#poetry

Maya Angelou entered our lives at Virago in 1984, when we first published I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. "Entered our lives" is too tame. She danced, sang, and laughed her way straight into our hearts. She brought us a best-seller, but more than that, she brought us a reminder that the human need for dignity and recognition is a gift easily given to one another, but also frighteningly easy to withhold. ↗

— Lennie Goodings

#maya-angelou #poetry #spiritual #sprint #inspirational

The deeper you look into Truth; your reflection of self disappears. ↗

— Deborah Brodie

#inspirational #poetry-love-spirituality #inspirational

Down on my knees / I peel back the layers of the world. ↗

— Leza Lowitz

#poetry #yoga #yoga

Like a sculptor, if necessary, carve a friend out of stone. Realize that your inner sight is blind and try to see a treasure in everyone. ↗

— Rumi

#muhammad #muslim #poetry #rumi #unity

I am not sure that the discovery of love is necessarily more exquisite than the discovery of poetry. ↗

— Marguerite Yourcenar

#love

The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Everyday it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections. ↗

— Tahereh Mafi

#poetry #shatter-me #change

Without thinking, I knelt in the grass, like someone meaning to pray. When I tried to stand again, I couldn't move, my legs were utterly rigid. Does grief change you like that? Through the birches, I could see the pond. The sun was cutting small white holes in the water. I got up finally; I walked down to the pond. I stood there, brushing the grass from my skirt, watching myself, like a girl after her first lover turning slowly at the bathroom mirror, naked, looking for a sign. But nakedness in women is always a pose. I was not transfigured. I would never be free. ↗

— Louise Glück

#poetry #change

As we change, our writing changes too. You cannot write the same poem twice. And that's a good thing. ↗

— Katerina Stoykova Klemer

#editing #personal-growth #poetry #writing #change

Cuando vayamos al mar yo te diré mi secreto: Me envuelve, pero no es ola... Me amarga..., pero no es sal... ↗

— Dulce Maria Loynaz

#poesia #poetry #spanish #spanish

Love. Because of you, in gardens of blossoming Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring. I have forgotten your face, I no longer Remember your hands; how did your lips Feel on mine? Because of you, I love the white statues Drowsing in the parks, the white statues that Have neither voice nor sight. I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes. Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to My vague memory of you. I live with pain That is like a wound; if you touch me, you will Make to me an irreperable harm. Your caresses enfold me, like climbing Vines on melancholy walls. I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to Glimpse you in every window. Because of you, the heady perfumes of Summer pain me; because of you, I again Seek out the signs that precipitate desires: Shooting stars, falling objects. ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#poetry #love