#poet

To a poet, silence is an acceptable response, even a flattering one. ↗

— Sidonie Gabrielle Colette

#even #flattering #poet #response #silence

I always thought that poetry is the verdict that others give to a certain kind of writing. So to call yourself a poet is a kind of dangerous description. It's for others; it's for others to use. ↗

— Leonard Cohen

#call #certain #dangerous #description #give

I had the title poet, and maybe I was one for a while. Also, the title singer was kindly accorded me, even though I could barely carry a tune. ↗

— Leonard Cohen

#also #barely #carry #could #even

That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith. ↗

— Samuel Taylor Coleridge

#disbelief #faith #moment #poetic #suspension

Here's a haiku/palindrome I wrote called, "Obsession." Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#funny #haiku #obsession #palindrome #poetry

I don't think you get to good writing unless you expose yourself and your feelings. Deep songs don't come from the surface; they come from the deep down. The poetry and the songs that you are suppose to write, I believe are in your heart. ↗

— Judy Collins

#come #deep #deep down #down #expose

A poem for Beth: Roses are red, Violets are blue, I didn’t know what love meant, until I looked it up in the dictionary.

 ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#funny #love #poem #poet #poetry

Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does. ↗

— Allen Ginsberg

#does #expression #line #lying #making

With heart at rest I climbed the citadel's Steep height, and saw the city as from a tower, Hospital, brothel, prison, and such hells, Where evil comes up softly like a flower. Thou knowest, O Satan, patron of my pain, Not for vain tears I went up at that hour; But like an old sad faithful lecher, fain To drink delight of that enormous trull Whose hellish beauty makes me young again. Whether thou sleep, with heavy vapors full, Sodden with day, or, new appareled, stand In gold-laced veils of evening beautiful, I love thee, infamous city! Harlots and Hunted have pleasures of their own to give, The vulgar herd can never understand. ↗

— Charles Baudelaire

#poetry #beauty

A prose writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose. ↗

— Samuel McChord Crothers

#capital #every #gets #keeps #letter