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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #poetry
Only--but this is rare-- When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. ↗
If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with the notion that for me the making of poems is both a commemoration (a moment captured) and an evocation (the archaeologist manqué side of me digging into something buried and bringing it to light). But I also said that I find the processes that bring poems into being mysterious, and I wouldn't really wish to know them; the thread that links the first unwilled impulse to the object I acknowledge as the completed poem is a tenuous one, easily broken. If I knew the answers to these riddles, I would write more poems, and better ones. "Simple Poem" is as close as I can get to a credo': Simple Poem I shall make it simple so you understand. Making it simple will make it clear for me. When you have read it, take me by the hand As children do, loving simplicity. This is the simple poem I have made. Tell me you understand. But when you do Don't ask me in return if I have said All that I meant, or whether it is true. ↗
Poets to Come POETS to come! orators, singers, musicians to come! Not to-day is to justify me, and answer what I am for; But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known, Arouse! Arouse for you must justify me you must answer. I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future, I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness. I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you, and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and define it, Expecting the main things from you. ↗
So I don’t think I’ll make Poet Laureate, but I swear I’m not twisted and bitter, If finely-wrought talents don’t weigh in the balance, I can always write haiku on Twitter. ↗
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In the kingdom of MySpace, the eHarmony Band used to think themselves more than a match for the E-Street Band with their new folksonomy and flash algorithms, but their Rick Roll Skyrock was so raucous the soundpedia citizendium of Wikicity spread the Google buzz that soon roused the princes of the realm, Habbo, Bebo, senile Weibo and the twins Badoo and Bahu, to decide there and then that the lead Orkut Xing who fancied himself a latter day Bing Dogsby (not Crosby; nor Stills or Nash) was a foursquare odd no-class niki trying to yahoo his way into the charts! They would hire their friendsters, flixsters, adult friendfinders and paypals to drive the upstart and his Hype machine from the United Territories of Wikimedia to exile as a twitpic on the tweetdeck of Pandora's Last.fm. The hapless Cloob skyped off to the Thin Line Strait hoping to stumbleupon networks where Tags and eBay could scrobble him some hiding space, linkedin as they were to oceans of personal information and hyves of technorati. He did not reckon on being waylaid by an army of Iphonic Apps and their lackeys, the Mixi Trolls of Japanese stock, stunted descendants of Godzilla and Mozilla Firefox, from the Sea of Forgotten Memes. No wiktionary held any answers for him as far as he could see; for the wikipedic wordpress had stopped functioning long ago, ever since the videos of youporn went viral and all blogsters and their bloodspots became outlawed. How was he to escape the poisonous twitter of Flickr the Troll of the low IQ... ↗
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand; Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. ↗
Did I live the spring I’d sought? It’s true in joy, I walked along, took part in dance, and sang the song. and never tried to bind an hour to my borrowed garden bower; nor did I once entreat a day to slumber at my feet. Yet days aren’t lulled by lyric song, like morning birds they pass along, o’er crests of trees, to none belong; o’er crests of trees of drying dew, their larking flight, my hands, eschew Thus I’ll say it once and true… From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent, It only can be squandered. ↗
