Baby Poetry Quotes & Sayings

A living body is not a fixed thing but a flowing event, like a flame or a whirlpool: the shape alone is stable, for the substance is a stream of energy going in at one end and out at the other. We are particularly and temporarily identifiable wiggles in a stream that enters us in the form of light, heat, air, water, milk, bread, fruit, beer, beef Stroganoff, caviar, and pate de foie gras. It goes out as gas and excrement - and also as semen, babies, talk, politics, commerce, war, poetry, and music. And philosophy. — Alan Watts

Babies are not brought by storks and poets are not produced by workshops. — James Fenton

Somebody's sent a funny little valentine to me. It's a bunch of baby-roses in a vase of filigree, And hovering above them ... is a fairy cupid tangled in a scarf of poetry. — James Whitcomb Riley

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. — Sylvia Plath

It takes one a long time to become young. - Picasso — Patsy Asuncion

Poetry is what we turn to in the most emotional moments of our life - when a beloved friend dies, when a baby is born or when we fall in love. — Erica Jong

A steampunk nation
Baby pollution rises up then the loving comes arraigning 'cause
Our art's official and only partially artificial
And our heart's in the middle of sharp hardened shards of metal but
There's not where it settles
Because it's beating to the steaming of God's hottest pot or kettle
And now we face it, this creation we made to
To save our craving for a synthetic rebelnation it's
Our safeway they make into a pathetic revelation
In our steampunk nation
Our steampunk nation — Criss Jami

You can't rock the boat & act like you were just trying to put a baby to sleep. — Curtis Tyrone Jones

Naming a baby is an act of poetry, for many people the only creative moment of their lives. — Richard Eyre

I've finally decided to write about profit for a change
But before I really started I already started to feel lame
Baby what's it to a beast who manely to money remains untamed — Criss Jami

Adrienne Rich had it right. No one gives a crap about motherhood unless they can profit off it. Women are expendable and the work of childbearing, done fully, done consciously, is all-consuming. So who's gonna write about it if everyone doing it is lost forever within it? You want adventures, you want poetry and art, you want to salon it up over at Gertrude and Alice's, you'd best leave the messy all-consuming baby stuff to someone else. Birthing and nursing and rocking and distracting and socializing and cooking and washing and gardening and mending: what's that compared with bullets whizzing overhead, dazzling destructive heroics, headlines, parties, — Elisa Albert

When the boys yell after you like hyenas, you yell back, baby.
I will not teach you to be afraid of your anger
so that you look for it in others.
I will not make you be the better person,
because you already are.
You wanna fight 'em? Fight 'em.
Don't you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it. — Caitlyn Siehl

I held this girl in my arms
She wrapped her tiny fingers around mine.
It was then that I realized.
She was the fusion.
The glue.
The cement that bound all my pieces together.
The piece that seals my puzzle.
The piece that completes my life.
The element that makes me who I am.
Who I was.
Who I'll one day be.
You, baby girl.
You're my final piece. — Colleen Hoover

Moonlight drifts from over
A hundred thousand miles
To fall upon a cemetery
It reads a hundred epitaphs
And then smiles at a nest of
Baby owls — Richard Brautigan

Poetry should be like 'Uh-huh. Baby has to have it. — Chelsey Minnis

I am a baby, I am a child, I am the innocent wonder in my eyes

I am a glimpse, I am a sign, of someone I can be, someone I might

I am not one, I am not two, but I am a million things entwined

I am a piece, I am a slice, strung together by the yarns of time. — Sanober Khan

Love me
get lost in me
but beware
side effects include
a lot of shivering, baby
a lot of drinking, maybe
a lot of sinking, baby — Casey Renee Kiser

Hey, baby. You got a light? I've got some dark. — Tarin Towers

Sleep my baby, rock-a-bye,
On the edge you must not lie.
Wolf the Fluffy roams astray,
Will he grab you, drag away?
Into Furthest Darkest Woods,
Hide you under Willow roots?
There birdies chirp and squeak,
Will they let you fall asleep? — Stanislaw Sielicki

A poem is all that's left of my lost loneliness ...
It is like a window that looks into a swimming pool ...
Or an a empty gun indentation in velvet ...
And a baby gazelle given as a gift ... — Chelsey Minnis

Where, then, do we find the truth? We find it in the body, in the woods, in the water, in the soil. We find it in music, dance, and sometimes in poetry. We find it in a baby's face, and in the adult's face behind the mask. We find it in each other's eyes, when we look. We find it in an embrace, which is, when we feel into it, being to being, an incredibly intimate act. We find it in laughter and sobs, and we find it in the voice behind the spoken word. We find it in fairy tales and myths, and the tales we tell, even if fictional. Sometimes embroidering a tale enlarges it as a vehicle for the truth. We find it in silence and stillness. We find it in pain and loss. We find it in birth and death. — Charles Eisenstein

He wanted to tell the baby that Paris was like a poem in stone. — Simon Van Booy

You write poetry?" Klaus asked.
He had read a lot about poets but had never met one.
"Just a little bit," Isadora said modestly. "I write poems down in this notebook. It's an interest of mine."
"Sappho!" Sunny shrieked, which meant something like, "I'd be very pleased to hear a poem of yours! — Lemony Snicket

They blew up your homes and demolished the grocery / stores and blocked the Red Cross and took away doctors / to jail and they cluster-bombed girls and boys / whose bodies / swelled purple and black into twice the original size / and tore the buttocks from a four month old baby / and then / they said this was brilliant — June Jordan

That night, stargazing on the deck with Dad, eyes on the sky, he pointed out Orion, Betelgeuse. "It's an art to read the stars, baby."
I never wanted to leave his side-my sure song for so long. Now? His eyes are stone changed. Just looking at them hurts my heart. — Norma Fox Mazer

I wanted to write some words you'd remember.

Words so alert they'd leap from the paper,
crawl up your shoulder, lie by your ears,
and purr themselves to you like baby kittens,
but it was rainy, so I laid there and daydreamed about you. — C.L. Foster

He welcomes the chance to do fatherly things with the little girl, and those ten morning minutes with dear little four-year-old Ruby, with her deep soulful eyes, and the wondrous things she sees with them, and her deep soulful voice, and the precious though not entirely memorable things she says with it, and the smell of baby shampoo and breakfast cereal filling the car, that little shimmering capsule of time is like listening to cello music in the morning, or watching birds in a flutter of industry building a nest, it simply reminds you that even if God is dead, or never existed in the first place, there is, nevertheless, something tender at the center of creation, some meaning, some purpose and poetry. — Scott Spencer

they told her, "fear the reaper."
she laughed to herself and muttered, 'baby, death ain't nothing' more than a quick fuck.
a little bit of silence after he comes. — Taylor Rhodes

Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions. — Carl Sandburg

Cotton rows crisscross the world
And dead-tired nights of yearning
Thunderbolts on leather strops
And all my body burning
Sugar cane reach up to God
And every baby crying
Shame a blanket of my night
And all my days are dying — Maya Angelou

I care for you, darling, I love you,
the only reason I fucked L. is because you fucked
Z. and then I fucked R. and you fucked N.
and because you fucked N. I had to fuck
Y. But I think of you constantly, I feel you
here in my belly like a baby, love I'd call it,
no matter what happens I'd call it love, and so
you fucked C. and then before I could move
you fucked W., so I had to fuck D. But
I want you to know that I love you, I think of you
constantly, I don't think I've ever loved anybody
like I love you. — Charles Bukowski