Poetry, if it is not to be a lifeless repetition of forms, must be constantly exploring “the frontiers of the spirit.” But these frontiers are not like the surveys of geographical explorers, conquered once for...

And you know what the worst thing was?The worst thing was that nobody ever believed how hard we tried.

Country music is the poetry of the American spirit.

Much Madness is Divinest Sense, to a Discerning Eye….

moonlight disappears down the hillsmountains vanish into fogand i vanish into poetry.

Love me in actions, not in words.

i hope thatwhoever you arewherever you areand no matter howyou are feelingyou will always have somethingto smile about.

The wall between writing and painting is just good grammar. Moderation in moderation. Fun is scary with a happy ending. Just love. If love doesn’t transform that which annoys you, it will be easier to...

Saki says that youth is like hors d’oeuvres: you are so busy thinking of the next courses you don’t notice it. When you’ve had them, you wish you’d had more hors d’oeuvres.

Must always try to be out thereGetting everything out thereTake what is inside yourselfAnd place it out there.

How hard it is, to be forced to the conclusion that people should be, nine tenths of the time, left alone! – When there is that in me that longs for absolute commitment. One of...

Why not?

my lovefor youwill always belike a mountain stream.quiet. persistent. continuous.

Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it...

i would rather havefeelings without wordsthan words without feelings.

Without poets, without artists… everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever....

Where even ravi (the sun) cannot reach, there will go a kavi (poet).” – Vimalananda

In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, Snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, Long ago.

Never cry because you have mountains of problem in your hands to solve. Always smile because each problems will someday resolve.

I am ashamed of my century, but I have to smile.

I like my thingshurried and haunted. Night teadarktime. Sacred geometry, secret geometrypetal-flame whisper: I am here, and you aren’t.

I sang in my chains like the sea

She tells me about dreams. She says my dreams are helium and balloons, and I’ve made the mistake of letting go a few to many times, but I still got this one. Tied around my...

To have touched the feet of Christ is no excuse for mistakes in punctuation.If a man writes well only when he’s drunk, then I’ll tell him: Get drunk. And if he says that it’s bad...

We too can repair our cracks with goldAnd glow again.Crazed by life,More beautiful than ever before.

It came to me on a winter day.Life so full and rich will fade.Though I wish it were not so,One cannot run from an expected fate.And as a steady gust of wind fell upon my...

Remember Rio de Janeiro, the size of God’s hand, sardines fleshed-open at the market, the way I entered you and moved inside? Looking down, is this the kind of density you can live with? What...

A poet is not somebody who has great thoughts. That is the menial duty of the philosopher. A poet is somebody who expresses his thoughts, however commonplace they may be, exquisitely. That is the one...

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has...

Seigneur je suis très fatigué.Je suis né fatigué.Et j’ai beaucoup marché depuis le chant du coqEt le morne est bien haut qui mène à leur école.Seigneur, je ne veux plus aller à leur école,Faites, je...

I had loved poetry and the theatre. Now I loved adventure more.

Dear Lover…you are the only man, who never hurt me, but broke my heart.

If Death Is KindPerhaps if Death is kind, and there can be returning,We will come back to earth some fragrant night,And take these lanes to find the sea, and bendingBreathe the same honeysuckle, low and...

If we knew how to find the lost, we would know how to rediscover the parts of our mindsleft behindin battle.

How can the confessor teach/ those who are lost and sick at heart,/ when he himself, among the sinners,/ is worst, and most forsaken?/ It is only a game we play/ with other people’s sins./...

Love’s language is imprecise,fits more like mittens than gloves.

What is thy body but a swallowing grave,Seeming to bury that posterityWhich, by the rights of time, thou needs must haveIf thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?If so, the world will hold thee in...

Loneliness of heartIn the still of the night my heart doth cry out, who can hear it for time is far spent. In the darkness in the shadow of the depth I find isolation and...

The right,” be your battle cry everIn waging the warfare of life,And God, who knows who are the heroes,Will give you the strength for the strife.

History deals with situations and figures not imaginary but real. It demands therefore a combination of qualities unnecessary to the poet or writer of romance – glacial judgment coupled with fervent sympathy. The poet may...

One thing work givesis the joy of not working,a minute here or therewhen I stand and only breathe,receiving the good of the air.It comes back. Good work donecomes back into the mind,a free breath drawn.

I want to tie one thousand balloons around my neckand float upwhile slowly dying of happiness.

The planet you inhabit is a single plane of infinite dimensions, stretched like a guitar string, and standing before you like a concubine waiting for your command.

No one can usurp the heights…But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

ink marks the page/where you execute your will like a doe announcing an/ox-stern mate with a single, bleary blink.

… imaginary gardens with real toads in them …… if you demand on one hand,the raw material of poetry inall its rawness andthat which is on the other handgenuine, then you are interested in poetry.

Sometimes I open a book that’s so beautiful I have to shut it because it hurts me. I can’t stand it. It’s like, Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! This is going to drive me...

The most beautiful part of your bodyis where it’s headed. & remember,loneliness is still time spentwith the world.

This is perhaps the most noble aim of poetry, to attach ourselves to the world around us, to turn desire into love, to embrace, finally what always evades us, what is beyond, but what is...

Why love what you will lose?There is nothing else to love.