Top Poem The Rain Quotes

Browse top 25 famous quotes and sayings about Poem The Rain by most favorite authors.

Favorite Poem The Rain Quotes

1. "Poems are bullshit unless they areteeth or trees or lemons piledon a step. Or black ladies dyingof men leaving nickel heartsbeating them down. Fuck poemsand they are useful, wd they shootcome at you, love what you are,breathe like wrestlers, or shudderstrangely after pissing. We want livewords of the hip world live flesh &coursing blood. Hearts BrainsSouls splintering fire. We want poemslike fists beating niggers out of Jocksor dagger poems in the slimy belliesof the owner-jews. Black poems tosmear on girdlemamma mulatto bitcheswhose brains are red jelly stuckbetween ‘lizabeth taylor's toes. StinkingWhores! we want "poems that kill."
Author: Amiri Baraka
2. "Just wanted to know how you're feeling, As I sit here and think of your progress, It takes a lot of time, the process of healing, I hope this poem helps with some of your stress.I am amazed at your internal strength, Through it all, your positivity remains, You're not deterred by magnitude or length, Nor all your obstacles and physical pains.You have taught me about the meaning of hope, I never hear you fuss or complain, One step at a time, you focus and cope, When you get better, we'll dance in the rain."
Author: Anita Shreve
3. "He read me another poem, and another one - and he explained the true history of poetry, which is a kind of secret, a magic known only to wise men. Mr. Premier, I won't be saying anything new if I say that the history of the world is the history of a ten-thousand-year war of brains between the rich and the poor. Each side is eternally trying to hoodwink the other side: and it has been this way since the start of time. The poor win a few battles (the peeing in the potted plants, the kicking of the pet dogs, etc.) but of course the rich have won the war for ten thousand years. That's why, on day, some wise men, out of compassion for the poor, left them signs and symbols in poems, which appear to be about roses and pretty girls and things like that, but when understood correctly spill out secrets that allow the poorest man on earth to conclude the ten-thousand-year-old brain-war on terms favorable to himself."
Author: Aravind Adiga
4. "When did "sentimental" become a pejorative barb? I do not at all share the notion that a piece of music, or a poem, or a film that bypasses the brain and aims straight for the heart . . . should automatically be heaped with scorn. I think it is symptomatic of a sad and dangerous impoverishment of spirit."
Author: Bill Richardson
5. "Poems, to me, do not come from ideas, they come from a series of images that you tuck away in the back of your brain. Little photographic snapshots. Then you get the major vision of the poem, which is like a giant magnet to which all these disparate little impressions fly and adhere, and there is the poem!"
Author: Carolyn Kizer
6. "Love Poem Sharing one umbrella We have to hold each other Round the waist to keep together. You ask me why I'm smiling — It's because I'm thinking I want it to rain for ever. Vicki Feaver"
Author: Daisy Goodwin
7. "Vogon poetry is of course, the third worst in the universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem "Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning" four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging and the president of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos was reported to have been "disappointed" by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his 12-book epic entitled "My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles" when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save humanity, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain. The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator, Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, in the destruction of the planet Earth. Vogon poetry is mild by comparison."
Author: Douglas Adams
8. "Poem to My Sex at Fifty-OneWhen I wash myself in the showerand afterward, as I am dryingwith the terrycloth towel,I love the feelof my vulva, the plump outer lipsand the neat inner onesthat fit together trimlyas hands in prayer. I liketo feel the slick crevice and the slightswelling that beginswith just this casual handling.So eager, willing as a puppy. When I was young I couldnot have imagined thisas I looked at women like me,my waist thickened like pudding,my rear end that once rode highas a kite, now hanging like asweater left out in the rain,skin drooping, not just the dewlapsor pennants that flutterunder the arms, but all over,loosening from the bone like boiledchicken. And it will onlyget worse. But that fleshyplum is always cheerful. And new.A taut globe shiningin an old fruit tree."
Author: Ellen Bass
9. "The poems turned up everywhere. Soon the lady of the house went into fits of hysteria when she kept discovering this attack of poetry in the most unlikely places—under doors, in the mother-of-pearl latticework of windowpanes, under jars, stones, flowerpots, loaves of bread, and even delivered by homing pigeons, around whose rose-coloured claws the young matador lovingly wound poems in which he declaimed his love in the quaint language whose provenance was unknown to the world and still evoked images of the uninterrupted empires of Visigiths, the unbridled lust of the Huns and the intransigence of the Berbers. The young maiden recognized only a few words, but to her they were fragments of a secret music: zirimiri, fine rain; senaremaztac, husband and wife; nik behar diren guzian eginen ditut, I shall do everything necessary...."
Author: Eric Gamalinda
10. "Lay down these wordsBefore your mind like rocks. placed solid, by handsIn choice of place, setBefore the body of the mind in space and time:Solidity of bark, leaf, or wall riprap of things:Cobble of milky way. straying planets,These poems, people, lost ponies withDragging saddles -- and rocky sure-foot trails.The worlds like an endless four-dimensionalGame of Go. ants and pebblesIn the thin loam, each rock a word a creek-washed stoneGranite: ingrained with torment of fire and weightCrystal and sediment linked hot all change, in thoughts,As well as things."
Author: Gary Snyder
11. "Hardy's poetry is pre-eminently about ways of seeing. This is evident in the numerous angles of vision he employs in so many poems. Sometimes it involves creating a picture, as in ‘Snow in the Suburbs', which allows the eye to follow the cascading snow set off by a sparrow alighting on a tree; or it employs the camera effect, as in ‘On the Departure Platform', which tracks the gradually diminishing form and disappearance of a muslin-gowned girl among those boarding the train. However, Hardy is also a poet of social observation. His humanistic sympathies emerge in a variety of poems drawing upon his experience of both Dorset and London."
Author: Geoffrey Harvey
12. "In school, I hated poetry - those skinny,Malnourished poems that professors love;The bad grammar and dirty words that catchIn the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.Pablo, your words are rain I run through,Grass I sleep in."
Author: George Elliott Clarke
13. "It is not certain whether the effects of totalitarianism upon verse need be so deadly as its effects on prose. There is a whole series of converging reasons why it is somewhat easier for a poet than a prose writer to feel at home in an authoritarian society.[...]what the poet is saying- that is, what his poem "means" if translated into prose- is relatively unimportant, even to himself. The thought contained in a poem is always simple, and is no more the primary purpose of the poem than the anecdote is the primary purpose of the picture. A poem is an arrangement of sounds and associations, as a painting is an arrangement of brushmarks. For short snatches, indeed, as in the refrain of a song, poetry can even dispense with meaning altogether."
Author: George Orwell
14. "In the end he became as fragmentary as the poems of Sappho he never succeeded in restoring, and finally one morning he looked up into the face of the woman who'd been the greatest love of his life and failed to recognize her. And then there was another kind of blow inside his head; blood pooled in his brain for the last time, washing even the last fragments of his self away."
Author: Jeffrey Eugenides
15. "An Additional PoemWhere then shall hope and fear their objects find?The harbor cold to the mating ships,And you have lost as you stand by the balconyWith the forest of the sea calm and gray beneath.A strong impression torn from the descending lightBut night is guilty. You knew the shadowIn the trunk was ravingBut as you keep growing hungry you forget.The distant box is open. A sound of grainPoured over the floor in some eagerness--weRise with the night let out of the box of wind."
Author: John Ashbery
16. "The poem doesn't have stanzas, it has a body, the poem doesn't have lines,/ it has blood, the poem is not written with letters, it's written/ with grains of sand and kisses, petals and moments, shouts and/ uncertainties."
Author: José Luís Peixoto
17. "In spite of all the progress we seem to have made, human emotions stay the same. Deep inside our hearts, we don't change very much. This poem was written two thousand years ago or more. It's from a time long before the quatrains and other formal styles you've learned in school were established. And yet, even today, we can understand the feelings of people from that time. You don't need education or scholarship for that. These feelings can be understood by anybody, I think."
Author: Kyōichi Katayama
18. "Teaching English is (as professorial jobs go) unusually labor-intensive and draining. To do it well, you have to spend a lot of time coaching students individually on their writing and thinking. Strangely enough, I still had a lot of energy for this student-oriented part of the job. Rather, it was _books_ that no longer interested me, drama and fiction in particular. It was as though a priest, in midcareer, had come to doubt the reality of transubstantiation. I could still engage with poems and expository prose, but most fiction seemed the product of extremities I no longer wished to visit. So many years of Zen training had reiterated, 'Don't get lost in the drama of life,' and here I had to stand around in a classroom defending Oedipus."
Author: Mary Rose O'Reilley
19. "So what rhyming poems do is they take all these nearby sound curves and remind you that they first existed that way in your brain. Before they meant something specific, they had a shape and a way of being said. And now, yes, gloom and broom are floating fifty miles away from each other in you mind because they refer to different notions, but they're cheek-by-jowl as far as your tongue is concerned. And that's what a poem does. Poems match sounds up the way you matched them when you were a tiny kid, using that detachable front phoneme."
Author: Nicholson Baker
20. "And I'll flip through the newest issue, walking back from my blue mailbox, hunting for the poem he chose over mine, and it'll be the same thing as always. The prose will have pulled back, and the poem will be there, cavorting, saying, I'm a poem, I'm a poem. No, you're not! You're an impostor, you're a toy train of pretend stanzas of chopped garbage. Just like my poem was."
Author: Nicholson Baker
21. "There was a boy down at the stables." She laughed suddenly with her back comfortably nestled against Grant's chest. "Oh,Lord,he was a bit like Will, all sharp,awkward edges.""You were crazy about him.""I'd spend hours mucking out stalls and grooming horses just to get a glimpse of him.I wrote pages and pages about him in my diary and one very mushy poem.""And kept it under your pillow.""Apparently you've had a nodding aquaintance with twelve-year-old girls."He thought of Shelby and grinned, resting his chin on the top of her head. Her hair smelled as though she'd washed it with rain-drenched wildflowers. "How long did it take you to get him to kiss you?"She laughed. "Ten days.I thought I'd discovered the answer to the mysteries of the universe.I was a woman.""No female's more sure of that than a twelve-year-old."
Author: Nora Roberts
22. "I was, I remember, nineteen years old, wrote poems, still wore no proper collar, ran out in the rain and snow, always woke up early in the morning, read Lenau, considered an overcoat a superfluous item, received a monthly salary of one hundred twenty-five francs and didn't know what to do with all that money."
Author: Robert Walser
23. "You played it with great seriousness. And it is not such an uncommon game. Do you know Ibsen's poem -- To live it to do battle with trolls in the vaults of the heart and brain. To write: that is to sit in judgement over one's self.""
Author: Robertson Davies
24. "Madame Vbegins the lessonby reading aloud the first stanzaof a famous French poem:Il pleure dans mon coeurComme il pleut sur la ville;Quelle est cette langueurQui penetre mon coeur?Then she looks upand without any warningshe calls on me to translate it.I swallow hard, and try:"It's raining in my heartlike it's raining in the city.What is this sadness that pierces my heart?"Saying these words out loud,right in front of the whole class,makes me feellike I'm not wearing any clothes."
Author: Sonya Sones
25. "He's probably their battle poet, too." "You mean he makes up heroic songs about famous battles?" "No, no. He recites poems that frighten the enemy....When a well-trained gonnagle starts to recite, the enemy's ears explode."
Author: Terry Pratchett

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It's still very difficult for me to rely. Your weakness, the blessing of your weakness is it forces you into friendships. The things that you lack, you look for in others."
Author: Bono

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