Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

Consulting maps can diminish the wanderlust that they awaken, as the act of looking at them can replace the act of travel. But looking at maps is much more than an act of aesthetic replacement. Anyone...

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.

There once were four sisters Who were exceptionally ordinary, But desired more than a maiden should desire Ravaged by their shameful wants Their loving hearts never bloomed Instead four wicked...

Bronze - limbed and well - knit, like a statue wrought by a Grecian, he stood on the sand with his back to the moon, and out of the foam came white arms that beckoned to him, and out of the waves rose...

My father usually agreed with her requests, because stamped in his two-footed stance and jaw was the word Provider, and he loved her the way a bird-watcher's heart leaps when he hears the call of the...

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

My ghost is the only soul who ever comes to cry on my grave... Only the skies cried sincerely on my funeral.

I long to drift through turquoise skies; race the wind in rampant flight. Ruddy chains have framed my eyes, they seize my heart and stain the light.

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.

O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presagers of my speaking breast; who plead for love, and look for recompense, more than that tongue that more hath more express'd. O, learn to read what...

As a poet there is something about joy I find hard to express, whereas every other emotion is rather simple. For instance, you never feel so bad that you can't describe how bad you feel, but joy on...

There lived a poet in the lands of gold, Wrote along poems unaffected by warmth or cold, His words spoke truth and pen's stroke was bold, His only motive: lives to mould

First love is like hearing your favorite music, regardless of how much you repeat it, every time you will enjoy all the pain.

There is a property in the horizon which no man has but he whose eye can integrate all parts, that is, the poet.

Down the hill I went, and then, I forgot the ways of men, For night - scents, heady and damp and cool Wakened ecstasy

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.

Oh Lion in a peculiar guise, Sharp Roman road to Paradise, Come eat me up, I'll pay thy toll With all my flesh, and keep my soul.

Individuals often turn to poetry, not only to glean strength and perspective from the words of others, but to give birth to their own poetic voices and to hold history accountable for the catastrophes...

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.

Can you hear the echoes of a faint whisper in the breeze? Can you smell the fragrance of the roses and the trees? Can you see my soul reaching out from within? Can you feel my fingertips dance upon...

She says she loves me infinitely, infinitely, infinitely into infinity! And I look at the sky, smile, and sigh!

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 plucked this sprig of heath; Autumn is dead, remember - don't forget We will no longer see each other on Earth Smell of time, sprig of heath And remember that I am waiting for you

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

We real cool. We left school. We lurk late. We strike straight. We sing sin. We thin gin. We jazz June. We die soon.