Poetry Cornered
[a poetry (mis)reading by Keith Moon]
*(announcing): "It's 'Poetry Cornered'."
[theme music plays]
(reading): "'And when I look upon your face
I would that we were in some place
Where you could be my pet
My dove
So live with me
And be my vole'."
(confused): "...Vole? Hang on."
(rereading): "'Where you could be my pet
My dove
Live with me
And be my-- vole'."
(still confused): "Hang on-- that can't be right."
[*'Poet's corner is slang for 'toilet
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
A Poet Became His Own Poetry
A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY
A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.
A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drunk On Poetry
Poetry surges steadily
Through my veins
I grant it to stream through them
Day in and day out
Sleep and awake
I believe it's a healthy obsession
I get drunk on it
The more I inject in me
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become addicted
Sometimes I absorb too much poetry
Reading, writing and listening
I become drunk sometimes
Poetry spills from my pen
Inking a piece of paper
And unto another and another
Constantly on every thought
Humorous, emotionally, romantic, tragic
Experiencing in life
Opinionated, factual, abstract
Political, any subject that's on my thoughts
Sometimes I become drunk
The more i inject into me
Poetry I live for
Eat, drink, sleep
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
I loose myself sometimes
When I digest too much
Poems that I write
I write for me
I share them with the world
I can't resist this urge
Poetry is what I crave
It happens to be my mistress
I become drunk
The more I inject
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become so addicted
Breathing in too much poetry
Reading, writing, listening
I'm drunk sometimes
Poetry I write
Write from experience
What I've done
What I've heard
What I've seen
What I've felt
What I've known
Poetry I live for
Eating, drinking, sleeping
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
On my thoughts poetry
Loosing myself sometimes
When I inject enough
This is what I've become
A drunken poet
poem by R.K. Cowles
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There are distinct duties of a poet laureate. I plan a reading series at the Library of Congress and advise the librarian. The rest is how I want to promote poetry.
An Educated Crocodile Is Still A Crocodile
Rabbit
with a habit
lived in a hole
next to Vole.
And his habit was his link with the beginning of it all
and kept him looking different
from his neighbour, Vole.
So they laid a proper treat on,
washed his face and brushed his hair;
and they took him off to Eton
to be educated there.
There, they dressed him in a boater,
smart black jacket, white bow-tie;
and then they took his photo,
just to please his Auntie Vye.
And they fed him on cucumbers,
Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats.
And they taught him compound numbers
and such intellectual treats.
He learned to say, 'What rot! '
And would ask 'How do you do? '
So they popped him in a pot,
part of a rabbit and rhubarb stew!
(MORAL: AN EDUCATED HABIT IS STILL A RABBIT!)
poem by Brian Taylor
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Live With Love
Live with love
O my dear
Live with poetry
Here there is
No obstacle
And here I am
With poetry
With love
I respect love
And here I see
My victory
I am with
My poetry
Nothing to confused
And there is
No ambiguity.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Confused
I am confused with love and fear.
I am confused with the taste of my tear.
I am confused of where I'll go.
I am confused of what I'll know.
I am confused of whos my family.
I am confused of what makes me happy.
I am confused by what I do.
I am confused of what's true.
I am confused by your touch.
I am confused oh so much.
poem by Jean Pullman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As A Child I Loved Poetry
AS A CHILD I LOVED POETRY
As a child I loved poetry,
As an old man I love poetry-
Years of reading poetry are in me,
A lifetime of poetry.
But as a poet,
I am less than what I know from others,
And less than what I would have been-
A small poet
Of small lines
Old and getting older
And still loving the lines
That rhyme inside
And make life more beautiful.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poetry Of Confession
THE POETRY OF CONFESSION
The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-
Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-
The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –
The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-
The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –
A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Poem Like So Many Others I Write
This poem like so many others I write
Is a simple confession of what I think and feel now-
For me it is poetry
I hear it that way-
But I do not know if it is poetry for you-
I am a poet in doubt as to the value of my own poetry
Sometimes I try to overcome that doubt
By deliberately writing feelings and thoughts
I believe others share-
But I do not know if reading and recognizing real poetry
Is Empathy in this way.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Poetry
This poetry is not poetry
This poetry is not poetry as poetry goes
But is as silent as a man in a rollo neck jumper
Almost reading yesterdays news
This poetry is not poetry
As far as poetry goes
It is neither verse
Or poesy prose
This is a debunking of 'The poetry'
Everyone knows
And so they are not amused
This poetry is not poetry
So why poetry?
If not
Prose?
It is as idle as a man picking his nose
Pondering a wonderful muse
Yet some, are not amused
Infact if this poetry is Not poetry
What right have I to use, the word poetry?
It is a lovely panacea for expressing and de stressing
The individual's points of view
And yet if not poetry
Who says Not poetry
And who is qualified to choose?
Give me a pocket full of roses
Or a misty morning cloud
Are you amused?
clammy wynette aka Yvette m smith
march 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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I Am Not A Poet 2
When I feel I am really a poet
I see my flesh is poetry
My pleasure is poetry
My pains are poetry
My feelings are poetry.
Poetry protects me
Poetry teaches me
How to fight back and win.
Poetry is my freedom
Poetry is my independence
Poetry is my flag
And an anthem
Poetry is my prophet
And a messanger.
But I am not a poet
Do not read me
Burn me into ashes
Let there be a flower
From the ashes.
poem by Devil Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Spirit Of Poetry!
when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove
When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?
Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself
Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way
When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner
On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications
Future of poetry is in heaven
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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Wings Of Silk
In a flight of silken silence
Wings of velvet stroke
Pinions soft as melted butter
With touch as light as smoke
Huge bright eyes of earthen brown
Ne'er ceasing to peer around
To perceive the vole's
most minute sound
Then… as if a ghostly
Downy dart
Wings of silk
Spread wide apart
A muted squeak
Stop'd short in surprise
And from the snow
Doth feathered phantom rise
Then talons spread
Returns to lurch
Onto it's branch
Upon which to perch
And ‘neath the branch
Said vole will soon to fall
Snug again…wrap't tight within
It's very own fur-ball
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Panic
Panic on the streets of london
Panic on the streets of birmingham
I wonder to myself
Could life ever be sane again ?
The leeds side-streets that you slip down
I wonder to myself
Hopes may rise on the grasmere
But honey pie, you're not safe here
So you run down
To the safety of the town
But there's panic on the streets of carlisle
Dublin, dundee, humberside
I wonder to myself
Burn down the disco
Hang the blessed dj
Because the music that they constantly play
It says nothing to me about my life
Hang the blessed dj
Because the music they constantly play
On the leeds side-streets that you slip down
Or provincial towns you jog 'round
Hang the dj, hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Hang the dj, hang the dj
Thankyou ...
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetries Travesty
Poetry is not such a pleasure
To those who live in reality
and it will forever be a leisure
To those who live in insanity
The world begrudges poetry with its whole being
For it involves a complex explanation
and from this we believe poetry is not worth reading
For it ensues exaggeration
Hearing poetry for many is torture
To poets this is an old calamity
What will come to them in the future
The great poets of this world’s society
One emotion shaped from a hand gesture
Made something in words; while dreaming
Yet even if poetry is not your pleasure
There will be a day we all will be believing
Paltry words speak of an insecure
Talent; tangible of tergiversation
and from this envoy we can ensure
That in this time there will be a transformation
poem by Joseph Michalski
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry
Reading poetry is my afternoon tea
It's my crossword puzzle when my time is free
It's my game of football, where I scream and shout
Reading, reading, reading; what's it all about
Nothing think I delights me so
A new poetress has a show
Or when a young poet man
In words takes he a stand
It's good to know, as the world's poets go
Tis strong and has force to show
That moments come, and they pass
Poets rise up, assume their tasks
poem by Midnights Voice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To a fellow poet
What can I give you –
for only giving can I think of,
in this dark season of the year
which needs no festive name, to name the need…
this dark season, when hearts yearn
for all that’s bright, and warm, and love..
what can I give you, at this time?
I give you – music… music, heard
outside the heart’s dark winter door
to say, that all’s not lost; all’s never lost;
there’s music still and always, through the door…
you’ll hear, and know yourself to be that all…
I give you – laughter… laughter, on the face
of strangers, as you open that dark door;
strangers who laughing turn to you
and share their laughter and a proffered hand;
a room of laughter shared with you, illusions laughed away…
As poet gives to poet, these I give you;
they are – but poetry;
as poetry, may live.
*
[occasioned by discussion of ‘the three persons’ in poetry:
the confessional poetry of ‘I’;
the poetry that speaks and gives to ‘you’;
and the poetry of he, she, it, they – of universal truth..]
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old
Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.
poem by Eric Graham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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