982 Quotes About Poet

In younger years, he’d wonder whether he was more doctor or writer. Since the dark period back home, he questioned if he was really either—witnessing death all around him had robbed him of both.

But at least he had grasped one small aspect of poetry then: that it was something extremely personal, almost a gift one wrapped up for oneself alone; that it was foolish to expect everyone to respond to poetry in the same way, or even to respond at all. Not a gift, it was a beautiful burden. It was a melancholy art, and what it served for best was to provide life with a certain aptitude for sadness.

The poet loves his dream girl, but he only accepts her when she is also same in real; otherwise, he remains in the dreams, writing love poetry and waiting for dream girl to come.

The world we live in is a product of a grand dream … the dream of a Great Thinker; yes, the Big Poet. That’s why wherever you go, you hear the sweet music flowing about it … the chirping of crickets; the sough of the wind … The whistling of a bird, the gurgle of a stream. The buzz of the bees, the creaks of tree limbs. The chatter of monkeys, the patter of the rain …

Rim are there horizonswhere there is no horizontalwhere mountains fold space,hold distance up?embedded in a canyonour heads tilt instinctively.here earth meets sky,we can reach it; the rimdoes not shimmer and recede. we lean into diagonal lives,relieved of right angleseyes, arms, hearts drawnupward, vectored to ridgelineskeenly aware of the slantof time, its shape and substance;it is a wedge; it movesalong ray-stroked slopes;we pass into it, are passed over.

I was told if I fell in love with a poetI would become immortal, so I decidedto become the poet and make all thosewho touched my soul, eternal.I write friends and lovers into my stories,weaving them into fragments of sonnets and prose,the nectar of my poetry. My muses, perennial… Evergreen.

Poetry is what you turn to when nothing else works.

Out of the deep and the dark, A sparkling mystery, a shape, Something perfect, Comes like the stir of the day: One whose breath is an odour, Whose eyes show the road to stars, The breeze in his face, The glory of Heaven on his back. He steps like a vision hung in air, Diffusing the passion of Eternity; His abode is the sunlight of morn, The music of eve his speech: In his sight, One shall turn from the dust of the grave, And move upward to the woodland.

All poets are soldiers. We fight our wars across centuries.