Contemporary Poetry Quotes

“Modern poetry, for me, began not in English at all but in Spanish, in the poems of Lorca.”
― W.S. Merwin

“The American identity has never been a singular one and the voices of poets invariably sing, in addition to their own, the voices of those around them.”
― Aberjhani, The American Poet Who Went Home Again

“I called it a baptism in flaming ink that forced me to shed my shyness about recognizing myself as a poet and to accept the fact that life had never given me any choice in the matter. And then I had to discover exactly what that meant.”
― Aberjhani, The American Poet Who Went Home Again

“Dios es todo,
luego es lo único.”
― Lumey Contino Capote, Paladar

“Painted desert, ocean of color
sun's worshiper, moon's lover
picture of a coyote's voice
sandbox of angels, another toy.”
― Trine Daely, Life Games

“Past and all its baggage,
future and all its worries,
it is the present we should breathe,
for all the rest are just stories.”
― Iva Hotko, Life is a Remembrance

“The Might of Me

I won’t write about
how I saved myself after you left—
The truth is
you never really stayed,
so I had nothing to save
but the might of me
and the could have beens
in every sentence since then.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“I Want…

I want to inhale life,
Not just exhale it.
I want to feel alive,
Not just go on living.
I want to exist,
Not just fade away.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“CheckFate by Stewart Stafford

Now hear this about Fate!
Its coils squeezing around you,
Directing your every move,
It is your second skin glue.

Scream unilateral lockdown,
As in Covid fever dream years,
Fate is your silent partner,
Lifer cellmate chained to all your fears.

As you hide in a shack in the Andes,
Fate's squatter gatecrashes to stay,
Tracked by a big cat in the Pampas,
Jaguar-spotted stalker in your DNA.

Fate deals its stacked tarot cards,
Catch-22's lotto winners - broke and few,
A drill sergeant drones' whipped parade
In lockstep as one of Fate's crew.

© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“You can't fully love, without a little violence”
― Richard Rizo, Random Acts of Love and Violence: A Journey Through Love, Heartbreak, and the Unknown

“The Dopamine Paradigm by Stewart Stafford

Never so connected,
Yet, never further apart,
A crowded room's isolation,
An aspic suitors' false start.

Fear and hatred everywhere,
When toxic ideologies stink,
Lab rats of our own making,
Reward hits go over the brink.

Throwing away tomorrow,
For a dopamine buzz today,
Home fort, don't multiply,
A eunuch future staggers away.

© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“The pale blue evening light of fading shadows crashes violently against the hill behind the town—facing radical orange and poisoned greens. It steams upward against a bluish sky that has swallowed every cloud in this modern summer May.”
― Laura Chouette, The Willow Song

“I Am Chameleon by Stewart Stafford

I am the shadow in your peripheral vision,
A rippling in the brilliantine matrix,
A wind's mesmerising, gossamer lullaby,
The speck of dust for a euphoric sneeze.

I am the shimmering, starry shell of night,
The bird that bathes in transient pools,
A cloud, shaped by myriad perspectives,
Flaming phoenix flower picked to re-sprout.

I am the tribal cave of rest and warmth,
The cleansing pool of birth and rebirth,
The fire of light, heat, and nourishment,
The beloved departed's shawl on cold nights.

I am soup and a sandwich on a rainy day,
Banquet feast of a gathering of the clans,
Caviar of the commonplace, regal remnants,
An after-dinner mint to soothe and satiate.

I am the floating shadow clinging to the corner of your eye.

© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“I see people. But I don’t see humanity.”
― Phoenix Moon, Emotional Roller Coaster: Confessions of a soul reborn from the ashes

“Women should have silk stockings and be fulfilled.
There is nothing like a silk stocking on a bad rainy day
When your hair is oily and you live in a cold Garçonnière
You put on the heater at six even though you’re supposed to keep it at three
It’s just another lemon tree,
Even on a Wednesday.”
― Ioana Cristina Casapu

“El viento de otoño silbó su inestable cancioncilla y ella, abstraída, comenzó a bailar.”
― Amara Muhurta, Momentos que se esfuman para crear otros

“The Reluctant Guest by Stewart Stafford

My hand extended
to an off-the-grid stray;
Yet, still he scowls,
And smacks it away.

Near-gone from the world,
His blindfold horizon quails,
That veteran heart stiffens,
As frozen asphalt exhales.

A ghost at his own funeral,
Thwarting hopes of a life—
Institutionalised in cement,
A fold in warm cardboard strife.

Frontal assault to backdoor pivot:
Dinner in his mother’s memory.
A toothless grin at my tactic,
A bridge to nourishing festivity.

© 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Estos días sin besarte
han sido un largo etcétera.”
― Alex Díaz

“Overthinking:
I love the fact that we now live in the „someday"-
And that it feels so much easier than the past ever prepared us for.”
― Laura Chouette, Where the Quiet Blooms

“Antiseptic Awakening by Stewart Stafford

See the rainbow spattered
With dark blood moon juice.
This creeping haemorrhage,
A lacerated spectrum merged.

Bruised trickles not halting,
Violations in crimson stealth.
Impotent, alleged lifeforms,
Ashen foot-dragging below.

Casually surrendered hues,
The arterial strain's zenith.
No colour in cheek nor sky,
Bleached by antiseptic snow.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“The Scavenger's Ledger by Stewart Stafford

The scratch of a nib on paper
Tells me I am alive, I think.
At this Heaven/Hell midpoint—
A torn throat for a poison drink.

The horizon lit up again tonight,
Rebels fight for futile freedom,
Happiness, a cold, distant stranger,
No gifted transfusion to bleed him.

Willingly failing the audition of life,
Food appears to have lost all taste,
A numb tongue or cheap ingredients,
I cannot let one crumb go to waste.

They’ve finally cured me of love,
Stripped every vestige of me away,
Carrying my grave upon my back,
Their snail slithers from day to day.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Bonfire of Broken Hearts by Stewart Stafford

A shivering man craving warmth,
Mustn't let the fire consume him,
Despite temptation heat flares,
In arousal-seared microseconds.

Lured in with passion's promise,
A stray spark or lick of flame is all
Love ignites into walking fireball—
Devotion's immolation sacrifice.

On a cracked cardiac bonfire,
Toughened muscles take time to burn,
An atrophied, coarse chest slump,
Once burned it is charcoal brittle.

In the hall of mirrors' reflection,
ICU, but do you see any of me?
No salve - a scorched psyche set free.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“SAN, NEOPROSTOM OPTOČEN

Lišće oktobra
dobilo je boju medaljona
kojeg si mi donio
s pohoda na nježne vratne žile.

Sad, kad si nepovratno otišao
u utrobu Lucifera,
često sanjam jesen:

iz prokisle zemlje niču vratovi
s ogrlicama od žice,
i duše
optočene neoprostom.”
― Sandra Džananović

“Knowhere by Stewart Stafford

Poleaxed by vampiric tapping—
rattling timeline of a loop lapping—
Hypochondriac paranoid toothache,
tasting everything I see and break.

Showed my tongue to an undertaker;
licked his face — proved I’m no faker.
A measured, grim diagnosis followed,
matter from a cardiac pump hollowed.

Draped loosely in a tea towel shroud,
resurrected—naked, loud, and proud—
Rocket to the pub for a post-wake baptism,
a ploughman’s lunch with relish schism.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Caí como aquel árbol que se arroja en el bosque, torpemente, pretendiendo ser oído.”
― Escarlata Zueras Pérez, Despertando Azul

“The streets are still there,
coloured by dark music,
and the crumbling roofs
beneath which lives flow
full of northern winds.

My shadow is still there too:
light as a girl’s dream
of hazel-coloured eyes,
heavy as a woman’s step
towards the execution ground of the past.

In the embrace of eternal November
this city has gone blind from silence
that resembles last year’s snow,

and, pacing in place,
it waits in vain for May,

killed by the hand of a friend
from some other, warmer life.”
― Sandra Džananović , Walking On The Land Of Dead Brothers

“We were told that we are one.
By soul, by blood. By the land we share like bread, yet have broken like bone.
By the language that crumbles in our mouths like a tooth that no longer belongs to the jaw.
We were told to love those whose eyes we learned to look at through the barrel of a gun - those whose wounds resemble ours, yet no longer mean the same.”
― Sandra Džananović

“The Fading Game by Stewart Stafford

Though your life was stolen from me,
I greedily wanted—and want—more.
Death made us necessary strangers,
And you, hostage to a timepiece fog.

Pain’s screams in the kettle’s whistle—
The brittle choreography of survivor’s guilt,
Self-loathing: I had let you flee my memory,
Your voice relapsed to white noise in life’s static.

Assuming my agitated reaction made you recoil,
As you faded as soon as you had arrived,
The desire to connect was overridden
by mutual bartering for a wary ceasefire.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Aubergine, Auberga, Life Goes On by Stewart Stafford

The Devil is in the oxtails,
A foetus lacking the superb,
Granny Smith or Granny Shit,
Modulation without the reverb.

A penguin picked up gingerly,
Unaware what had hit his ice,
A Matterhorn tuxedo Cha-Cha,
Casinoed fits from tumbling dice.

O, to have knees of broccoli!
Each eye a glittering ruby grape,
A peacenik parsley neck surrender,
Florid garnish to an eggplant nape.

Forgive me if I go daydreaming,
Your déjà vu’s recurring nightmare,
An offer of hunger strike insomnia,
A gun-to-the-head vigil with flair.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“The Risk Assessor's Audit by Stewart Stafford

An actuary at the butcher’s table,
Serpentine watch-chain, strung as a noose,
Each second, costed with surgical élan,
Logging the theft in Babel columns loose.

The paper catacomb lies crumpled,
Its tenant, a doorway hobo in arrears,
The knowing leaseholder's smile worn,
Who'd changed the locks on all the years.

The mutilated currency of memories,
Clipped coinage set for melted dooms,
Dried blood trickles in the hourglass,
Turnkey guardian of vast, derelict rooms.

© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford