…when the petals fallSay it is beautiful and good, say it is well

Blackadder was fifty-four and had come to editing Ash out of pique. He was the son and grandson of Scottish schoolmasters. His grandfather recited poetry on firelight evenings: Marmion, Childe Harold, Ragnarok. His father sent...

Careful.The fall is quick,steep,and permanent.

To be held in his armsI long for that dayThe da that I get to seemore wonderful things

Lord, give me the quietness of the waters of this little brook and like it I will amalgamate myself in thee!

THE AMPUTATED HEARTBEATS HARDER

The morning slathers its whateveracross the thing.

the gods play nofavorites.

I wrote a fair amount of poetry in college. It was really, really bad. I mean, bad. And that’s how I found out—by doing it.

I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how ugly a person could get.

Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand with wand’ring steps and slow,...

Go tell your father about it.”They leave. I inhale the lavender mist. Slather bubbles over my skin. Five more minutes … And, next time, I shall lock the door.

Sólo con una ardiente paciencia conquistaremos la espléndida ciudad que dará luz, justicia y dignidad a todos los hombres. Así la poesía no habrá cantado en vano.

We manufacture wonder where we can.

yo te amo para comenzar a amarte,para recomenzar el infinitoy para no dejar de amarte nunca:por eso no te amo todavía.

Virtually everyone needs motivation of some sort, but when you are in love – that is motivation enough, it turns many into poets and painters, it spurs the creativity in you.

We’ve hadour wisdom wrungfrom emotion’s spongeand yet it still drips

I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

Don’t patronize the chain bookstores. Every time I see some author scheduled to read and sign his books at a chain bookstore, I feel like telling him he’s stabbing the independent bookstores in the back.

I plan to be a sinner tonight. Could’ve been something else, but looked way too good in my red dress to be anything Christian.

. . . poetry, like all imaginative creations, divines the human enterprise. This is poetry’s social value.

Her smile was like laughter to me— it bubbled in like champagne.

This is my life and lovestory listen losely and hold on tight this a roller coaster hell of a ride

But my heart is an old house(the kind my mothergrew up in)hell to heat and cooland faulty in the wiringand though it’s nice to look atI have no businessinviting lovers in.

…come lie beside me again and understand – the others can show by actions, but I alone will immortalize you in words…

To risk life to save a smile on a face of a woman or a child is the secret of chivalry.

…before you, life was desolate – the past hardly worth remembering – and now, each moment a keepsake I can’t throw away …

Devil and God – two sides of the same face.

A fortress built long ago,Walls made timeless by historic glory.The small girl in the boat slows,To listen to its story.

It is beautiful to talk about beautiful things and even more beautiful to silently gaze at them.

you will never catch up.Walk around feeling like a leafknow you could tumble at any second.Then decide what to do with your time.–The Art of Disappearing

I enjoy it when the world smiles; the more smiles, the warmer I am.

We are all old-timers,each of us holds a locked razor.

From everything, nothing looks to nothing.

She was a beautiful dreamer. The kind of girl, who kept her head in the clouds, loved above the stars and left regret beneath the earth she walked on.

To go against the grain is the secret of bravery.

Lovers find secret placesinside this violent worldwhere they make transactions with beauty.

If Springtime crawls out of thewild mouths of flowers, thensurely, Winter crawls out of mine.

Be careful, darling. Your footsteps land heavy here. Your racket will wake the dragons.

Accidents are not accidents but precise arrivals at the wrong right time.

noone knows and noone seeswe lovers doing what we pleasebut people stop and point at theseten milk bottles a-turning into cheese

There are no winners in real games.

Only in Russia poetry is respected–it gets people killed.

The deeper thought is, the taller it becomes.

ආලයෙන් මම පිබිදී සිටිමිමලානික මලක් පුනරුදය ලබන්නා සේඑහෙත් එය මා පෙළයිවිහඟුන් කෙත් ඉහළ ඉගිල යයිමට අවැසියි ඔබ මුව සිඹිනවී කරලක් වන්න

Deceit dispels the boredom of the Absolute.

How many people came and stayed a certain time,Uttered light or dark speech that became part of youLike light behind windblown fog and sandFiltered and influenced by it, until no partRemains that is surely you.

The Scorpion?The Grasshopper?Which way will she go?

I love writing poetry because it’s pretty. I love writing pretty.

twice I have lived forever in a smile