Quotes about Poem

We stand now where two roads diverge. But unlike the roads in Robert Frost's familiar poem, they are not equally fair. The road we have long been traveling is deceptively easy, a smooth superhighway on which we progress with great speed, but at its end lies disaster. The other fork of the road—the one "less traveled by"—offers our last, our only chance to reach a destination that assures the preservation of the earth.

A POEM IS A SPIDER WEB

A poem is a spider web

Spun with words of wonder,

Woven lace held in place

By whispers made of thunder.

If your life's story were written, would you read it?

Life is what you make it will your story have a peak, a conflict, suspence, action, a climax, and a conclusion? Or will you live your life keeping it safe and never taking any risks?  Ask yourself: if your life story were written, would you read it?

You kiss the back of my neck

I'm spinning to the ground

You run your strong fingers down my back

I can't hear a sound

You whisper things to me

So sweet I can taste your words

You're so close to me

I can feel our souls touching

You draw circles in my palm

Your love warms me to my toes, this I will never forget.

You loved me even if it was only for a minute

I hold onto that minute every night

You needed me even if only for a moment

I still hold onto that moment inside.

             
She walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

When I'm in this place I have not a care in the world, for I cast all my cares upon you.

ODE TO AN ENDANGERED SPECIES

Will you not leave us here too long
We have not paid attention
To squander the best of the world
A pity we do not understand
Ourselves
No more you fly in the wind
No more the buoyant ripples on a pristine pool
The splash of color in a worn-tore land
No more
The survivor's sad lament
Yet no weeping will there be when
Your perfect, singular form
Vanishes
The muted salting of a wounded Earth
And all that is and all that ever was will
In some way be
Diminished
For the loss, though unnoticed
Will be recognized
In the stillness of eternal night.

How many birds in cages die
Thinking a ceiling is the sky.

Cultivo una rosa blanca
En julio como en enero,
Para el amigo sincero
Que me da su mano franca.

Y para el cruel que me arranca
El corazón con que vivo,
Cardo ni ortiga cultivo,
Cultivo una rosa blanca.

The true poem rests between the words.

     WORK: A SONG OF TRIUMPH

Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it--
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire--
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand? ...

(excerpt of poem by Angela Morgan)

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

An excess of childhood is the germ of a poem.

Don't set up barriers It's useless My unsheathed heart Hurtles toward you

No book or poem is ever finished, merely abandoned.

If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.

Avoid all evil, practice all good, and purify your mind from impurities. This is the teaching of all Buddhas.

Dropping Keys

The small man
Builds cages
For everyone
He
Knows
While the sage,
Who has to duck his head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.

Coming empty-handed, going empty-handed -- that is human.
When you are born, Where do you come from?
When you die, where do you go?
Life is like a floating cloud which appears.
Death is like a floating cloud which disappears.
The floating cloud itself originally does not exist.
Life and death, coming and going, are also like that.
But there is one thing which always remains clear.
It is pure and clear, not depending on life and death.

What, then, is the one pure and clear thing?