جای مردان سیاست بنشانید درخت / تا هوا تازه شود

Please be SILENT and LISTEN.I am the SCHOOLMASTERand you are in the CLASSROOM.Just like ELEVEN PLUS TWO equalsTWELVE PLUS ONE,And even a FUNERAL can be REAL FUN,You will find my DICTIONARYis quite INDICATORY.If you want to read my story, just look...THEN UNREAD.

While I was looking the other way your fire went outLeft me with cinders to kick into dustWhat a waste of the wonder you wereIn my living fire I will keep your scorn and mineIn my living fire I will keep your heartache and mineAt the disgrace of a waste of a life

Ey tâlih! Ölümden de beterdir bu karanlık;Ey aşk! O gönüller sana mâl oldular artık;Ey vuslat! O âşıkları efsûnuna râm et!Ey tatlı ve ûlvi gece! Yıllarca devâm et!

Too lazy to be ambitious,I let the world take care of itself.Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?Listening to the night rain on my roof,I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. "It's an art to read the stars, baby."I never wanted to leave his side-my sure song for so long. Now? His eyes are stone changed. Just looking at them hurts my heart.

You're growing up. And rain sort of remains on the branches of a tree that will someday rule the Earth. And it's good that there is rain. It clears the month of your sorry rainbow expressions, and it clears the streets of the silent armies... so we can dance.

Many are poets, but without the name;For what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill; and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain

About your easy heads my prayersI said with syllables of clay.What gift, I asked, shall I bring nowBefore I weep and walk away?Take, they replied, the oak and laurel.Take our fortune of tears and liveLike a spendthrift lover. All we askIs the one gift you cannot give.

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.

Il più bello dei mariè quello che non navigammo.Il più bello dei nostri figlinon è ancora cresciuto.I più belli dei nostri giorninon li abbiamo ancora vissuti.E quello che vorrei dirti di più bellonon te l’ho ancora detto.

Every time I watchLady and the TrampI think"SHE'S HAVING SOME OF YOUR PASTA!""QUICK! EAT IT ALL! EAT IT ALL, NOW!!!""GROWL! BARE YOUR TEETH! DO SOMETHING!"OH, DON'T GIVE HER THE MEATBALL!THERE'S MEAT IN IT!""IDIOT!"But then againI'm not the romantic type.

...imagine what you are writing about. See it and live it. Do not think it up laboriously, as if you were working out mental arithmetic. Just look at it, touch it, smell it, listen to it, turn yourself into it. When you do this, the words look after themselves, like magic.

Oh, a sleeping drunkard Up in Central Park, And a lion-hunter In the jungle dark, And a Chinese dentist,And a British queen--All fit togetherIn the same machine.Nice, nice, very nice;Nice, nice, very nice; Nice, nice, very nice--So many different peopleIn the same device.

sometimes when everything seems atits worstwhen all conspiresand gnawsand the hours, days, weeksyearsseem wasted – stretched there upon my bedin the darklooking upward at the ceilingi get what many will consider anobnoxious thought:it’s still nice to beBukowski.