Ask him why there are hypocrites in the world.”Because it is hard to bear the happiness of others.”When are we happy?”When we desire nothing and realize that possession is only momentary, and so are forever...

You can save many lives but the most courageous act is to save your authentic-self.

I am terrified by this dark thingThat sleeps in me;All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Even the simplest poemMay destroy your immunity to human emotions.All poems must carry a Government warning. WordsCan seriously affect your heart.

The Mississippi and its paddle boats, and the rivers of Bengal and their gleaming steamers evoked a similar atmosphere of romance, of long, song-filled voyages, high winds and lonely sunsets.

L’artGreen arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth, Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

i laced my shoes with sorrowand walked a weary roaddead end streetsdon’t come undonewith double knots wing tipped shoesthat walk on airthrough vacant lots

The core of your true self is never lost. Let go of all the pretending and the becoming you’ve done just to belong.Curl up with your rawness and come home. You don’t have to find...

By a route obscure and lonelyHaunted by ill angels only,Where an eidolon, named NIGHT,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule –From a wild, weird clime that...

Demander à la poésie du sentimentalisme … ce n’est pas ça. Des mots rayonnants, des mots de lumière … avec un rythme et une musique, voilà ce que c’est, la poésie.

I didn’t know till then the stars, in flakesof snow come down to fuck the earth, the lake.

A friend is a companion for the journey,never a means to our own.What we take we take together,the joy we reap, we have sown.

If I ever see an alien fishing in Scotland, and witness it catching the Loch Ness Monster, I’d probably assume the world would want me to write a poem about the event, rather than take...

There are three lessons I would write-Three words, as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light,Upon the heart of men.Have hope! though clouds environ round,And gladness hides her face in scorn,Put thou the...

I know you . . .That you hold insideVast possibilities and dreamsAnd limitless love.

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

The children walk away from me, flick flickety off at a tangent between thin blotched beech trunks, then turn like yo-yos at the end of their strings and come back to me” from the poem...

We returned to our palaces, these Kingdoms, but no longer at ease here in the old dispensation, with an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.

A charm invests a faceImperfectly beheld,—The lady dare not lift her veilFor fear it be dispelled.But peers beyond her mesh,And wishes, and denies,—Lest interview annul a wantThat image satisfies.

…It’s not that the worm forgives the plough; it gives it no mind. (Pain occurs, in passing.) (lines 37-39 in the poem ‘Fantasia on a Theme from IKEA’)

If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

Tell me..how do you stand there?filling the doorway….of my life.

No revolutionary movement is complete without its poetical expression.

Give mea moon-blanket nightto keep me warma long-gone smileto comfort mea pair of rain-blue eyesto haunt mea simple soul…to love me.

Poetry is –raw feelings as sunny summer,fiery turmoil as vibrant autumn,daunting revelation as stormy winter,intrepid hope as blooming spring.

it was the kind of moonthat I would want to send back to my ancestorsand gift to my descendantsso they know that I too,have been bruised…by beauty.

The rat isthe mous-tacheinthetrache.the wrong-doerinthesoer.

my dear,we are all made of water. it’s okay to rage. sometimes it’s okay to rest. to recede.

A poet’s mission is to make words do more work than they normally do, to make them work on more than one level.

love was never meant to bejust a metaphorbetween the pages of poetry.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sand of time; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o’er life’s solenm main, A forlorn...

I am a work in progress.

J’ai cueilli ce brin de bruyèreL’automne est morte souviens-t’enNous ne nous verrons plus sur terreOdeur du temps brin de bruyèreEt souviens-toi que je t’attends

tell meof something fiercer than the love with which i gaze upon youof something softer than the tendernesswith which i hold you.

Love shall be our token; love be yours and love be mine.

I see your picture and in that picture I didn’t see you.

My HeartI’m not going to cry all the timenor shall I laugh all the time,I don’t prefer one “strain” to another.I’d have the immediacy of a bad movie,not just a sleeper, but also the big,overproduced...

You were, arecactus tourism. meeting you: granularfractals borrowed from oceans.

And death shall have no dominion.Under the windings of the seaThey lying long shall not die windily;Twisting on racks when sinews give way,Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;Faith in their hands shall...

]Sardisoften turning her thoughts here]you like a goddessand in your song most of all she rejoiced.But now she is conspicuous among Lydian womenas sometimes at sunsetthe rosyfingered moonsurpasses all the stars. And her lightstretches over...

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...