#poe

Everything one invents is true, you may be perfectly sure of that. Poetry is as precise as geometry. ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#everything #geometry #invents #may #perfectly

Beauty is startling. She wears a gold shawl in the summer and sells seven kinds of honey at the flea market. She is young and old at once, my daughter and my grandmother. In school she excelled in mathematics and poetry. . . Beauty will dance with anyone who is brave enough to ask her. ↗

— J. Ruth Gendler

#poetic #qualities #ruth-gendler #beauty

Don't tell me you're not beautiful. You're the kind of beautiful the blind would see if we could figure out some way to give them three seconds of sight. ↗

— Shane Koyczan

#poetry #stop-signs #beauty

A poem is true if it hangs together. Information points to something else. A poem points to nothing but itself. ↗

— E. M. Forster

#else #hangs #information #itself #nothing

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet. ↗

— E. M. Forster

#concerned #only #poet #poor #statistician

I am not less poet; I am more conscious of all that I am, am not, and might become. ↗

— Jean Toomer

#become #conscious #i #i am #less

You know, I used to say, when people say, 'How do you think about what to write about in the poems every week?' And I say, 'Well, I have to turn it in on Monday, so on Sunday nights I turn the shower to iambic pentameter and it sort of works out that way.' ↗

— Calvin Trillin

#every #how #i #know #monday

A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away. ↗

— Ivan Turgenev

#bloom #fade #feel #full #know

I have always written poetry but I have never applied it to songwriting. ↗

— Janine Turner

#applied #i #never #poetry #songwriting

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all A heart whose love is innocent! ↗

— George Gordon Byron

#love #poetry #beauty