Nothing of heaven or earth Can take this heartFilled with loveNothing of heaven or earthCan divide usFrom cosmic energy

In general, I would think that at present prose writers are much in advance of the poets. In the old days, I read more poetry than prose, but now it is in prose where you...

It was not like everyone had said.Not like being needed,or needing; not desperate;it did not whisperthat I’d come to harm. I didn’t losemy head. No, I was notgoing to leap from a greatheight and flapmy...

No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. You cannot value him alone; you must...

The Night Is Darkening Round MeThe night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare...

The emotion of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done. And he is not likely to know what is to be done...

Wild Nights – Wild Nights!Were I with theeWild Nights should beOur luxury!Futile – the winds –To a heart in port –Done with the compass –Done with the chart!Rowing in Eden –Ah, the sea!Might I moor...

The most beautiful, amazing and inevitable fact about life- Everything has a natural healing process.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can...

If I’m not around I hope you’ll remember me and together we will hold on to our favorite song.

Poetry is a poets work in clandestine chemistry and there is no ethic other than poethics!

When I write…I am in the fond armsof a childhood friendupon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawingsof my woes.

We speak in (rich) monotones. Our poetry is haunted by the music it has left behind. Orpheus shrinks to a poet when he looks back, with the impatience of reason, on a music stronger than...

sometimes i don’t know, which momentwhich cool gust of wind will come,and enchant metousling my hairand my heart, stirring…that familiar ache of poetry, which drop will kissthe old wrench in my soulreminding me, all over...

But Blake’s voices returned to dictate revisions.

most of the timesit’s the hardest to saywhat I love moreyouor your memory.

Don’t fall asleep yet. Contrary to popular belief, that’s not where dreams get accomplished.

How weightlesswords are when nothing will do.

If you’re a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you’re supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything. The ones you’re talking about don’t leave a single, solitary thing...

for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.

Every poem is a coat of arms. It must be deciphered. How much blood, how many tears in exchange for these axes, these muzzles, these unicorns, these torches, these towers, these martlets, these seedlings of...

My love for Neo-Tokyo is a bulbous massof post-human organic circuitry.Cyperpunk is my mother tongue.My love is a man-machine interface gun.

Shared emotions experienced by two souls,empathy on unequivocal level which Davey believed would change entire species of mankind if only secret of empathy could be telepathically shared with humanity,one soul after another, until every soul...

Each and every words count.Each and every thoughts count.

You should always be trying to write a poem you are unable to write, a poem you lack the technique, the language, the courage to achieve. Otherwise you’re merely imitating yourself, going nowhere, because that’s...

For it has come about, by the wise economy of nature, that our modern spirit can almost dispense with language; the commonest expressions do, since no expressions do; hence the most ordinary conversation is often...

I learned a long, long time ago, that I could accomplish things in this place we call reality and yet still spend most of my time in the better reality of my mind.

When you’re a student of poetry, you’re lucky if you don’t realize how untalented you are until you get a little better. Otherwise, you would just stop.

…for poets, at least, experiencing something inexpressible does not mean silence. It’s precisely the inexpressible something that poetry is meant to help us see or feel. If it were merely expressible – if there were...

I am sad, like the hot dust on the streetsAnd the music of fresh fallen leavesCaught in a sliding summer breeze.

Maria, lonely prostitute on a street of pain,You, at least, hail me and speak to meWhile a thousand others ignore my face.You offer me an hour of love,And your fees are not as costly as...

A poet is a man who manages, in a lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be struck by lightning five or six times.

LIFE IS SUBVERSIVE

GATHERING LEAVESSpades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons.I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away.But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd...

We real cool. We Left school. We Lurk late. We Strike straight. We Sing sin. We Thin gin. We Jazz June. We Die soon.

There Will Come Soft Rains There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;And frogs in the pool singing at night,And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;Robins will...

briedis liek man galvu uz plecaskatu maigu kā tāsies zinu tu esi noguris cilvēktu vairs mani nevajāsi

There is a wilderness we walk aloneHowever well-companioned

poems are small moments of enlightenment

Thus weary of the world, away she hies,And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aidTheir mistress mounted through the empty skiesIn her light chariot quickly is convey’d;Holding their course to Paphos, where their queenMeans...

Who was this girl alone so late at nightin search of a faded cassette illusion to disembowel the clocks of time’s intrusion? Those eyes belonged to the most beautiful maniac I’ve ever met. Our love...

And when they dusted my mind for your fingerprints they found yours.

☺☺ When a man gets to 99, he starts to think, he may only have another 10 years of sexy lovemaking left… Still Smiling At 99. ☺☺

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars...

Mute in that golden silence hung with green,Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyesRemembrance of all beauty that has been,And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

in the corner of the painting of successthe signature is blurred

The Way It IsThere’s a thread you follow. It goes amongthings that change. But it doesn’t change.People wonder about what you are pursuing.You have to explain about the thread.But it is hard for others to...

And in uttering thatExcellently executed truthYou become an artist too

Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind;In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be…

I hid my love when young till ICouldn’t bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my life to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left...