Academia Aesthetic Quotes

Autumn is a poem - while you fall for everything, you remember that there is something worth dying for.

We were never supposed to be in love; for everything that exists inside a heart eventually dies.

They danced wildly in the forest, swaying with the tall trees and the howling wind.

We always hide something of ourselves whenever we create something.

I can not be a part of myself - for everything that creates my soul incompletes my heart.

Beautiful things are quiet beings.

While we kept on dancing our souls delicately embraced.

A reverie is one soul's river - a word is one heart's vein.

What we outlive becomes our cage eventually.

Everything dies once - only love dies twice.

I kept every letter - only to be reminded of the wrong one's words can cause.

There is no crown without guilt - and there is no mercy without a kingdom.

There is no crown without guilt.

A crown is heavy without mercy - and yet the darkness painted the gold with jewels.

Silver may paint your words - but gold speaks in a way that outlives the greatest poets.

And our own darkness became our kingdom; while the light burnt up each one of our hearts as an act of mercy and revolt - for nothing is build on ashes and too much is written about the fallen ones.

School of Resentment is a term coined by critic Harold Bloom to describe related schools of literary criticism which have gained prominence in academia since the 1970s and which Bloom contends are preoccupied with political and social activism at the expense of aesthetic values.[1] Broadly, Bloom terms "Schools of Resentment" approaches associated with Marxist critical theory, including African American studies, Marxist literary criticism, New Historicist criticism, feminist criticism, and poststructuralism—specifically as promoted by Jacques Lacan, Jacques Derrida and Michel Foucault. The School of Resentment is usually defined as all scholars who wish to enlarge the Western canon by adding to it more works by authors from minority groups without regard to aesthetic merit and/or influence over time, or those who argue that some works commonly thought canonical promote sexist, racist or otherwise biased values and should therefore be removed from the canon. Bloom contends that the School of Resentment threatens the nature of the canon itself and may lead to its eventual demise. Philosopher Richard Rorty[2] agreed that Bloom is at least partly accurate in describing the School of Resentment, writing that those identified by Bloom do in fact routinely use "subversive, oppositional discourse" to attack the canon specifically and Western culture in general.

I dared to dance along broken lines and I cut myself once again - only to rewrite your words with meaning.

I kept every letter - only to be remembered of the wrong one's words can cause (to the heart).

Love is too much for our generation.

Those deserted lines of love and pain  kept your love wandering  - and by that alive -  so that one day  some restless thought  would stumble upon your eternity.

Some break their hearts themselves only to be healed of the wrong love faster.

Time means nothing when you are in love.

My love is so fragile; and still it chooses your hands to bloom.

Don't ever let the scars on your heart define the way you love. 

You can only hold onto a soul forever when you touched it with all your heart.

Everything outside of our mind is endless - so why limit oneself?

We can rest on each other's hearts - yet our dreams keep on wondering. 

And the home we build for our love ended up keeping it out of its own walls.

I wrote so much about our love that the feeling itself turned into art.

While we keep on dancing our souls delicately embrace.

You can not create something without love and expect it to be great.

Forgetting someone you once loved: it’s like erasing something of yourself forever -freely; Being someone else for a second that will change a lifetime. You let go. You feel lost. You will love again.

When I was young, I only painted flowers; Once I became older I learnt that flowers meant hope. We give them when we meet someone for the first time, and we give them to bury someone as a final goodbye.

I missed so many chances to meet the right one by missing you too much.

Simple feelings surviving while everything else breaks so fast - touching the edges  just to feel something.

I wanted to write about someone I miss -  and even the ink refused to remember - so, in the end, I was left  with nothing but empty pages; with the greatest words in my mind.

I always tried to hold on to the beautiful things, never realising that true beauty lies in letting go.

I can not kiss you unless you unraveled every line of my heart and declared with your lips the beauty of our unfading love.

VALLEY The valleys climb towards the sky in the early morning hours - seeking horizon's lines; More than the gravestones do with all the memory lined neatly up and half-forgotten - nearly washed away. Our sun is doomed to meet both.

October creeps into the room through faint grey light that stopped dancing on the windowsill since July left. Being haunted by silence makes the air grow weary and faintly colder. I hear the noise of people walking in solitude, thinking to themselves about others— sitting alone in between their steps. Company of ghosts on lonely eves, threading through the rustling of leaves. I can write down what haunts me, yet I cannot read the ones who do. October.

OCTOBER MORNINGS How your eyes gleamed like emeralds once autumn's first day arrived, how amber was the glance that met my tired eyes. Like silk was the light of morning that came through half-shut doors and made a line of gold upon our bedroom floor. Silent creeks empty hallways full of doubt, the room is empty now.

CHIANTI The yellow sun lays low upon the fields that are covered in dry grass. Soft is the rain that falls in the distance yet does not dare to come near the places where summer lives and dies. The haze is the aftermath of the kiss summer shared with the land so gracefully. And now, I may kiss your wine-stained lips within September's pale delight.

OUR OLYMP At this altitude of wavering faith and dying stars our love could not stand a chance; it disappears slowly within my rhymes sky. Fading along the pale darkness like a path of crumbling anecdotes on old crumpled philosophers' notes. I can not see the moon anymore - neither I can imagine the place where it should rest tonight in the sky of ours, where it used to be so bright. The Gods themselves dare not make a home at this height of our hearts, for even the immortals would refuse to hold sacred a place so high. Even our wishes refuse to fall at the mountains feet, still climbing, trembling, and slowly loosing - defeat.

PRISONS/GARDENS Cages are made for people living on the outside to catch things evil, beautiful or just unaccepted; Nothing ever outgrows the space of captivity nor does it ever bloom. If we ever offered some light to the shadows we hide we could have a whole garden within our society by now.

CROSSROAD Lights flicker above the crossroad shining in green now and then for people who won't cross and red for others - which won't stop; The dull grey splits the city in pieces of lines and corners, sometimes outshined by heavy rain and flooded glimpses of chaos; Broken glass upon crimson roads empty silence and nothing to say - while the city sleeps on and will awake, eventually.

SAN GIMIGNANO The towers align the hills like crowns of heavy stones; Empty are the dreams of the ones that built them long ago. The thirst for power still stands frozen in its tracks - the only witnesses of it stand high against the silver sky. The distance gets smaller, and the towers become higher. So many have fallen, laying their family's name to rest, in gentle forgetfulness.

A POET'S HOMAGE TO FLORENCE What heart dares to look upon a city so golden and is not moved to write a single line? Whose soul can bear such beauty and not praise it with all its words? May there be poets without a page left, artists with no colour to give a memory of you; and even lovers who refuse to burn? My love, your likeness is like marble that makes the altar of paradise.

PIECES OF LIGHT I see the art of each heart reflecting the mirror that the world put it in front of - for so long that the lines so once so clear became hate for everything we see - blurring out the real; Seeing a thousand lights reflecting one's own means nothing anymore, now that we live by the one offered by the world; The price of being a small part of everyone's standard is being praised so, we may break into one single piece.

THE MEADOWS OF MEDEA 'The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emerald's gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen - and yet they keep so many of us in good company - for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadows still lay weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

3 A.M. SAINTS It is 3 a.m. again and you are showing me all of your sins by holding up your scars to the starless sky. Painting the entire universe with gold and clothing my velvet heart in purple - we become saints within those unholy hours close to dawn. Still, the world is spinning - even though it feels a little slower now - while the silence carries us away into the next day.

BLOOMING SCARS Those flowers dance around vour marble bust like they were fearing October's kiss - gently they laugh and fall asleep on vour stone veins and cold lips. For they love their names written upon your chest in gold for your heart may be broken, yet it is searching for something untold. They do not know that silver mends the scars that the years formed and the cracks on your skin the sun caused - so silent, still, and weary are the blossoms with whom my love for you is betrothed.

Autumn sharpens the night air and paints the morning gold on the edge of winter’s silver breath, dancing delicately between life and death, between 4 pm and 3 am.

THE ART OF EVERYONE And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

FLORENCE Soft emerald valleys lay in crimson light beneath the rolling hills; the waters of the Arno gleam like bronze the city's vein, so still. Each artist at the shore of the river stares in wonder and delight - how far do the lines reach across the bridge, beyond their work? One may seek rest under the cypresses and soft light of the August amber sun - here, at his grave, the city walls lay high around the garden, he knew once as paradise. His dark eyes still seem to pierce the lines of the hills, like he searches for his soul - still; (somewhere between the Arno and the nightfall). The trees - heavily laid with summer's fruit - stand high above the city in marble glance. Clear is now the dark sky - full of shards which dreamers call the stars.

SIENA I wander down the steps along the walls of bricks and high houses - down to the waters that lay deep. Streaming down from the hill on which the old city was built with a tower standing high, that reaches up not far from the grave that these waters lay in. Alabaster is the hand that reaches in it and cold is the heart that touches the pale divine. Beating fast after climbing back to the light and narrow streets - I found now what it seeks. Descending down, down to the hidden stream - oh Siena, my goddess without a pomegranate seed.

A SIMPLE DRAFT Sometimes a simple draft can make a poet whole that is left with half a heart and feelings for a hundred it would take to bear. A few words can cover the whole world, creating light for the darkest of lines one can call a home or paradise - only a few can also lay bare their soul.

STARVING PIECES A heart starved of love will break itself and shed the pieces quickly - so it has less to feed with love.

CHURCH WINDOWS ARE MY MIRRORS Blessed are the scars and the holiness of our hearts. Only saints break it without remorse for sinners, I expect nothing else but playing their part with our gentle soul. Church windows are my mirrors and prayers my gate to heavens end - I find everything by losing myself-nothing was ever lost from the beginning.

THE SHEETS & THE LIGHT Sombre echoes that mark the dawning greying on the hill; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; Thoughts are done passing rounds counting circles inside my head. Pale mirror-faces crossing me on the way back to the place that felt like home - falling back in time.

COLOURS IN THE MIRROR One day my pride will outlive myself and whatever remains of its colours will be remembered by others - for I was always my true self. I live too little for things that make me dream & care too much for fears that sleep in between the fine lines of my weary mind - so write me gentle words, for it may break. My diversity should not be a mistake but a celebration of identity & guiding light to others who ache to leave the numbness of »pretending-to-be«. We are not broken mirrors that hurt the world by showing our true reflection; we are merely hearts used to rejection - yet, their words will only blur but not break our shine.

ATHENA They fall silently. the steps of her arrival - crossing snow so pale even the morning sky would fade into nightfall's amber; For she has entered the palace of gold - her hair braided with hope and tainted with red leaves which colours remind of a hanged man's rope - for her name is war and her crown is crafted out of grief.

WEDNESDAY MIRAGE How far do they reach the rivers of our grieve - far beyond the horizon and deep into a soul; Suffering can feel like drowning in numbness and being awake for days; It's roots growing further then our mind can go and make dark a heart that once was full of light;

EDINBURGH Sombre echoes that mark the dawning that is greying on the hills; the steep streets still wet from rain the small buildings look emptier with each day passing on; thoughts are done passing rounds - counting circles inside my head. pale faces of familiar strangers crossing me on the way back to a place that used to feel like home - falling back in time.

THE BALLADE OF SUMMER'S FALL Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.

ASBOLUTION Our paradise is not made out of worldly things but of the broken fragments of heaven - laced with doubt and forgiveness; Nearly silent we promise each other absolutisation for every promise we ever dared to make with words and deeds - yet I feel incomplete.

PERSEPHONE (the spring ballade) Every heart is blooming upon a field of doubt and the flowers autumn reaps - he knows every name about. They grow never in line, although always in the shape of each soul of every lonesome doubt. So whenever I wander along my sorrow's path the horizon behind me glows crimson with all the broken hearts it carries on. A thought yet not dreamt is a love unplanted by hands of grieve - For each who does not bloom by now is long lost in summer's eyes, For autumn reaps but does not give a single tear to water the ground in which he steers sometimes so aimlessly.

WE ARE OUR OWN CREATION How high a sinful mind can wander before it reaches heaven? How deep a second love can run before it is forgiven? How many lines a poet can write before being criticised? How many lines can a painter create before being copied? I say, there is no limit to any of these for we are still our own creation.

At a certain point, you no longer hope; you just keep on existing. One day at a time, for the rest of your life. And that feeling is not shallow but runs deep— deeper than any happiness or love could ever run. A vein is a mere line poets like me used to write on and a lifeline where sailors swim towards at night. If we keep on writing and giving, we grow on that existing line with millions of words that save hope - and thus give existence and life.

And autumn died long before the sun touched the last leaf; for death forgets every winter for as long as summer blossoms for itself; For the art of everyone is close to the idea and dwells in thoughts. For every thought rises in the morning - and every beginning is the closest to us in the end, and eventually takes a lifetime to complete itself.

MARBLE GRAVES The silver moon stands silent between two cypresses - its light leaning against the walls of the old palazzo that lays in ruin. Hidden behind olive groves lays the tomb of forgotten men and unsung heroes. Their souls found peace within the Allgrove's of singing cicadas and rustling long grass. The marble is heavy and their graves cool and dark - deep is their sleep eternal their demise. The moon is slowly covered by a shroud of clouds, cypresses now lay in darkness - silence.

CONFESSION Sometimes I feel like the lines of mine are in the way of every love that tries to cross the last bridge I have left leading to my heart. For I burned every other one while numbing the wounds the fire caused - setting alight to all that is left of me. I must admit that I kept on to the match, long after it burned down and reached my fingertips.

AMBER HEART'S Amber chases the night sky like the stars became fire and gold - and the moon is falling ever closer to the sun he loves so much; So there is not much pain with the world to share, yet we begin to doubt our love and forget our hearts need care. Still, we wish upon the stars to fall faster in love than we did out, so we won't try and pull back for broken hearts are heavy and hard to catch. So while the constellations fade and our souls disappear in their entanglement we hope to learn what it means to truly live again the least.

QUIET WRITING Quiet does not mean that we have nothing to say, or that we leak the power of speech - we rise up and tell our truths even if it feels like people don't like it the least; Writing is our means to have something to tell when we lost our voice suddenly we still stand behind our truths even if it feels like people won't like it. Beautifully are the quiet lines written with thunder and silent boldness - for we can have a revolution inside the pages of nowadays.

DYSTOPIA Dark, early streets and high walls of empty houses a lonesome bird singing a hollow duet with its own echo - autumn feels like spring once you have lost everything and stand with nothing to hold onto at winter's edge - walkways glooming in buzzing orange neon light imitating fallen leaves, making the city's concrete jungle a forest - soon November is here, crawling along the pavement and dulling the grey of the ruins they call buildings - sudden flickering accompanied by loud buzzing: the lights went out while winter's edge cuts violently through the streets & building cracks - the bird stopped singing.

THE MONSTER & THE MAN One obstacle pierces his soul and calls him down the dark road - heavy sighing he must carry on and at last, the thorn is retrieved - with agony in his brown eyes - he suddenly sees: Fever dreams, scarlet on blue velvet, like ink drowning in words - words drowning inside his veins - words that pleaded in vain - words so scarlet... so stained. Empty lines for empty souls that carry too much inside; empty pages for empty hands with nothing else to hide nor to control the beast inside his soul.

It is okay if you change every once in a while; even the sky needs to let go of its stars to give the sun a home for a while.

A sea of unspoken words; waiting for a reason to meet the shore for the first time.

Love is a delicate suffering.

Some hearts will never burn as bright as the memories do.

The most beautiful solitude I ever felt was when I got lost  in something I once loved.

Let your love bleed all over those pages;  in the end, all it can be is a work of art  (- but never a mistake).

The mountains fell in love  with the sky -  while knowing the ocean  is much nearer;  and still,  they loved it the same.

Some bury their feelings  in the hope that flowers bloom; (and too many of us die  while waiting forever).

The meadows lay weeping with tears like an emeralds gleam; while every nightingale is seeking the shelter of its only willow's green. - And silently, my step falls on leaves that carry me much further than I'd dream; for willows and thoughts are fading slowly while everything eternal is not seen and yet they keep so many of us in good company for some can not be on their own, nor can they be free. - So I found peace, the one eternal each one seeks and so I left my soul for emerald's gleam; while the meadow still lays weeping with grief over my grave so quietly for it lays beneath the shadow of its only willow's green.

Memories are not always a prison - sometimes they can be a key too.

Champagne lips and tired eyes under endless velvet skies — a love living only for the highs.

I'm trapped in a Salvador Dali painting

She lived with too many ghosts inside her mind - maybe that's why she became one herself in the end.

Hues of pale green, on delicate olive branches the soft rustling of somberness along the fields of gold that lay themselves to gentle rest after another long summer. I have nothing to bury under them except my own heart -that is my soul's greatest regret, once my lines begin to fill in autumn, under the velvet gloom of shortening days. The admiration of the Florentine sun had doomed my words to become eventually a remembrance once September falls in October's pale hands. I shall have nothing to grieve for once the winter arrives, coming over the distant hills and laying bare the orchards along his way. I doomed them to become ruins by overthinking, hoping - at least once too often - for change; So, let it be then. I will mourn my mere passion for life in the presence of death - though my art may be eternal.

What our love dreads the most is the fear of never loving - not the thought of following the wrong heart.

And between all  those eternities you realise that art & love my be the only things  that stay long enough  inside one's soul to make an impression.

While others feared the ghosts of the past, she fell in love with them.

Art completes our hearts.

Shallow are the hearts that bloom beside empty dreams.

It may baffle outsiders why poets would be so ingratiating, since there is no audience to ingratiate us to. That is because the poet's audience is the institution. We rely on the higher jurisdiction of academia, prize jury panels, and fellowships to gain social capital. A poet's precious avenue for mainstream success is through an award system dependent on the painstaking compromise of a jury panel, which can often guarantee that the anointed book will be free of aesthetic or political risk.

In one's ordinary life, there must always be a place for something exceptional, like poetry... or love.

In one's ordinary life, there must always be a place for poetry.

A writer’s heart does not only hold scars caused by love, but also those that cross the lines of unsaid words and fully-lived, unspoken feelings. Life is merely a tragedy to a writer, something that must occur like the final line of a book, and like an ink stain that inevitably taints the fingers of a poet. Real love, too, must be attained In the same way.