Poetry’s not a thing of pretty round phrases or noisy invocations. It’s life itself, with the tang of the raw world in it – not a sweetmeat for middle-class women in parlours.

Your Smile Ignites a Spark Down Deep In My Heart That Makes My Soul Shiver!

These are all direct quotes, except every time they use a curse word, I’m going to use the name of a famous American poet:’You Walt Whitman-ing, Edna St. Vincent Millay! Go Emily Dickinson your mom!”Thanks...

Fireflies in the GardenBy Robert Frost 1874–1963 Here come real stars to fill the upper skies, And here on earth come emulating flies, That though they never equal stars in size, (And they were never...

Poetry is life distilled.

I Have Loved Hours at SeaI have loved hours at sea, gray cities,The fragile secret of a flower,Music, the making of a poemThat gave me heaven for an hour;First stars above a snowy hill,Voices of...

To be the other womanis to be a seasonthat is always about to end,when the air is floweredwith jasmine and peach,and the weather day after dayis flawless,and the forecastis hurricane.

Strike, with hand of fire, O weird musician, thy harp strung with Apollo’s golden hair; fill the vast cathedral aisles with symphonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys; blow, bugler, blow, until...

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnellleaving is not enough; you muststay gone. train your heartlike a dog. change the lockseven on the house he’s nevervisited. you lucky, lucky girl.you have an apartmentjust your size. a bathtubfull...

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d, Such seems your beauty still.

Bloody bastards. One minute punching each other, next minute reading poetry. What’s wrong with everyone this week?”Tom can tell that

Madness is loving the unsolvable puzzle of your soul and replacing the lost pieces with my own.

Any hand can condem, but it takes a helping hand to build.

There is no single thing… that is so cut and dried that one cannot attend to its secret whisper which says ‘I am more than just my appearance’. If each object quivers with readiness to...

and everyone wants to read the poem we’re afraid to write.

I bleed myself to be your drink:Is not the blood of poets—ink?

Oh, I know that I’ll never be perfectI’m just alive

EdgesI am a child throwing rocks into the stream.Challenging the rushing water.Raising my fist and daring fate to do it worst.I am a dancer in the waves of the ocean.Swaying in time with the tide.Pirouetting,...

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air.

…fine love poetry tends to be written when the object of one’s affection is at a safe distance; also, it often reflects a love of words more than a love of women…

There is no poetry where there are no mistakes.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,Are a substantial world, both pure and good:Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Blessed are you who circled desire with a blade, and the garden with fiery swords, and heaven and earth with a word.

The Song of Wandering AengusI went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white...

Nothing like poetry when you lie awake at night. It keeps the old brain limber. It washes away the mud and sand that keeps on blocking up the bends.Like waves to make the pebbles dance...

I don’t need your praiseto survive. I was here first, before you were here, beforeyou ever planted a garden.And I’ll be here when only the sun and moonare left, and the sea, and the wide...

In this crooked blind alley, as the chill descends,they feed fireswith logs of song and poetry.Hazard not a thought:These are strange times, my dear.The man who knocks at your door in the noon of the...

But one kiss levitates above all the others. Theintersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.The I’ll love you through a brick wall kiss.Even when I’m dead, I’ll swim through the Earth,like a mermaid...

A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.

I believe in spectacles, but I think eyes necessary too.

Poetry is a rich, full-bodied whistle, cracked ice crunching in pails, the night that numbs the leaf, the duel of two nightingales, the sweet pea that has run wild, Creation’s tears in shoulder blades.

New York! I say New York, let black blood flow into your blood.Let it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life Let it give your bridges the curve of hips...

That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.

Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater thar sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’But I say unto you, they are inseparable.Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your...

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells,...

You do not need words to tell the truth.

Why is it that you still beguile me –As wind, stone, bird – and all the likes? Why is that you smile on me – With sudden summer lightning strikes?

What happens to a dream deferred?

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

The Decision…I wiped my hands on my pinaforenow sullied and stainednot crisp or pressedas it had been before…

Though solitude, endured too long,Bids youthful joys too soon decay,Makes mirth a stranger to my tongue,And overclouds my noon of day;When kindly thoughts that would have way,Flow back discouraged to my breast;I know there is,...

No lo creo todavía estás llegando a mi lado y la noche es un puñado de estrellas y de alegría palpo gusto escucho y veo tu rostro tu paso largo tus manos y sin embargo...

There was a sound you could smell / like you were inhaling tomorrow.

The Old Poets Of ChinaWherever I am, the world comes after me.It offers me its busyness. It does not believethat I do not want it. Now I understandwhy the old poets of China went so...

I wonder if a fish’sOne and only wish isThat other fish will never say,”This fish is sure delicious!

We join spokes together in a wheel, but it is the center hole that makes the wagon move.We shape clay into a pot, but it is the emptiness insidethat holds whatever we want.We hammer wood...

THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept...

Our confidence in the future restorative justice of God may even give us confidence to do justice ourselves in the present. We are called then, to stretch out the arms of our minds and hearts...

Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry.

In that wounded place,buried betweenmy ribs and letting go,I miss you.