Cosmos is God, who whispered the syllable of life.

They grew; they did not talk about growing.

Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.

He did not profess to anybody how to reach others without professing.

Loveis not leaning on each other, adjusting to fit a different size.Loveis simply two hands reached out in the darkness,saying; I’ll be your light, if you’ll be mine.

children of the mist” – they must dwell apart from men and contemn their kind, or they fear they shall be only taken for common-place characters. They forget that poetry is the language which speaks...

Charaktere sind vielleicht schon bezeichnet und beschrieben worden, seit es Lebewesen gibt, die sprechen können. Dichter haben das sehr differenziert getan; man denke an Proust, Tolstoi oder Dostojewski. Diese Autoren haben die innere Dynamik eines...

I recall that now and I recall everything for what do we have but the past to parent us?

Everything you invent is true: you can be sure of that. Poetry is a subject as precise as geometry.

We say God and the imagination are one . . .How high that highest candle lights the dark.

your smile.is the ultimategolden dream.all the poemsin the worldare waking up from.

because some thingssometimesaren’t ours to hold,but just beautiful to listen to.

Keep a journal, and don’t assume that your work has to accomplish anything worthy: artists and peace-workers are in it for the long haul, and not to be judged by immediate results.

Criticism is like politics: if you don’t make your own you are by default accepting the status quo and are finally yourself responsible for whatever the status quo does to you.

There can be no forced inspiration.

There are countless circles of hell; believers never penetrate the ninth circle.

How many unuttered words died in the heads of those for whom a word was too expensive.

Stars are only the rain of the Absolute.

There are good reasons to learn how to read. Poetry isn’t one of them… Why can’t poets just say what they want to say and then shut up?

The poets carry feelings, delivering desires and dispatching dreams. Even if sometimes they need pack some sorrows, distill several disappointments and filter strange nightmares.

Only a poet can translate for the dead.

I believe in the fatal hairdo just for the love of saying fatal hairdo.

Walking by yourself in the rain is for college kids who think loneliness makes poets.

Oh what a poet I will flay myself into.

the intensityin your eyesburns my penas i write.

When there’s a moon the shadows in the house grow larger;invisible hands draw back the curtains,a pallid finger writes forgotten words on dustof the piano…

The pure playfulness of certain wholly whimsical portions of (Charles) Cros’s work should not obscure the fact that at the center of some of his most beautiful poems a revolver is leveled straight at us.

Repetita iuvant. Italy, a land of great saints, poets, sailors, artists, statesmen, businessmen, lawyers, intellectuals, professors, journalists, whores, gangsters, religious parasites and dickheads.

There is a moonlight note in the Moonlight Sonata; there is a thunder note in an angry sky.

We need knew knights, but without swords.

Teaching others, he corrected himself.

What stirs lyrical poets to their finest flights is neither the delight of the senses nor the fruitful contentment of the settled couple; not the satisfaction of love, but its passion. And passion means suffering.

You don’t sound like a scientist; you sound like a poet.” Rey smiled. “Can I be both?” “But you’d rather be a poet.””Who wouldn’t?” he said.

When one does something, one must do it wholly and well. Those bastard existences where you sell suet all day and write poetry at night are made for mediocre minds – like those horses that...

My face responds without authorization from my brain, so the resulting smile feels like the biggest, most unguarded, goofiest smile I’ve ever unleashed in my entire life. I didn’t even know my face could do...

she wanted because art

Poetry makes nothing happen.

Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world.

for we all have our own twilights and mistsand abyssesto return to.

August is dust here. Droughtstuns the road,but juice gathers in the berries.

The bats inebriate the sky . . .

God is busy and has no time for you.

Beyond all vanities, fights, and desires, omnipotent silence lies.

Say No! Accept the burdens of revenge.

Through words to the meaning of thoughts with no words.

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

A true poet is one who can appreciate the disciplines and structures of any and all styles of poetry.

I am talking about the responsibility of the poet, who is irresponsible by definition, an anarchist enamored of a solar order and never of the new order or whatever slogan makes five or six hundred...

The eclipses ofpoets are not foretold in the calender.

Don’t bow down to critics who have not themselves written great masterpieces.