Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
The photograph is married to the eye, Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth.
Do not go gentle into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gently into that good night but rage, rage against the dying of the light.
In the beginning was the secret brain. The brain was celled and soldered in the thought
It is the measure of my individual struggle from darkness toward some measure of light.
My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.
Light breaks where no sun shines; Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart; Push in their tides.
Why do men think you can pick love up and re-light it like a candle? Women know when love is over.
To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.
My education was the liberty I had to read indiscriminately and all the time, with my eyes hanging out.
... Rebel against the flesh and bone, The word of the blood, the wily skin, And the maggot no man can slay.
The condition of the world today is such that most writers feel they cannot truthfully be "comic" about it.
Sleeping as quiet as death, side by wrinkled side, toothless, salt and brown, like two old kippers in a box.
Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true "Poem on His Birthday
I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.
The only sea I saw Was the seesaw sea With you riding on it. Lie down, lie easy. Let me shipwreck in your thighs.
Families, like countries, take their prophets unkindly, but a verse-speaker in the house is dishonor to be hooted.
But oh, San Francisco! It is and has everything - you wouldn't think that such a place as San Francisco could exist.
In the beginning was the word, the word That from the solid bases of the light Abstracted all the letters of the void.
I do not need any friends. I prefer enemies. They are better company and their feelings towards you are always genuine.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.
Poetry is not the most important thing in life... I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.
I learnt the verbs of will, and had my secret; The code of night tapped on my tongue; What had been one was many sounding minded.
... an ugly, lovely town ... crawling, sprawling ... by the side of a long and splendid curving shore. This sea-town was my world.
The closer I move To death, one man through his sundered hulks, The louder the sun blooms And the tusked, ramshackling sea exults.
This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.
And from the first declension of the flesh I learnt man's tongue, to twist the shapes of thoughts Into the stony idiom of the brain.
Love drips & gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores..." -Thomas, The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower.
Let the dry eyes perceive Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses By the curve of the nude mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
When logics die, The secret of the soil grows through the eye, And blood jumps in the sun; Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.
The first poems I knew were nursery rhymes, and before I could read them for myself, I had come to love just the words of them, the words alone.
I believe in New Yorkers. Whether they’ve ever questioned the dream in which they live, I wouldn’t know, because I won’t ever dare ask that question.
A worm tells summer better than the clock, The slug's a living calendar of days; What shall it tell me if a timeless insect Says the world wears away?
A springful of larks in a rolling Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling Blackbirds and the sun of October Summery On the hill's shoulder.
Shall I let in the stranger, Shall I welcome the sailor, Or stay till the day I die? Hands of the stranger and holds of the ships, Hold you poison or grapes?
These poems, with all their crudities, doubts, and confusions, are written for the love of Man and in praise of God, and I'd be a damn' fool if they weren't.
Chastity prays for me, piety sings, Innocence sweetens my last black breath, Modesty hides my thighs in her wings, And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
A horrid alcoholic explosion scatters all my good intentions like bits of limbs and clothes over the doorsteps and into the saloon bars of the tawdriest pubs.
I know in London a Welsh hairdresser who has striven so vehemently to abolish his accent that he sounds like a man speaking with the Elgin marbles in his mouth.
This bread I break was once the oat, This wine upon a foreign tree Plunged in its fruit; Man in the day or wind at night Laid the crops low, broke the grape's joy.
This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.
Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; though lovers be lost love shall not; and death shall have no dominion.
Man’s wants remain unsatisfied till death. Then, when his soul is naked, is he one With the man in the wind, and the west moon, With the harmonious thunder of the sun
I have been told to reason by the heart, But heart, like head, leads helplessly; I have been told to reason by the pulse, And, when it quickens, alter the actions' pace
Whatever talents I possess may suddenly diminish or suddenly increase. I can with ease become an ordinary fool. I may be one now. But it doesn't do to upset one's own vanity.