rhyme.

If we go on in this way, we shall have a new art of poetry, of which one of the first rules will be: To remember to forget that there are any such things as...

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity…

I walk with a dual longing for life and for death.

When he was in college, a famous poet made a useful distinction for him. He had drunk enough in the poet’s company to be compelled to describe to him a poem he was thinking of....