Writers may be disreputable, incorrigible, early to decay or late to bloom but they dare to go it alone.
quote by John Updike
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Late To Bloom I Am To This
Late to bloom I am to this.
An honesty revealed...
About my feelings concealed.
I thought I knew what they were,
As I told them.
I thought once described...
No one could truly hold them.
Or enfold them as I do.
Then I met you.
Late to bloom I am to this.
A stripping bare...
Of what I dare call,
A complete enthralling happiness.
Late to bloom I am to this.
But age has nothing to do...
How we two,
Me and you get to do what gets done.
With lessons learned...
I am so glad my heart awaited for this one.
Late to bloom I am to this!
And I had once admitted...
This would not happen.
This I had missed!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The writers who have the deepest influence on one are those one reads in ones more impressionable, early life, and often it is the more youthful works of those writers that leave the deepest imprint.
quote by J.M. Coetzee
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Decay
It's too late now to start the fight
It's too late now to get out of sight
It's too late now to try and run away
It's too late now
All our lives are decay
We sit alone watch the world explode
Watch everything unfold to dust
Now in the light of misfortune
Now we take our feelings back and hide
The whole away to show decay of stability
You will all just die in detest
We won't feel a thing now
We all flip into infinity
We live our lives
We feel so cold inside and desolate for
Now are we just misfortune
A sickness disease
A life of cancer or just hiv
Your life is fading away
Your time is slipping away the force of life is draining away
Welcome to the night where you will die forever in this hell You created
For yourself forever and
Ever repeating the doom of nothing
But a slave
song performed by by Velvet Acid Christ
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Caricatures
There are writers great and writers small
And writers on the spree;
And writers short and writers tall,
And bards of low degree.
There are artists small and artist great,
With lines both bold and free –
It takes a Low to illustrate
Us bards of low degree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Late Cat
Late to train
Late to bus
Late to class
And late to party;
She is everywhere a late cat!
Late to eat
Late to sleep
Late to fate
And late to luck;
She is for everything a late cat!
Late to clock
Late to block
Late to dash
Against the truck
And, lo! Even late to death;
She is always a late cat!
poem by Sasikala Kamandula
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I think the special thing about Python is that it's a writers' commune. The writers are in charge. The writers decide what the material is.
They're fancy talkers about themselves, writers. If I had to give young writers advice, I would say don't listen to writers talking about writing or themselves.
quote by Lillian Hellman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright.
quote by Aaron Sorkin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Early in the Spring
Early in the spring
Not a leaf has struck the ground
The swallow has yet to sing
And the plowmen are no where to be found
Early in the spring
The forest stands still
And no creature dare come out
Before the sun rises o’er the hill
Early in the spring
The valley holds the morning dew
And its serenity may be captured
By only a certain few
Early in the spring
The trees turn, brown to green
Many changes occur
But few can be seen
Early in the spring
Or in the latter of fall
No matter the change of season
The evergreen stands tall
poem by James Kent
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)
The Lonely Writer
Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers
The needy juvenile writer
Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to
The Spite Writer
This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.
The Religious Writer
These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.
poem by David Whalen
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Conjuring
I am too early;
you have not met me yet.
I am isolated from my future
where you live.
I am too early;
you have not yet
learned to love me.
You don't know my smile;
I am not yet
even born
in your eyes;
but I still want you to love me
Is that silly?
Perhaps.
But, maybe it can be;
after all this is my dream.
I lie in bed
dreaming you now
bringing you here
into my bed
you don't have to exist
to be here
I can hear
you sigh.
You don't have to exist
except here
now
in my bed
that is enough..
I am not too early;
all I have to do
is turn out the lights
and get my position
right;
and I can conjure you up.
.
Too early?
No,
too late.
Don't want you
to have to
wait.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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To the Autumn
Sweet Sabbath of the year!
While evening lights decay,
Thy parting steps methinks I hear
Steal from the world away.
Amid thy silent bowers,
'Tis sad, but sweet, to dwell;
Where falling leaves and drooping flowers
Around me breathe farewell.
Along thy sunset skies
Their glories melt in shade,
And like the things we fondly prize,
Seem lovelier as they fade.
A deep and crimson streak
Thy dying leaves disclose;
As on consumption's waning cheek
'Mid ruin blooms the rose.
Thy scene each vision brings
Of beauty in decay;
Of fair and early faded things
Too exquisite to stay.
Of joys that come no more;
Of flowers whose bloom is fled;
Of farewells wept upon the shore;
Of friends estranged or dead.
Of all that now may seem
To memory's tearful eye,
The vanish'd beauty of a dream,
O'er which we gaze and sigh!
poem by James Montgomery
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I Dare You
I liked you but didn't say a word because of rejection.
I was scared of the lust infection.
You told people you liked me and wanted to go out.
So I wrote you a note to let you know how I felt.
Everyone was jumping down my throat to make the first move.
Instead of wasting my time waiting on you.
But now you ignore me and look past me as if I am a ghost.
The pain you are causing no one knows.
I fell in a trap once again.
My heart is slowly caving in.
I dare you to tell them you don't like me anymore.
I dare you to let your feelings walk out the door.
I dare you to have the balls to say it to my face.
Instead of making me feel like a waste of space.
I dare you to hug me the way you used to and feel nothing there.
I dare you to cause my heart to tare.
I dare you to cause tears to fall from my eyes.
Too late the last two you did and inside I slowly die.
Tears of pain stream down my cheeks.
Love puts me in utter disbelief.
I am the one person who no ones meant to be with.
I will never feel the true bliss of happiness.
So I have one last dare to say.
I dare you to watch me cry and just walk away.
poem by Jean Pullman
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Truth or Dare
The truth is I loved you, I dare you to remember
The truth is you hurt me, I dare you to share my pain
The truth is I wanted you back, I dare you to say the same
The truth is you never said sorry, l dare you to try
The truth is I protected you, I dare you to not run away
The truth is you squandered trust cheaply, I dare you to lay the first new stone
The truth is I did insane things, I dare you to stop the insanity
The truth is you lied for nothing that was real, I dare you to face the truth
poem by Alexander Downie
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Early In The Morning
Early in the morning and I cant get right
Had a little date with my baby last night
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Now its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to all the places where we used to go
Went to your house but you dont live there no more
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to your friends house but she was out
Knock on your fathers door and he began to shout get out there boy
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Went to doogie chain to get something to eat
Waiter looked at me and said you sure look beat
Now its early in the morning (early in the morning)
Early in the morning (early in the morning)
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
Well its early in the morning
And I aint got nothing but the blues
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Its Too Late
Its too late now for you to say your sorry
Its too late now for you to make amends
Youre gonna pay for all the lies you told me
Well dont apologize cause its too late
Its too late
Much too late
You said those words
You said them much too late
Its too late
Much too late
You said those words
You said them much too late
Its too late now for you to sympathize, dear
The wheel of time is grinding gainst your dreams
I really wouldnt want to cause no pain now
You said those words, you said them much too late
Its too late
Much too late
You said those words
You said them much too late
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Stanzas For Music: There's Not A Joy The World Can Give
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest,
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruined turret wreath—
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.
Oh, could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
Silent Lessons
the poet in his work
tries to find himself, refine it
to let the lotuses in him bloom
the real poet lives in his own private realm
filtering sunshine to allow the rainbow in him to glow
the readers, well they are mere flower lovers
the lotuses that bloom by day
to show their wonder
and fold by evening
show not an inch of care
for praises, criticism
they are the real poets
- coaching verse writers!
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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