Each memorable verse of a true poet has two or three times the written content.

I find a lot of poetry to be narcissistic.

We are supposed to write poetry to keep the gods alive.

Like most lit nerds, I'm a voracious reader. I never got enough poetry under my belt growing up but I do read it - some of my favorites, Gina Franco and Angela Shaw and Cornelius Eady and Kevin Young,...

I come from a short fiction background, and my mom is a poet, so I've always read poetry; I've always had a lot of different influences both linguistically and musically.

A good poem brims with reflected beauty and even a bracing, beautiful ugliness. At the center of our lives, in the midst of the busyness and the forgetting, is a story that makes sense when everything...

Though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find...

We only pass everything by like a transposition of air.

O.K. I'm running out of appetite. Let this swirl - a bit like Crab Nebula - do for now.

She disappeared; her voice, her laughter and the warmth of her breath never seen by no one again.

We need your patience Your knowledge we need your caring heart

And strange-eyed constellations reign His stars eternally.

ERIC: What are you always writin' in that book anyway?...

There isn't enough paper in the world to write all the poems you inspire in me.

We are merely ghost flowers under the shade of the moon...

If you look a word up in the dictionary and twenty minutes later you're still wandering around in the dictionary, you probably have the most basic equipment you need to be a poet.

See this abdicated beast, once king of them all, nibble his claws: Not anger enough left - no, nor despair - To break his teeth on the bars.

Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?

My beloved jay, give me a name now. Call out the name you give me, looking into the deepest place in your heart. Every time you call my name, I'll fly to you and be your wings.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

There is a girl. I named her love. She has a father. His name is desire. Her mother has a name, but not always the same. We call her destiny. Love calls her mommy.

She had the blood of the sun running through her veins and the dust of stars at her fingertips. Her every breath birthed new cosmos and her thoughts were the super moon of the darkest night. Every...

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go.

Your hair is winter fire, January embers. My heart burns there, too.

Thinking has a quiet skin. But I feel the and of things inside it. Blue hills most gentle in calm light, then stretches of assailAnd ransack. Such tangles of charred wreckage, shrapnel - bits Singling...

He sits, strong and blunt as a Celtic cross, Clearly used to silence and an armchair: Tonight the wife and children will be quiet At slammed door and smoker's cough in the hall.

I've had it with these cheap sons of bitches who claim they love poetry but never buy a book.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

She had just enough madness to make her interesting

..Moloch who entered my soul early. Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body. Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy. Moloch whom I abandon. Wake up in Moloch.. Light streaming...