c2p-cmd/Good-Quotes-Authors huggingface dataset:
You Have Happened To MeLike the first blossom of the spring and the first drizzle of the rain,			You have happened to me.With that sudden smile, very close to mine, 			You have happened to me.When I was at lowest aura, with tears on edge of my eyes, You have happened to me.When I have least expected, in that depth of our talks, out of my knowledge,You have happened to me.Somewhere in those loud laughs and gathering some smoky puffs,			You have happened to me.Without the fear of world, got tied up with just one knurled,You have happened to me.In the most beautiful way I could ever imagine, while getting my self lagin,			You have happened to me.I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a miracle then,How you have happened to me?I am still surprised with those shiny sparks in my eyes,You have happened to me.Talking about having the happy time, you became the reason of my smile,You have happened to me.In those long waits and running behind your fast steps,You have happened to me.Around your long advices, rolling my eyes while trying to believe in them,You have happened to me.The warmth of tea I have sipped next to you, melted my heart for you and You have happened to me.Over those answers of my every question, and the way my heart felt so freshen,You have happened to me,Somehow surrounded by our rational deliberation, and continuous feel of desperation,You have happened to me.Looking at you a many times a day and look! How it is changing the way in slow motion,			You have happened to me.
— Trushti Raval
The other day I chanced to meet An angry man upon the street — A man of wrath, a man of war, A man who truculently bore Over his shoulder, like a lance, A banner labeled “Tolerance.
— Phyllis McGinley
All that is gold does not glitterNot all those who wander are lostThe old that is strong does not witherDeep roots are not reached by the frost
— Bilbo Baggins
Carry good cheer in the morning;Carry good cheer in the night.Effort is sweeter and living completer,If ever we walk in love's light.
— G.B. Williams
In snow thou comestThou shalt go with resuming groundThe sweet derision of thx crowAnd Glee's advancing sound
— Emily Dickinson, Selected Poems
Love is a poem that keeps on writing itself, sweeping us along.
— Patricia Robin Woodruff
But the rare herb, Forgetfulness, / It hides away from me.
— Jeanne Robert Foster
My Lovely GrandsonYour lovely smile that warms my heartYour infectious laughter that brings me joyI fell in love in with your charming characterGrandma's little boyMay God protect you in every aspect of your lifeMay He give you wisdom in everything you doMay He bless you and keep youAll the days of your life.
— Euginia Herlihy, The Experiences of Life & Prayers
DO IT NOWIf with pleasure you are viewingany work a man is doing,If you like him or you love him,tell him now;Don’t withhold your approbationtill the parson makes orationAnd he lies with snowy lilies on his brow;No matter how you shout ithe won’t really care about it;He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed;If you think some praise is due himnow’s the time to slip it to him,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.More than fame and more than moneyis the comment kind and sunnyAnd the hearty, warm approval of a friend.For it gives to life a savor,and it makes you stronger, braver,And it gives you heart and spirit to the end;If he earns your praise – bestow it,if you like him let him know it,Let the words of true encouragement be said;Do not wait till life is overand he’s underneath the clover,For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.
— Burton Braley
so the poem hurt you.it was supposed to.
— Trista Mateer, [Redacted]
Gloomy roomimmersed in a scentof modern cowardsfilled withshapeless creaturessitting in silencebecause they havenothing to sayFake plastic faceswith a grimaceof disappointmentpainted on themAre we stuck on holdexpecting our turnin a waiting roomof so-calledlost generation?
— Asper Blurry, Train to the Edge of the Moon
What do you think of when you think of mourning?' Jenny asks.The question snaps me back to attention. I answer without really thinking. "I guess 'Funeral Blues' by W.H. Auden. I think it was Auden. I suppose that's not very original.''I don't know it.''It's a poem.''I gathered.''I'm just clarifying. It's not a blues album.'Jenny ignores my swipe at her intelligence.'Does your response need to be original? Isn't that what poetry is for, for the poet to express something so personal that it ultimately is universal?'I shrug. Who is Jenny, even new Jenny, to say what poetry is for? Who am I for that matter?'Why do you thin of that poem in particular?'"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, / Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, / Silence the pianos and with muffled drum / Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.' I learned the poem in college and it stuck.
— Steven Rowley, Lily and the Octopus
They say Night is all black in the faceAll that glitters only adds to the graceNo attempt to success ever succeedsWithout one slogging through the blackened days"- Poem "The Beauty of Night
— Ankaj, My Poetic Journey: A Travel in Solitude
STATISTICSPack of Lucky Strikes.A lottery ticket
— ACT
Persephone had it right.If you must go, might as welltake all of spring with you—
— Cathy Linh Che, Split
And there you sit.My eyes burning a hole on the side of your face while the stars are being captured in your eyes from the prolonged, there's-plenty-of-time, full attention you're giving each one.And there you sit.And I'm wishing I could give you every ounce of what you give the stars.
— Taylor Patton
Sometimes my helpless blood runs numb and, if only for a second, I forget how frail bones can be.
— Taylor Patton
Dissociated, I follow this body in its reckless haste.
— Taylor Patton
Leave the hush to those who love like apes because together, you and I make vulgar sounds like a fervent sojourn in paradise.
— Taylor Patton
Doubt quit stopping by when I started staying out late, dancing in a flood of self assurance discovered when holding your hand.
— Taylor Patton
I am foolish in the way distance makes me feel partial.
— Taylor Patton
Even lungs that are gasping are lungs that are trying.
— Taylor Patton
3 A.M. isn't a time for sleep when the silhouette of you is breathing next to me.
— Taylor Patton
She took time to think on things
—  but time had already moved on without her.
I haven't got a clue on how to love you like a lover should, how to make you happy or even how to make you stay. I hardly grasp the essence of desire and true affection scares me more than it should, but know that every stutter, every shy glance, every hesitant touch, come from someone who believes in you and I.
— inkness//IG poet
There once was a good man who lived in a house alone.He didn't want any visitors so he kept his doors locked.That is until I knocked, knocked and knocked.The man wouldn't see me at first.He tried to resist the inevitable thirst.This is how it happens, I've seen it so many times.First comes curiosity, second comes desire.Third comes an itch that is most dire.For even a good man like him couldn't resist seeing more.So he opened his eyes and unlocked the door.
— ???, Timecrest
Symphony of the airmy ear can hearmy only companiona rocking chairsilence is masterwishing you were here.
— PSYHEEL
Nostalgia dies in the pit of my throat from lack of exercise and I buried the word six feet under the pronunciation of hopeful tomorrows.
— Taylor Patton
If I was asked to write a poem about her. Every word I use would end up, being her name. And it would still sound so beautiful and breathtaking to me in the end.
— Akshay Vasu
Sitting makes us think of standingOur current stance keeps on demanding We wish to fly without the wings Puppets move before pulling the strings
— Munia Khan
To write you into poems,and make you unerasable.
— Vivid Darkness
aboutour argument tonightwhatever it wasaboutand no matterhow unhappyit made usfeelremember thatthere is acatsomewhereadjusting to thespace of itselfwith a delightfulwonderment ofeasiness.in other wordsmagic persistswithout usno matter whatwe doagainst it.
— Charles Bukowski, On Cats
#Ola MusingsHer brow's penciled bowEyes tinged with kohl wowA mere passing shadow of hersCauses dust dry bloom wow!By nCr
— NarayanChandraRauf
I am not soft. I do not have that luxury. I am the wolf in girl’s clothing; all snarls and claws. My mother once told me: be gentle, be kind. She forgot to mention that the world was full of beasts, and if I wanted to survive I would have to become one myself.
— Nichole McElhaney, Poetry For Celestial Nymphs and Wayward Witches
Lucifer unbound his absolutionHis purpose took unstoppable formA wyrm whose brilliance blindedTenacity burned as radiant as the AlmightyLucifer remembered this so vividlyA fond memory of when God stood thunderstruck
— D.J. LeMarr, The Keys of Death and Hades
Rise AgainOne goal goes by the waysideSome watch sneering arms foldedLaughing at you until the endUntil you have the last laughYou've courage you're no riffraffAnother will lend you a handYou're apparently not left for deadYou rise again and all is fineDefeat no matter how crushingThat seemingly final act they consingIs speckle of dust to you the leaningMajestic Tower of Pisa still standingHow dissapointed they must beThinking they have the master keyMore bogus then a midnight sunYet you stand on a solid foundationYour destiny is beyond what anyoneOr anything can give or take from youDangling hope strings attached rescueInstead rise and face the morning dewYou the sun reclaiming your denFrom the frost,beams of hope chasingYou are alone but alive againShining the sheen of your greenYou rise again free no one's lienYou are alive because you alaoneCan decide the meaning of the dustIf they had meaning to begin withKaleb Kilton (c) 2016
— Kaleb Kilton
I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple--or a green field--a place to enter, and in which to feel.
— Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays
I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea,But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee—
— Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee
A poem is about something the way a cat is about the house.
— Allen Grossman
Which Are You?"There are two kinds of people on earth to-day;Just two kinds of people, no more, I say.Not the sinner and saint, for it's well understood,The good are half bad, and the bad are half good.Not the rich and the poor, for to rate a man's wealth,You must first know the state of his conscience and health.Not the humble and proud, for in life's little span,Who puts on vain airs, is not counted a man.Not the happy and sad, for the swift flying yearsBring each man his laughter and each man his tears.No; the two kinds of people on earth I mean,Are the people who lift, and the people who lean.Wherever you go, you will find the earth's masses,Are always divided in just these two classes.And oddly enough, you will find too, I ween,There's only one lifter to twenty who lean.In which class are you? Are you easing the load,Of overtaxed lifters, who toil down the road?Or are you a leaner, who lets others shareYour portion of labor, and worry and care?
— Ella Wilcox Wheeler
When all that's left mediocrity and each day just bleeds into the next.
— Andy Carrington
Already the ripening barberries are redAnd the old asters hardly breathe in their beds.The man who is not rich now as summer goesWill wait and wait and never be himself.The man who cannot quietly close his eyescertain that there is vision after vision inside,simply waiting for nighttimeto rise all around him in darkness-it's all over for him, he's like an old man.Nothing else will come; no more days will openand everything that does happen will cheat him.Even you, my God. And you are like a stonethat draws him daily deeper into the depths.
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Where’s the trail to Cold Mountain?Cold Mountain? There’s no clear way.Ice, in summer, is still frozen.Bright sun shines through thick fog.You won’t get there following me.Your heart and mine are not the same.If your heart was like mine,You’d have made it, and be there!
— Han Shan
Life doesn't stop. It doesn't stop progressing forward and it never stops trying to bring you to your knees. It will test your strengths and exploit your weakness, and I'm not sure that is always such a bad thing.
— Christy Aldridge
Home at six AM.Is it still a walk of shame?I was shooting porn.
— Asa Akira, Dirty Thirty: A Coming of Age Story
BearingsYou are my dear compass,who knows no way but true,so when I'm lost and drifting,I find myself in you.Yet when I ask you, fearful,if I should set you free,imagine my surprise to hearyou take your north from me.
— Louise Hawes, The Language of Stars
LamiumMigraine dreams, jagged seams,A badge of love and pain.Or dreamy eyes, sleepy eyes,Drooping, closing, losing light.Packages scattered under the tree,Some torn open, some tied tight.Is there a heartbeat in those purple veins?Are those embryos or mouths or rosary beads?The color of my first dress, gathered with love,Fairy cups stirred with blades of grass,notes clustered on a windy score,Three blooms, three friends, alas!Grape flowers, cloud flowers, love flowers,Paper parasols upside down, a butterfly herdStopped to rest by a deep green pool.Petals small as a child's tears good-bye,Dropped stitches everywhereFrom a blanket the color of sky.
— Louise Hawes, The Language of Stars
If grief could burn outLike a sunken coal,The heart would rest quiet, The unrent soulBe still as a veil; But I have watched all nightThe fire grow silent, The grey ash soft:And I stir the stubborn flintThe flames have left, And grief stirs, and the deftHeart lies impotent.
— Philip Larkin, The North Ship
Everything is blood and vines. The mark of another day of revolving the body exact And the sky is ours our hope our blue our silence our throat of burning wildflowers.
— Gwen Calvo
Safe DepositI thought that I could keep it−the light on the running tide,how your eyes give you awayno matter what you hide.I thought that I could hold it−the forest along the sand,your neck bones like pearlsunderneath my hand.But time's school has taught mehow petals brown and die.There's no saving pleasure.Don't try. Don't try.
— Louise Hawes, The Language of Stars
Closed eyescan't sacrifice a third timei may never knowA dreamer's dreammy stars are onlymade of goldCame into this life holding onWas it a dream Or life lived beforeAlien genetics Formed on the 7thToo late So i was turned awayToo lateBut i seen those gatesIt’s just latelyi’ve forgot the wayWhat am i saying?somewhere out there is a starCovered in goldlaugh, its okayit's just best i wait this time can't sacrifice a third timehow will i knowfeverish devils place their bets the abyss or the flameBut at the edgei stop & look to the skytonight I find the stars are covered in gold so right here i will just stayHere i’ll just remain in a place where time and space  does not existbut a gateway to Sarin does covered in golddeep in the chest you appearjust like I always knewa distant star
— greg c warner
For MargaretSome people laughha-ha-ha.Other people puttheir hands on their mouthshe-he-he.In the department stores Santa laughsho-ho-ho.But this girl I know−okay, this girl I'm crazy forlaughs like an envelope tearing open and good stuffspilling out.
— Louise Hawes, The Language of Stars
I sought Him where my logic led. “This friend is always sure and right; His lantern is sufficient light.I need no Star,” I said.I sought Him in the city square. Logic and I went up and down The marketplace of many a town,But He was never there.I tracked Him to the mind’s far rim. The valiant intellect went forth To east and west and south and north,But found no trace of Him.We walked the world from sun to sun, Logic and I, with Little Faith, But never came to Nazareth,Nor met the Holy One.We sought in vain. And finally, Back to the heart’s small house I crept, And fell upon my knees, and wept;And Lo! He came to me!
— Sara Henderson Hay
Blank pages are cruelPure torture in white or beigeBut how else to start
— A.A. Patawaran, HAI[NA]KU and other poems
My life was a blank paper, until you came to rhyme with words & make it a poetry book. ❤ ❤
— Akansh Malik
If I knew what safety looked like, I would have spent less time falling into arms that were not
— Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey
Never on painter's canvas livesThe charm of his fancy's dream.
— L.M. Montgomery, Emily of New Moon
You do not see the painting in the attic The maggots on skin that tear. The beauty is a trick. Narcissus - promise naught but air...'' ~ Dorian Gray
— Stella Coulson, Wanderer: Dark Poetry
Linear’s defeated form The intangible reality rise.'' ~ Wanderer
— Stella Coulson, Wanderer: Dark Poetry
They want to knowwho I write these poems for.Tell them it's for all loversbecause I don’t see a differencebetween our loveand their love.
— Kamand Kojouri
They tended to look at his lips, for his transient gaze was dizzying, though the mouth, you see, the mouth was also a danger, for the teeth would do the unraveling.
— Erica Alex
Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.
— Ged Thompson ~Poet
Dancing to the sounds of trees and stones and slow minutes ticking in our hearts and bones.
— Jay Woodman
No. Not really red,but the color of a rose when it bleeds.
— Anne Sexton, The Complete Poems
Those lips that Love's own hand did makeBreathed forth the sound that said, 'I hate'To me that languished for her sake,But, when she saw my woeful state,Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that ever sweetWas used in giving gentle doom,And taught it thus anew to greet:'I hate,' she altered with an endThat followed it as gentle dayDoth follow night, who like a fiendFrom Heaven to Hell is flown away.'I hate' from hate away she threwAnd saved my life, saying 'not you'.
— William Shakespeare, The Sonnets and A Lover's Complaint
Never durst a poet touch a pen to writeUntil his ink was tempered with love's sighs.
— William Shakespeare, Love's Labour's Lost
Time present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time futureAnd time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.What might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.
— T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
beware women grownoldwho were neveranything butyoung
— Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last
Do you want to see all the wrong things in our world?You sit right there.Then notice how many people move too fast about in life,they go blind over the miracle of being in the moment.Now, do you want to see all the right things?Well I can't honestly speak for others.But this is how it always works for me.I just sit right here.Right here. Beside you.Then silently,I notice how all the wrong things in my worldjust seem to start fallinginto their rightful places.Right here. Beside you.
— Frederick Espiritu, One Whole Naked Me
I always felt it wouldpass.I listened to the charges against meknowing some of them to be truebut certainly notimportant enoughto become the target ofviolence, envy,vengeance.I thought it would surelypass.
— Charles Bukowski
My wild heart craves shadows. Like a bat unfurling its wings, I open myself to darkness; I open myself to truth.
— Nichole McElhaney, Poetry for Feral Faeries and Rogue Princesses
unrequited love is likekneeling on uncooked riceand waiting for the boiling water of his kissesto soften the painbut he never comes.
— K.Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing
our foundation is rockybecause we made a home in each other’s skin.the damage is beginning to show.
— K.Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing
i knew his heart was yours but i wanted to become an alchemist to make gold of the pieces i receivedbecause all i ever felt was the dark side of his leaded heart.
— K.Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing
tears swell in the wells of my eyes.love is a constant side effect of mine.
— K.Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing
love riddeni searched for youin corridors,open doorsand in endless seas of similesand metaphorsbut we never were on the same page.
— K.Y. Robinson, The Chaos of Longing
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook. Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication. Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those. Not the nights you called god names and cursed your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,b chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness. You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it, not one of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing, when the lights from the carnival rides were the only stars you believed in, loving them for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved. You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
— Dorianne Laux, The Book of Men
Our flushing hearts, trying to climb to the stars- how with the wrong wind, we can fall.
— Ava Dellaira, Love Letters to the Dead
Oracle of Delphi:In my deep mystery I breatheyour fragrance swirling inyour odourless soulI return your mysteryrevealing your destiny deep inthe seed of your God Self
— Ramon Ravenswood, Icons Speak
I long fora little life,an everyday life,a splash of sunlightthrough a windowa smile from a stranger -a heart to hold in mine.
— Menna van Praag, The Dress Shop of Dreams
If there is no perfection of a work , be sure the perfection of a plan.
— Cucuk Espe
Air of dustFor a moment I was a storm cloud,All righteous booming thunder;All sharp and pinning,Dazzling.Once the flashing fadedA sizzling prong sprang upwards.I was positively popped.The static situationStruck meNegatively, And I leaked out sulfur on the peopleWho dared hold up the sky.Strong storms are still bonelessAnd mostly all alone.
— Anonymous
A rain like melting pillows…a rain so beautifulI could neverhave let go ofif not certainthat someday...it would find its wayinto my poem.
— Sanober  Khan, A Thousand Flamingos
Poems ancient and modern prowled the ice floes in bear form, filled with words that could wound with their beauty.
— Neil Gaiman, Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances
Sound.Noisethe air employs.Melodies sweet.Tweet, tweet, tweet.Soft. Loud.A roaring crowd.Cluck. Caw. Crow.Tet, tet. Tis, tis.Guttural growl.Harrowing howl.Drip, drip, drip.Tap, tap, tap.Moan and groan.Endless drone.Ding, dang, dong.A church bell song.Vibrations in my earto hear.Sound.
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow.
— Algernon Charles Swinburne
I wanted her presence... but her absence was the reply... i wanted peace... instead her anger she try... i wanted freedom... it was her tantrums I got always... i wanted love... but it was ignorance i was gifted... i wanted to hate... but it was care i offered instead... i wanted to leave... but stayed indeed...
— shivangi lavaniya
You do know, right,that between the no-longer & the still-to-comeyou are being continuallytattooed, inkedwith the skulls ofeveryoneyou’ve ever loved—the you& the you& the you & the you—you don’tsit in a chair, thumbthrough a binder, pick adesign, it simplyhappens each time youbring your fingers to your faceto inhale him back into you . . .tiny skulls, some of us arecovered. You, love, couldsimply tattoo an opendoor, lightpouring in from somewhereoutside, youcould make your body a doorso it appears you(let her fill you) are madeof light.
— Nick Flynn
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
— Robert Frost
We have all seen them circling pastures, have looked up from the mouth of a barn, a pine clearing, the fences of our own backyards, and have stood amazed by the one slow wing beat, the endless dihedral drift. But I had never seen so many so close, every limb of the dead oak feathered black; and I cut the engine let the river grab the jon boat and pull it toward the tree... Then as I passed under their dream, I saw for the first time its soft countenance the raw fleshy jowls, wrinkled and generous like the faces of the very old who have grown to empathize with everything. And I drifted away from them, reluctant, looking back at their roost, calling them what they are- transfiguring angels who pray over the leaf graves of the anonymous lost with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.
— David Bottoms
With chilling care, my hardshipshave managed to implant a spiritof recklessness within me,one that impels me to point out injustice and wrongdoing.So, while many strive to have a toil free life, I spend my time criticizing tyrants,and so the spirit of subversion was quickly established within me. Now all I can do is calmly wait for cold death to seize me.
— Alcaeus of Mytilene, 612 BC
Shadow of Your SpiritAt night I see the shadow of your spiritMixing with my blood and soulDuring the day I see your photosThey tell me come to meCome to my world and romanceEven I don’t know by myselfHow I fell into your loveI cannot remove it from my heartYour love stabled my soul
— Kamaran Ihsan Salih, River of Flower
Now your burnt ashes float to mingle with others And as I wait for another day I keep singing another song How did I go astray!
— Lindiwe Mabuza
I tossed a stone into the Sea To see what it would do for me And the ripples went out And became ocean waves To return to the Sea inside of me
— Mark A.Y. Nunez
The poem says you only think you’re alive but about to be born your radioactive heliographs mock the moon’s tongue.”— Philip Lamantia, “Fin Del Mundo
— Philip Lamantia
Be Vast, Solitary, Down to Earth and Firm
— Sohrâb Sepehrî, Sohrab Sepehri: A Selection of Poems from the Eight Books
I have lost you, my brotherAnd your death has ended The spring seasonOf my happiness,  our house is buried with youAnd buried the laughter that you taught me.There are no thoughts of love nor of poemsIn my head Since you died.
— Catullus, I Hate and I Love
I slay dragons at night while you sleep. I see by the way your face contorts how they exist in your dreams. Willing a magic sword, I plunge into your deepest nightmares and swing at the beasts with all my might, dodging flames exhaled by monsters that would eat me alive to go on torturing the fair one I love. I see your face relax, eyes still drowsily closed, when the mighty dragon is slain. It may be that my fingers rub soft circles on your forehead as I imagine my brave fight as a knight reclaiming your dreams. You smile under the spell of my touch, and I am rewarded. And so, my love, as I await the dawn, I stand ready to slay dragons while you sleep.
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
Perseverance....It sometimes makes you look like a foolWorking at something that that doesn't look cool.Never mind if people mock you from their stoolWhen you are enthroned they will drool!
— Manuela George-Izunwa
Journeying over many seas & through many countries I came dear brother to this pitiful leave-taking The last gestures by your gravesideThe futility of words over your quiet ashes.Life cleft us from each other Pointlessly depriving brother of brotherAccept then, our parents' customThese offerings, this leave-takingEchoing forever, brother, through a brother's tears
— Catullus
JESUS Woke up in a white veilThe fog sets the silence in my handsI think back to my thoughtsAbout the peopleI'm thinkingWith increasing pain in my headPeople who have condemned meDark hourinthe hoursAnd I would now complain quietlyBut there is no furyAnd there is no sadnessThe time has melted away like water in the seaTearsofthe womenThey are covered with cloudsLet my heart bleed to deathAmong the thornsatlastThere is no sun in the zenith
— Sir Kristian Goldmund Aumann
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don't know how or when, no they were not voices, they were not words, nor silence, but from a street I was summoned, from the branches of night, abruptly from the others, among violent fires or returning alone, there I was without a face and it touched me. 
— Pablo Neruda, The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems
Once more into the fray...Into the last good fight I'll ever know.Live and die on this day...Live and die on this day...
— The Grey
I adore forgotten words, long lost folk tales, and books with pages soft and crumbling. I am a collector of scents and memories. The things that others bury are the things I hold most dear.
— Nichole McElhaney, Poetry for Melancholy Ghosts and Ethereal Maidens
You are a cool cemetery.You have the sinner’s graveYou have the saint’s earthcollidingYou have all the bedsnarrow as a knife;as if a rally of tombstones to defend death.But you can’t really postponethe inauguration of my burial,can you?From the poem - Few Words to Cemetery
— Munia Khan, Beyond The Vernal Mind
I forgot to supannoyancefrom his glass full ofmingled dread and rageNow let me takea small draught of solacefrom my own little cupfull of predicaments!From the poem- Draught
— Munia Khan, Beyond The Vernal Mind
Forever my light shines on you brightly;Love from above, I will send to you nightly.
— Jessica M. Collette, Your Special Star
All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.
— J.R.R. Tolkien
The color of the flower has faded, while I lost myself in idle thought in this long rain / 花の色は うつりにけりな いたづらに わが身世にふる ながめせし間に
— Ono no Komachi
Would the mountain cherry blossoms return my affection for there is no one else out here. /もろともに あはれと思へ 山桜 花よりほかに 知る人もなし
— Former Chief Abbot Gyoson
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!O falling fire and piercing cryand panic, and a weak mailed fistclenched ignorant against the sky!
— Elizabeth Bishop, The Complete Poems 1927-1979
May I live to see the day when I long for the agony I feel now. /ながらへば またこのごろや しのばれむ 憂しと見し世ぞ いまは恋しき
— Fujiwara no Kiyosuke
Swift waters parted by the jagged rocks are joined at river's end. / 瀬をはやみ 岩にせかるる 滝川の われても末に あはむとぞ思ふ
— Emperor Sutoku
With people you can never tell, Will they have changed when next we meet? But here in my dear old home at least, The plums still smell as sweet. / 人はいさ 心も知らず ふるさとは 花ぞ昔の 香ににほひける
— Fujiwara no Okikaze
I don't feel at home where I am,or where I spend time; only where,beyond counting, there's freedom and calm,that is, waves, that is, space where, when there,you consist of pure freedom, which, seen,turns that Gorgon, the crowd, to stone,to pebbles and sand . . . where life's mean-ing lies buried, that never let onecome within cannon shot yet.From cloud-covered wells untoldpour color and light, a feteof cupids and Ledas in gold.That is, silk and honey and sheen.That is, boon and quiver and call.That is, all that lives to be free,needing no words at all.
— Regina Derieva
Oh, you cherry petals, On this calm and balmy day, Why are you so restless, So keen to fly away? / ひさかたの 光のどけき 春の日に しづ心なく 花の散るらむ
— Ki no Tomonori
Impassionate gods have never seen the red that is the Tatsuta River. /ちはやぶる 神代も聞かず 竜田川 からくれなゐに 水くくるとは
— Ariwara no Narihira
… and I’ll be happy here and happy there, fullof tea and tears
— Frank O'Hara, Lunch Poems
It is snowing and death bugs meas stubborn as insomnia.
— Anne Sexton
People who are buried leaveBehind their memories.People feel sad for them andWorry, but for the living man,They are never sorry.This person, who is the sufferer,Will never be able to withstand,The chances snatched from him,He thinks, “Am I under a ban?”So he dies, and the world isForever in debtFor the man who facedDeath before his death.
— Umera Ahmed
Everything is like a wall. Said a scholar to the troll. Bang your head to go on through. Then you'll see, there is no queue.
— Will Advise, Nothing is here...
… my words are lovewhich willfully parades inits room, refusing to move.
— Frank O'Hara, Lunch Poems
I found an empty chairand sat on itto find myself even emptier.I found a broken glassand looked at itto see my dissolved facea little prettierI found a steep doorwayand enteredin order to close my exit.From the poem 'Blue Stanzas
— Munia Khan, Beyond The Vernal Mind
And what I said was I’ll miss you, What I meant to say was that I love you, What I wanted to say was that I meant what I said I miss you like I miss my own bedafter too many nights of sleeping on couchesor hardwood floors Or sitting silently behind the doors Of hotel rooms became wounds Breathing life in to this loneliness I miss youLike a burn victim must miss their own skinI miss you like a sad ending Must miss someplace new to beginBecause some say that the highway becomes a flat line if you travel it for too longI can’t tell if that’s true or false, But I’m racing down it towards you trying to find myPulse.
— Shane L. Koyczan, Remembrance Year
I don't know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all the roses. Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.
— E.E. Cummings
How muchI want you,I don't know.
— T.P. Rajeevan, പ്രണയശതകം | Prayanayasatakam
Talentless and incompetent as I am, there are two things I can do, and two things only: walk, with my own two feet; compose, composing my poems.
— Santōka Taneda
no time agoor else a lifewalking in the darki met christjesus)my heartflopped overand lay stillwhile he passed(asclose as i’m to youyes closermade of nothingexcept loneliness.
— E.E. Cummings
I scared a little porcupineand caught a quill in my behind.It hurt so badly in my tail,but tugging on it made me yell.The porcupine was still around,so I complained. He simply frownedand said, "Stop whining! Look and seehow many quills are stuck on me!
— Richelle E. Goodrich, Slaying Dragons
If perfection is absurd, why is tragedy common?
— John Most, What Thoughts
I only ever wanted to feel more human.
— Timothy Joshua
This earth is His, to Him belong those vast and boundless skies;Both seas within Him rest, and yet in that small pool He lies.
— Atharvaveda
I find that the thoughts spoken between the lines are the most important parts of a poem or story.
— Lynn Cullen, Mrs. Poe
Wadsworth MoorWhere the millstone of skyGrinds light and shadow so purple-fineAnd has ground it so longGrinding the skin off the earthEarth bleeds her raw true darknessA land naked now as a woundThat the sun swabs and dabsWhere the miles of agony are numbnessAnd harebell and heather a euphoria
— Ted Hughes
Have you sipped your poems today?
— Helvy Tiana Rosa
The respect + love for humanity that's why I travel.We are all special and gifted beings, no matter our religious differences. The message should be peace,love and prosperity. There should be no adversity but solidarity.
— Henry Johnson Jr
Anything is a poem if you say it often enough.
— Catherynne M. Valente, Radiance
I am a runaway, lost at sea. I am a broken bird, yearning to fly free. I am a sinner, unworthy and unholy. I am a rose, wilting slowly. I am a raindrop, touching your cheek.I am a child who plays hide and seek. I am nothing, and yet I am everything. I am contradictions and complexities. I am a face with a hundred entities. I am love and I am hate. I am the voice that cannot communicate. I am a melody, haunting and sad. I am a soul that has slowly gone mad. I am death in a living body. I am a dangerous opium poppy. I am rage, running through my veins. I am pain, bound in chains.I am isolation, imprisoned in my mind. I am abandoned and left behind. I am tenderness, soft and kind. I am trust, naïve and blind. I am remorse, shattered and frozen. I am the path I have not chosen. I am sadness, drowning in an ocean. I am faith, yearning for devotion. I am madness, rebellious and wild. I am sanity, safely filed. I am wisdom, cursed and blessed. I am a name that will burn in your chest. I am a journey, destination unknown. I am a heart turned to stone. I am forever alone.
— Mina Alexia
O Moon that rid'st the night to wakeBefore the dawn is pale,The hamadryad in the brake,The Satyr in the vale,Caught in thy net of shadowsWhat dreams hast thou to show?Who treads the silent meadowsTo worship thee below?The patter of the rain is hushed,The wind's wild dance is done,Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushedAbout the setting sun:And now beneath thy argent beamThe wildwood standeth still,Some spirit of an ancient dreamBreathes from the silent hill.Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokesThe Ancient Ones of night,Once more the old stone altar smokes,The fire is glimmering bright.Scattered and few thy children be,Yet gather we unknownTo dance the old round merrilyAbout the time-worn stone.We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell,Nor mourn our outcast lot,Treading the mazes of a spellBy priests and men forgot.
— Gerald Gardner, The Meaning of Witchcraft
In lands I never saw, they say, Immortal Alps look down,Whose bonnets touch the firmament,Whose sandals touch the town, ―Meek at whose everlasting feetA myriad daisies play.Which, sir, are you, and which am I.Upon an August day?
— Emily Dickinson, The Works of Emily Dickinson
I do not attachany exaggerated importance to my poetical works. Life isthere to be lived rather than to be written about. My aimis to search out the manifold experience that it offers,wringing from each moment what of emotion it presents.I look upon my writing as a graceful accomplishmentwhich does not absorb but rather adds pleasure toexistence. And as for posterity—damn posterity.
— W. Somerset Maugham, Of Human Bondage
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep:Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose,Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver,Give unto the flying hartSpace to breath, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night-Goddess excellently bright.
— Ben Jonson
RAINThunder skiesdewdrops fall,timeless motion.Heavy drizzles,blurred visionslumbering moon.
— Tara Estacaan
Goodnight, moon. Goodnight, stars. Goodnight planets, comets and... Mars. Yes, even you, Mars. And not only for the sake of the rhyme.
— Paul The Astronaut
Damn, the good words are all asterisked!”“The men only understand the asterisks. My worry is if they understand the rest!
— Pawan Mishra, Coinman: An Untold Conspiracy
I am looking at this shiny star tonight,Wishing wishes could come true...I wonder if by any chance,He sees the same star too!!The overwhelming darkness tickles the lonely heart tonight,I wonder if he sees the star I am watching,May be he would stand within its light!There are many miles between us,but still our souls can meet...At this point when we look at this star together,May be our hearts could find their beat!Don't you feel the need for someone to come,Into your life...I am wishing for the same thing,As I watch this star tonight!This gentle light on my face,Cheers and comforts and holds me tight...I wonder if by some chance, I find you holding me with love and sitting by my side!But this remains a wish as he is still unseen and unknown,I wonder who he might be, to whom I would be prone!A hopeless or born romantic,Everyone is searching for true love,Wishing wishes in the darkness,To this magical star that hangs above!
— Anamika Mishra
If a muscleman like Hukum can write a poem, everyone can.
— Pawan Mishra, Coinman: An Untold Conspiracy
At the end of all things, why do lovers break up? Because love is magic. You have to believe, for it to exist.
— Timothy Joshua
A woman is a poem, a man is a report
— Bangambiki Habyarimana, The Great Pearl of Wisdom
Amour, love, the dream of man,Woman’s deep devoted plan.AmourAmor means no hungry child,Begging, hair blowing wild.Searching amongst the rats and mice,Left-over food, contaminated rice.Eyes, the saddest soul sight,Hidden is the child’s plight.Bleeding feet, glass cut bare,Dirty rags for a child to wear.Clambering through the bin,Society’s senseless sin.Amor, love save this child’s life,Poverty is the nefarious knife,A child of poverty and strife,Deserves amour, love of life.Maureen Brindle from Beloved Isles[Inspired by H.H. Princess Maria Amor We Care for Humanity]
— Maureen Brindle, Beloved Isles
Inside the woods is an abandoned hotel.Trees grow in the lobbyand up through the rooms.Limbs jut out through the windows.It looks like outsideinside.I climb the treesthrough 1000 rooms.I look for youin each of them.You’re a long shiny line.
— Zachary Schomburg, Scary, No Scary
and angle of vision, dust, gravity, solitude, and the part of the law which is the world's waitingand the part of the law which is my waiting,and the part which is my impatience—now; now?—though there are, there really arethings in the world, you must believe me.
— Jorie Graham
The age old question, what is Love?Isn't it the greatest gift from the holy one Above?Is it pure and white like a new born Dove?Does it cuddle you up,Like a hand in a Glove?Answer this hard question that what is LOVE??the force that propels you ,through pain and despair,the benevolence,the blessings,from the heavens above, the ray of sunshine that pierces the clouds, a perennial hope, that's what is love;Its the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel,Its the mirth that ends melancholy's reign, A fountain of glee,the elixir of life,Its the drug that heals,and cures all the pain; Its an eternal promise, never meant to be broken,Its the bond that adheres two hearts together, People may die and their stories may end,But their love is immortal,it lives on forever; Its the river that cuts through boulders and rocks,and the stream that flows through our barren lives,And on its long course,it leaves behind a trail Of vivid fragrant flowers,and clear blue skies; Love is felt by the heart,relished by the soul,Blissful like the divine touch of the Gods, I yearn for more ballads and more metaphors,But i fall short of verses, can't bind love in words.
— Anamika Mishra
Blinking, twinkling, burning brightAre all the stars that light the night.Dippers, Ursa's and Orion too,But don't forget the star in you.
— Paul The Astronaut
The atmospheric intensity of two electric lovers is the most righteous place I need to rediscover.
— Steven Storm
More than loud acclaim, I loveBooks, silence, thought, my alcove.Pangur BánPoem by Anon Irish Monk, Translated by Seamus Heaney
— Seamus Heaney
You are to me,what wind is to dry leaves.The reason for me to fall,the reason for me to fly.
— Seekerohan
Would it be enough to rock on a stormless sea with each our separate memories tuned to the state of the sinking sun?
— Kristen Henderson, Drum Machine
BucketI feel so dreamydreamy lazy, crazy sleepylike I want to be therein the doorway, the doorwayor the porch cornerbe sitting, be emptynotdoing not goingan old bucket left therein the porch corner is like I aman old empty bucket somebody left there.
— Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home
At childhood’s end, the houses petered outinto playing fields, the factory, allotmentskept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big earshe had! What big eyes he had! What teeth!In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry.The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods,away from home, to a dark tangled thorny placelit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake,my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazersnagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoesbut got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem.I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, forwhat little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf?Then I slid from between his heavy matted pawsand went in search of a living bird – white dove –which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth.One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said,licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the backof the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books.Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head,warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood.But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroomstoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birdsare the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolfhowls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out,season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axeto a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmonto see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolfas he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones.I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up.Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all 
— Carol Ann Duffy, The World's Wife
To the Bullock RoserootWhat's the thought you thinkall your life long?It must be a great one,a solemn one, to make you gazethrough the world at it,all your life long.When you have to look aside from ityour eyes roll, you bellowin anger, anxiousto return to it, steadilyto gaze at it, think itall your life long.
— Ursula K. Le Guin, Always Coming Home
We live a moment at a time and this is unique.
— Eduardo Medina Frías, Poemas para encontrar el tiempo en una tarde de viernes
You are to me,what wind is to dry leaves. The reason for me to fall,the reason for me to fly.
— Seekerohan, Spilled Ink of Love
The Butcher’s ShopThe pigs are strung in rows, open-mouthed,dignified in martyrs’ deaths. They hangstiff as Sunday manners, their porky headsvoting Tory all their lives, their blue rosettesdiscarded now. The butcher smiles a meaty smile,white apron stained with who knows what,fingers fat as sausages. Smug, woolly cattleand snowy sheep prance on tiles, grazingon eternity, cute illustrations in a children’s book.What does the sheep say now?Tacky sawdust clogs your shoes.Little plastic hedges divide the trays of meat, playing farms. playing farms. All the way homeyour cold and soggy paper parcel bleeds.
— Angela Topping
I am happy Because, IFound someoneTo BlameFor mistakesThank God &You mate,You endedMy suffocation.Amen
— Rajesh Nanoo
imagine the desertmothers, with hair tangledtighter than their theologyand breasts that flowed milkand mystic wisdom. theyknew how to draw the singingsigils in the sand, how to digrough and bitten fingersinto desiccated dirt for waterto wet the lips of their young.women of hips and heft, wholearned how to burnbeneath the wild and searingsun, who made loud loveagainst the star-flecked threatof night, who knew that strengthis not always a matter of muscle.imagine your ancestresses,the prophetesses of the aridlands, before these starchedtraditions and pews too hardto pray from, who bled trueritual and birthed their own fiercesouls at creation's crowning --
— Beth Morey, Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul
Sitting on couch, lying legs apart Dark dirty naked. Smiling at me, Wicked lazy lusty eyes. I moaned, When saw movement inside his silent, The thick forest of pubic hair.
— Delicious David, Dark Desires: II Gay Erotic Poems
we have forgotten what night tastes like, salted by full moon silver rupturingthe dark. we have forgotten how the skin sings when the lunar fervor unfurls across its follicles.
— Beth Morey, Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul
we have forgotten how to press our fingers to the tilting planet's jugular and measure her pulse. we have forgotten symbiosis, that she is our mother.we have forgotten that when we rape our world we rape ourselves.
— Beth Morey, Night Cycles: Poetry for a Dark Night of the Soul