#poe

He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. ↗

— J.M. Barrie

#barrie #children #grown-up-poetry #kesnington-gardens #london

With a little more time, patience, and hard work, and above all with a more sensitive taste for the formal aspects of arts, he would have managed to write mediocre poetry, good enough for a lady’s album – and this is always a gallant thing to do, whatever you may say. ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#poets #art

Hope drowned in shadows emerges fiercely splendid–– boldly angelic. ↗

— Aberjhani

#angels #courage #faith #haiku #haikus

Poetry is something in-between the dream and its interpretation. ↗

— Lou Andreas-Salomé

#dreams

Dreams dress us carefully in the colors of power and faith. ↗

— Aberjhani

#dreams #faith #inspiration #inspirational #metaphysics

When you were sleeping on the sofa I put my ear to your ear and listened to the echo of your dreams. That is the ocean I want to dive in, merge with the bright fish, plankton and pirate ships. I walk up to people on the street that kind of look like you and ask them the questions I would ask you. Can we sit on a rooftop and watch stars dissolve into smoke rising from a chimney? Can I swing like Tarzan in the jungle of your breathing? I don’t wish I was in your arms, I just wish I was peddling a bicycle toward your arms. ↗

— Jeffrey McDaniel

#the-secret #dreams

My mouth is a fire escape. The words coming out don’t care that they are naked. There is something burning in there. ↗

— Andrea Gibson

#poetry #escape

Love taught me to die with dignity that I might come forth anew in splendor. Born once of flesh, then again of fire, I was reborn a third time to the sound of my name humming haikus in heaven’s mouth. ↗

— Aberjhani

#dignity #faith #haiku #heaven #human-mortality

the phantom of the man-who-would-understand, the lost brother, the twin --- for him did we leave our mothers, deny our sisters, over and over? did we invent him, conjure him over the charring log, nights, late, in the snowbound cabin did we dream or scry his face in the liquid embers, the man-who-would-dare-to-know-us? It was never the rapist: it was the brother, lost, the comrade/twin whose palm would bear a lifeline like our own: decisive, arrowy, forked-lightning of insatiate desire It was never the crude pestle, the blind ramrod we were after: merely a fellow-creature with natural resources equal to our own. ↗

— Adrienne Rich

#love #mankind #poetry #dreams

Them lady poets must not marry, pal. ↗

— John Berryman

#poets #dreams