To hide feelings when you are near crying is the secret of dignity.

… paint in blue and black…sometimes gray – the colors of night – occasionally I surprise you with a mustard yellow, but then, I am a poet …

A word only writes Its night and ridesIts dream.

For a scientist must indeed be freely imaginative and yet skeptical, creative and yet a critic. There is a sense in which he must be free, but another in which his thought must be very...

Nothing is made, nothing disappears. The same changes, at the same places, never stopping.

Like the number nineeternity is forever mine

Mathematics doesn’t care about those beyond the numbers.

The Law of the Jungle NOW this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that...

To jump over centuries In one step is impossible. Jump too high or far, You’ll be way too late.

Somewhere along the way we all go a bit mad. So burn, let go and dive into the horror, because maybe it’s the chaos which helps us find where we belong.

Nothing reminds us of an awakening more than rain.

Soul receives from soul that knowledge, therefore not by book nor from tongue. If knowledge of mysteries come after emptiness of mind, that is illumination of heart.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Is that all?

She needed the chaos within her in order to discover the extraordinary no man could ever reach.

JapanToday I pass the time readinga favorite haiku,saying the few words over and over.It feels like eatingthe same small, perfect grapeagain and again.I walk through the house reciting itand leave its letters fallingthrough the air...

Il pleure dans mon coeurComme il pleut sur la ville.Tears are shed in my heart like the rain on the town.

The light teaches you to convert life into a festive promenade.

My Floating Sea””Pastel colors reflect in my opening eyes and draw my gaze to a horizon where the waters both begin and end. This early in the day I can easily stare without blinking. The...

Get close to grass and you’ll see a star.

ගංගා ඉවුරුවලමුමුණන්නේය කහ පෑ කුසුම්අහසේ රෝස පැහැකතා කරනු ඇත ඔබට

Everything and nothing are the same in the Absolute.

In this universe there are no time machines or keys that can turn hearts back around.

I’m burning in despair Love which you distanced from me Return once again I’ll forgive you againReturn, Page 19

To Bury A Star””I pulled a star from the darkest corner of night and hid it within my bosom. When the Earth beneath my feet gave way, moist and fertile, I knelt to the ground...

may my heart always be open to littlebirds who are the secrets of livingwhatever they sing is better than to knowand if men should not hear them men are oldmay my mind stroll about hungryand...

Say this city has ten million souls,Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.

EbbI know what my heart is likeSince your love died:It is like a hollow ledgeHolding a little poolLeft there by the tide,A little tepid pool,Drying inward from the edge.

We made love outdoors—without a roof, I like most, without stove, my favorite place, assuming the weather be fair and balmy, and the earth beneath be clean. Our souls intertwined and dripping with dew, and...

But life, they said, means life. Dying inside.The Devil was evil, mad, but I was the Devil’s wifewhich made me worse. I howled in my cell.If the Devil is gone then how could this be...

There’s no retirement for an artist,its your way of living so theres no end to it.

I began composing the next poem, the one that was to be written next. Not the last poem of those I had read, but the poem written in the head of someone who may never...

. . . We love fog becauseit shifts old anomalies into the elementssurrounding them. It gives relief from a way of seeing

If poets often commit suicide, it is not because their poems are bad but because they are good. Whoever heard of a bad poet committing suicide? The reader is only a little better off. The...

Er zijn op aarde enkel twee soorten socialisme: het geslaagde, dat wil zeggen het soort dat de kameraden verbeten het kapitalisme believen te noemen, en het mislukte, dat wil zeggen hun eigen soort. Het socialisme...

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

It’s the smell of him in the bathroom, all I need to get ready for the day. Watching him get dressed, and the sound in the kitchen; a slow hum of a song and his...

If we surrenderedto earth’s intelligencewe could rise up rooted, like trees.Instead we entangle ourselvesin knots of our own makingand struggle, lonely and confused.So like children, we begin again…to fall,patiently to trust our heaviness.Even a bird...

Living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times, because I never volunteered to take this on. The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,the forever ongoing task of explaining this and that,and...

Seulement la terre qui obéit,sait bien qu’elle tourne en rond,tandis que nous vers l’infininous précipitons.Translation:But the obedient Earth well knowsthat she moves round and round,whereas we hurtle downtoward infinity.

A poet should be so crafty with words that he is envied even for his pains.

Poetic talent doesn’t operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry.

You only live twice:Once when you’re bornAnd once when you look death in the face.

Out of our quarrels with others we make rhetoric. Out of our quarrels with ourselves we make poetry.

A loner by nature and an introvert… i am a twinkling star, burning bright amidst a cloudless night. As such, i tend to fade in and out of people’s lives. This aspect of me is...

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern, that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel, that discernment is but a hand playing with finely-ordered variety...

You, my reader, who see me close, wonder about my heartbeats and measure my words, you my close friend who know my eyes and the home of their prose, you, my only lover, who always...

To delight the ear and the eye is a mere sensual indulgence;—true poetry strikes at the soul.

For the beginning is assuredlythe end- since we know nothing, pureand simple, beyondour own complexities.

My Serinity,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved,Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened,Thee, my serenity,A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind,Thee, my serenity, one can...