Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.
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.
I'm making a listI'm making a list of things I must sayFor politeness,And goodness and kindness and gentlenessSweetness and rightness:HelloPardon meHow are you?Excuse meBless youMay I?Thank youGoodbyeIf you know some that I've forgot,Please stick them in you eye!
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.
How happy is the little stoneThat rambles in the road alone,And doesn't care about careers,And exigencies never fears;Whose coat of elemental brownA passing universe put on;And independent as the sun,Associates or glows alone,Fulfilling absolute decreeIn casual simplicity.
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 wish I had eyes that changed colors from blue to gray, and then after I cried, to all the colors of the rainbow, because then I’d just sit in front of the mirror writing poems that alternated between extremely sad poems, to poems about light refraction and blinking promises.
In the hours waking,when we're still all still,and you can hear the floorboards creaking,and you can feel the shades blow in,the night we slept with,we'll never kiss like that again.Our lips, will sever, our memories, will dissipate,and our shadows will be swallowed by the sky.
No map to help us find the tranquil flat lands, clearings calm, fields without mean fences. Rolling down the other side of life our compass is the sureness of ourselves. Time may make us rugged, ragged round the edges, but know and understand that love is still the safest place to land.
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.
If you had told me, though, when I was twenty-four that I would write about Skokie, Illinois, where I grew up, I would have said, ‘You’re out of your mind. Why would I have Skokie in a poem?’ But you become resigned. Your job is to write about the life you actually have.
What else is a poem about?The rhythm and the images buried in the language. All the ways you can build an emotion with words, but you can't just write 'I feel sad.' I mean, you can, but it's not poetry... I think it has to be experienced instead of studied. You step into it.
Paris at NightTrois allumettes une à une allumées dans la nuitLa première pour voir ton visage tout entierLa seconde pour voir tes yeuxLa dernière pour voir ta boucheEt l'obscurité tout entière pour me rappeler tout celaEn te serrant dans mes bras
You write poetry?" Klaus asked.He had read a lot about poets but had never met one."Just a little bit," Isadora said modestly. "I write poems down in this notebook. It's an interest of mine.""Sappho!" Sunny shrieked, which meant something like, "I'd be very pleased to hear a poem of yours!
I am a tale, I am a book, written in different languages and styles I can’t be read, can’t be understood,neither by me nor the greatest of minds I am too big, I am too small, to be processed or seen by the naked eyeI am too dim, I am too bright, to appear in the shadows or the sunshine.
