As Unto the bow the the cord is ,So unto the man is woman;Though she bends him, she obeys him,Though she draws him , yet she follows:Useless each without the other.

You are that one breath. that puts all the remaining breaths. back into my body.

These are the woes of Slaves;They glare from the abyss;They cry, from unknown graves,”We are the Witnesses!

Tea is just an excuse.i am drinking this sunset, this evening.and you.

Most of my friends like words too well. They set them under the blinding light of the poem and try to extract every possible connotation from each of them, every temporary pun, every direct or...

Jika cintaku kepada Sita dianggap terlarang, itu artinya kau merendahkan takdir Tuhan. Kau sendiri tahu, aku tak akan pernah mampu menentukan kepada siapa aku dilahirkan, maka sekarang aku juga tak akan pernah bisa memilih kepada...

You shall create beauty not to excite the sensesbut to give sustenance to the soul.

The very essence of I is being killed by You.

I wouldn’t want to be faster or greener than now if you were with me O you were the best of all my days!

Green in nature is one thing, green in literature another. Nature and letters seem to have a natural antipathy; bring them together and they tear each other to pieces.

What wretched poverty of language! To compare stars to diamonds!

It’s not magic. I remember because I make comparisons. Not in terms of better or worse, just different. And not all of these memories are great, but they’re mine.Which lends way to believe, that none...

One way poetry connects is across time. . . . Some echo of a writer’s physical experience comes into us when we read her poem.

Here, illuminated at last,Nestles the ruddy glint of spiritual certainty;Sweet moments of passion and healing,Of sensual release.

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, so what happens when the person’s eyes are unavailable to look into? You read their words.

Every question possesses a power that does not lie in the answer.

Like poetry, fashion does not state anything. It merely suggests

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without...

I have been incapable of moving, even a finger or an eye, for at least a year now. I feel relatively certain about this timeframe because I have been watching the crepe myrtle outside the...

Stephen kissed me in the spring,Robin in the fall,But Colin only looked at meAnd never kissed at all.Stephen’s kiss was lost in jest,Robin’s lost in play,But the kiss in Colin’s eyesHaunts me night and day.

I can’t even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace.

Winter StarsI went out at night alone;The young blood flowing beyond the seaSeemed to have drenched my spirit’s wings—I bore my sorrow heavily.But when I lifted up my headFrom shadows shaken on the snow,I saw...

Evil is not good’s absence but gravity’severlasting bedrock and its fatal chainsinert, violent, the suffrage of our days.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

My first attempt to write about Robert Owen was in the form of poetry. Then I turned it into a blank verse poem, but I discovered that I couldn’t fit in all the facts, which...

Fact is not truth, but a poet who willfully defies fact cannot achieve truth.

She was resilientA brave soldier when life tested herIt didn’t matter that she did strange thingslike stand tall under the rainletting the drops kiss her skinthinking the storm was romanticIt was hard to quiet hernot...

Pruned my subconscious. Discovered new shoots.

‎”It almost felt like the dolphin of my heart’s desire playing in the ocean of my life.” – on writing

America—where we hate our fathers, love our mothers, andeveryone is hung up on tryingto be a man

You don’t have to suffer to be a poet

[poems are] crystals deposited after the effervescent contact of the spirit with reality.(cristaux deposes apres l’effervescent contact de l’esprit avec la realite)

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s...

Her close friends have gathered.Lord, ain’t it a shameGrieving togetherSharing the blame.But when she was dyingLord, we let her down.There’s no use cryin’It can’t help her now.The party’s all overDrink up and go home.It’s too...

The most procession that ever comes to a man in this world is a women’s heart.

I negate this distance with / what it would be / to be shining you.

The Poetry of LoveWe see the world with the eyes of a small child.We visualize the beauty of the world with an unique magic sense,and unfold our deeper feelings and expectations diffusing the seizing negative...

Rocket shipsare excitingbut so are roseson a birthday.

We will each weed through the last year and try to spot the moment we began breaking. We will repel sprint away from each other. Your voice will take months to drain out from my...

We didn’t deny the obvious,but we didn’t entirely accept it either.I mean, we said hello to it each morningin the foyer. We patted its little headas it made a mess in the backyard,but we never...

Poetry, like jazz, is one of those dazzling diamonds of creative industry that help human beings make sense out of the comedies and tragedies that contextualize our lives.

I love the writers of my thousand books. It pleases me to think how astonished old Homer, whoever he was, would be to find his epics on the shelf of such an unimaginable being as...

The horses suddenly began to neigh, protestingAgainst those who were drowning them in the ocean.The horses sank to the bottom, neighing, neighing.Until they had all gone down.That is all. Nevertheless, I pity them,Those bay horses,...

Poetry is not for profit. Poetry is for Posterity.

and feelings were always smarter things than thoughts

Welcome, thou kind deceiver!Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,Even steal us from ourselves.

I embrace the purpose of God and the doom assigned

Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.

Consider in his spiritual martyr this being who lies with closed eyes, dislocated like the victim of a brutal accident who no longer requires care or rescue. Count the stabbing wounds of the hideous disappointment...

I will never take what is never given, but I will receive to what is given.