A Letter to a Live Poet
Sir, since the last Elizabethan died,
Or, rather, that more Paradisal muse,
Blind with much light, passed to the light more glorious
Or deeper blindness, no man's hand, as thine,
Has, on the world's most noblest chord of song,
Struck certain magic strains. Ears satiate
With the clamorous, timorous whisperings of to-day,
Thrilled to perceive once more the spacious voice
And serene utterance of old. We heard
- With rapturous breath half-held, as a dreamer dreams
Who dares not know it dreaming, lest he wake -
The odorous, amorous style of poetry,
The melancholy knocking of those lines,
The long, low soughing of pentameters,
- Or the sharp of rhyme as a bird's cry -
And the innumerable truant polysyllables
Multitudinously twittering like a bee.
Fulfilled our hearts were with that music then,
And all the evenings sighed it to the dawn,
And all the lovers heard it from all the trees.
All of the accents upon all the norms !
- And ah ! the stress on the penultimate !
We never knew blank verse could have such feet.
Where is it now ? Oh, more than ever, now
I sometimes think no poetry is read
Save where some sepultured Cæsura bled,
Royally incarnadining all the line.
Is the imperial iamb laid to rest,
And the young trochee, having done enough
Ah ! turn again ! Sing so to us, who are sick
Of seeming-simple rhymes, bizarre emotions,
Decked in the simple verses of the day,
Infinite meaning in a little gloom,
Irregular thoughts in stanzas regular,
Modern despair in antique metres, myths
Incomprehensible at evening,
And symbols that mean nothing in the dawn.
The slow lines swell. The new style sighs. The Celt
Moans round with many voices.
God! to see
Gaunt anapaests stand up out of the verse,
Combative accents, stress where no stress should be,
Spondee on spondee, iamb on choriamb,
The thrill of all the tribrachs in the world,
And all the vowels rising to the E!
To hear the blessed mutter of those verbs,
Conjunctions passionate toward each other's arms,
And epithets like amaranthine lovers
Stretching luxuriously to the stars,
All prouder pronouns than the dawn, and all
The thunder of the trumpets of the noun!
poem by Rupert Brooke (1911)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Moderns
To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Hear Within Myself The Greater Lines Of Others
I HEAR WITHIN MYSELF THE GREATER LINES OF OTHERS
I hear within myself the greater lines of others-
I began to write ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’
I thought ‘Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way’
I felt ‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep’
I thought again ‘Doth God exact day – labor light denied? ”
I felt in my soul ‘Ah love let us be true to one another For the world which lies before us like a land of dreams ‘
Inside me I heard ‘The world is filled with the grandeur of God’
Time after time I repeated ‘O cursed spite that ever I was born to set it right’-
All in me is poetry more than my own
‘Oh to be in England, now that April’s here’
'Oh wild west wind thou breath of autumn's being'
I do not know how to stop the lines -
More in me than myself is the Poetry of others
And where I begin must end a greater Beauty not my own-
Oh Poem Oh Poetry Oh Poets of the Past
Oh Light of the world greater than my own small light-
Oh singing in the wilderness a song not my own
Oh much more than I can ever be
Others’ Poetry.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Death of Poetry
Poetry is dead and God is alive.
I heard these words and began to cry.
Without poetry what would become of me,
Drowning in a sea of Christianity?
Poetry is dead and long let it lie
With its Thee and its Thy and its Thou and its Thine
May we never see another line
Of iambic pentameter with end-stopped rhymes.
Poetry is dead, and so it shall lay,
Mouldering at the pit of its shallow grave.
And no longer will they give a hoot
For the quatrain stanzas or the metered foot!
Poetry is dead at the bottom of the sea
With its anapests, dithyrambs, dactyls and spondees.
And also eight to sixteen lines
On your innermost feelings or the meaning of life.
Poetry is dead but how long will it stay
Before they resurrect it for another day?
Has it not been just a few years time
Since they said it was God who was dead—
-and poetry alive?
poem by Theresa Haffner
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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Versatile Verse - Polyacrostic Sonnet
Vanity within a verse scheme gave
Each alphomega, each word's aura, ease.
Run through in print, as content rhymes to please,
Springs, rising sprightly, links few see, most crave.
Apart here thread we tight, taut, autoclave,
Tacit, yes, yet pate-play may seem tease.
In lines smooth I express this hidden frieze, -
Lucid keepsake, light, keen, subtle stave.
Emphatic theme expect, - interpret rave!
Vain verse-vine vile? Voice very vivid? Seize
Externals terse are shade, sense secret keys.
Rare is this art, rare verses are, - rhyme save.
A sonnet's stress sometimes less shows than's hid, -
Here's an example baring message grid.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Poetry holds the veil
Poetry, like Joseph, draws a written veil across its face,
Poetry speaks from behind the shawl of its own intrigue.
My beloved would know my plight if he read my verse,
He would sense my pain if he heard my cries.
Poetry, like the brow of my beloved, it is a sea of beauty,
Fitting for those of vision to reflect upon.
Poetry, like Mount Sinai of Moses, has witnessed the divine,
Struck by his figure, it shattered into shards.
Poetry uncovers the cravings of an aggrieved people,
For the foolish lover, my book of verse is a vow of maddened love.
Poetry is revealed in the realm of truth,
Each line invokes a voice of an unseen world.
Ardent like the roses, Yahya, I am too immersed
When I recite verses about his well-formed physique.
poem by Yahya Dukagjini
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Growth of Free Verse from the Metrical Verse.
When you think and feel
in terms of iambs or trochees
and sing them in series within,
you feel the pulse of a regular
rising or falling rhythm.
The recurring feet or beats make the lines
monotonous or surfeiting;
may be dull and flat at times..
The increasing anapaests
Makes the movement fast
But dactyls keep the tempo slow.
The epics and long tales of the past
with thrilling and grilling events
recharged our minds to linger long
in tasting of those sonorous lines.
You pen the shoddy lines
of words and phrases you think,
with a natural mix of humour and rhetorics
images and word-music
in long end-stopped or short enjambed ones.
Free verse lines of syncopation
blossom out of syncronised patterns
to sing the beauties of the mundane
and supreme things.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.
It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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The Meaning Of A Poem
THE MEANING OF A POEM
The meaning of a poem
Is written within the lines
And between them.
It is outside and around,
Under and above
Where the simple sense is.
The meaning of a poem surrounds and embeds it,
And forces it to twist and turn within and without itself,
In more directions than it itself knows.
The meaning of a poem burns-
And aches to show
Where the wound is.
Oh scars of words and simple singing melodies of light
Where is your balm of thunder and dawn, now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My audience
i write for the sun
moon, stars, sea,
the real readers
of my lines, verses
listen, the laps of the waves
they rush in estacy
to collect each of
my new poetic gems
strewn over the sand
look, the twinkling of the stars
they crystalise each
of my poetic thoughts
basking in their joy
shower their charms to the world
oh, yes, how could i forget the moon? my muse?
who cheers me up
as it signs in and out of the sky
in slender line, curvy line, round line,
to show its joy of my lines
never missing any line
and the sky that extends its heart
to all my poems, good or bad
giving the sun, stars, moon,
their recognised places
in this poetry world
the sea cheers on the rest
as the wind recites my lines
capturing my audience
in impressionistic bewilderment
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Artificial Verse - Parody William Cowper and Lucianus- Artificial Beauty
You give your verse a prosy st[r]ain,
with stress complete the air,
but vain attempts too often strain
and stress is in the air.
Those discords mock your daily toil,
no editors efface them,
and as blank lines from blank uncoil
its difficult to face them.
An art so fruitless then forsake –
which though you’d fain excel in –
you never may contrive to make
both form and sense flow well in.
8 December 1991
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Poetry Has A Rhythm Of Its Own
POETRY HAS A RHYTHM OF ITS OWN
Poetry has a rhythm of its own
I have lost it
I have words
I have sentences
But I have no rhythm-
I have flat lines
One after the blank other
A mind without depth
A sense of lack
But no real way
Of making a music of poetry
All my efforts now
Are like these lines
Without resonance
Simple and single in meaning
Not what a poem at its best
Should be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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18 Definitions Of Poetry
1) Poetry is what is Beautiful in words –
2) Poetry is the deepest feeling words can tell
3) Poetry is the soul of each one of us
4) Poetry is the morning light after the longest night
5) Poetry is a dream of dreams in a world that needs dreams to be
beautiful
6) Poetry is the Search for God and the Love of God in all holy writing
7) Poetry is Reality itself when it is doing what it should
8) Poetry is you and me and all of us when we are kind to each other
9) Poetry is more than we can say or know- deeper than the deepest
silence and quieter also
10) Poetry is the place we go to in ourselves when we need to cry out loud
11) Poetry is Love words of love and the first spring of the young lovers first
song
12) Poetry is all we are when our minds are right and strong
13) Poetry is what saves us from all the other words
14) Poetry is what ceases to exist when Cruelty comes
15) Poetry is Love and Blessing and Kindness again
16) Poetry cuts through the icy sea within and sends chills down the spine
17) Poetry is what is recollected in tranquility but also tried and tossed in
tempest on the most difficult seas
18) Poetry is open to more than what it has been It is what others have not yet created and will so long as we are human and in search of the Sublime
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Line By Line
Writing line by line
Can i capture the truth in rhyme
You tell me okay its fine
Whats fine my writings or the rhymes
Have you read enough this time
Rhyme line rhyme
Am i wasting my time
Do i even comprehend
The thoughts the static static
Inside my head
I send a piece to a friend
Or are they scared to offend
I need to know if its rubbish
Putting it out there to be published
Rhyme line verse
Do you speak the truth or were you coerced
So im taking you at your word
You have listened you heard
Line by line
Rhyme by rhyme
Can i be convicted of poetry crimes
For writing dribble
About nothing as long as it rhymes
Well thank you my friend
Here is another i am about to send
Read it and read it again
Maybe you can send on to a friend
Okay time to go
I have more pieces of dribble you know
Sing Aurora Sing
See the symphony of light o’er the sea.
Softly the agony resends softly.
Free rising orb setting harmony free.
Brightly absorb with a song so brightly.
Aurora light from morning aurora.
Song of the night is now operas' song.
Flora delight; like blossoms of flora.
Long is the sight with emotions so long.
Rising crescendo with morning rising.
Serene innuendo leaves mind serene.
Surprising opera; light surprising.
Pristine genera of human pristine.
So open your heart let the light sing so.
Know symphony light, and your mind will know.
Author Notes:
Shadow Sonnet with internal rhyme.
Shadow Sonnet created by Amera M. Andersen may be written in any sonnet style. The Shadow takes place at the beginning and ending of each line as the words are identical or homophonic.
14 lines
9 or 10 syllables per line
Should have a volta or pivit
Iambic pentameter is not necessary
poem by Amera Andersen
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Stress removes stress
Stress your eyes to stare;
Stress your ears to listen;
Stress your brain to think;
Stress your belly to secrete.
Then they grow out of stress.
04.03.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Magic Of Words
I admit to never having read much poetry before,
But now that I’ve started, I’m eager to read more.
I’ve discovered many poems, ones old and new;
There are all sorts: happy ones and sad ones to.
Some poems paint a picture, and are descriptive in their style.
While some are humorous, and are designed to make you smile.
There are also narrative style poems, such as the ‘Goblin Market’ story,
By Christina Rossetti, there are close to five hundred lines, in all their glory.
Alliteration always sounds extremely catchy and really rather nice –
When an initial consonant is sounded, in quick succession, at least twice.
Assonance also often comes in quite handy too,
Especially when the rhyme isn’t quite exactly true.
The addition of onomatopoeia can be a real whiz,
Adding sounds like Crash! Bang! Pop! And Fizz!
I love poems which have a regular rhythm, and which rhyme,
And I try my best to incorporate these factors into poems of mine.
In rhythm and rhyme, myself, I like to try and immerse,
As I have to admit that I’m not a particular fan of free verse.
With poetry, I’m really beginning to get a little bit obsessed.
I change words around, trying to see how they sound the best.
I like to keep my writing quite simple, not complex;
I hate it when words and ideas complicate the text.
I love it when words paint a picture in my inner mind;
When a masterpiece is created, as snapshots are combined.
My mind finds it difficult to process ideas which are too abstract;
I just like simple descriptions and a smattering of interesting facts.
Unless I understand the first few lines, I can get very easily bored,
And from then on, reading the rest of it can become quite a chore.
I’m not keen on poems which, I consider, are way too short,
As they probably haven’t really required that much thought,
And, likewise, I’m not keen on poems which, for me, are too long,
As reading them, can feel like running a twenty six mile marathon.
If I see a word in a poem which I have not previously seen,
I will look it up in a dictionary, to see exactly what it means.
I always enjoy learning the meaning of the odd new word,
But I hate it when there are many, of which, I’ve never heard.
I also like to look words up in a thesaurus to learn,
If I can swap them for an alternative word or term.
Reading and writing poetry can be a real education in themselves.
You pick up books which may have previously been left on the shelf.
If you’re sat concentrating on reading or writing,
Temporary release from problems, is quite inviting.
It can have a very calming affect upon your soul,
When life’s worries and woes have taken their toll.
I don’t know if I’m just going through a phase, or if my obsession will last;
Over the last few months or so, I really have been having an absolute blast!
I’ve felt proud of some of my works - I didn’t think I could do such things,
And I’ve really revelled in the happiness, into my life, which poetry brings.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Lesson
MY cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark wood
A mocking-bird's passionate song.
And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
And my life's cold winter that knew no spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
Of my heart too sad to sing.
But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,
A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, 'I can cheer some other soul
By a carol's simple art.'
For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
Come songs that brim with joy and light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
The mocking-bird sings at night.
So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
Though mine was a feeble art.
But at his smile I smiled in turn,
And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another's woes
Mine own had passed away.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Has music gone from poetry?
Has music gone from poetry?
Words and music, still agree?
Dance and rhythm, song and laughter,
Do they echo, now, hereafter..?
Has singing gone from poetry?
Words that sing a listened tune?
Lullaby and melody,
Old rhymes that sleepy mothers croon?
Has rhythm gone from poetry?
Quick as a dance-step, slow as a glide?
Laughing now; now weeping; now shouting with glee –
Dancing round you, singing, can’t catch me…
Has magic gone from poetry?
Spells that summon fairy Fates?
Incantations solemn spoken,
Heroes, giants, to danger woken?
Have light hearts gone from poetry?
Hearts that know the tears of life,
hearts that know the grief of strife,
yet sing and dance and laugh with glee?
Who loves, who loves not poetry?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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