Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
Poetry is everywhere; it just needs editing.
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
Reading poetry is an adventure in renewal, a creative act, a perpetual beginning, a rebirth of wonder.
Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.
We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
Even though poetry was written for the 'minds ear' as well as the physical ear, the minds ear can be trained only by the other ... which comes back to reading poetry aloud.
Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power.
Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.
Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
Reading [poetry], you know, is rather like opening the door to a horde of rebels who swarm out attacking one in twenty places at once - hit, roused, scraped, bared, swung through the air, so that life seems to flash by; then again blinded, knocked on the head - all of which are agreeable sensations for a reader (since nothing is more dismal than to open the door and get no response).
Reading poetry gives me a sense of calm, well-being, and love for humanity - the same stuff more flexible women get from yoga.
The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
I am angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating ice cream or kissing a boy.
I've been reading poetry publicly for 20 years, and this is what you do - you express, you sometimes dig a bit to get a conversation started. That's the point of poetry. You're supposed to go, 'Hmmmm,' and 'Woooh!'
If every head of state and every government official spent an hour a day reading poetry we'd live in a much more humane and decent world.
In the first few pages, Kundera discusses several abstract historical figures: Robespierre, Nietzsche, Hitler. For Eunice's sake, I wanted him to get to the plot, to introduce actual "living" characters - I recalled this was a love story - and to leave the world of ideas behind. Here we were, two people lying in bed, Eunice's worried head propped on my collarbone, and I wanted us to feel something in common. I wanted this complex language, this surge of intellect, to be processed into love. Isn't that how they used to do it a century ago, people reading poetry to one another?
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