Quotes about poems

Cosmos and its stars poet and his poetry!

A short poem from my book:PerspectiveOf coursethere is a hellshe saidand it hasan observation deckso I maystand and waveto all those kindsouls belowwho warned meI would go there.

With me: one minus one = one with you: it’s zero. Here lies the only difference.

I recreate myself that is my only power.

We do not admire their president.We know why the White House is white.We do not find their children irresistibleWe do not agree they should inherit the earth.

A versifier’s poem is born by the sound a poet’s sound is born by the poem.

There was a young lady of NigerWho smiled as she rode on a tigerThey returned from a rideWith the Lady insideAnd the smile on the face of the tiger.

There is a girl who still writes you she doesn’t know how not to.

Don't ask me what it means ask me how it felt.

We are not what we might be what we are / Outlaws all extrapolation / Beyond the interval of now and here: / White whales are gone with the white ocean.

I still read Donne, particularly his love poems.

Appreciate the moment of a first kiss it may be the last time you own your heart.

The truth is I didn’t need therapy I just needed to feel loved and know that someone out there craved my attention.

She was too busy wishing on shooting stars to see the dreams come true around her.

My VoiceDreamt a dream of dreams,lucidOne word birthed another,othersStill deeper beyond time,infinite spaceOne bled into another,one dancedTwisted tight, for dear life, embraced windsDarkness, out of sight burned, wept my mindInto a new frontier, frameless portraitsIn defiance, out of the ash, rose my voiceKaleb Kilton (c) 2016

It is silly to think they all achieved it "just like that". nothing in life is so easy, that is a fact.Behind the scenes were tears and pain,they stumbled and fell but got up again. They heard a voice, firm and true"Muster yourself you'll make it through"Steadied by a hand they arose to dancein the turmoil and storm with perseverance At the end, it came upon them; a light so brightsuccess was theirs: it was their right!

...you hold a poemthat functions half as personalnote and half as telescopeto the heightsawaiting us all.

Sometimes the rainfallsjust for you and meto be the violinplaying in the backgroundof our loneliness's song.

I write small poems— the kind that fit on a postcard… and still can break your heart

I’m looking for youin the bare corridor where my shadow is the only passerbyharmonizing an unsettling whisper: echoed through my chiming thoughtsFrom the poem 'Looking For You

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it, we go nowhere - Carl Sagan

Devil’s WishA bowl of spellsSwirls a mixSmoke and bubblesSeek the fixYoung boy's eyeAnd fever fewWitches grassSome mandrake root

PeterSwirling dreamsDragons knewTouching life to winDeep inside many other worldsWhere should we begin?

Trying to build myself up with the fact that I have done things right that were even good and have had moments that were excellent but the bad is heavier to carry around and feel have no confidence.

It is not given to each of usTo be desired.

I could take a walk with my wife and try to explain the ghosts I can't stop speaking to. Or I could read all those books piling upabout the beginning of the end of understanding...Meanwhile, it's such a beautiful morning,the changing colors, the hypnotic light.I could sit by the window watching the leaves,which seem to know exactly how to fallfrom one moment to the next. Or I could loseeverything and have to begin over again.

[L]ife is a phenomenon in need of criticism, for we are, as fallen creatures, in permanent danger of worshipping false gods, of failing to understand ourselves and misinterpreting the behaviour of others, of growing unproductively anxious or desirous, and of losing ourselves to vanity and error. Surreptitiously and beguilingly, then, with humour or gravity, works of art--novels, poems, plays, paintings or films--can function as vehicles to explain our condition to us. They may act as guides to a

My soul is crushed under the weight of tears I can’t spill.

Emotional pain was the price I paid on the path to becoming a woman. So excuse me if I’m not clueless like a little girl.

& love is an evil word. Turn it backwards/see, see what I mean? An evol word.

Oh that's right Keep away from me Please give me a pushDon't let me understand you Don't realise meOr we might tumble togetherDepersonalizedIdenticalInto the terrific NirvanaMe you --- you --- me

Yes You Are!Like the Blossoming rose,Like the Rays of hope.Like a deer in the forest,Like an athlete full of zest.Like a lamp in temple,Like the life feeling ample.Like the feel of the dawn,Like the grace of the swan.Like the melody of sitar,Like the rage of guitar.Like a group of angels in the sky,Like the pot that makes you high.Like the peacock's dance,Like she is the romance.Like the silent talk,Like the wine from Medoc.Like the colors of life,Like the music from the fife.Like the calmness o

she's gotoceanstucked awayin her hairpoems swimunder her skin.

i am permanentlytannedin the summer of poetry.

when I finally begin to driftinto sleepyour memory is the...firstand the moonlightthe last, to kiss my face.

Silence explains a lot of things.It tells us why people are who they not supposed to be.It's the fear of being afraid.It's because of their own safety.Sometimes it becomes an unexplainable feeling.It shows the insecureties, acceptation, love and vulnerabilityinside everyone of us.

You were the poem I never knew how to write because no words could describe the wind you cannot see, but feel.

MAN is a slave only to his own mental lethargy.

Hemingway is overrated,Twain is even more lost at sea,And all truths point to the mouth of a woman,Where both her whispers and her screams,Are born.Pour another glass, Beer, wine, whiskey,I don't care,So long as its wisdom is sharp,And it tells lies instead of promises.

Today I write,riots with insite!Tomorrow I read,take the lead!Sometimes I sleep, health to keep!But for now I write,and got no gripe!

Love leads us to write poetry because love improves our hearing; like prayer, poetry is every bit as much about listening as it is about speaking. To 'get' the poem is to hear the eloquence of the silence that it calls forth through its manifestation of love.

That's what I love about poetry. The more abstract, the better. The stuff where you're not sure what the poet's talking about. You may have an idea, but you can't be sure. Not a hundred percent. Each word, specifically chosen, could have a million different meanings.

I put my faith in something unknown, beyond the moon, sun, and stars, one day I will own. I put my faith in something, renew. Beyond the rivers, deserts, mountains and valleys.One day it shall become new. I cannot renounce the struggle But yes, it’s what this destiny holds The pain is worst. My heart is whole and will not burst.I live on sweet nothing.I am tired of hope, when this dream is not in the scope. I told the pope, he told me to hold on to life and use the rope.I put my faith in you, th

If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean's insanity.Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune's vanity.

Projection from the beginning of time
White women with a passionate horns
Butchered yet another beloved

We write about love like we should be bound in padded rooms.

Some of us die long before our last breath. We perish in the fire of love, reduced to ashes in the consuming blaze. No, we do not die when our hearts cease to beat, but when they start beating the first timefor someone else.

They were full of mysteries and secrets, like... like poems turned into landscapes.""'Poems turned into landscapes.'" he murmured with a slight smile. "And what of Vestenveld's gardens? Do you see poems in them?""Your gardens are like your country's poetry. Very frilly and organized.

Our past sins, our fractured lives--soon nothing but drowned stars in dark skies.

In all the flames of fire fume’s left the traceInto the bluest sea the sky is drownedThe miracles of life can you embraceFrom the poem 'Can You Embrace?

Even when the lights go out, even when someone says to me: "It's over---," even when from the stage a gray gust of emptiness drifts toward me,even when not one silent ancestor sits beside me anymore---not a woman, not even the boy with the brown squint-eye:I'll sit here anyway. One can always watch.

Sometimes my helpless blood runs numb and, if only for a second, I forget how frail bones can be.

Even lungs that are gasping are lungs that are trying.

3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.

Nostalgia dies in the pit of my throat from lack of exercise and I buried the word six feet under the pronunciation of hopeful tomorrows.

Sitting makes us think of standingOur current stance keeps on demanding We wish to fly without the wings Puppets move before pulling the strings

Life doesn't stop. It doesn't stop progressing forward and it never stops trying to bring you to your knees. It will test your strengths and exploit your weakness, and I'm not sure that is always such a bad thing.

Monster a person though monster not human.Monster like music. Like Beatles! Like Schumann!World full of stupid. World full of noise.Monster feel ANGRY. No birthday. No joys.World full of JUNK monster not comprehend.What is a childhood? What is a friend?Monster and human both want the same.Want conversation. Want love. WANT NO PAIN.If monster speak heart: monster life only worsen.Monster not human: BUT MONSTER A PERSON!

And life goes on like this,an uncomplete poem.

I’m alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.

I listen to the rainfall, my words wanna flow!Droplets run down the wall,where do they go?Letters in the raw,mesh together for the show!

beware women grownoldwho were neveranything butyoung

I always felt it wouldpass.I listened to the charges against meknowing some of them to be truebut certainly notimportant enoughto become the target ofviolence, envy,vengeance.I thought it would surelypass.

Sound.Noisethe air employs.Melodies sweet.Tweet, tweet, tweet.Soft. Loud.A roaring crowd.Cluck. Caw. Crow.Tet, tet. Tis, tis.Guttural growl.Harrowing howl.Drip, drip, drip.Tap, tap, tap.Moan and groan.Endless drone.Ding, dang, dong.A church bell song.Vibrations in my earto hear.Sound.

Shadow of Your SpiritAt night I see the shadow of your spiritMixing with my blood and soulDuring the day I see your photosThey tell me come to meCome to my world and romanceEven I don’t know by myselfHow I fell into your loveI cannot remove it from my heartYour love stabled my soul

Everything is like a wall. Said a scholar to the troll. Bang your head to go on through. Then you'll see, there is no queue.

I found an empty chairand sat on itto find myself even emptier.I found a broken glassand looked at itto see my dissolved facea little prettierI found a steep doorwayand enteredin order to close my exit.From the poem 'Blue Stanzas

the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.

A poem that is itself a name does not yearn for the name of its creator, but shines from its name alone.

There are no barriers to poetry or prophecy; by their nature they are barrier-breakers, bursts of perceptions, lines into infinity. If the poet lies about his vision he lies about himself and in himself; this produces a true barrier.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

Great writers experience their dreams. They put them on paper, where others can read about them.

To translate a poem from thinking into English takes all night.

my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.

A book is a place where my reality, escapism, hope, despair, love and death lie.

My only wish is to be buried with my books.

This winter, there will be no voices, no glimpses, no arms.only the fabric of poetry, to keep me warm.

and everyone wants to read the poem we’re afraid to write.

In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your face seems clearer I revere your presence and remember We are warriors Thrusted onto this plane We are strong We must use our strength While bearing compassionIt's easy to get lost This place makes it so easy to get lost But- In the moonlight and under the stars Somehow your presence seems clearer And I remember We are warriors

I do understand that they fall when I'm least able to pay attention because poems fall not from a tree, really, but from the richly pollinated boughs of an ordinary life, buzzing, as lives do, with clamor and glory. They are easy to miss but everywhere: poetry just is, whether we revere it or try to put it in prison. It is elementary grace, communicated from one soul to another.

He moves in darkness as it seems to meNot of woods only and the shade of trees.

She was born of space. And starlight. But she bled wrath. And vengeance.."[From Current Work In Progress]

I lovehow grown childrenwill still nametheir mothersthe mostbeautiful.It isas though,their eyeshave met the cascadingcurvesand goldensilhouettesof every woman.Yettheir soulsstilldrumto the beat  of theirmother'swarmth and care.

She winced and covered her ears as Eric,onstage, wrestled with his microphone."Sorry about that, guys!" he yelled. "All right. I'm Eric, and this is my homeboy Matt on the drums. My first poem is called 'Untitled.'" He screwed up his face as if in pain, and wailed into the mike. "Come my faux juggernaut, my nefarious loins! Slather every protuberance with arid zeal!"Simon slid down in his seat. "Please don't tell anyone I know him."Clary giggled. "Who uses the word 'loins'?""Eric," Simon said gr

Every moment of the nightForever changing placesAnd they put out the star-lightWith the breath from their pale faces

I love not man the less, but nature more

November comesAnd November goes,With the last red berriesAnd the first white snows.With night coming early,And dawn coming late,And ice in the bucketAnd frost by the gate.The fires burnAnd the kettles sing,And earth sinks to restUntil next spring.

Some people like me, some don't. I don't understand, Where the difference comes from. My heart like them all. For a simple childish reason. We all are created equal, we all are humans.

Ourchestra:So you haven't got a drum, just beat your belly.So I haven't got a horn-I'll play my nose.So we haven't any cymbals-We'll just slap our hands together,And though there may be orchestrasThat sound a little betterWith their fancy shiny instrumentsThat cost an awful lot-Hey, we're making music twice as goodBy playing what we've got!

EnnuiTea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,designing futures where nothing will occur:cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning shewill still predict no perils left to conquer.Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knightfinds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheardof, while blasé princesses indicttilts at terror as downright absurd.The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,while bored arena crowds for once look eager,ho

nothing's news.it's the same old thing indisguise.only one thing comes without adisguise and you only see itonce, ormaybe never.like getting hit by a freighttrain.makes us realize that all ourmoaning about long lost girlsin gingham dressesis not so importantafterall.

I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask.I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.

We may know who we are or we may not. We may be Muslims, Jews or Christians but until our hearts become the mould for every heart we will see only our differences.

A thousand years or more ago,When I was newly sewn,There lived four wizards of renown,Whose name are still well-known:Bold Gryffindor from wild moor,Fair Ravlenclaw from glen,Sweet Hufflepuff from valley broad,Shrewd Slytherin from fen.They share a wish, a hope, a dream,They hatched a daring plan,To educate young sorcerers,Thus Hogwarts school began.Now each of these four foundersFormed their own house, for eachDid value different virtues,In the ones they had to teach.By Gryffindor, the bravest

I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeon,In the round-tower of my heart,And there will I keep you forever,Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in the dust away!

Said the Sun to the Moon-'When you are but a lonely white crone,And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood,Remember only this of our hopeless loveThat never till Time is doneWill the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one

All the drawing lacksis the final touch: To addeyes to the dragon

If I knew where poems came from, I'd go there.

But who are we, where do we come fromWhen all those yearsNothing but idle talk is leftAnd we are nowhere in the world?"= MEETING =