<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=484096" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>46</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though<br>her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever<br>warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on<br>at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You mush remember the homely definition, <br>Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate<br>Tough skin of words…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Words…words...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending<br>Always the ending is unpredictable.<br>Poetry is your personal<br>Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion, <br>And that motion is an art.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps<br>To its rhythm.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a<br>Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But be.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own, <br>But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Making familiar things rare, as though they are<br>Not familiar anymore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Giving habitation to airy nothing.<br>Giving nothing to everything.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.<br>The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A quarrel within himself.<br>In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in<br>To an spontaneous flow of giving.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I, too, dislike it at first.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Ric+S.+Bastasa">Ric S. Bastasa</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=484096" data-title="46 de Ric S. Bastasa" data-description="she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on at all times on one’s head, and..."></div> </div> </div>

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