The pure products of Americago crazy……[] No one to witnessand adjust, no one to drive the car

There’s a book of poetryin the lines of my handsthat no one wants to read

LADY LAZARUSI have done it again.One year in every tenI manage it–A sort of walking miracle, my skinBright as a Nazi lampshade,My right footA paperweight,My face a featureless, fineJew linen.Peel off the napkinO my enemy.Do...

Aku di sini kamu di sana, tapi kita tetap bisa berpelukan dalam doa dan puisi.

Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don’t love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of...

Please lift your snowy skies off my soul -Your diamond dreams slice through my veins

Whenever a time arises where clarity is desired, it is always wise to reflect on the sage within.

If there is no God,Not everything is permitted to man.He is still his brother’s keeperAnd he is not permitted to sadden his brother,By saying there is no God.

Love alters all. Unblood my instinct, love.

A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought...

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land...

The LakeIn spring of youth it was my lotTo haunt of the wide world a spotThe which I could not love the less-So lovely was the lonelinessOf a wild lake, with black rock bound,And the...

Then, what is sacrelige [sic]? If it is nothing more than a rebellion against dogma, it is eventually as meaningless as the dogma it defies, and they are both become hounds ranting in the high...

People are looking for chimes and resonances. Chimes leave echoes, and that’s what rhyme is. Poetry is about leaving an echo imprint in somebody else’s head, in the dark snow of their mind.

I’ll be writing as long as I can hold a pen in my curled, crimped arthritic hands and then I’ll dictate it, if it comes to that. They’ll have to pry my pen out of...

The Ph.D is one of the chosen who know that some things can never be fathomed, no matter how hard you try. What good are explanations? There is no possibility of explaining how such a...

There is a great deal of poetry and fine sentiment in a chest of tea

we’re lost where the mind can’t find usutterly lost

Distance, the dissonance insurmountable,would be not the end,but a magnet.When fingertips kiss,they imprint and cement something,that cannot be disintegrated. Time becomes a phantom,the wind becomes an anchor,and old dreams- blankets of warmth.Lull with me, Lady,there...

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

Places We LovePlaces we love exist only through us,Space destroyed is only illusion in the constancy of time,Places we love we can never leave,Places we love together, together, together,And is this room really a room,...

Time past and time futureWhat might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.” (Four Quartets)

There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands awayNor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry – This Traverse may the poorest takeWithout oppress of Toll – How frugal is the...

They went forth to battle, but they always fell; Their eyes were fixed above the sullen shields;Nobly they fought and bravely, but not well,And sank heart-wounded by a subtle spell. They knew not fear that...

Heart, we will forget him!You and I, to-night!You may forget the warmth he gave,I will forget the light.When you have done, pray tell me,That I my thoughts may dim;Haste! lest while you’re lagging,I may remember...

I breathe in…the fragranceof love, and moist sandthe onehis roses lefton both my handsI just keep on breathingevery momentas much as I canpreserving it, in my bodyfor the dayit can’t.

We wear many things, but that with greatest import is our expression.

when i speak to youi speak as thoughi am offering a rosein your hand.

[She was] the Judy Garland of American poetry.

Loneliness clarifies. Here silence standsLike heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken, Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken, Luminously-peopled air ascends; And past the poppies bluish neutral distance Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach Of shapes...

To feel most beautifully alive means to be reading something beautiful, ready always to apprehend in the flow of language the sudden flash of poetry.

i immersemyselfin youlikei immerse myselfinto a beautiful story.

The BALLPOINT PENGUINS, black and white, Do little else but write and write.Although they’ve nothing much to say, They write and write it anyway….

i want to be in love with youthe same wayi am in love with the moonwith the lightshiningout of its soul.

Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind...

I envythe cup of coffeethat getsto kissyour sleepy lipsawakeevery cold andbitter morning.

Horse[Man you will find herea new representation of the universeat its most poetic and most modernMan man man man man manGive yourself up to this art where the sublimedoes not exclude charmand brilliancy does not...

forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.and perhaps it will be pleasing to have remembered these things one day

For I have hedged me with a thorny hedge, I live alone, I look to die alone: Yet sometimes, when a wind sighs through the sedge, Ghosts of my buried years, and friends come back,...

I will reveal you who I am. I am your reflection.

Too many poets act like a middle-aged mother trying to get her kids to eat too much cooked meat, and potatoes with drippings (tears). I don’t give a damn whether they eat or not. Forced...

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds – like those horses that...

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Poetry’s work is the clarification and magnification of being.

Every new dayOur children’s joy is as fresh as roses,Even the birds chatter at dawn.

The trick is to ride the wave,Fast, wide-open and in deep Now-magic.Free, burning fear for fuelGenerous, knowing there is always more where that came from.Cresting, spray of liquid jewels hanging, shining in the sun and...

Wisdomis in the insane asylums.The endis in the everyday-pale smiles

The most carefully crafted language in our culture tends to be poetry. And poetry at its finest moments subverts our best attempts at hiding from reality…The poetry of liturgy has just this power. The liturgy...

The way a crowShook down on meThe dust of snowFrom a hemlock treeHas given my heartA change of moodAnd saved some partOf a day I had rued.