Quotes About Poem

Quotes tagged as "poem" (showing 121-150 of 975)
Charles Bukowski
“when we were kids
laying around the lawn
on our

we often talked
we'd like to

we all
agreed on the

we'd all
like to die

none of us
done any

and now
we are hardly
any longer

we think more
not to


most of
prefer to
do it

under the


most of

have fucked
our lives
Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense

Leonard Cohen
“I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.

If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips
it is because I hear a man climb stairs
and clear his throat outside our door.”
Leonard Cohen

Wisława Szymborska
“They're both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they'd never met before, they're sure
that there'd been nothing between them.
But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways--
perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them
if they don't remember--
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?
a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?
but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.

They'd be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.

Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn't read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood's thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.”
Wisława Szymborska, View With a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems
tags: poem

Elizabeth I Tudor
“I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.”
Elizabeth I Tudor, Her Life in Letters

فروغ فرخزاد
“در اتاقي كه به اندازه ي يك تنهاييست
دل من
كه به اندازه ي يك عشقست
به بهانه هاي ساده ي خوشبختي خود مي نگرد
به زوال زيباي گل ها در گلدان
به نهالي كه تو در باغچه ي خانه مان كاشته اي
و به آواز قناري ها
كه به اندازه ي يك پنجره مي خوانند”
فروغ فرخزاد
tags: poem

Cecily von Ziegesar
“Open the fridge and put
My heart on a plate.
I'm just as you left
me, and I taste even better
Cecily von Ziegesar, Don't You Forget About Me

Ezra Pound
“The Garden

En robe de parade.
- Samain

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anaemia.

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor.
They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.
She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.”
Ezra Pound

فروغ فرخزاد
“اگر به خانه ي من آمدي براي من اي مهربان چراغ بيار
و يك دريچه كه از آن
به ازدهام كوچه ي خوشبخت بنگرم”
فروغ فرخزاد
tags: poem

Jarod Kintz
“The Chair

I’m writing to you, who made the archaic wooden chair
look like a throne while you sat on it.

Amidst your absence, I choose to sit on the floor,
which is dusty as a dry Kansas day.

I am stoic as a statue of Buddha,
not wanting to bother the old wooden chair,

which has been silent now for months.
In this sunlit moment I think of you.

I can still picture you sitting there--
your forehead wrinkled like an un-ironed shirt,

the light splashed on your face,
like holy water from St. Joseph’s.

The chair, with rounded curves
like that of a full-figured woman,

seems as mellow as a monk in prayer.
The breeze blows from beyond the curtains,

as if your spirit has come back to rest.
Now a cloud passes overhead,

and I hush, waiting to hear what rests
so heavily on the chair’s lumbering mind.

Do not interrupt, even if the wind offers to carry
your raspy voice like a wispy cloud.”
Jarod Kintz, A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped Carrot

A.E. Housman
“How clear, how lovely bright,
How beautiful to sight
Those beams of morning play;
How heaven laughs out with glee
Where, like a bird set free,
Up from the eastern sea
Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,
No more shall yield to wrong,
Shall squander life no more;
Days lost, I know not how,
I shall retrieve them now;
Now I shall keep the vow
I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies
How heavily it dies
Into the west away;
Past touch and sight and sound
Not further to be found,
How hopeless under ground
Falls the remorseful day.”
A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad

Shel Silverstein
A tree house, a free house,
A secret you and me house,
A high up in the leafy branches
Cozy as can be house.
A street house, a neat house,
Be sure to wipe your feet house
Is not my kind of house at all-
Let's go live in a tree house.”
Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends: The Poems and Drawings of Shel Silverstein

Bo Burnham
I hung myself today. Hanged? Whatever,
the point is I hanged myself today and I’m still

I feel fine. Just bored. I keep hoping that
someone will come home and cut me down
but then I keep remembering that if I knew
someone like that I wouldn’t be up here. Bit
ironic, right? Or is that not ironic? I read
somewhere that, like, anything funny is,
in some way, ironic. But I don’t know if it's
funny or not. I don’t think my brain owns
“funny”, you know?

I feel taller. I like that.
I’ve never been away from my shadow for
this long. It had always clung to my feet,
parting momentarily for a quick dive into
the swimming pool. But never for five
hours. I like it. There’s three feet of space
between my two and the floor.

I wanted something this morning. I may be
stuck. But at least I’m three feet closer to it.”
Bo Burnham, Egghead: Or, You Can't Survive on Ideas Alone

فروغ فرخزاد
“هيچ صيادي در جوي حقيري كه به گودالي مي ريزد ،مرواريدي
صيد نخواهد كرد .”
فروغ فرخزاد
tags: poem

نیما یوشیج

خشک آمد کشتگاه ِ من
در جوار ِ کشت ِ همسايه .
گرچه می‌گويند : « می‌گريند روی ِ ساحل ِ نزديک
سوکواران در ميان ِ سوکواران . »
قاصد ِ روزان ِ ابری ، داروگ ! [1] کی می‌رسد باران ؟

بر بساطی که بساطی نيست ،
در درون ِ کومه‌ی ِ تاريک ِ من که ذرّه‌ای با آن نشاطی نيست
و جدار ِ دنده‌های ِ نی به ديوار ِ اتاقم دارد از خشکيش می‌ترکد
- چون دل ِ ياران که در هجران ِ ياران –
قاصد ِ روزان ِ ابری ، داروگ ! کی می‌رسد باران ؟”
نیما یوشیج
tags: poem

Alice Fulton
“It's just me throwing myself at you,
romance as usual, us times us,

not lust but moxibustion,
a substance burning close

to the body as possible
without risk of immolation.”
Alice Fulton

فروغ فرخزاد
“زندگي شايد
يك خيابان درازست كه هر روز زني با زنبيلي از آن مي گذرد
زندگي شايد
ريسمانيست كه مردي باآن خود را از شاخه مي آويزد
زندگي شايد طفليست كه از مدرسه بر مي گردد

زندگي شايد افروختن سيگاري باشد ،در فاصله ي رخوتناك دو همآغوشي
يا عبور گيج رهگذري باشد
كه كلاه از سر بر مي دارد
و به يك رهگذر ديگر با لبخندي بي معني مي گويد “صبح بخير”

زندگي شايد آن لحظه ي مسدوديست
كه نگاه من ،در ني ني چشمان تو خود را ويران مي سازد
و در اين حسي است
كه من آن را با ادراك ماه و با دريافت ظلمت خواهم آميخت”
فروغ فرخزاد
tags: poem

بدر عبد المحسن
“على وجهي الاصفر .. خريفٍ طال ..
وسلال من رذاذ وملح ..
وفي صدري حجارة نسيوها بحاره ..
مروا علي فـ يوم ..
وقالوا تعال معنا .. وما كان يجمعنا ..
إلا الضياع والريح ..

راجع من الايام .. من الاحلام ..
ومن الف سناره .. مغروسة بقلبي ..
لقيت لي بشارة .. ما اغلى عطا ربي ..
أثر العمر ساره .. وموج البحر ساره ..
وكل المدى ساره ..
سافرت كل العمر .. وراجع احب سارة ..”
بدر عبد المحسن
tags: love, poem

Shel Silverstein
You should have heard the old men cry,
You should have heard the biddies
When that sad stranger raised his flute
And piped away the kiddies.
Katy, Tommy, Meg and Bob
Followed, skipped gaily,
Red-haired Ruth, my brother Rob,
And little crippled Bailey,
John and Nils and Cousin Claire,
Dancin', spinnin', turnin',
'Cross the hills to God knows where-
They never came returnin'.
'Cross the hills to God knows where
The piper pranced, a leadin'
Each child in Hamlin Town but me,
And I stayed home unheedin'.
My papa says that I was blest
For if that music found me,
I'd be witch-cast like all the rest.
This town grows old around me.
I cannot say I did not hear
That sound so haunting hollow-
I heard, I heard, I heard it clear...
I was afraid to follow.”
Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends: The Poems and Drawings of Shel Silverstein
tags: poem

Portia Nelson
“Any day of the week I would choose to be "out" with others and in touch with myself... then to be "in" with others and out of touch with myself.”
Portia Nelson
tags: poem

فروغ فرخزاد
“اي دوست ،اي برادر، اي همخون
وقتي به ماه رسيدي
تاريخ قتل عام گل ها را بنويس.”
فروغ فرخزاد
tags: poem

Hasil Paudyal
“May be its mine bad-luck
Or yours not to get me
But I still have hope
Of being yours”
Hasil Paudyal, Blended Words

“I had forgotten. Disgust shadows desire.
Another life is never safely envied.”
Robert Wells

Alysha Speer
“There are so many things to say; so many things that can't really be said.
So much has happened; so little has changed.
We have so many words prepared; so many words are too hard to actually say.
A few days have passed; this pain has been here for years.
We don't know where to go from here; our future has always been in our minds.
Moments of peace with those who constantly argue; fights with those that usually bring peace.
There are so many things to say; so many things that can't really be said.”
Alysha Speer

“My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountainside
Let freedom ring!

My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills,
Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break,
The sound prolong.

Our father's God to Thee,
Author of liberty,
To Thee we sing.
Long may our land be bright,
With freedom's holy light,
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God our King.”
Samuel Francis Smith

Jessica de la Davies
“If the world stops spinning, slowing to a crawl. I will continue to dream of you. Until, I no longer dream at all.”
Jessica de la Davies, Slippery When Wet!

Santosh Kalwar
“I am nobody, even if I say I am this or that.”
Santosh Kalwar, A Very First Book Of Poems: Heartbreak

“دمی با غم به سر بردن جهان یک سر نمی‌ارزد
به می بفروش دلق ما کز این بهتر نمی‌ارزد

به کوی می فروشانش به جامی بر نمی‌گیرند
زهی سجاده تقوا که یک ساغر نمی‌ارزد

رقیبم سرزنش‌ها کرد کز این باب رخ برتاب
چه افتاد این سر ما را که خاک در نمی‌ارزد

شکوه تاج سلطانی که بیم جان در او درج است
کلاهی دلکش است اما به ترک سر نمی‌ارزد

چه آسان می‌نمود اول غم دریا به بوی سود
غلط کردم که این طوفان به صد گوهر نمی‌ارزد

تو را آن به که روی خود ز مشتاقان بپوشانی
که شادی جهان گیری غم لشکر نمی‌ارزد

چو حافظ در قناعت کوش و از دنیی دون بگذر
که یک جو منت دونان دو صد من زر نمی‌ارزد”
حافظ, Divan Of Hafez
tags: poem

Pablo Neruda
“To harden the earth
the rocks took charge:
they grew wings:
the rocks
that soared:
the survivors
flew up
the lightning bolt,
screamed in the night,
a watermark,
a violet sword,
a meteor.

The succulent
had not only clouds,
not only space smelling of oxygen,
but an earthly stone
flashing here and there
changed into a dove,
changed into a bell,
into immensity, into a piercing
into a phosphorescent arrow,
into salt of the sky.”
Pablo Neruda
tags: poem

Jarod Kintz
“A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped

On my bed, my green comforter
draped over my knees like a lumpy turtle,
I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us.
In my own life, the years are beginning to stack up
like a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes,
yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in.
In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face,
and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping wound
that ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpit
holds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe.
A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino.
Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sands
lie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache,
Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question--
If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you find
today and tomorrow too loud?”
Jarod Kintz, A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped Carrot

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