I travel, always arriving in the same place.

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terratrafitto da un raggio di sole: ed e subito sera.(Everyone stands along on the heart of the earth transfixed by a sun ray: and suddenly it is evening.)

There is nobody to wake up eternal seekers.

I eat the hearts of girls and puke slugs and snails.

In an endless silence even screams sound silent.

The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell youDon’t go back to sleep!You must ask for what you really want.Don’t go back to sleep!People are going back and forth across the doorsill where the two...

He tries to find the exit from himself but there is no door.

Twas the night before Thanksgiving. All the food’s in the oven. And I’m in the bedroom performin’ self lovin’.

You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.

This is what I think aboutwhen I shovel compostinto a wheelbarrow,and when I fill the long flower boxes,then press into rowsthe limp roots of red impatiens—the instant hand of Deathalways ready to burst forthfrom the...

My turn shall also come:I sense the spreading of a wing.

Your head is a lit chamber.

පාළුවෙන් ඉරි තැලී උන්මගේ හද වීණාවකැයි ඔබ කීවෙහියවාදනය කර සෙමින් හිතඋණුසුමෙහි නද රේඛා මැවුවෙහිය

Knighthood lies above eternity; it doesn’t live off fame, but rather deeds.

Perhaps it was the way he’d look at me and smile,Perhaps it was the sound of his voice after being utterly defeated,Perhaps it was the warmth of his touch,Perhaps I’ve always been in love with...

If on thoughts of death we are fed,Thus, a coffin, became my bed.

I can’t think of a case where poems changed the world, but what they do is they change people’s understanding of what’s going on in the world.

i like my body when it is with yourbody. It is so quite new a thing.Muscles better and nerves more.i like your body. i like what it does,i like its hows. i like to feel...

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.For nothing now can ever come to any good.

But O the exceeding graceOf highest God, that loves his creatures so,And all his works with mercy doth embrace,That blessed angels, he sends to and fro,To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

So the nymphs they spoke,we kissed and laid.By noontime’s hourour love was made.Like braided chains of crocus stems,we lay entwined, I laid with them.Our breath, one glassy, tideless sea,our bodies draping wearily,we slept, I slept...

Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea.

It’s not that we have to leave this life one day, it’s how many things we have to leave all at once: holding hands, hotel rooms, wine, summertime, drunkenness, and the physics of falling leaves,...

Poetry makes nothing happen. It survives in the valley of its saying.

[On Jason Mashak’s book SALTY AS A LIP, as reviewed in The Prague Post:] Mashak amalgamates various national, historical and religious traditions into a myth-mash that illuminates many sects’ fanatical compartmentalizing, and the fact that...

In the front yard lives the oldest thing around, a white oakThat I used to say is my love for the world, That I now would just call love as it is.Belonging to nobody, no...

And everything I thought I knew – you made me trade it all for you…but, frankly, you’re not worth it.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,—Is such my future fate?The morn was dreary, must the eveBe also desolate?

The purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things.

Some people make you want to be a better person, and that, for me, is the purest form of love.

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,has grown so weary that it cannot holdanything else. It seems to him there area thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.As he paces in cramped circles, over...

I could write about how I feel when I sing, write and create something from heartbreak, sorrow, sadness or just simply nothingness. How nothingness can become the most beautiful, unexplainable feeling that makes you forget...

Katanya,Kalau jodoh, alam semestapun akan ikut mendukung.Tapi ini BUKAN.Waktu tak pernah berpihak.Bahkan hatimu TIDAK.Bukan sekali, tapi 3 kali ketukan.Aku pikir itu cukup.Cukup untuk 1 kesimpulan.

A FEATHER.A feather is trimmed, it is trimmed by the light and the bug and the post, it is trimmed by little leaning and by all sorts of mounted reserves and loud volumes. It is...

TeenagerMe—a teenager? If she suddenly stood, here, now, before me, would I need to treat her as near and dear, although she’s strange to me, and distant? Shed a tear, kiss her brow for the...

The trouble with poetry is it’s often written to the sound of a drum only the poet may hear; nonetheless, blessed are those poets who always manage to find unshakeable pleasure in their own works.

O Me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish; Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who...

steeples and ‘scrapers” of an inquisitive mind. The poems are at once syllogistic, hard-edged, satirical, reflective, and finally as playful as love notes. The true joy of this book is that we are deliciously engaged...

…imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to...

But could words bethe end of me?

Hi”. The use and the meaning you replenish them with become the mirror of yourself, eventually of an entire humanity. (Soar)

Maybe when water yearned for fire / it invented waves / so one day they might become flames

So much dependsuponA red wheelbarrowGlazed with rainwaterBeside the whitechickens.

Life has sadness, joy, beauty, like poetry.So be passionate and write a great story.

Robot BoyMr. an Mrs. Smith had a wonderful life.They were a normal, happy husband and wife.One day they got news that made Mr. Smith glad.Mrs. Smith would would be a momwhich would make him the...

Cinta adalah rasa yang kuucap dalam setiap desah dan cuaca, tak sampai-sampai getarnya padamu.

Empty, I echo to the least footfall

Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous...

The wind is the moon’s imagination wandering.

Don’t be afraid to be afraid. Have fear, and then conquer the shit out of it.