#try

When a poet settled down to write a poem, could he foresee the lines he would write? Did his head constantly spin with riddles and rhymes and was his only job to put them down? What if he couldn’t get them to make sense, and no one, not even the person he cared for most, could have pleasure in reading it? What would he do? ↗

— Alysha Speer

#love #person #pleasure #poet #poetry

Поетът може би познава любовта откъм единствената страна, която истински я разкрива и осветява: неосъщественост. Поетът върви унесен. Може би една от формите на споделена любов е поезията. ↗

— Blaga Dimitrova

#poetry #love

I will Basquiat the canvas of your body like a Broadway Junction wall…and Gordon Parks you for those dark midnights when your scent fades. ↗

— Brandi L. Bates

#brandi-bates #gordon-parks #love #new-york #poetry

I'd love to give you something but what would help? ↗

— Ikkyu

#poetry #zen #love

When you can love yourself, then your heart is open to give and receive love. ↗

— Daveda Gruber

#poetrywithpassion-com #love

Oh,' said a very white body as it threw a wrist watch to the ground which broke without attracting anyone's attention, 'Oh, how can anyone not love poetry, natural machines, large white houses, the brilliance of steel, crimes and wild passions? ↗

— Robert Desnos

#passion #poetry #surrealism #love

Did the harebell loose her girdle To the lover bee, Would the bee the harebell hallow Much as formerly? ↗

— Emily Dickinson

#poetry-quotes-love #possession #love

...you are a river rock and belong in a stream - not here in this upper room sinking in my bed... ↗

— John Geddes

#love #poetry #river-rock #stream #upper-room

I made these sonnets out of wood; I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. Walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and I have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. Out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet and machete and pocketknife, I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little houses, so that your eyes, which I adore and sing to, might live in them. Now that I have declared the foundations of my love, I surrender this century to you: wooden sonnets that rise only because you gave them life. ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#life

I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the good for their country, come together to work for it. I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find we are turned to hating. ↗

— Alan Paton

#cry-the-beloved-country #love