Related quotes: The pages are still blank,...

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.

quote by Vladimir Nabokov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes

Blank Pages

Blank pages
Blank books
Lie with only drowning white
No pretty messages in the sand
No clocks to turn a hand

Blank pages
Blank books
Looking into an empty void
Like staring at purgatory
Words with no meaning making up a story

Blank pages
Blank books
Stay staring at the celing

Empty without effort

Nothing without words

poem by Autumn Winds
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Blank

Blank pages, blank lines
Blank heart, blank mind
Blank feeling, blank soul
Blank high, blank low.

I dont know why
You just cant see
That all you've ever known
Is the blank side of me.

poem by Lady Hope
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Behind Every Gross Appearance Has Invisible Subtle!

Isn't it true
neither moon nor universe, not
even I or you are visible without the
invisible in us.
Visible all are, only because of
that more invisible in us! Behind every visible gross
appearance, there is more
invisible subtle appearance,
When we look at the picture,
We usually forget the canvas,
When watching a TV program, usually we can't see how
invisible electrons produce the
image.

I cannot see my own face,
just as God hides his face to us...
Therefore, could it be that we
have one and the same face?

our face is one of His face,
Yet as he can look at his other
faces using one that he can't see,
We are looking at our other faces
using this one, That we can't see,
This is the truth that The God
uses this face to look at other
faces! Yet we visible to that invisible,
And we are visible only due to
that invisible ground on which
whole world play,
World itself is visible face of that
invisible face, Every life become visible only
because of that who hides is face
behind beauty and ugly faces
alike!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Lines Extracted From A Dream

'I think of it like a book,
I dont care for your self-authored words
of pity and sorrow, though yes they are just.
It isn't the narrative in you that interests me...
It is those blank pages in you that hold my court,
All books have them; those blank pages at the end,
Unfilled and undetermined, where you havent yet scribbled.
They are yet to be subject to anything,
And even if they are not destined for a happily ever after,
That does not mean i can't hope to find solace and closure in them.
What is to stop us writing our own fable in spite of what is already written?
What already is, is,
But what will be is ours to fathom through the velvet folds Of fate.
Surely.'

poem by Graham Stone
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The Blank Space Inside Us

there are blank pages
some say that it is a must that something must be drawn
words to be written
thoughts to stifle, capture,
stuffed,

there is a day that you prefer
to keep a blank sky
a dark sky without stars
no light

when you close your eyes
you are at home with this blank page
words become
invincible
but they are all there
perfectly correct
well viewed by the eyes of your heart

somehow you go beyond
your every
day fences
move away, jump and run towards
an island of light
a patch of green grass

still no stars
pure blank
it is when you do not believe in the power of thoughts
when what preoccupies you
is nothing when you are finally one with all
space
it is too peaceful to even dropp a word
like a pin on
a shiny floor of tiles....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poetry Has Gone Out Of Me

The Poetry has gone out of me
I am as blank as prose-

There is no force of feeling in me
Flat as a lox my words on the page-

I am the middle of the Midwest
Going on and on on the surface only-

I have no inside-
No wind shakes me-

Words are words and only words,
Detached from all emotion-

How flat stale not even weary and unprofitable can a blank confessional poem be?

The feeling of being without feeling
No feeling at all.

A lox inside and a lox on the page.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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46

she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.

You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.

Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…

Words…words...

I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.

In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.

Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip

Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.

A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…

But be.

You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism

A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.

Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.

Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.

Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.

A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.

That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.

I, too, dislike it at first.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poets on Poetry: a collage

You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.

Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…

Words…words...

In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.

Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip

Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.

A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…

But be.

You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism

A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.

Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.

Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.

Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.

A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.

That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.

I, too, dislike it at first.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Half Full

I'll write these words.
I'll write more tomorrow.
Will they be read by anyone,
does it matter either way?
I am reading them,
and that goes to prove that they've been written,
that my mind is not blank.
I have sympathy for the blank-minded people.
Although I'm sure,
they would sympathize with me...
if only their minds were not blank,
And they weren't just content to be.

poem by Edward Veilleux
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I Wanted A Poem To Break The Silence

I WANTED A POEM TO BREAK THE SILENCE

I wanted a poem
To break the silence
Of my own inner emptiness-

No thought no feeling
Blank inside-

These words too flat and emotionless
Strive to move me back to myself-

But there is nothing in me now
But the waiting to be ‘real’ again-

I am alive now
But I am nothing inside-

Blank words trying to be a poem-

And lines written as if I were only
A slave of the idea
of my being somehow
a writer of Poetry.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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What Is Written In Red

I am written in red,
I am sliding across the page of life.
I am racing across the lines of language.
I am red.
I write words,
I create lines and sentences,
I am kept in solitude
I am red.
I create paragraphs.
I create signatures.
I know what you're thinking before you speak,
I am red.
I cannot breath because I am enclosed in a capsule.
A capsule that covers the knowledge inside.
All I do is stare at pages,
All I know is pages,
I become apart of the pages,
And the pages become apart of me.
I become apart of english,
I become apart of words,
I am RED.

BY: Takisha Fields

poem by Kiesha fields
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Lover

I scattered your words across the beach tonight
under a three quarter moon
while gentle waves lapped at my toes
and the whole evening seemed to vibrate
The words, you had written urgently
on plain white paper
so filled with emotion
and longing
astounded me; resounded in my soul
The love you spelled out so plainly
I never knew
a feeling so raw, the depth of your heart
And it was then I tore the pages from your notebook
tore and scattered them into the thick, salty August night
sorry I had found them
words to break my heart
those achingly beautiful words
written for another lover

poem by Gainor Ventresco Laney
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If you look closely, there is no book more visual than Three Trapped Tigers, in that it is filled with blank pages, dark pages, it has stars made of words, the famous magical cube made of numbers, and there is even a page which is a mirror.

quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another nothing poem

Another nothing poem
~
These are just words
Rhyming, walking with rhythm
They do not hate or love
Laugh, cry or shout aloud
They know no malice or jealousy
They just piece together nicely
In a story or a poem
However they are written
Presented on a page
They remain just words
They talk of no living soul
But a fictional character
If one happens to be written
Or a place or feeling
Some may relate to it
You’re free to see what you like
Or dislike in these words
That’s all they are sitting here
Rhyming, walking with rhythm
Across the once blank page
Just another nothing poem
Waiting to be read

poem by Matthew Holloway
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My Song

I wrote a song
It's called 'my life'
I tried my best to make it a good one
I'd never written a song
Twas indeed my first
I had an eraser
I couldn't clean my mistakes though
It turned out to be a long song
A hundred and twenty pages worth
A page a year
I made a mess of it
Blue pen made a mark
As depression took a quarter of it
Yellow pen made an entrance
I decided it was better than blue
Red pen tried to hurt me
As all anger was kept inside
Green pen whispered a note
I wished I had my neighbour's song
So many colours on just one song
Twenty-five pages were dark
I knew not which way to go
I tried to turn a page but couldn't
I basked in pages gone
Hence left several pages blank
Twenty-five pages were wet
As tears serenaded my heart, it did the pages
Too much pain in one song
Tried to change the words
The things I thought all made the song
On a scale of good to bad, bad stole the day
I searched and found other songs titled 'my life'
I wrote my song the way they had
My song was like a painting
One in utter disharmony
One drawn by a clueless artist
But an artist whose passion burned his painting
I set my heart on fire on page 35
There had to be more
And more I had
On page 120, my eyes were dim and hands tired
Since pages couldn't be turned
My mind sat, and looked back
What had I done?
I'd been mountain high
I'd been valley low
I'd been good
I'd been bad
I'd been....
I lay my head on my song
Took my last breath
But before I did
I held a girl
Who had a song called 'my life'
She read my song
And shed a tear
And said I had written....a masterpiece.

poem by Jenim Dibie
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Written In Blood And Love

In pages written in blood, in pages written love.
Stories are told of you grow old together.
Live to dieing forever.
Scarred by the pain of misery.
Scarred by the imperfections the have created so many rejections.
Give me the antidote to the poison that I have slipped in my own drink.
Let me breath the life in again.
Drowned out all the cowardliness of my angel who holding me up.
Such a beautiful crutch.

Still in the pages written in blood, in the pages written love.
We are just one of millions.
Every story is the same.
All that's changed is the names, places, and faces.
Erase it all.
Rewrite the entire fall.
Let the wind take me.
Let the lightning strike me here and now.
For i will not let it cloud my judgement.
No matter the storm that's brought on.

In the pages written in blood, in the pages written in love
Hate me for the right reasons
Hate me because I am what you wanted me to be.
In all the irony.
I didn't change for you.
It was done way before you came along and sang your song.

All the pages have been written, in blood and love.
The Shakespeare play Romeo and Juliet to the fullest.
Its the cruelest games in tragedy strikes without a ounce of leniency.
No mercy to those who are jumping without a life line.
Protection against the evil of an accident so quick.
A slip becomes a fall.
Next your trying to stall buy a little time.
But its in vain.
Nothing can be changed.
Its sink or swim till you reach shore.
So long off stripped of everything you thought was important.

Values so mixed up in these pages written in blood, in the pages written in love.
We have killed another pair of doves.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Gone Is Inspiration

A thought!
A blurry thought in my head
and my pen is full of ink
I am dry,
I am sore
I can't channel my soul
before the words of my heart
would seep right through my
fingers
and possess my pen
but now I am blank
I am dry,
I am empty again
I hate the times when
my mind is still
and still I cannot channel
the artistry in me
the flame of inspiration
has died out
I am cold
I am stuck
my brain is paused
why is this so?
Pages beg
to be written on
keys plead for me to type
stories linger within
waiting for me
to give them life
but i cannot
I am frozen
and so are my words
so is the rhythm
the rhyme
the floetry
of my poetry
has flown off into
the sky
and with the birds
go my words
And I am here,
I am dry
Gone is inspiration!

poem by Upile Chisala
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Blank Page

This new blank page, a word processor page, I cannot touch. I ought to leave it this
way, just look at it and dream of what I could have written on it. If I delet the words
I have written now, it will be blank again, no history, no crumbled up sheet of paper
in the wastebasket. For now it is too late but I might erase it when I come to an end.
My wife was in Johannesburg once for surgery, being born in Congo but light skinned
and travelling on a Portuguese passport, she boarded a bus for the blacks.
Great consternation, she was told by police to go on the white only bus since she
was Portuguese. Racism and anti Semitism are so stupid, it makes no sense, one race
thinks it is superior to others. Now it is the Moslems who are feeling the surge
of ignorance. We want them to be more like us and not Insist of doing their own things.
In Israel, for instance the European Jews feel vastly superior to Arab Jews, This in a state
that is an artificial construct. The culture of Europe in the Middle East. We know Israel,
as it exist today must come to an end. So there I said it, this white virtual sheet has been
befouled by an opinion no one wants to know about. So what do I do know? Erase this
page so it is blank again and I can write about the moon?

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Full Of Life, Now

FULL of life, now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these, seeking you.

When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your
comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with
you.)

poem by Walt Whitman
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