Without poetry, love has no exuberance.

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!

Tonight I miss you like the sky misses his moon

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

You are the illness I will never cure. You are the poem I will never write. You are the thought I will never finish. You are the text I will never read.

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...

If what is true brings us sorrow, / if what sorrow brings is truth

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 need your conversation, the Saints need the Hereafter, Mecnun (Lovers of Leyla) need Leyla, I need you, I need you.

What happens to a dream deferred?

From what we cannot hold, the stars are made

I love women whose hidden desires make horses put an end to their lives at the threshold

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.

You are ice and fire The touch of you burns my hands like snow

I have been happy, though in a dream. I have been happy - and I love the theme: Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife

Fee - fi - fo - fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.

Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

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

The early dew - falls that did a pristine coating, over the woods with its finest transparency, glazed as like its wet white - glassy earrings that hung on the ears of wild flowers - unlatched my...

She had just enough madness to make her interesting

True love is like little roses, sweet, fragrant in small doses.

What he did to my heart was sheer, inexplicable, magic.