Her Poem Quotes

#1. It was her work of art, her poem and her prayer, to repeat this story, low and precipitately, as if she were in the confessional. You felt that she came to it quite naturally, without transition, so completely did it posses her whenever they were alone.

Henri Barbusse

#2. Sadness- just a mere disease,
which keeps your soul,
placed in your own haven,
until you're in pieces!
Verses from her poem titled as 'Sadness- an ethereal aura

Supriya Kaur Dhaliwal

#3. She was the only person in class who read her poem like it wasn't an assignment. She recited it like it was a living thing. Like something she was letting out. You couldn't look away from her as long as she was talking.

Rainbow Rowell

#4. One way poetry connects is across time ... Some echo of a writer's physical experience comes into us when we read her poem.

Jane Hirshfield

#5. When can I see you
again?"
"In 2 hours or
tomorrow."
I walked to the door.
You walk like a
poem," she said.
"See you in 2
hours," I told
her.

Charles Bukowski

#6. It became a weekend of reading, of trying to see her in the fragments of the poem she'd left for me.

John Green

#7. Many years before, she had read, and recognized as true, the words of W. B. Yeats: 'A Pity beyond all telling is hit at the heart of love'. She had smiled over the poem, and stroked the page, because she had known both that she loved Colin, and that compassion formed a huge part of her love.

J.K. Rowling

#8. Poetry is a storm asking peace to dance with her.

Jenim Dibie

#9. [On writing her first poem at age eight:] An ode to my dead mother and father, who were both alive and pretty pissed off.

Judith Viorst

#10. I told her it takes
a lot of solitude to write a poem.
She told me it takes a lot of solitude
to die.

Ronald Baatz

#11. The inextinguishable lesbian spark. You've surely heard about it? The one that was first ignited at Lesbos, because Sappho was so sad every time a young woman left the academy that she wrote her a poem. Fancy being sad because someone leaves! Perverted, that's what I call it. Don't you?

Gerd Brantenberg

#12. Thinking: I wanna walk across water
like sound, as her skin remembers a distant
prickling, another season,
a sun and a wind that lifts her hairs

Toby Fitch

#13. If Amy had one ounce of romance in her soul, she would be sighing with gratification. Instead, she said acerbically, "All that's missing is the love poem."
Jermyn deposited her in a chair by the table. "I'll order a pen and ink for you.

Christina Dodd

#14. Will and Love practiced
to invoke her Majesty Kundalini
In the world where Adepts die and bloom as Lotuses
The perfection of Union is Silence

Natasa Nuit Pantovic

#15. He found himself wanting to write poetry about how her blue eyes were like starlight and her hair like night, because "night" and "starlight" rhymed, but he had a feeling the poem wouldn't turn out that well ...

Cassandra Clare

#16. I wish I could explain how I feel, but nothing can explain this moment. Not a vase of stars. Not a book. Not a song. Not even a poem. Nothing can explain the moment when the woman you would give your life for sees her daughter for the very first time.

Colleen Hoover

#17. They don't know I only speak in runaway train stations
and everybody is always a few minutes too late to the platform.
No one has ever gotten the chance to get too close
because it is never romantic to fuck the girl who makes love to her own sadness every single night.

Katelin Wagner

#18. Nature is a book of many pages and each page tells a fascinating story to him who learns her language. Our fertile valleys and craggy mountains recite an epic poem of geologic conflicts. The starry sky reveal gigantic suns and space and time without end.

A. E. Douglass

#19. I don't believe a good poet is very often deliberately obscure. A poet writes in a way necessary to him or her; the reader may then find the poem difficult.

Lydia Davis

#20. The one great poem of New England is her Sunday.

Henry Ward Beecher

#21. The birthing wolf,
Her heart fed with tenderness,
Gave forth from ripe brown nipples,
Food to feed the universe.

Roman Payne

#22. She is dying because she said.
She is dying for the sake of the word.
It is her body, silent
and fingerless, writing this poem.

Margaret Atwood

#23. She was not a poet. She was a poem. She was about to snap in half. He thought his own poetry had made her la la la la love him. It was unbearable.

Deborah Levy

#24. 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

#25. My arrival
Her womb's delight
Her existence
My living light
Her wounds
My scars
Her skies
My stars
Her days
My hours
Her strength
My powers
I breathe my name
Being her child
Without mother
Life's beguiled
From the poem 'Mother

Munia Khan

#26. She drew away
from her shadow,so lightening would pass between the two
like a stranger passes through his poem

Mahmoud Darwish

#27. Her face collapsed like a bad poem

Marge Simon

#28. I could write novels about her forever. Maybe when I die I will end up in the poem with her writing more poems about our times together.' The Diary

Jeremy Limn

#29. loved a man for years who said her eyes looked like the ocean, because she always wanted to be somebody's poem, somebody's simile, somebody's lackluster metaphor.

Trista Mateer

#30. Shaw ... has a woman ever asked you to write a poem for her?"
"Good God, no," Gideon replied with a snicker. "Shaws don't write poetry. They pay others to write it for them and then take the credit for it.

Lisa Kleypas

#31. New clothes left Sylvia reeling with happiness. For Sylvia, a shopping list was a poem. She always shopped alone - it suited her deliberate nature and the artistic joy with which she approached all things aesthetic.

Elizabeth Winder

#32. Sleeping Atlantis

Silent cool waters
dancing upon her skin ~
silent cool water
ushering dreams within...

Muse

#33. But then I found out that the poem she truly loved was the other one. She chose her own way. And I fell even more deeply in love with her.

Ally Condie

#34. The poem is in my hands, and can run stories through her hands.

Mahmoud Darwish

#35. You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

Jay Asher

#36. Ms. Whitlock is lost in her own world as she continues babbling about poem interpretations and people who died too long ago.

Katie McGarry

#37. her grass seemed
greener until
a drought came
and cracked the earth
beneath you.

K.Y. Robinson

#38. She has craters
but only a fool can deny her beauty.
She silently stare sun whole night
& reflects his light
his love with stars at times.

Lokesh Fouzdar

#39. Brahma and Airavata
Long ago in lands of golden sand
Brahma turned to Saraswati
and gently kissed her inked hand ...

Muse

#40. THE RIGHT
POEM
FINDS
US
EXACTLY
WHEN IT
NEEDS TO.

- ATTICUS

Atticus Poetry

#41. Stop blaming people for not helping you. No matter how your teacher teaches you to recite a poem, you can't wear her smiling face to the platform. You've got to put that smile on your own face.

Israelmore Ayivor

#42. The Bane
... where coxswain's dirt
and seaman's shirts
brushed bawdily upon her chest ...

Muse

#43. O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;
Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching Earth;
Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.
She hath no questions, she hath no replies.

Jeffrey Eugenides

#44. No more can this Angel teach her,
Yet, this guiding wing shall not forsake ...

E.A. Bucchianeri

#45. He could see her planting violets on his grave, a solitary figure in a grey cloak. What a ghastly tragedy. A lump came to his throat. He became quite emotional thinking of his own death. He would have to write a poem about this.
from a Difference in Temperament

Daphne Du Maurier

#46. His mind was constantly thinking about her, while he decided to recite a poem that he had written for her long ago. While he narrated, the words conjured memories like ghosts into the room.

Sulaiman Sait

#47. You can woo a girl with a poem, but you can't hold onto her with a poem. Not even with a poetry movement.

Roberto Bolano

#48. To a man who is uncorrupt and properly constituted, woman always remains something of a mystery and a romance. He never interprets her quite literally. She, on her part, is always striving to remain a poem, and is never weary of bringing out new editions of herself in novel bindings.

James Parton

#49. At sunset, on the river ban, Krishna
Loved her for the last time and left ...
That night in her husband's arms, Radha felt
So dead that he asked, What is wrong,
Do you mind my kisses, love? And she said,
Not not at all, but thought, What is
It to the corpse if the maggots nip?

Kamala Suraiyya Das

#50. How does a poet know when a poem is ended? Because it lies flat, taut; nothing can be added or subtracted. How does a woman know when a marriage is over? Because of the way her life suddenly shears off in just two directions: past and future.

Carol Shields

#51. They say that Grandma Moses had several canvases going at the same time. Maybe it was a way for her to catch up with the time she missed while raising children and tending the farm. Like Grandma, I tend to have more than one poem or fiction going at a time. For me, it's just the way I think.

Marge Simon

#52. Let's get deeper.
Let's go past the flesh.
It takes thought, to really get into this.

Shaune Bordere

#53. From I Knew a Woman
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones,
When small birds sighed, she would sigh back at them;
Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:
The shapes a bright container can contain!

Theodore Roethke

#54. He could write an epic poem about her ass. And all the ways he wanted to defile it.

R.G. Alexander

#55. In the forest, I thought I'd made the wrong choice. I thought she had the Tennyson poem because it was a Rising poem, and I'd missed my chance to be in the rebellion with her.

Ally Condie

#56. Beneath her curls, I forget the world,
With a mere gaze she raises my hopes of gold.
Love is as much in her heart as in mine,
But she doesn't say it, her punishment so divine.

Faraaz Kazi

#57. I love rhymes; I love to write a poem about New York and rhyme 'oysters' with 'The Cloisters.' And 'The lady from Knoxville who bought her brassieres by the boxful.' I just feel a sort of small triumph.

Garrison Keillor

#58. Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.
'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.

Karen Tei Yamashita

#59. she prays to feel as powerful
as she might if God sang silent
words into her ear and answered
all the rattling questions
now

Beth Morey

#60. He offered his love ... she could not bother,
She gives her love to the other! The other!

E.A. Bucchianeri

#61. She wore her scars
as her best attire.
A stunning dress
made of hellfire.

Daniel Saint

#62. A living poem had always been the words that came to mind when he tried to describe her to others.

Nicholas Sparks

#63. DeLois lived up the block on 142nd Street and never had her hair done, and all the neighbourhood women sucked their teeth as she walked by. Her crispy hair twinkled in the summer sun as her big proud stomach moved her on down the block while I watched, not caring whether or not she was a poem.

Audre Lorde

#64. Nix," I said, and her name was a poem. She tilted her face up to the dawn; my lips met hers. She pressed close to me, and then there was no past, no future - only now. No her, no me. Only us.

Heidi Heilig

#65. Nobody really knows her
Except the chosen few
Her secrets are kept hidden
Behind that sun-kissed hue.
If I reach out to touch her
She'll just run away
My Forever and Always
Will have to wait another day.

Simone Elkeles

#66. SHE Is A Wonderful Romantic Poem With Billions of Lines. Even If I Could, I Wouldn't Finish Reading HER In My Entire Life ...

Muhammad Imran Hasan

#67. For the last four years of her life, Mother was in a nursing home called Chateins in St. Louis ... [S]ix months before she died I sent a Mother's Day card. There was a horrible, mushy poem in it. I remember feeling vaguely guilty.

William S. Burroughs

#68. I wrote a staggeringly bad poem when I was 19 after a girlfriend dumped me. I seem to remember comparing her to a tarantula. It was all very E. J. Thribb of me.

Simon Schama

#69. Like a pianist runs her fingers over the keys, I'll search my mind for what to say. Now, the poem may want you to write it. And then sometimes you see a situation and think, 'I'd like to write about that.' Those are two different ways of being approached by a poem, or approaching a poem.

Maya Angelou

#70. It was an itinerary for an alternate life. If things had gone according to my wife's vision, yesterday she would have hovered near me as I read this poem, watching me expectantly, the hope emanating from her like a fever: *Please get this. Please get me.*

Gillian Flynn

#71. I thought a bit of poetry might be interesting - I even write a few lines myself. I composed a short poem for my mum's 70th birthday recently. When I recited it I saw the glint of a tear in her eye ... although I guess it wasn't the quality of the poetry was that making her cry!

Iain Dowie

#72. I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

Sarah Kay

#73. and Ravn recited a long poem about some ancient hero who killed a monster and then the monster's mother who was even more fearsome than her son, but I was too drunk to remember much of it. And

Bernard Cornwell

#74. Deep down,
I lay dormant inside her head,
Deep down,
I lay the rules inside her head,
Deep down,
I lay inside inside her heart,
Deep down,
I know she will never move on
Because deep down, I am always there

Tanzy Sayadi

#75. Chipmunks jump, and
greensnakes slither.
Rather burst than
not be with her.
Bluebirds fight, but
bears are stronger.
We've got fifty
years or longer.
Hoptoads hop, but
hogs are fatter.
Nothing else but
Us can matter.

Donald Hall

#76. I've had people explain to me what one of my poems meant, and I've been surprised that it means that to them. If a person can use a poem of mine to interpret her life or his life, good. I can't control that. Nor would I want to.

Maya Angelou

#77. 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

#78. She cries,
I laugh,
She becomes numb,
I become filled with joy,
She slowly crumbles,
I feel on top of the world,
Yet somehow in the end,
Out of the ashes,
She rose like a Phoenix,
As if nothing had ever touched her

Tanzy Sayadi

#79. He really believes that to write a poem in praise of my mother (her eyes, her hair, her lips) and come by to read it aloud will soften her, make him welcome in his own house.

Ian McEwan

#80. I could write an epic poem about your thighs."
"That would amuse polite society rather too much, and I wouldn't like that."
"I wouldn't either." She pressed her cheek to his belly. "I can't think of a word to rhyme with marble column.

Christina Dodd

#81. I know her by heart, and that doesn't make me love her any less. Like a Dante scholar who learns the entire Divine Comedy and then just appreciates the poem even more profoundly.

Fausto Brizzi

#82. Every time I watch
Lady and the Tramp
I think
"SHE'S HAVING SOME OF YOUR PASTA!"
"QUICK! EAT IT ALL! EAT IT ALL, NOW!!!"
"GROWL! BARE YOUR TEETH! DO SOMETHING!
"OH, DON'T GIVE HER THE MEATBALL!
THERE'S MEAT IN IT!"
"IDIOT!"
But then again
I'm not the romantic type.

Francesco Marciuliano

#83. Her touch is like doing simple math
When she sleeps in the bed, subtracting clothes
There is a red ink, like a sparkling red wine, adding colors
Dividing body, remembering gods, without multiplying

Santosh Kalwar

#84. Men and women who are lonely create. Those who are gregarious rarely do ... Any poet would rather bed with a girl than write a poem about her. All art is the result of frustration. Art is energy deflected from its normal course in action.

Burton Rascoe