#poetry

You can find poetry in your everyday life, your memory, in what people say on the bus, in the news, or just what's in your heart. ↗

— Carol Ann Duffy

#everyday #everyday life #find #heart #just

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! ↗

— William Wordsworth

#poetry #beauty

I heard Nirvana, and discovered that songs could be like poetry, but a little bit more refined: you didn't have to have 20 verses to get your point across. ↗

— Justin Townes Earle

#bit #could #discovered #get #heard

Thinking in its lower grades, is comparable to paper money, and in its higher forms it is a kind of poetry. ↗

— Havelock Ellis

#forms #grades #higher #kind #lower

I published, privately, a collection of my serious poetry I had written over the years. I only published 50 copies, which I gave to friends, in a special deluxe edition. It was ridiculously expensive but I'm glad that I did it. ↗

— Tom Glazer

#copies #deluxe #did #edition #expensive

Air goes in and out of my nose, throat, lungs, blood, heart brain - and so I am ↗

— Matthew Quick

#poetry #life

I'm not really quiet or shy. Ask any of my friends! But I always ground my poetry in life itself. Poetry is an art of language, though, so I am always aware of every word's meaning, or multiple meanings. ↗

— Anne Stevenson

#am #any #art #ask #aware

Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry. ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#poetry #precise #thing

On No Work of Words On no work of words now for three lean months in the bloody Belly of the rich year and the big purse of my body I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft: To take to give is all, return what is hungrily given Puffing the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven, The lovely gift of the gab bangs back on a blind shaft. To lift to leave from the treasures of man is pleasing death That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath And count the taken, forsaken mysteries in a bad dark. To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice. Ancient woods of my blood, dash down to the nut of the seas If I take to burn or return this world which is each man's work. ↗

— Dylan Thomas

#poetry #reciprocity #writer-s-block #death

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words. ↗

— John Fowles

#ones #poems #poets #simply #who