I have been writing since I was about 20, and at first I wrote in secret and never showed anybody. I was very concerned about making a living, so I conducted.
quote by David Friedman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When my first child was born in 1962, I wrote a letter to my grandfather telling him how happy I was but how concerned; concerned because there were so many visions which were not very good.
quote by Harri Holkeri
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tore Down A La Rimbaud
Showed me pictures in the gallery
Showed me novels on the shelf
Put my hands across the table
Gave me knowledge of myself.
Showed me visions, showed me nightmares
Gave me dreams that never end
Showed me light out of the tunnel
When there was darkness all around instead.
Tore down a la rimbaud
And I wish my message would come
Tore down a la rimbaud, you know its hard some time
You know its hard some time.
Showed me ways and means and motions
Showed me what its like to be
Gave me days of deep devotions
Showed me things I cannot see.
Tore down a la rimbaud
And I wish my purpose would come
Tore down a la rimbaud, you know its hard some time.
You know its hard some time.
Showed me different shapes and colours
Showed me many different roads
Gave me very clear instructions
When I was in the dark night of the soul.
Tore down a la rimbaud
And I wish my writing would come
Tore down a la rimbaud, you know its hard some time.
You know its hard some time.
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Secret
Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of
poetry.
I who don't know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me
(through a third person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even
what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,
the line, the name of
the poem. I love them
for finding what
I can't find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other
lines
in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for
assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.
poem by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Somebody's always getting me to come lecture to their writing class, and I don't talk about writing at all, I talk about the business of making a living at this racket.
quote by Jerry Pournelle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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American Skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots, and we'll take that ride
Across this bloody river to the other side
41 shots, they cut through the night
You're kneeling over his body in the vestibule
Praying for his life
Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
Ain't no secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in your american skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots, lena gets her son ready for school
She says now on these streets charles
You got to understand the rules
Promise me if an officer stops you'll always be polite
Never ever run away and promise mama you'll keep your hands in sight
Cause is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in your american skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
41 shots and we'll take that ride
Across this bloody river to the other side
41 shots my boots caked in mud
We're baptized in these waters and in each other's blood
Is it a gun?
Is it a knife?
Is it a wallet?
This is your life
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
It ain't no secret (it ain't no secret)
No secret my friend
You can get killed just for living in
You can get killed just for living in
You can get killed just for living in
Your american skin
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
41 shots
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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While Making A Living, Also Know How To Live
We were schooled
We were disciplined
We were taught
We were examined
We were trained
We were graduated
All these aim at and help us
Making a living
Once we started enjoying
The benefits of our efforts and skills
And the price of the products
Carved off by our labour
The desire for getting more
Grows strong and stronger each day
As we feel having more
Will help us make a better living
We continue to be path of
Making our lives better
Spending most of our times
In bettering the ways of our living
Most of us have gone that far
That we spend more time in
Making a living
With no time at all to really living
This is like
Spending time in adding facilities
To your bed room
Like air conditioning it,
Changing the matresses
Adding cushion
Colouring the walls
Facelifting the room with a range of others
But having no time to sleep
It is quite similar to cooking such items
Which we cannot eat ourselves
We should have a wisdom
Where we should stop making a living further
But start really living it
While making a living,
Also know how to live it
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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A Linda Song
Music: Barry Manilow
Lyrics: Enoch Anderson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He never wrote a song for Linda
He wrote as though he lived alone
He wrote of dreams that end
And of sad brave men
Inventing worlds he'd never known
But he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
Loved him back to life
When his luck ran low
But he never wrote a Linda song
He nearly broke his heart at writing
Linda kept him from despair
Standin' by his side
through the hungry days
But he hardly seemed to see her there
And he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
The one real thing in his crazy world
And he never wrote a Linda song.
When the bills piled up
He couldn't pay
He couldn't dream no more
So he hitched a ride and he rode away
And he left a note for Linda by the door
By the door
When times got rough he'd phone her
Once or twice she took the call
Then she changed her number and she turned her head
And Linda never looked back at all
He'll never write a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
All he knows is no one understands
And he never wrote a Linda song
No he never wrote a Linda song
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Two schools of thought.
.
The lady chose to take offence
Although I said she wrote fine prose
She may not know the difference
between poetry and prose
She thought that she wrote poetry
But what she wrote was free form prose.
I offered no apology
It was not my fault that she chose.
Not to learn the basic rules
defining prose and poetry
Two very different writing schools
in which to show your artistry.
The so called experts can’t agree
and coined the term poetic prose.
Though writing cannot possible
be classed as poetry and prose.
If it’s not metered it is prose
no matter how poetical.
But you’re entitled to compose.
Fine prose and call it poetry.
Though I suggest respectfully
you should be proud of writing prose.
As some do most successfully.
But it was poetry I chose
Thursday,11 March 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Squeal
I can't begin to tell you
How bad I feel about it
So now that it is all out
How do you feel - did you profit
Why can't you keep a secret
Why'd you squeal
I thought that I could trust you
Why'd you squeal
I thought we had agreed
That we were in this together
But now that you have betrayed me
I got no other option
Why can't you keep a secret
Why'd you squeal
I thought that it was private
It's a tea party and you're all invited
To kill the narc who wrote it and said it
You can always smell a stinkin' tattletale
Come out of a shell I think so they can break the link
When everyone knows it squeals and that is just as well
A kiss of death goes out to those who rat and fink
Why'd you squeal
But I can't begin to tell you
How bad I feel about it - hey
Why can't you keep a secret
Why'd you squeal
I thought that I could trust you
Why'd you squeal
It's a tea party and you're all invited
To kill the narc who wrote it and said it
You dirty rat
I can't begin to tell you
How bad I feel about it - hey
So now that it is all out
How do you feel - did you profit - hey
Well tell me all the gossip
Why'd you squeal
I hear the leaky faucet
It's a tea party and you're all invited
To kill the narc who wrote it and said it
Kill the narc who wrote it and said it
Who's the narc who wrote it and said it
song performed by by No Doubt from Beacon Street Collection
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Waited Outside The World Of Wonder
I waited inside the world of wonder
The poems were coming to me night and day-
I knew I had a vocation at last
So I gave myself into it-
Year after year
For years I wrote poems
They came in and out of me
Like breathing
And I found them wherever I looked and walked
And took them home and wrote them down
And they became my song and my me and my life and my joy
And oh what a wonder it was to be simply to be
Writing them down-
And now writing this one down after so many years
I too still sing and wonder why God has been so good to me
And given me so much I simply love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My writing improved the more I wrote - and the more I read good writing, from Shakespeare on down.
quote by Dick Schaap
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing The Words
I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.
I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.
I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.
I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.
I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.
So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.
poem by Rachel Brewer
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Blackboard Of My Heart
You wrote your words so carefully
on the blackboard of my heart.
Writing of the passion,
you held inside for me.
Writing that we would never part,
you would always be with me.
Writing every word with love’s pen
on the blackboard of my heart.
21 April 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind.
quote by Catherine Drinker Bowen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in the mirror which waits always before or behind.
quote by Catherine Drinker Bowen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Living In Polaroid
Breathing in, spitting out
The bittersweet sugar of life
It used to taste better
Sucking in, pulling in
Emotions I just can't hide
Cheap smiles and promises
Cause we're polaroid
We're living in polaroid
Polaroid, it's making me paranoid
Hanging on, holding on
To cables inside my mind
Cut loose and crashing in
Serenade, the volume raise
Breaking glass heads and hands
I can't go on living
Cause we're polaroid
We're living in polaroid
Polaroid, it's making me paranoid
Polaroid, she's living in polaroid
Polaroid, it's making me paranoid, paranoid
You gotta set me free
You gotta set me free
You gotta set me free
Polaroid, we're living in polaroid
Polaroid, it's making me paranoid
She's polaroid, we're living in polaroid
Polaroid, it's making me paranoid
Polaroid (polaroid, polaroid, polaroid...)
She's my polaroid
Polaroid, it's missing in polaroid
Polaroid
song performed by by Feeder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No More
I wrote my name on the seashore
The waves came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the air
The wind came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the sky
The clouds came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the puddles
The sun came and it was no more
i wrote my name in the dust
The rain came and it was no more
One day Gabriel wrote my name
and alas! i was no more
poem by Humna Hamid
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I started writing seriously when I was 18, wrote my first novel when I was 22, and I've never stopped writing since.
quote by Sue Grafton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Did You Think That Poetry Is Always Better Written?
Contented with the plots
Sagging surges
soothing
In the movement of the minds
Some friends write
Thinking that poetry
Must be an art
For their
Therapeutic consumption
Of for its own
Sake pursued,
A friend writes poems
And tells me to read all
Of them, and I can
Always say
She has concentrated
On some poesies
Not on heresies
Of her life
I told her
Poetry is an art
And it is life
Itself moving
Inside our hearts
Albeit,
I like a certain thing about this
Albert,
And Socrates
Who never wrote a line
But just spoke them
That
There is something sickening about
The usual intimacies towards
Words and phrases
Sometimes on days when
I do not write
But just stand and stare
And listen
Without words spoken
Writing transforms at its best
Without my mind
Doing it. It is more of living
About living
And not drying, dying writing
As it used to be.
And my life is full.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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