Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

Listen, children:Your father is dead.From his old coatsI’ll make you little jackets;I’ll make you little trousersFrom his old pants.There’ll be in his pocketsThings he used to put there,Keys and penniesCovered with tobacco;Dan shall have the...

This man has talent, that man geniusAnd here’s the strange and cruel difference:Talent gives pence and his reward is gold,Genius gives gold and gets no more than pence.

If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.

Defunctus adhuc loquitur” (Hebrews 11:4). Thanks to language, there is meaning, there is truth.

Muse’s creations are predominately lyrical often resulting in poetic sonnets and fairytale like art.

Everything comes down so pasteurizedeverything comes down 16 degreesthey say your amplifier is too loudturn your amplifier downare we high all alone on our kneesmemory is just hips that swinglike a clockthe past projects fantastic...

All writers are manipulative liars.” Jack O. Savage, The Poet

Wondered to see, these luscious Flowers” ”Blossoming everywhere, like drops of Shower” ”WISH! My ecstasy would has that Power” ”Days come true! those for me, are so Far” ~Samar Sudha

Two Kinds of PeopleThere are two kinds of people on earth today,Two kinds of people no more I say.Not the good or the bad, for it’s well understood,The good are half bad, the bad are...

A poem is a meteor.

It could have been so beautiful.The way I learned and got free and swore to never love another person ever againand it could have been so beautiful,the way I actually did.

Isn’t it time that, loving, we freed ourselves from the beloved, and, trembling, endured:as the arrow endures the bow, so as to be, in its flight, something more than itself?

Considering the number of ghastly love poems that had been written and which seemed fairly clearly a waste of everyone’s time, Jonathan couldn’t help but be surprised that coffee hadn’t been thus immortalized.

Auguries of Innocence..A robin redbreast in a cagePuts all heaven in a rage.A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeonsShudders hell thro’ all its regions.A dog starv’d at his master’s gatePredicts the ruin of the state.A...

If what you create seems to turn out much stranger than who you are as a person, it’s probably because your heart is talking.

I want to show my sins withinTo help make me sinless, once again”What I Want

First, I thought, almost despairing,This must crush my spirit now;Yet I bore it, and am bearing-Only do not ask me how.

It’s best to watch out for men, like me.

In all ages woman has been the source of all that is pure, unselfish, and heroic in the spirit and life of man…..poetry and fiction are based upon woman’s love, and the movements of history...

I’m Reginald Clark, I’m afraid of the darkSo please do not close this book on me.

Oh! That was poetry!” said Pippin. “Do you really mean to start before the break of day?

You lethargic, waiting upon me,waiting for the fire and Iattendant upon you, shaken by your beautyShaken by your beauty Shaken.

A poem needs imaginative rhythms as well as imaginative transformation of content.

[P]oetry resembles metaphysics: one does not mind one’s own, but one does not like anyone else’s.

WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning...

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,White as a knuckle and terribly upset.It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quietWith the O-gape of complete...

Here’s a haiku/palindrome I wrote called, “Obsession.”Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob

A poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret suffrings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music. People...

You know you possess the soul of an artist when, each time you sit down to create, the whole universe lays itself at your feet.

… in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will have to bury children, and support themselves through grief.

Results and RosesThe man who wants a garden fair,or small or very big,With flowers growing here and there,Must bend his back and dig.The things are mighty few on earthThat wishes can attain.Whate’er we want of...

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

As a poet and as a mathematician, he would reason well; as a mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at all.

Sure, we thought the acresThat we tilled were sacred,But how could we have knownThat wheat can haunt like ghosts

We talk so abstractly about poetry because all of us are usually bad poets.

Instead of reciting her an original love poem using words, I think I’ll use my tongue to more creatively explore the deepest parts of her.

My earliest poems appear almost skeletal to me now – it seems I’ve learned to add meat, muscle and a nice suit of clothes.

In numele si sub teroarea ei (plictiselii, n.m.) parasesc oamenii caminul si moartea agreabila legata de el si se avanta in lume, spre a muri undeva fara acoperis si fara lacrimi; adolescentii se gandesc la...

Nothing Stay Forever””Nature’s first green is gold,”Her hardest hue to hold.”Her early leaf’s a flower;”But only so an hour.”Then leaf subsides to leaf.”So Eden sank to grief,”So dawn goes down today.”Nothing gold can stay.– Robert...

it isn’t that we’re alone or not alonewhose voice do you want mine? yours?

(Wallace) Stevens turns to the idea of the weather precisely as the religious man turns to the idea of God.

Time for you and time for me,And time yet for a hundred indecisions,And for a hundred visions and revisions,Before the taking of a toast and tea.

from the prose poem “The Universe Thrums on regardless” in my book SPAN.We are almost nothing in the night. Reduced to warm blobs and the sound of breathing. There is comfort in that.

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;Her coat is one of the tabby kind,with tiger stripes and lepard spots.

PHOSPHORESCENCE. Now there’s a word to lift your hat to… to find that phosphorescence, that light within, that’s the genius behind poetry.

After I consumed Frost in his entirety, my days of exploration began. I read The Diving Comedy while leafing through E. E. Cummings. I read Sidney and Milton and Shelley, piecing together my own aesthetics,...

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

I breathe in…the silenceof my own heartaching with tendernesswith memories..Of home.

Absence of problems does not lead to happiness. Dealing with them does.