The Moving Finger writes and, having writ, Moves on nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
quote by Omar Khayyam
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The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
quote by Edward Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.
quote by Omar Khayyam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, I: 1-3, V: 12-15, 19-24, 71-72
1
Wake! For the Sun, who scattered into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n and strikes
The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
2
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshiper outside?"
3
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open, then, the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
12
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
13
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
14
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
15
And those who husbanded the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turned
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
19
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropped in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
20
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
21
Ah, my Belovéd, fill the Cup that clears
Today of past Regrets and future Fears:
Tomorrow!--Why, Tomorrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n thousand Years.
22
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath pressed,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
23
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
24
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
71
The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
72
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawlingcooped we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
poem by Edward Fitzgerald
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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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Wash
Never meant to waste your time
never meant to fall out of line
I was trying to get closer to you
Now it seems with every step
feels like I'm losing my breath
I don't know what else I can do
but you wash over me
you wash over me like rain
and you wash over me
you wash over me like sunshine
I never had to choose
living a life with you
or chasing lies only half true
when our love would be
a world alone with you and me
than hiding behind these walls
when you wash over me
you wash over me like rain
and you wash over me
you wash over me like sunshine
and you wash over me
you wash over me like rain
and you fall over me
you crawl over me
like sunshine
like sunshine
Everything in the world was falling through
all I knew was it led to you
my sunshine
all my life never found my place
until I felt the sunlight on my face
my sunshine
Never meant to waste your time
never meant to fall out of line
I was trying to get closer to you
Now it seems with every step
feels like I'm losing my breath
I don't know what else I can do
but you wash over me
you wash over me like rain
and you wash over me
you wash over me like sunshine
and you wash over me
you wash over me like rain
and you fall into me
you crawl into me
like sunshine
like sunshine
like sunshine
like sunshine
song performed by by Lifehouse from Stanley Climbfall
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Else is Shadow
Dear, “if you read these lines remember not
the hand that writ”, by Destiny propelled,
for many venture, most are soon forgot,
by Chance or choice to Lethe swift expelled.
The moving finger, spellbound, writes, impelled
to tell the world, - its jealous eyes to dot, -
of one whose talents true cannot be spelled,
all else is shadow, bolt – Time flies – soon shot.
“Age cannot wither, nor can custom stale
her infinite” unique, – both vain and sot
is who would dare to circumscribe her tale.
All praise is superficial and must fail
to sway the heart which on Love’s wind would sail.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Every Word
i saw a picture
how could you be so careless
how could you have done that
to us
and i write this letter
i send it all back to you
and every word you said
in there every word
oh oh
how could you have done that to us
you treated me like a stranger
and all the time i was loving you
all your slick moves they were once innocent moves
i wanted to look up to you
i really trusted you
and every word you said
in there every word
oh oh
how could you have done that to us
i was loving you like a child
all the time you were smiling the same smile
i was loving you like a child
i really trusted you
every word you said
every word you said
love is what the word was
every word you said
every word you said
all the time you were smiling
love is what the word was
every word you said
every word that you said
i was loving you like a child yeah
and all the time you were smiling the same smile
i was loving you like a child
i really trusted you
every word you said
every word that you said
i send it back to you yeah
every word you said
every word that you said
i send it all back to you yeah
every word you said
every word you said
i send it all back to you
back to you
song performed by by Sade
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Fails
THE POET FAILS
The poet fails.
And cannot write.
Empty inside
His voice lost
No rhythm no tone
He tries to hear his way back.
Line by line
Simple words
Tries to hear his own feeling
The mind moves
But his heart does not.
The poet writes his own process of failure
Is this a poem?
Or is it merely the broken prose meditation
Of an old man who has lost his voice?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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Dottie Writes and Cries
Sunlight settles on the
table where Dottie writes.
Her journal records the days
since Willie left, the effects
it has had, her migraines,
the sickness, the stomach
pains, the blood loss.
She writes slowly, neat
and lucid, the pen tight
between finger and thumb.
She pauses, looks at the sunlight,
how the beams seem to dance
upon the cloth, she sucks the end
of the pen, her tongue sensing
the smoothness and plasticness.
She will write of the roses,
how they have grown, the red
like blood, the blood like that
on the sheet before the wash.
She misses her brother, his
departure to fetch Sammy
has pained her, causes her
loss of sleep, despite sleeping
in his bed, caressing his pillow.
She writes again, the pen nib
moving over the journal's page,
her eyes watching the flow,
the words settling on the paper,
the words holding the images,
the images for him, for Willie
to read and have on his return.
A bird song, she cocks an ear,
outside nearby, a robin, she
closes her eyes, grasps the sound,
turns it around in her mind.
She will write that down,
he likes birdsong, loves the
songs, the call of the wild.
She opens her eyes, begins
to write once more, she wants
to cry, pushes her eyes tight
to stop tears hitting the page.
Through teary eyes sees
the sunbeams dance on
what seems like water on
the patterned cloth, she
remembers Willie laying
his head down there once
side ways on and gazing at
her as deep fond lovers may.
She puts down her black pen,
she will write no more today.
poem by Terry Collett
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So What Do You Expect From The Title?
the poet writes the title
first,
he is the messy kind
that writes
whatever comes first
even though
literally each word
seems not to be significant
to the next one
practically like strangers
coming together
inside a train
whose common ground
is only to go somewhere
else
nothing like
care, or affection
they merely stand there
and wait
and then take their
respective
exits
he writes: so what do you expect from life?
changing it later:
so what do you expect
from the
title? trying to conceal the essence
of his question
and then he keeps on writing
like a lost kid
looking for its mother
who seems to be very busy
with her own
kind of obsessive
compulsive shopping
and then you arrive at the
end line which says: hey why are you stalking me?
changes it later to
something courteous: do i know you?
are you following me?
do you like me? funny, but
sometimes it is true
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Powerful Pens
The pen is greater than the sword or so it’s often said.
A poet’s word still stirs the heart long after he is dead.
The 'Elegy' of Thomas Gray can still provoke a thought.
And Campbell’s 'Ullin’s Daughter' proves that anger gains you nought.
What of the tales of Highwaymen that Alfred Noyes wrote,
We all felt sorry for the man with lace bunched at his throat.
Omar Khayyam’s finger writes and having writ moves on.
But still his clever verse delights long after he has gone.
Why is it John Clare’s 'Morning' or Tennyson’s 'The Brook? .'
When found in an anthology still make us stop to look.
Its true Maysfield’s 'Sea Fever' will cause an inner ache.
In any landlocked seaman’s heart who’s seen a grey dawn break.
As Newbolt’s 'Fighting Temeraire' will always last the distance.
Likewise will Marks Poem Code for the French Resistance.
Could we forget Keats’s 'Gypsy Meg' with bed of brown heath turf,
or John Hays 'The Enchanted Shirt' so full of subtle mirth
When Wordsworth’s 'Golden Daffodils' herald in the spring.
Along with Housman’s 'Cherry Tree' it makes your spirit sing.
Whilst Thomas Hardy’s 'Darkling Thrush' when frost was spectre grey
captures for eternity a dying winters day
Kipling’s classic poem 'If' sets rules for living by.
Whereas his 'Undertakers Horse' reminds us that we die.
The beauty of the written verse out lives whoever wrote it,
So throughout the centuries' others oft will quote it.
The Poets fame will light a flame in hearts of all mankind.
When those who led great armies, long since are left behind.
So remember all who fight for right with gun and bomb and sword.
Your deeds are unrecorded until someone writes the word
He's A Man of His Word
He contemplates life
In general who people are
Or what things are
What is it all about?
He likes to learn
From those of us
With knowledge
Of the here and now
And of the past
He taps away
At his keyboard
As he reads
As he writes
And discovered
To his knowledge
That it helps him
To be a better man
His words are immaculate
Even words I've never heard
But when he writes his poetry
It has meaning to each word
The man is so humble
On what he writes
On what he feels
And on how he preserves others
And their words
I bow to thee Kevin Patrick
Who is a man?
Of his every word
poem by Kaila George
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Accused
From between the pages of an old dusty book
A yellowing paper, with trembling hands I took
And with tears in my eyes again and again I read
The message/writ therein, I refuse to believe
Your handwriting thereon, now illegibly blurred
Wetted by tears that fall each time they're in my hands
But blurred and wet still point a finger at me
Repeat allegations of infidelity
Now you are far away, we're thousand miles apart
The love I have for you still dwells in my heart
But for you I will wait for all eternity
And hope you'll one more time give back your love to me
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
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Swimming The Past Time
Disappear between the space of dust
In a smoke, within the light
Time moves in any speed
Continuously without tired no rest
In a chime of turbulence
Swimming back to the past
For the broad river back to early creek
Unfold the memories of past ages
In the album of experience, our old life
Reversing tears back to enter the eyes
Revisiting old smiles back on lips one more time
Wandering all before just before now
Still, we moving forward heading toward the future
Toward the estuary, swimming follow the flowing time
Moving back or in front, physical still here
Wandering, facing the stream only our mind
All good, bad now a past scenery along the time river
We heading to estuary to be as a part of wise ocean
Till time sending our final destiny to the sea
Another scenery of cry or happy we will feel and see
Just to move forward, forgive, learn to gain from past
Nothing to waste because time moves in any speed
So i will let my tears flow and smiles glow
Live these beautiful feelings in my life
For all time, as i know
Soon we will have no more
to hold each other (time and life)
: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
Having a break from 'Rise from Ashes' theme
and trying write something like 'Swimming the past time'
A poem that i done as i felt how fast time disappear...
just wrote it and post it
Life walking within time, and time never stop walking
and moves in any speed..so just bring your life some cheers
in everyday even it's hard...or not _Unwritten Soul
poem by Unwritten Soul
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Lines on and from
("Sir: For the first time in twenty-three years 'Bartlett's Familiar Quotations' has been revised and enlarged, and under a separate cover we are sending you a copy of the new edition. We would appreciate an expression of opinion from you of the value of this work after you have had an ample opportunity of examining it." --THE PUBLISHERS)
Of making many books there is no end--
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.
Thou wert my guide, philosopher and friend
When only one is shining in the sky.
Books cannot always please, however good;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
To be great is to be misunderstood,
The anointed soverign of sighs and groans.
The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,
I never write as funny as I can.
Remote, unfriendly, studious let me sit
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
Go, lovely Rose, that lives its little hour!
Go, little booke! and let who will be clever!
Roll on! From yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moon and I could keep this up forever.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Master Shakespeare
Quill in hand I see him so
A vision of him I there see
Word by word he writes on
No other can replace he
Master Shakespeare
A poet of Devine perfection
He writes and writes along
What an excellent inspiration
His words will continue on
Master Shakespeare
Magic in your very hand
No other takes your place
You I admire with my life
So full of love and grace
Master Shakespeare
poem by Suelynn Walters
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Im Moving On
Save your sweet talk for when you score
Keep your monday kisses for your glass lady
I want the truth and nothing more
Im moving on, moving on youre getting phony
You didnt have to tell a white lie
You knew you scored me for life
Dont stick your finger in my pie
You know Ill see through your jive
I want the truth and nothing more
Im moving, moving on were getting phony
When you were angry you had love in your eyes
When you were sad you had dream in your voice
But now youre giving me your window smile
Im moving on, moving on its getting phony
Moving onnnnnnnnnn!
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Is No Fish Story
We had been up and down Redwood Creek
For what seemed to me to be all day
Watching my grandfather fish for salmon
We started at the mouth of the river
Hiked over sand rocks and slippery green moss
The only reason I was there was
The fried chicken and potato salad
My grandmother made the night before
Lunch seemed so far away
My grandfather was out of sight
He had worked his way upstream
When we heard him yell 'FISH ON! '
My grandmother who had been hanging back with me
Left me in the sand
I had to move fast to catch up
Moving around large pieces of driftwood
He had certainly hooked something
His rod bending if half then straightening
As he let line out
With the reel's drag on
I knew how to fish
I just didn't like to
I had no patience
I wasn't like bird hunting
If I got bored bird hunting
When I was by myself
With just my dog
I could take a shot anyway
Just for practice
To get the dog used to the noise
Because I had no patience
At the age of twelve
I had never seen so much line out before
He kept backing further up the wide beach
It looked to me as if the fish knew the way
And was headed back to the ocean
Hook in his mouth
My guess was he was no longer
In the mood for spawning
He had my grandfather on
Nothing personal on either side
My grandfather wanted to land the salmon
The salmon it appeared wanted
My grandfather in the water
This primal tug of war
Went on for some time
The salmon tried everything
It tried going behind submerged trees
It woud take a run
Straight at the beach
My grandfather reeling in the slack
As fast as he could
The salmon would then jump high
Doubling back away yanking on the line
Trying to dislodge the hook
Or snap the line (he'd been on before)
They were both getting tired
My grandfather timed the next
Pull on his fishing rod
With the jump of the salmon
Too close to shore this time
The beast was on the beach in front of me
My grandfather was still reeling in line
He knew it wasn't landed yet
He was hollering for my grandmother
To grab a piece of driftwood
To club the monster
Who was glaring at me with one eye
His other eye was in the sand
My grandfather's shinning metal lure
Stuck out of a bloody mouth
Gills were grasping for oxygen in dry air
I swear I saw in that eye the reflection
Of my grandmother running
A hunk of driftwood in hand
The eye saw it too
With one last flop like a large wrestler
Just before the count of three
He went up into the air
Snapped the line hit the water and was gone
I'm not sure what pound test the line was
Whatever it was it wasn't enough
My gandfather's favorite lure
With his hand-tied leader
Were following their catch
As fast as they could
Not knowing it was they
That had been caught
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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