Poets utter great and wise things which they do not themselves understand.
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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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Playing The Role Of The Fool
ONE Day
the wise man plays the role of a fool
in the market place
he meets the wise man
of the town
he pays homage to his
black cap
the mark of the wise man
in that little
town far away from
civilization
he bows to him
and does not utter a word
the wise man
signals him to stop
and he looks at him
direct to his eyes
like a comet
shooting the blackness
of space
and the wise man kisses
his hand
bows down to him
and hands his right hand to him
for a handshake
obviously the eyes of the birds
of the same feathers
understand their
chosen silences
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Infants Learn To Talk?
How infants understand things
And respond to our words
Is amazing!
Babies repeat the word they hear
In their mind frequently
And can remember some of them later!
Even six-months-old can utter words
And make simple sentences
In their mind
And understand them as well!
That’s why
Babies usually utter the first meaningful word
With their mouth when they are around one-year-old
And start saying many meaningful things
Within a very short time!
poem by Asif Andalib
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Alas, A Bard’s a Bruised Reed!
They make me mad- some people, known/ unknown;
They make me sad- their wiliness / ego;
They’re after money’s comfort on this earth!
Sense/ common-sense are things that’re a dearth.
They know how poets have suffered in life!
They know how poets land in utter strife!
They stay unmoved/ inert- husband or wife:
They wound my heart with words akin a knife.
Oh how I wish I should be, never me!
Oh how I wish I were akin to them;
Yet, I can’t simply change: I’m thus destined;
To Poesy must Bards always well bind.
Poetry isn’t something that pays at once;
It isn’t something that gives plenty returns;
A Poet seeks the truth without/ within;
And Truth is God: God abhors only sin!
Being like earthlings is not always right;
The destiny of world, poets do fight;
Most Bards cannot be dishonest, may be;
Their minds are fixed to Eternity.
And if they change, could they God realize?
Good Bards prefer to be always soul-wise;
And like a phoenix die, again arise;
And show the world to be heavenly-wise!
Oh, one can’t take me for an easy ride;
I can’t my emotions and passions hide;
I can’t live on with ego great and pride;
My thoughts to be aright, God helps decide.
The superfluous from the thing that’s deep;
The virtual/ surreal from real;
The transient from what is permanent;
God help me to know and my soul to keep.
Alas, a Poet is a bruised reed!
His works on earth are immortal indeed;
His heart of love is uniquely his creed;
His mind wants peace and never yearns for greed!
Alas, a Bard’s a bruised reed!
poem by John Celes
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Understanding and Knowledge
Those who know don’t talk;
Those who talk don’t know;
Those who speak don’t write;
Those who write don’t speak.
Those who think don’t actions;
Those who actions don’t think;
Those who think don’t judge;
Those who judge don’t do.
Small understanding is no match for great understanding;
Small knowledge cannot understand great knowledge knows.
Great wisdom has great understanding;
Great knowledge has wise sayings.
Great knowledge and understanding is wide and vast;
Small knowledge and understanding is trivial and cramped.
Great speech blaze forth as a huge fire;
Small speech is empty and trivial.
We understand what is appropriate;
Because of what we understand to be inappropriate.
We understand right;
Because of our understanding of wrong.
Use the light of wisdom to see,
Beyond the world of right and wrong.
One can only really understand things,
By understanding one’s true self.
(extracted and translated from Tao Te Cheng Book)
© Nov 2011 Lawrence Hiung
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Modern Poets And Modern Poetry
Modern poets and modern poetry seem far too complex to understand
For such as I a common labourer from the boglands of Ireland
Though whether it be good or not so it is not for me to say
As I'm not a poetry critic and so I'll keep my tongue at bay.
Maybe some of these modern poets are special and the poems they write are great
And maybe they are superior thinkers writing from exalted state
Most poetical critics now acclaim them and prefer the modern style
And 'twould seem that modern style poets are now the in thing and their efforts seem worthwhile.
But for me it's old style ballad, give me good old fashioned rhyme
To the modern style of poetry I'd prefer it every time
Like I say I'm just a labourer from the boglands of Ireland
And the complex modern style of poetry is far too hard for me to understand.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The psyche of my beloved
She complains, I don't understand
What more things for her to be done?
I asked her why? Did we not together cry?
Had we not dreamed, did not we see
Had not she moaned along with me
Did I not make her to utter peculiar sound
Did I not make her to shrill out of satiation
Did she not bite me out of every satisfaction
Did we not groan together after every action.
Did we not make murmuring music of life
Did I not make her to giggle and laugh
Did all these things in life for her not enough?
I feel the same for her since the beginning I swear
but frequently she gets angry and moving slowly away far
Lately I understand it is her psyche and wants me to chase her.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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The Afflicted
Softly every night they come
To the picture show,
That old couple, deaf and dumb
In the second row;
Wistful watching, hand in hand,
Proud they understand.
Shut-ins from the world away,
All in all to each;
Knowing utter joy as they
Read the lips of speech . . .
Would, I wonder, I be glum
Were I deaf and dumb?
Were I quieted away,
Far from din and shock?
Were I spared the need to say
Silly things in talk?
Utter hush I would not mind . . .
Happy they!--I'm blind.
poem by Robert William Service
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Hunting or Fishing?
Hunting or fishing – which is better?
That is what I am thinking about!
In business many hunt for customers;
Some men prefer casting net to catch fish!
Even for poets the position is the same
In poetry websites to catch readers!
Some lay wise traps to catch readers!
I use fishing rod with a needle and bait
To catch readers who can understand!
Whether the rank is high or low it is
Immaterial but the true comment is!
Hunting readers to comment and rank
Or fishing readers to comment and rank
Are not really going to enhance one’s status;
For, voluntary comments are indeed valuable!
Poets are jealous to appreciate others’ merit
But some poets raise the status of others!
So, letters to such poets increase sans end!
This is the status of poetry websites now!
So, it is left to you to hunt or fish or lay trap
As you wish to catch readers for rank, etc.!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Affection is the greatest of human feelings because it is made of respect, of lucidity, and light. To understand the truth and make one's self equal to it is everything; and to love is the same thing as to know and to understand. Affection, which I call also compassion, because I see no difference between them, dominates everything by reason of its clear sight. It is a sentiment as immense as if it were mad, and yet it is wise, and of human things it is the only perfect one. There is no great sentiment which is not completely held on the arms of compassion.
quote by Henri Barbusse
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Epistle to NP Van Wyk Louw
I see the wise old man
pacing his study
with a hot fire raging in the fireplace,
where manuscripts lie disorderly,
in an order that only makes sense to him,
reading verses of other poets,
always searching for something
like a religious fanatic searches for truth,
helping other poets, like the great mentor
(that he still is after his demise)
writing exceptionally great poems,
believing that a poet
is someone like a prophet, a kind of saint
who searches both for truth
and expresses the abyss,
knowing that poetry is no struggle,
that the words, the structure to them
comes by itself as if given
like a communication
received from the gods
with the evangelistic advise
to rather examine
from which spirit
the inspiration comes.
[References: Epistle to Neruda by Yevgeny Yevtushenko. Rondom eie werk (Around own work) by NP Van Wyk Louw. P84-85. Tafelberg Publishers: 1970.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Great Expectations
(eric carmen)
Seems everyday
Im gettin harder pressed
To find a reason to shave
Watchin the hours
Just slippin away
No motivation to get out of bed
And carry on the charade
Caught in a dream thats goin astray
Oh, all those great expectations
Seems they never work out, never work out
The way that I plan
All those great expectations
Why they never work out, never work out
I cant understand
And just when I think
That things are goin right
I get a call from l.a.
Sorry to say were changin your song
I try to reason
But I cant get through
Theyre gonna do it their way
What can I say
Theyve never been wrong
Oh, all those great expectations
Seems they never work out, never work out
The way that I plan
All those great expectations
Why they never work out, never work out
I cant understand
Life is just a game of chance
I think somebody said so
Sometimes you get a hula hoop
Sometimes you get an edsel
Oh, all those great expectations
Seems they never work out, never work out
The way that I plan
All those great expectations
Why they never work out, never work out
I cant understand
song performed by by Eric Carmen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Never utter these words 'I do not know this, therefore it is false.' One must study to know know to understand understand to judge.
quote by Apothegm of Narda
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On A Famed Poet
Forgive me if his greatness I cannot seem to note
His poems never rhyme but he is a famed poet
By literary experts considered to be knowledgeable and wise
And for his poems he has won many a prize.
Though poetry is not very popular today
The poet of the poetry lovers the experts do say
In University literary magazines students his verses read
And they all agree he's a fine poet indeed.
Of poets and poetry I must confess so little I know
My favourites old rhymers from ages ago
On the poetry I do not like most experts agree
That it is well written and quite good poetry.
Forgive me if the worth in his verse I can't see
His non rhyming poetry does nothing for me
Of reading blank verse I do quickly grow tired
My truth is by such stuff I do not feel inspired.
The experts on his poetry great interest show
And his stature as a poet only seems to grow
Of him great things are written and great things we hear
And good luck to him on his literary career.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Never Will You Ever Understand It
Never will you understand it.
Why things in my heart wont leave.
You will never understand it.
Never will you ever understand it.
Never will you understand it.
Why I express little empathy.
You will never understand it.
Never will you ever understand it.
My mind has grown too agitated and annoyed.
My emotions tied in knots,
Have long dropped as my topic.
I have a peace within,
I'm hoping will never end.
Or come to the point,
I must defend.
Oh...
You will never understand it.
Never will you ever understand it.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Words Against Death
WORDS AGAINST DEATH
All the immortals are moral:
Tubercular Kafka spared Treblinka
Lunatic Nietzsche banging a piano to oblivion
Great Tolstoy escaping to a railroad coach,
Gentle Yeats frigid at Ben Bulben.
What lives is a work and that imperfectly:
A thousand bankrupt eyes ferreting the hearts of dead poets
Seeking confirmation for some strange emotion,
Doing the work in the course, being ‘intellectual’,
Satisfying a wicked ambition for
Knowledge or Love or Understanding.
Do these absurd gropings constitute an adequate remembrance?
And if they do, if deep within the heart of some wise reader
There lurks a true Nietzschean spirit,
Will Nietzsche live because of it?
Is Remembrance no matter how deeply touched by love,
Ever Resurrection?
Where K broods over a Ledean body,
Where that daring tightrope walker confuses wise old Karataev
(at Borodino or in the land of Zarathustra)
there the great poets live:
Could it have been,
That Kafka knowing this, sought vainly to preserve himself
When with deep ambivalence he willed his writings
to the flames?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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