Epigram
A draught from Helicon could once inspire
The bard to wing in song his loftiest flight;
But poets of these later times require
A draft from Wall Street, payable at sight.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Its All I Can Do
One too many times I fell over you
Once in a shadow I finally grew
And once in a night I dreamed you were there
I canceled my flight from going nowhere
Its all I can do
To keep waiting for you
Its all I can do
Its all I can do
(its all I can do)
One too many times I twisted the gate
When I was crazy I thought you were great
I kept my renditions of you on the wall
Where holiday romance is nothing at all
Its all I can do
To keep waiting for you
Its all I can do
Its all I can do
(its all I can do)
You wait in the wing like a saturday flirt
Protecting the judge, you dont want to get hurt
Once in a moment it all comes to you
As soon as you get it you want something new
Its all I can do
To keep waiting for you
Its all I can do
Its all I can do
(its all I can do)
Its all I can do
To keep waiting for you
Its all I can do
Its all I can do
(its all I can do)
Its all I can do
To keep waiting for you
Its all I can do
Its all I can do
(its all I can do)
[repeat, fade]
song performed by by Cars
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dryden and Pope
Of our Laureate we now do sing-
His youthful muse had daring wing,
He then despised Baronhood,
And sang 'twas noble to be good.
None sang like him of knights of old,
He England's glory did uphold,
In wondrous song he hath arrayed.
Glorious charge of light brigade.
And he hath the people's benison.
Greatest of living poets, Tennyson.
Genius of Dryden and of Pope,
Both did take a mighty scope ;
The first he Virgil did translate,
The second showed us Troy's fate.
On English themes they loved to sing,
And high their muses flight did wing.
poem by James McIntyre
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A Poetical Epistle To Sir William Bennet, Bart. of Grubbat
My trembling muse your honour does address,
That it's a bold attempt most humbly I confess;
If you'll encourage her young fagging flight,
She'll upwards soar and mount Parnassus' height.
If little things with great may be compared
In Rome it so with the divine Virgil fared;
The tuneful bard Augustus did inspire,
Made his great genius flash poetic fire;
But if upon my flight your honour frowns,
The muse folds up her wings, and dying - justice owns.
poem by James Thomson
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Arrow and the Song, The
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Arrow and the Song
I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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At A Time When You Wanted To Leave On A Bright Morning (Villanelle)
From me do not take flight,
we should be happy at the brake of day
when the darkness is conquered by light.
In the morning suddenly everything is clear and bright,
even birds on the branches do twitter and play.
From me do not take flight,
know that my feelings for you are true and right,
are there in times of sorrow and when everything is gay,
when the darkness is conquered by light.
Even if at times we argue, at times in conversations fight
you still do love me even when you threaten to go away.
From me do not take flight,
sometimes you look lovely even through my tearful sight
and here now I beg you to stay,
when the darkness is conquered by light
and love me as intense as you did last night,
know my true feelings I pray.
From me do not take flight,
when the darkness is conquered by light.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Rivers Of Babylon
By the rivers of babylon
Where he sat down
And there he went
When he remebered zion.
For the wicked, carry us away
Captivity require from us a song
How can we sing king alphas song in a strange land?
So let the words of our mouth
And the meditations of our hearts
Be acceptable in thy sight
Over i
By the rivers of babylyon
Where he sat down
And there he went
When he remebered zion.
For the wicked, carry us away
Captivity require from us a song
How can we sing king alphas song in a strange land?
song performed by by Sublime
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Living It Up
Poets inscribe their sentiments
Inspire by innate intuitive elements
Which accumulate through daily existence
In this life quite complex excites indulgence.
Singers sing out their emotions
Inspire by ardent romantic notions
Which linger in the hearts that beat
With magical feelings that blaze heat.
Both poets and singers are articulate
In expressing the intimate human state
Of the complexities yet well-meant phase
Living it up in this world as though perfect maze.
poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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Delicate Beauty
Drunken mystics
Reveal simple truths
Like the fragility
Of child-like hearts;
But if you shun
Broken, street poets
For a penthouse view
And the Arts and Entertainment section
Of the Wall Street Journal,
You will never perceive
The delicate beauty
Of humanity in decline.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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A Good Friend To Me
The gold billed blackbird whistling upon the the garden tree
For the past few years a good neighbour to me
He whistles every day all through the Spring
And his song to it has a distinctive ring.
From the other all dark males of his race him I know
Since on his left wing a few flight feathers white as snow
He tells other males of his kind in his song
This patch of ground to me and mine belong.
Each time I hear the blackbird pipe and sing
My thoughts return to the far northern Spring
On Spring evenings in groves by Millstreet Town
The blackbirds pipe before the sun goes down.
The blackbird whistling on the wattle tree
He only sings to proclaim territory
His neighbour males the warning in his song hear
And his border they dare not venture near.
The blackbird in the garden a good friend to me
I know him by sight each time him I see
By the few white feathers on his left side wing
And his song it takes me to the Northern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Who Are We Going To Blame Next?
Those liberals with their left wing,
Spend and handout point of views
With their special interest values
To be at every groups' beck and call.
Doting over 'those' people declaring
Affirmative action and quotas
Provide balances for hiring, firing
And housing needs!
'Yeah...right!
And if it wasn't for the conservatives,
With their right wing philosophies...
We might not be facing a complete
Economic devastation.
And those terrorists we've been fighting,
Enticed the corruption on Wall Street.
Well...
Who are we going to blame next?
Looks as if we've run out of deceit, alibis and excuses!
And the 'enemies' are buying up all the devalued property...
As well as providing us loans to keep up our facade.
The times aren't what they use to be,
When it was simple and easy...
To get anyone to believe our accusations.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Bridgeless Road
Should draught conditions
continue we will require
a bridgeless flat road.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Moments Of Writing Poetry
Draft poems sometimes like
loose ripped off pieces of paper
to be drafted out roughly upon.
Draft poems hang around
in the strangest places waiting
to be written out one day.
Draft poems wait for a poet
to wake at the beginning of day
to be written out, in any
seized moments, sacrificed.
This is now time, shower time, eating time,
reflective time, conversation time, work time;
t.v. time, driving time, riding motorcycle time,
going to sleep time, cooking time, or any time.
Draft poems can only be written
in spared moments of seized time.
Draft poems can only be written today,
they will not wait for fair weather like hay,
which lays around waiting to be harvested.
Draft poems will not wait for a clear sunny day to dawn,
and then mature slowly, over a perfect golden summer.
Draft poems are ever now or never
if they are ever to be swiftly written.
A draft may possibly be perfected
upon any future day of favoured writing;
but a draft never written is a poem
never written, never completed, never known.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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On The Goddess Of Poesy
The Goddess of Poesy the Goddess of Song
To the Universal immortals she surely belong
The poets of the World her praises do sing
The gift of poetry to their souls she does bring.
The poets to write poems Goddess Poesy inspire
And of singing her praises they don't seem to tire
The poetry of sorrow the poetry of joy
The poetry of youth of the young girl and boy.
The poetry of youthfulness and of growing old
Of young women in their prime lovely to behold
The beauty of Nature the birds and the bees
The mammals and fishes of land and of seas.
The Goddess of poets of every gender race and creed
For their inspiration to write in her lives her they need
Of love, life and Nature she inspires poets to write
For the lovers of poetry to read and recite.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Two Poets
Two poets were born where the skies were fair,
To live in the land thereafter;
And one was a singer of sorrow and care,
And one was a bard of laughter.
With simple measure and simple word,
The feelings of mankind voicing –
And light hearts listened and sad hearts heard,
And they went on their way rejoicing.
The glad rejoiced that the world was gay –
Who took no thought of the morrow-
And it ever has lightened the sad hearts’ way
To hear of another’s’ sorrow.
The poets died when none were aware,
(For no one could see the token)
That light of heart was the bard of care,
But the heart of the other was broken.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.
quote by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The City Of Poets,12/26/09
in the city
of poets
all men
are equals
and stride about
congratulating
one another
on their genius.
in the city
of poets
the statistics
of attentive readers
exceed
all expectations
and the bookstores
burst
like fat silos
with their harvest
of rhyme.
in the city
of poets
passports
to immortality
are issued
with abandon,
frontiers
evaporate,
and customs gates
are thrown open
by exuberant
and trusting
guards.
The city of poets
is a classless
society
where no one
dares admit
the existence
of aristocrats
or kings
and everyone
shamelessly
lays claim
to successful
expression.
In the city of poets
bad verse
drives out good
or rather
drowns it
in a sea
of mediocrity,
a conspiracy
of equality,
a brotherhood
of banality,
and every man
is his own
best
bard.
poem by Percy Dovetonsils
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If I Had The Gift To Inspire You With Heroic Words
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would tell you that I do not fear death
And that against Time and its ruins
I will stand strong to the end-
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would tell you that at the hardest times the darkest times
One’s inner light must light the way again-
I would tell you that beyond every inhumane cruel challenge
Can come your most saving action-
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would say that we need not ever be afraid of anyone or anything again-
But I do not have the gift and I do not have such courage-
I have only the examples of others more heroic than me
That seem to come from another universe
And have powers I never knew humans could have-
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would say ‘Go to Others More Courageous than me
They will lead you to great victories
And with them you can sing to the end of your days
Praise and praise again for what you are'-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Recent Appearance Of A Lady
The joy of meeting one so fair,
Inspires the present stream of song;
A bonny belle,
That few excel,
And one with whom I few compare,
Though out of sight so long.
It is a cause of much delight,
When lads and lasses meet again;
But, bonny belle,
No long to dwell,
For soon, upon the wing of flight,
We haste away in pain.
That long hid form I smile to trace,
A star emerging out of gloom,
Exalted belle,
Whose powers impel,
And draw the heart by every grace,
The queen of every bloom.
Long out of sight, but still in mind,
Eternal me'mry holds its grasp,
Still, bonny belle,
'Tis sweet to tell
Of thee, when I am left behind
In sorrow's lonely clasp.
poem by George Moses Horton
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