As Unto the bow the the cord is ,So unto the man is woman;Though she bends him, she obeys him,Though she draws him , yet she follows:Useless each without the other.

You are that one breath. that puts all the remaining breaths. back into my body.

These are the woes of Slaves;They glare from the abyss;They cry, from unknown graves,”We are the Witnesses!

Tea is just an excuse.i am drinking this sunset, this evening.and you.

Most of my friends like words too well. They set them under the blinding light of the poem and try to extract every possible connotation from each of them, every temporary pun, every direct or...

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...

One way poetry connects is across time. . . . Some echo of a writer’s physical experience comes into us when we read her poem.

Here, illuminated at last,Nestles the ruddy glint of spiritual certainty;Sweet moments of passion and healing,Of sensual release.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, so what happens when the person’s eyes are unavailable to look into? You read their words.

Every question possesses a power that does not lie in the answer.

Like poetry, fashion does not state anything. It merely suggests

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without...

I have been incapable of moving, even a finger or an eye, for at least a year now. I feel relatively certain about this timeframe because I have been watching the crepe myrtle outside the...

Stephen kissed me in the spring,Robin in the fall,But Colin only looked at meAnd never kissed at all.Stephen’s kiss was lost in jest,Robin’s lost in play,But the kiss in Colin’s eyesHaunts me night and day.

I can’t even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.

Winter StarsI went out at night alone;The young blood flowing beyond the seaSeemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—I bore my sorrow heavily.But when I lifted up my headFrom shadows shaken on the snow,I saw...

Evil is not good’s absence but gravity’severlasting bedrock and its fatal chainsinert, violent, the suffrage of our days.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

My first attempt to write about Robert Owen was in the form of poetry. Then I turned it into a blank verse poem, but I discovered that I couldn’t fit in all the facts, which...

Fact is not truth, but a poet who willfully defies fact cannot achieve truth.

She was resilientA brave soldier when life tested herIt didn’t matter that she did strange thingslike stand tall under the rainletting the drops kiss her skinthinking the storm was romanticIt was hard to quiet hernot...

Pruned my subconscious. Discovered new shoots.

‎”It almost felt like the dolphin of my heart’s desire playing in the ocean of my life.” – on writing

America—where we hate our fathers, love our mothers, andeveryone is hung up on tryingto be a man

You don’t have to suffer to be a poet

[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality.(cristaux deposes apres l’effervescent contact de l’esprit avec la realite)

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s...

Her close friends have gathered.Lord, ain’t it a shameGrieving togetherSharing the blame.But when she was dyingLord, we let her down.There’s no use cryin’It can’t help her now.The party’s all overDrink up and go home.It’s too...

Before she knew it, she was just another set of eyes in a dusty attic, waiting for the stairs to creak.

I walk through the old yellow sunlightto get to my kitchen tablethe poem about melying there with the booksin which I am listedamong the dead and future Dylans

Memedin ayağında yarım çarıklar.Memet yüzükoyun yatmış sayıklar.Memet beygir fışkısından arpa ayıklar.Arpayı götürüp derede yıkar.Güneşte kurutup yiyecek Memet.

The master said You must write what you see.But what I see does not move me.The master answered Change what you see.

The world of light and starry grace;within your mind I live to trace.Your thought’s speed in thunder’s glory,lightening my being with dream’s story.I embrace the tree carrying your nameYour unspoken wish : the heart of...

In a rich moonlit garden, flowers open beneath the eyes of entire nations terrified to acknowledge the simplicity of the beauty of peace.

When love beckons to you, follow him,Though his ways are hard and steep.And When his wings enfold you yield to him,Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.And When he speaks to you...

I have only to contemplate myself; man comes from nothing, passes through time, and disappears forever in the bosom of God. He is seen but for a moment wandering on the verge of two abysses,...

And I choose to be aloneRather than wrapped in arms I could never need.

we are two like-minded creatures too well-matched, both equal halves of a whole not altogether wholesome

Dear love, for nothing less than theeWould I have broke this happy dream;It was a themeFor reason, much too strong for fantasy,Therefore thou wak’d’st me wisely; yetMy dream thou brok’st not, but continued’st it.Thou art...

And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

…always-the sharp,plaintive edgeon the rimof the spoonof my giving.(lines 8-13 of the poem ‘Confessions’)

All my contemporaries—hundred-and-fivers or convicts—will tell you how we livedin barely sentient fear, raisingchildren for the executioner,prison, or the torture chamber.

I went down to the river,I set down on the bank.I tried to think but couldn’t,So I jumped in and sank.

look, you know i don’t wanna come on ungrateful, but that warren report, you know as well as me, just didn’t make it. You know, like they might as well have asked some banana salesman...