Quotes about poet

I do not write poetry I take words and dip them in feelings.

Love doesn’t make you a poet it makes you poetry.

A poet is a silent singer he sings the deep songs of the soul silently.

God is the perfect poet.

A poet can survive everything but a misprint.

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

You cannot deny the struggle the struggle denies you.

Cosmos and its stars poet and his poetry!

You do not need a boyfriend or a girlfriend to write an emotional poet because poetry is beyond hooks and holes.

Nights are belong to the universe that speaks about an unspoken feelings into a poetry.

This was but a prelude where books are burnt human-beings will be burnt in the end

Love beauty it is the shadow of God on the universe

We choose exile as a vantage point from exile we look back on the rejected

The core of your true self is never lost. Let go of all the pretending and the becoming you've done just to belong.Curl up with your rawness and come home. You don't have to find yourself you just have to let yourself in.

He was a poet and they are never exactly grown-up.

Create with the heart build with the mind.

we were never a match always a marvelous misfit.

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas,'the way one commits a crime.

How—I didn't know anyword for it—how "unlikely". . .How had I come to be here,like them, and overheara cry of pain that could havegot loud and worse but hadn't?

Imperfection is my ticket, perfection is my pursuit

YOUR WORDS ARE MADE OF THE AIR I BREATHE.

True poetry is composed of metaphors and symbols which are born in the heart, rise like clouds, and assume a celestial form; verses formed otherwise are not poetry, but only artificial words, each of which contradicts the feelings inside. The utterances and words that have not been formed in a person’s soul as the voice of conscience are all hollow, no matter how embellished they are or how dazzling they seem to be.

Poetry can be more eloquent than the most eloquent sermons, and it becomes a weapon more formidable than the sharpest of swords; whenever such a poem--which finds its correct tune and conveys the excitement of the heart--rings out, all the miserable, heaped drifts of words fly for shelter and bury themselves in ashamed silence. Whenever such a sword of poetry is drawn from its scabbard, all the false princes of words, who have set their thrones on a void, are thwarted and retreat into seclusion.

A perfect poem owes its perfection to sounding the voice of the heart and the melodies of the conscience, as well as its ability to reflect the considerations, beliefs, opinions, and horizons of thought of the poet, but not due to its formal or mental aspects.

Every time a poet is about to write, every time the open their mouth to say something, they express their inner world and tell of their own feelings, thoughts, beliefs, and opinions, unless they are deliberately pursuing fantasies which contrast with their beliefs, opinions, thoughts, and the point of view.

Poetry is another name for a person’s telling of the self, existence and what is beyond, and one’s own perceptions.

Amy King is a true bard.

i bring my kiasu friend to the airportleavings are never easy, not for longand though we both saw blur along the waymemories flooded present tensions.in the curry of his life no lemak remainedso now the predictable exit signalledthe end of his roundings, his bombings–he can bluff like hell, ma, he got style–and left me thinking about home, my kampong.

OnceThere was a quiet island,With a name.You must believe me When I say that sunlight, Impure but beautiful, Broke upon the bay, silveredThe unrepentant, burning moon.

Beneath it allI kept faith with Ithaca, travelled,Travelled and travelled,Suffering much, enjoying a little;Met strange people singingNew myths; made myths myself.But this lion of the seaSalt-maned, scaly, wondrous of tail,Touched with power, insistentOn this brief promontory...Puzzles.

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.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

A poet is somebody who has written a poem.

I chase the wind and get lost in the clouds. I'm sweep into darkness in my search for the light.

Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.

I tossed a stone into the Sea To see what it would do for me And the ripples went out And became ocean waves To return to the Sea inside of me

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. 

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!O falling fire and piercing cryand panic, and a weak mailed fistclenched ignorant against the sky!

If a muscleman like Hukum can write a poem, everyone can.

I walk with a dual longing for life and for death.

Tonight, I won't dream, because nobodyhas held me and no hands have strayed and eventhough I'm drunk with love, my arms are empty.

Don't ask me any questions. I've seen how things that seek their way find their void instead.

Another breath, left to translate

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.

I was born one thousand times and all the while it was you I met again to only meet again under the thousand stars that divide us and connect us.

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.

Euphemisms chosen by fear are a covenant with hypocrisy and will immediately destroy the poem and eventually destroy the poet.

In the beginning was the word, and primitive societies venerated poets second only to their leaders. A poet had the power to name and so to control; he was, literally, the living memory of a group or tribe who would perpetuate their history in song; his inspiration was god given and he was in effect a medium.

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.

Write as an audience member. Write what you want to see, feel and hear.

Poetry is alive because it is a medium of vision and experience. It is not necessarily comfortable.It is not necessarily safe.

Approaching the Start of Civil ExamsPerhaps I was once a young Chinese scholarapproaching the start of civil exams,my mind grown weary and sad from seclusionwith books on syntax and poetic style.All that I knew were the mist-covered mountainsand sweet white blossoms of mountain applesthat grew in the valleys of my province.But I had been gone over six yearsbusy with studies in the Heavenly Cityempty and thin despite my work.I showed my verses to an older poetwho told me a truth I longed to belie

Love is like a magic trickYou know you are getting fooled, but still, you stand in lineAnd pay to see it again and again.

Are you just a car salesman or are you a poet too?” “I've never been accused of poetry before.

Every poet creates their own universe that looks more beautiful than reality.

His eyes spark with revolutions, enlightened trickery and unconditional affection.

I crave for knowledge. I envy tolerant, peaceful folks. I am frightened by ignorance. I loathe violence.

I think Wordsworth was as surprised to see me as I was him. It can't be usual to go to your favorite memory only to find someone already there, admiring the view ahead of you.

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.

If passion was a substance I would say it is dark brown, and then blood red. It's like wet grass, tons of it soaked in mud. It's warm and it stinks like shit and it's unaccountably and endlessly good. It's thick and it goes on for miles and it isn't so much deep as bottomless and it holds you in its grip, you never drown. And then it goes. That's all you know.

You don't have to be a poet to express you feelings to her, just say whats in your mind and she will relate.

If you should see/a man/walking down a crowded street/ talking aloud/ to himself don't run/in the opposite direction but run toward him/for he is a poet! You have nothing to fear/from a poet but the truth

Surely there is a knowing behind it all. There is a teacher, an expresser, a creator, an artist perhaps, a poet certainly that has designed and presented all of the clues that we need to navigate life with some degree of grace, and perhaps with a greater degree of happiness than we now have.

Because I have an ideal to live up to. And I can't fall down in my own eyes!

To write a poem you must have a streak of arrogance-- not in real life I hope. In real life try to be nice. It will save you a hell of a lot of trouble and give you more time to write.

A poet, any real poet, is simply an alchemist who transmutes his cynicism regarding human beings into an optimism regarding the moon, the stars, the heavens, and the flowers, to say nothing of the spring, love, and dogs.

And muse on Nature with a poet's eye.

No man was ever yet a great poet without at the same time being a profound philosopher.

All men are poets at heart.

Modern poets mix too much water with their ink.

The man is either mad or he is making verses.

All that is best in the great poets of all countries is not what is national in them but what is universal.

Every man is a poet when he is in love.

Poets have a license to lie.

Villon our sad bad glad mad brother's name.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.

To be a poet is a love affair, not a desire to dare.

I have indeed lived and worked to my taste either in art or science. What more could a man desire? Knowledge has always been my goal. There is much that I shall leave behind undone…but something at least I was privileged to leave for the world to use, if it so intends…As the Latin poet said I will leave the table of the living like a guest who has eaten his fill. Yes, if I had another life to spend, I certainly would not waste it. But that cannot be, so why complain?

Really, he thought, if you couldn't trust a poet to offer sensible advice, who could you trust?

He hoped and feared,' continued Solon, in a low. mournful voice; 'but at times he was very miserable, because he did not think it possible that so much happiness was reserved for him as the love of this beautiful, innocent girl. At night, when he was in bed, and all the world was dreaming, he lay awake looking up at the old books against the walls, thinking how he could bring about the charming of her heart. One night, when he was thinking of this, he suddenly found himself in a beautiful countr

Did anyone think this canon of druggie men were out of control? Only in the most admirable of ways! Out of control like a shaman or a space explorer, like a magician sawing himself in half. Out of control like a poet.

He was a poet -oh all men are when they're in love.

Give contemporary POET more SPACE & a long-last MAGIC will surround you all again.

darkness falls upon Humanityand faces become terriblethingsthat wanted more than therewas.all our days are marked withunexpectedaffronts - somedisastrous, othersless sobut the process iswearing andcontinuous.attrition rules.most givewayleavingempty spaceswhere people shouldbe.and nowas we ready to self-destructthere is very little left tokillwhich makes the tragedyless and moremuch muchmore.

Every writer should know their target. Aim for the heart ~ hit that and all which follows is sheer ecstasy.

I do... to this day, think that success is being able to look in the mirror and know that I'm alright on that day. I don't believe I've made it–I believe that I'm making it. I believe that I've found my past so that I can live in the present, it's the most important thing to me. The books and the plays and the touring and the gigs and the speeches and the cash...it all pales into insignificance when compared with knowing that I didn't do anything wrong, and I'm going to be okay now.

Poetry is inspired by the elements of random thoughts, an overflow of gazing at the unseen.

All of us,' he said, 'have hopes of being poet, artist, discoverer, philospoher, scientist; of possessing the attributes of all these simultaneously. Few are permitted to achieve any of them in daily life. But in travel we attain them all. Then we have our day of glory, when all our dreams come true, when we can be anything we like, as long as we like, and, when we are tired of it, pull up stakes and move on. Travel -- the solitude of the mountains, the emptiness of the desert, the delicacy of t

Some days I don't know what is greater.My wisdom, or my stupidity.

...writers, like priests, should have compassion...and a sensitivity to pain...

The mainspring of genius is curiosity.

By(e) pen, I've tried my hand at poetry; only to see how boring it is to me. That is, unless I get a chance to destroy each and every piece while doing it as I please.

...Feel no fear before the multitude of men, do not run in panic,but let each man bear his shield straight toward the fore-fighters,regarding his own life as hateful and holding the dark spirits of death as dear as the radiance of the sun.

Nobody needs saving, just a little bit of empathy

All I ask the haters--and I, too, am one--is that they strive to perfect their contempt, even consider bringing it to bear on poems, where it will be deepened, not dispelled, and where, by creating a place for possibility and present absences (like unheard melodies), it might come to resemble love.

Most of us carry at least a weak sense of a correlation between poetry and human possibility that cannot be realized by poems. The poet, by his very claim to be a maker of poems, is therefore both an embarrassment and accusation.

First the mania for confession,then the mania for clarity,issued from you, dark, hypocriticalsentiment! Let them nowcondemn my every passion, let themdrag me through the mud, call me twisted,foul pervert, dilettante, perjurer;you keep me apart, give me life’s assurance:I burn at the stake, play the card of fireand win: I win this small,vast possession, my infinite,miserable pitywhich makes even righteous anger my friend.And I can do this because I’ve endured you too long!

when you're a poetyou can dish out whatever'son your mind and you don't have toapologize for it

There is a madness in me that does not follow society.