A novelist who writes nothing for 10 years finds his reputation rising. Because I keep on producing books they say there must be something wrong with this fellow.
quote by J.B. Priestley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Books
I find a better dear in blue oceans
That love and like the ebb, the toes and blows
Of that small sea, on some more ablutions,
On this old honour, that will then appose.
My better friend shall mingle more or less,
The same disease alerts us this real day;
Man writes, confesses on the very chess
That saddens ours, then maddens those astray.
When findings match the real man tomorrow,
This treasure sees those golden values right,
A fellow writes for those who read although
The books say leather-hard, by candlelight.
I obviously sign the books with pride,
Much waits, much has the plates of this old bride.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sigmund Freud was a novelist with a scientific background. He just didn't know he was a novelist. All those damn psychiatrists after him, they didn't know he was a novelist either.
quote by John Irving
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cassio: Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation!
line from Othello, Act II, Scene 3 by William Shakespeare (1603)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Reflections 101
he writes not because
he wants to be read and
be understood
got him wrong really
he writes because he likes
to live
life writes upon himself
and so he writes upon life too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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MEDIOCRE: adequate, but not very good
Everyone's an artist and everybody writes,
Believing that they'll reach the dizzying heights.
But with talentless people continually making it to the top,
It causes the gifted to pack up and stop.
This benefits the individuals but certainly not the masses,
As society now worships the low celebrity classes,
Who aren't particularly special but happen to look the part,
Without producing anything that is memorable or smart...
We should be praising ability more than we do looks,
I now watch less television and pick up more books.
poem by Michael Lam Dogi
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Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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Everything And Everyone
She's never afraid of what her past had might become
Alone in her lazy time in-between a thought that ends with loss
Her life is spent searching for the next
An answer a question never asked
Everything and everyone finds their time
Everything and everyone writes their line
But it seems hard now things work out in time
She lacks self pride her lazy time
Never once identified her lonely nights
Spending days alone but through the phone
She waits for a voice to calm her name
Then takes a drink says it makes me sane
She lives through a dream she once called fate
Then finds herself alone to contemplate
Everything and everyone finds their time
Everything and everyone writes their line
But it seems hard now things work out in time
song performed by by Near Miss from The Gentle Art Of Making Enemies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you are a novelist of a certain type of temperament, then what you really want to do is re-invent the world. God wasn't too bad a novelist, except he was a Realist.
quote by John Barth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Producing came about because I never wanted to be in one of those books, Where Are They Now?
quote by Henry Winkler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The novelist and the poet
the difference between
the poet and the novelist
the former invites you
straight into his world
a canvas that takes
words for paint
humour for techniques
realism for images
the novelist
on the other hand
flatters you with
his intelligence
but takes the liberty
to hide behind
each of his creation/character
hard it would be to
find the man in
the maze of his words
you would gain more
hunting for him in town
the novelist is a
calculative trader
seizing any idea that could
help him sell his words
the humble poet though has
to sniff out his real self, his own god-instilled rhythm,
to let us share his adventures, colours, dreams
the novelist craft words for money
the poet craft words - to find himself and shares it with those -
who wish to find their own selves
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Their Kind Of Books
You are somebody's wife and now,
Somebody's husband is using you;
But, is this what you call love? !
You are somebody's husband and now,
Somebody's wife is sleeping with you;
But, is this what you call love? !
What kind of world is this?
Is this the kind of love or lust that you want?
What kind of garden of Eden is this?
Is this what you call lust or love?
Oh, what a shame! ! !
A lady sleeps with a president and writes a book about it,
A man kills a woman ans writes a book about it,
A thief robs a bank and writes a book about it,
A man sleeps with somebody's wife and writes a book about it,
A flirt sleeps with different people and writes a book about it,
A kidnapper is very successful with his or her acts and writes a book about it,
A woman kills a man and writes a book about it,
And so on and so forth as we seen in this world;
But, sin is like enjoyment to these people in this Garden of Eden!
And now, thier kind of books are all over the stores in this world for sale.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Dilemma
Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men,
For years I criticised their prose and verges:
Pointed out all their blunders of the pen,
Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then
Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses!
They said: 'That's all that he can do-just sneer,
And pull to pieces and be analytic.
Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear,
Publish a book or two, and so appear
As one who has the right to be a critic?
'Let him who knows it all forbear to tell
How little others know, but show his learning.'
The public added: 'Who has written well
May censure freely'-quoting Pope. I fell
Into the trap and books began out-turning,
Books by the score-fine prose and poems fair,
And not a book of them but was a terror,
They were so great and perfect; though I swear
I tried right hard to work in, here and there,
(My nature still forbade) a fault or error.
'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt,
Professed to find-but that's a trifling matter.
Now, when the flood of noble books was out
I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout,
Till I was thought as mad as any hatter!
(Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say.
'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em,
But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad
We wear the ugly things they make. Begad,
They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!)
'Consistency, thou art a'-well, you're _paste_!
When next I felt my demon in possession,
And made the field of authorship a waste,
All said of me: 'What execrable taste,
To rail at others of his own profession!'
Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin
Who has of literature some clear-cut notion,
And hears a voice from Heaven say: 'Pitch in'?
He finds himself-alas, poor son of sin
Between the devil and the deep blue ocean!
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Fixin
i've been thinking
we have pc for dummies books
dog training books for dummies
all kinds of fix-it-yourself ones
to assist us with lifes problems
that sell like star wars dolls
but where are the books
for extracting sorrow for dummies
or for the pain some people
seem to be addicted to
or how to turn a sad person
into one of those happy campers
i struggle with the fear of loss
of losing loved ones
or precious good health
not to mention loss of
reputation which is something
once lost is difficult to retain
written 12-23-05
poem by Faith Elizabeth Brigham
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A Poem Writes Itself
A poem writes itself
I merely follow
As it leads me
through the shadows
A poem seeks itself
And the light
I'll surrender …I write
A poem finds a way to be heard-
I try to remember each word from my
mouth to my ears to my hands
Then, to the world's
A poem finds a voice
I become, pen and paper
A poem makes a choice
I, the ghostwriter
poem by Sonya Florentino
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Following Orders As Soldiers.
Some follow orders well,
Others question authority
Everyone is someone's child
And sad it is
When their lives are snuffed.
Perhaps the War is noble
Could well be, that it is just
And pitiful are the answer
When consulting history books
Death is a constant
Remembrance a must
Difficult it is to judge when
The Victor writes the history books
© Calac.
poem by Chris Lane
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Rising Sun
On the street of villains taken for a ride
you can have the devil as a guide
crippled by the boundaries, programmed into guilt
'til your nervous system starts to tilt.
And in the room of mirrors you can see for miles
but everything that's there is in disguise
every word you've uttered and every thought you've had
is all inside your file, the good and the bad.
But in the rising sun you can feel your life begin
universe at play inside your DNA
you're a billion years old today
oh the rising sun and the place it's coming from
is inside of you and now your payment's overdue
oh the rising sun, oh the rising sun.
On the avenue of sinners I have been employed
working there 'til I was near destroyed
I was almost a statistic inside a doctor's case
when I heard the messenger from inner space
he was sending me a signal that so for long I had
ignored
but he held on to my umbilical cord
until the ghost of memory trapped in my body mind
came out of hiding to become alive.
And in the rising sun you can hear your life begin
and it's here and there nowhere and everywhere
though it's atmosphere is rare
oh the rising sun and the place that it's coming from
is inside of me and now I feel it constantly
oh the rising sun, oh the rising sun, oh the rising
sun.
But in the rising sun you can feel your life begin
universe at play inside your DNA
you're a billion years old today
oh the rising sun and the place it's coming from
is inside of you and now your payment's overdue
oh the rising sun, oh the rising sun, oh the rising
sun.
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When a management with a reputation for brilliance tackles a business with a reputation for bad economics, it is the reputation of the business that remains intact.
quote by Warren Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tactless...
He is tactless
and to punish himself
he reigns in the kingdom of silence
he is condemned not to Speak
but he finds a solution
to this predicament:
he writes
becoming friendly with the word,
he reaches for the other world
acquainted with the high spirits
someone who reads this
writes me one day that i owe her an explanation
i guess this is already an invasion.
i sign off. I fade, until i become
a blank space
she looks for me
not even a dot i am
it is the emptiness that remains
the most loyal friend
in the kingdom of silence
where i am alone but king
not really lonely
but perhaps lovely
and free.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I love producing. I have been producing some acts and starting a label.
quote by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Book Of Suleika - The Loving One Again
WRITES he in Neski,
Faithfully speaks he;
Writes he in Tali,
Joy to give, seeks he:
Writes he in either,
Good!--for he loves!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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