#poetry

I believe in the fatal hairdo just for the love of saying fatal hairdo. ↗

— Lucia Perillo

#poets #love

Immortal amarant, a flower which once In paradise, fast by the tree of life, Began to bloom; but soon for man's offence To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life, And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven Rolls o'er elysian flowers her amber stream: With these that never fade the spirits elect Bind their resplendent locks. ↗

— John Milton

#religion #life

I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is. ↗

— Ted Hughes

#life #poetry #vasko-popa #life

I am lost in my world, invisible - unknown. Moon please lend me your light that someone will me see me. ↗

— Susie Clevenger

#darkness #invisible #lonely #lost #poetry

The poet will only be recited until the death of his language. The violinist will only give recitals until the bowing of nose hairs. ↗

— Bauvard

#greatness #humor #music #noses #poetry

How heron comes It is a negligence of the mind not to notice how at dusk heron comes to the pond and stands there in his death robes, perfect servant of the system, hungry, his eyes full of attention, his wings pure light ↗

— Mary Oliver

#nature #poetry #death

Sprawled out on the front lawn Looking up at an ordinary sky It could fall on me and somehow be The day I didn't die ↗

— Nick Burd

#poetry #death

Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless. ↗

— Mahmoud Darwish

#dreams

We, all who live, have A life that is lived And another life that is thought, And the only life we have It's the one that is divided In right or wrong. ↗

— Fernando Pessoa

#duality #life #poetry #thoughts #dreams

How long your closet held a whiff of you, Long after hangers hung austere and bare. I would walk in and suddenly the true Sharp sweet sweat scent controlled the air And life was in that small still living breath. Where are you? since so much of you is here, Your unique odour quite ignoring death. My hands reach out to touch, to hold what's dear And vital in my longing empty arms. But other clothes fill up the space, your space, And scent on scent send out strange false alarms. Not of your odour there is not a trace. But something unexpected still breaks through The goneness to the presentness of you. ↗

— Madeleine L'Engle

#death