Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody’s...

We are all instruments pulling the bows across our own lungs. Windmills, still startling in every storm. Have you ever seen a newborn blinking at the light? I wanna do that every day. I wanna...

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.

Behold, we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last — far off — at last, to all,And every winter change to spring.

Even this late it happens:the coming of love, the coming of light.

I’m everyone everywhere with you without you unbound set free in limbo lost at sea.

YOU

Soul SisterEvoking all my inner goodnesswith bastions of timeI cradle your heartsisterly into mine…

Give a poet a pen

You are not who you think.You’re not even the thinker.You are the one conscious of the thought.

Sweat seems to bleed / like pride from their bones.

Poetry is a life-cherishing force.

The temporal heart resonates at whispersFrom a Truth overarchingOf whose countenanceTimeless Intellect yearns vainly to fathom

O jornalista é um poeta delicado: sempre acha o rascunho mais sincero do que o publicado.

can’t even sleep through the night without you and those sun-dried ginger ale complected limbs crocheted into my thighs…

And now we who are writing women and strange monstersStill search our hearts to find the difficult answers,Still hope that we may learn to lay our handsMore gently and more subtly on the burning sands.

A Short TestamentWhatever harm I may have doneIn all my life in all your wide creationIf I cannot repair itI beg you to repair it,And then there are all the wounded The poor the deaf...

I build boxesand place them at your feet,to measure the distance between dreams and reality.

Today I want to leave the worldI want to leave the painLeave the heartacheI know where it is goingI want to see my Savior

At any moment, you know, your manufactured cool could blow.

I WISH YOU ALL THE REALITY YOU COULD EVER WANT. HANDLE. WANT.

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flightThe Stars before him from the Field of Night,Drives Night along with them from Heav’n,and strikesThe Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light

That’s what I do: I make coffee and occasionally succumb to suicidal nihilism. But you shouldn’t worry — poetry is still first. Cigarettes and alcohol follow

She was, in short, melted by his distress, as so often happens with the female sex. Poets have frequently commented on this. You are probably familiar with the one who said, “Oh, woman in our...

I didn’t know who tobelievebutone thing I doknow: when a man islivingmany claim relationshipsthat are hardlysoand after he dies, well,then it’s everybody’sparty.

From morn to noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve, a summer’s day; and with the setting sun dropped from the zenith like a falling star.

I’m going to become a beat poet and a lesbian!

With a chaste heart With pure eyes I celebrate your beautyHolding the leash of bloodSo that it might leap out and trace your outline Where you lie down in my Ode As in a land...

It’s the end of man and I can do whatever I want.

Where were you then?Who else was there?Saying what?Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly when I am sad and feel you are far away?

El corazón, movido por el amor, quiere volar.Mi pecho contiene un estallido de alas,Las manos de una muchacha panderetera.

Love is poetry plus biology.

She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have...

I am waiting for the war to be fought which will make the world safe for anarchy

Next o’er his books his eyes began to roll,In pleasing memory of all he stole.

He granted its due share to everything equally, drawing from everything only what was beautiful in it, and in the end left himself only the divine Raphael as a teacher. So a great poetic artist,...

Painting is a kind of visual poetry as poetry is a kind of verbal painting.

You know what I love? The spaces between I love you. The tap of your fork against the plate and how my cup of wine clicks against our table. The scratchy voice coming from the...

I. Those of us born by water are never afraid enough of drowning. Bruises used to trophy my knees from my death-defying tree climb jumps. Growing up, my backyard was a forest of blackberry bushes....

…when you’re hard and unyielding your words score me with lines – I hate lines – I want curves – curves are happy like a snowman …

Because I found the strength to do the things I believe in, and the will to stop doing the things I don’t believe in.So I have discovered what it means, to be at peace.

The most complicated skill is to be simple.

……and not out of fear or loneliness, but only to find myself again… for we have come too far my Life, to turn back now…

To write good poems is the secret of brevity.

If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.

A way of using words to say things which could not possibly be said in any other way, things which in a sense do not exist till they are born … in poetry.

Come closer, my dears, let me give you a warning,Of the fate that befalls those who stay out past morning,In the darkest hours before the dawn,When witches roam and demons spawn,And children die with spirit...

Neither alive nor dead; No one lets up, No one wins.

I’ve had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.

Although personal calling I sense,Who am I? even if I am, I don’t know.