#poet

some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight. ↗

— Charles Bukowski

#life #poetry #death

I can't even make up a rhyme about an umbrella, let alone death and life and eternal peace. ↗

— Knut Hamsun

#poetry #death

My heart was full of softening showers, I used to swing like this for hours, I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath. ↗

— Stevie Smith

#my-heart-was-full #poetry #death

Soft you day, be velvet soft, My true love approaches, Look you bright, you dusty sun, Array your golden coaches. Soft you wind, be soft as silk My true love is speaking. Hold you birds, your silver throats, His golden voice I'm seeking. Come you death, in haste, do come My shroud of black be weaving, Quiet my heart, be deathly quiet, My true love is leaving. ↗

— Maya Angelou

#maya-angelou #poetry #death

SEA-FEVER I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over ↗

— John Masefield

#sea #voyage #dreams

I like the posture, but not the yoga. I like the inebriated morning, but not the opium. I like the flower but not the garden, the moment but not the dream. Quiet, my love. Be still. I am sleeping. ↗

— Roman Payne

#flower #garden #love #moments #morning

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. ↗

— William Wordsworth

#poetry #reading #words #dreams

Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity." Beckett ↗

— Beckett

#philosophy #poetry #poets #intelligence

No duties. I don’t have to be profound. I don’t have to be artistically perfect. Or sublime. Or edifying. I just wander. I say: ‘You were running, That’s fine. It was the thing to do.’ And now the music of the worlds transforms me. My planet enters a different house. Trees and lawns become more distinct. Philosophies one after another go out. Everything is lighter yet not less odd. Sauces, wine vintages, dishes of meat. We talk a little of district fairs, Of travels in a covered wagon with a cloud of dust behind, Of how rivers once were, what the scent of calamus is. That’s better than examining one’s private dreams. And meanwhile it has arrived. It’s here, invisible. Who can guess how it got here, everywhere. Let others take care of it. Time for me to play hooky. Buena notte. Ciao. Farewell. ↗

— Czesław Miłosz

#dreams

For what is a dream if not love first felt and what is mystery if not life itself ↗

— Giselle V. Steele

#dreams