#poetry

If you heard your lover scream in the next room and you ran in and saw his pinkie on the floor, in a small puddle of blood. You wouldn't rush to the pinkie and say, 'Darling, are you OK? ' No, you'd wrap your arms around his shoulders and worry about the pinkie later. The same holds true if you heard the scream, ran in and saw his hand or -god forbid- his whole arm. But suppose you hear your lover scream in the next room, and you run in and his head is on the floor next to his body. Which do you rush to and comfort first? ↗

— Jeffrey McDaniel

#hunting-for-cherubs #poetry #death

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

Tonight I saw myself in the dark window as the image of my father, whose life was spent like this, thinking of death, to the exclusion of other sensual matters, so in the end that life was easy to give up, since it contained nothing: even my mother's voice couldn't make him change or turn back as he believed that once you can't love another human being you have no place in the world. ↗

— Louise Glück

#life #love #poetry #change

The Trifler Death's the lover that I'd be taking; Wild and fickle and fierce is he. Small's his care if my heart be breaking- Gay young Death would have none of me. Hear them clack of my haste to greet him! No one other my mouth had kissed. I had dressed me in silk to meet him- False young Death would not hold the tryst. Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy, Smooth and cold is the bridal bed; I must wait till he whistles for me- Proud young Death would not turn his head. I must wait till my breast is wilted. I must wait till my back is bowed, I must rock in the corner, jilted- Death went galloping down the road. Gone's my heart with a trifling rover. Fine he was in the game he played- Kissed, and promised, and threw me over, And rode away with a prettier maid. ↗

— Dorothy Parker

#poetry #death

Between the desire And the spasm, Between the potency And the existence, Between the essence And the descent, Falls the Shadow. ↗

— T.S. Eliot

#despair #life #philosophy #poetry #death

Your friends, and your associates, and the people around you, and the environment that you live in, and the speakers around you - the speakers around you - and the communicators around you, are the poetry makers. If your mother tells you stories, she is a poetry maker. If your father says stories, he is a poetry maker. If your grandma tells you stories, she is a poetry maker. And that’s who forms our poetics. ↗

— Juan Felipe Herrera

#poetry #communication

seeing a woman cough today made me sense a vague fear of death ↗

— Brandon Scott Gorrell

#fear #poetry #death

Nature is bent on new beginning and death has not a chance of winning... ↗

— Rosy Cole

#great-quotes #nature #poetry #rebirth #rejuvenation

We speak in (rich) monotones. Our poetry is haunted by the music it has left behind. Orpheus shrinks to a poet when he looks back, with the impatience of reason, on a music stronger than death. ↗

— George Steiner

#poetry #death