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#poetry

Read through the most famous quotes by topic #poetry




Poetry is composing for the breath. ↗


— Peter Davison


#composing #poetry

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair’d the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. ↗


— George Gordon Byron


#poetry #beauty

It's always good when women win things in fiction because it tends to be more male-dominated, unlike poetry, which is more equal. ↗


— Carol Ann Duffy


#because #equal #fiction #good #more

Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them. ↗


— Friedrich Nietzsche


#poetry #poets #experience

I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry ... ↗


— Marina Tsvetaeva


#life

Reality only reveals itself when it is illuminated by a ray of poetry. ↗


— Georges Braque


#itself #only #poetry #ray #reality

The cliche is dead poetry. ↗


— Gerald Brenan


#dead #poetry

Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private. ↗


— Allen Ginsberg


#human mind #known #mind #original #outlet

The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind's I guess, had scattered the pale light of thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins; secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius; some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles. That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a page where words appeared; the bent hammer of the type struck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were painted by some unknown impressionist. ↗


— Ruth Stone


#nostalgia #poetry #beauty

The pure playfulness of certain wholly whimsical portions of (Charles) Cros’s work should not obscure the fact that at the center of some of his most beautiful poems a revolver is leveled straight at us. ↗


— André Breton


#poets #beauty






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