#poetry

Almost every truly creative being alienated & expatriated in his own country ↗

— Lawrence Ferlinghetti

#dreams

Good morning, daddy! Ain't you heard The boogie-woogie rumble Of a dream deferred? Listen closely: You'll hear their feet Beating out and beating out a - You think It's a happy beat? Listen to it closely: Ain't you heard something underneath like a - What did I say? Sure, I'm happy! Take it away! Dream Boogie Hey, pop! Re-bop! Mop! Y-e-a-h! ↗

— Langston Hughes

#dream #harlem #poet #poetry #dreams

When a reader enters the pages of a book of poetry, he or she enters a world where dreams transform the past into knowledge made applicable to the present, and where visions shape the present into extraordinary possibilities for the future. ↗

— Aberjhani

#dreams #famous-authors #famous-poets #literacy #national-poetry-month

How do I learn to speak when silence is all I know? ↗

— Susie Clevenger

#hope #poetry #dreams

Stars are shining, my dreams too ↗

— لطيفة الحاج

#poetry #dreams

انظر نحو السماء إنها قرمزية ذلك هو لون قلبي ↗

— لطيفة الحاج

#poetry #dreams

I came in haste with cursing breath, And heart of hardest steel; But when I saw thee cold in death, I felt as man should feel. For when I look upon that face, That cold, unheeding, frigid brown, Where neither rage nor fear has place, By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now! ↗

— Alfred Tennyson

#hatred #poetry #death

The wind is the moon's imagination wandering. ↗

— Saul Williams

#imagination

Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, 'Good-morning,' and he glittered when he walked. And he was rich--yes, richer than a king-- And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. ↗

— Edwin Arlington Robinson

#poetry #suicide #death

At five in the afternoon. It was exactly five in the afternoon. A boy brought the white sheet at five in the afternoon. A frail of lime ready prepared at five in the afternoon. The rest was death, and death alone ↗

— Federico García Lorca

#death