I wonder if I ever thought of an ideal reader... I guess when I was in my 20s and in New York and maybe even in my early 30s, I would write for my wife Janice... mainly for my poet friends and my wife, who was very smart about poetry.
quote by Kenneth Koch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
To serve the people, one must write for the ideal reader. Only for the ideal reader. And who or what is that ideal reader? God. One must imagine, One must deeply imagine that great Attention. Only so, in lonely dialog, can one reach the people.
quote by Denise Levertov
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Togetherness Is Gone
My wife,
Stop cleaning the house
Please come here
To accompany me
My husband,
The house is dirty
We aren't able to pay the maid
You've already retired
My wife,
Don't cook
It's a holiday
Let us eat outside the home
My husband,
Don't eat outdoors
We need efficient
You've already retired
My wife,
Let's keep me company
Why the rush to sleep
It's still early
My husband,
I have to get up early
To clean the house
And prepare breakfast
My wife,
I have to go this morning
My friends were waiting
Long we don't meet
My husband,
Be careful on the road
Greetings for your friends
But, why not breakfast?
My wife,
You have fallen asleep last night
I see you sleeping soundly all
I don't have the heart to wake you
My husband,
I'm sorry
I don't welcome you home
But, why should sleep on the sofa?
My wife,
I have to go again
I have social activities
With my old friends
My husband,
Don't forget dinner at home
You look very dapper
Although not wear perfume
My wife,
sorry, we were very busy
I had dinner with friends
Happy dinner, dear
My husband,
I woke up too early
But you're not at home
Where are you?
My wife,
I came home at midnight
I have to go early in the morning
I don't have the heart to wake you
My husband,
I just finished washing clothes
I've found the clothes that you wear today
But, why the smell of perfume?
poem by Hasanudin Sofyan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Broken heart
Poets have broken hearts
My wife Tapaswini alleged
And without broken hearts
No one would be a poet
My wife Tapaswini clarified.
The poet wonders in his world
The poet work wonders through
His words and sentences
And my wife Tapaswini left
No space for my replied.
My wife Tapaswini left the place
Where I was and my wife Tapaswini
Could not reach me where I am
And the sparrow the crow all
Arranged their feast with joy
Where I am writing poem.
Where I was writing I was there
Where I am writing I am there
My wife Tapaswini always with me
I was not with my wife Tapaswini
While writing and the allegation
Of my wife Tapaswini I certified
And I attested One can take it granted.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old
Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.
poem by Eric Graham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Woman Called
A woman called for you today said Max’s wife.
Oh said Max who was she?
She didn’t say Max’s wife replied.
Well dames that don’t leave names
Aren’t worth worry over Max said
Lighting up a cigarette and sitting
In a chair by the window.
She seemed to know you Max’s wife stated stiffly
Seemed quite put out when I told her I was your wife.
Dames are always put out over something or other
Max said noticing his wife’s beauty spot
And how it moved as she spoke.
She was a brunette.
Ah a brunette huh?
Yes a brunette his wife said.
Well? She said after a minute’s pause.
New York’s full of brunettes.
This one came to the apartment and rang our bell
And stood at the door asking for Max.
There are plenty of men called Max in New York Honey he said
Comparing in his mind his wife and the brunette
He’d met at a bar the other night.
She seemed your type his wife said sulkily
The type that sways her hips and sticks out their ass.
Yes I know the type Max said and sighed
They can never leave me alone.
I tell them I am happily married to the best dame in New York
But they seem not to hear Max said
Watching smoke rise upwards.
Best dame in New York huh? His wife said.
Sure you are he said taking in his wife’s plump ass
Hanging over the side of the chair like melted cheese.
She smiled and said must have been a mistake
On her part coming here and asking for Max.
Sure it was Max said dames sometimes make mistakes
They have no sense of direction.
His wife smiled at him sexily hoping.
Max smiled back and hoped for erection.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What The Reader Needs Is Words
What the reader needs is words
So Beautiful
And so Surprising
That they bring Joy and Mystery
A sense of Freshness in all things.
What the Reader needs
The Poet should give
But there are Poets who cannot be
The best Poetry is
Still they live and write
As I do.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Divine Poetry
Poet never ceases to be poet
He can't remain quiet
He is not dependant on fate
He is with the scene and never late
Poetry is my food
I have completely understood
If I fail to write anytime in a day
That is enough cause for me to be taken away
I shall be no more
If thoughts compel me to feel bore
Thoughts just emerge from the idle store
Pen gets strength to write more and more
Poetry is dear to me like wife
It is also like an edge of knife
It may compel you to write tough
And land you in trouble to pass through rough
But you got to be fearless
As that may be tough situation to face
Many readers may try to pull your legs
When your are reciting it on the stage
It is easy to swim in imagery
Float in dreams with lines silvery
Moon may seem very near
To enjoy its beauty without fear
Poetry as such is divine gift
It may never allow having shift
He is the one who instills thought
When with peaceful mind they are sought
It is divinity that makes home
Pen must write always to welcome
Readers must enjoy skill and talent
Swim with melody and enjoy the moment
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet Becomes The Poetry
THE POET BECOMES THE POETRY
After years of striving to write Poetry
The Poet becomes the Poetry
No word is not poetry in him
And no silence is not the sound
his own writing makes
Wherever he is
Whatever he does
is Poetry
Mediocre or not
Real or not
Loved or not
Understood or not
The Poet is Poetry
Unable forever to escape
what he Lives.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Letter To All
Today I had a rude awakening
Today I went out to dinner with my boy and wife
One of Alice’s songs began to play in the restaurant
One of them said “Isn’t that your girlfriend singing”
Both my boy and my wife began to laugh out loud
I felt as if I were the butt of some cruel joke
I began to think that I should give up my love of poetry
So I will give everyone my reason for no punctuation
I don’t want my poems to be restrained I want them to be free
And everyone may read it differently each time they read it
Maybe if my poetry receives recognition one day I may return
That is if my family learns that I am a fairly decent poet
And they tell me that I can continue to write poetry
I will miss you Alice more than anything I am sad
To say that it is with a heavy heart I must bid you all adieu
You all Happy Holidays peace
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Farmers Poem
'I don't like Poetry'
Said the husband to the wife..
'I've no time for such things
I live a Farmers life'
But the wife said 'dear husband'
'you live a poets poem'
do you not reap the harvest
of seeds by whick you've sown?
I've seen you bow your head in thanks
when God answered prayers for rain
i've seen your eyes shine with pride
with every baby calf you name'
' I guess poetrys okay' he said
as he kissed that farmers wife
and silently he thanked the Lord
she saw poetry in their life....
connetta Jean
poem by Connetta Jean
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Nada Mas (only the poem)
Reader, your voice is the poem
you are the words; and
nothing more.
Reader, there is no poetry
unless you speak it.
Reader, there is no sound
you must find what it has to say.
Reader, seek the thought
rising from your soul.
Reader, look all about you, up and down
no one else has come this way.
Reader, there is no other poem
only you among the words of the word; and
nothing more.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Touchdowns and Fumbles
My poetry teacher tells me he isn’t a poet
He just writes poetry
I tell him I want to transfer out immediately
He shouldn’t be teaching
I mean anyone can write poetry
And if you say you write it good but aren’t a poet
Than you’re an arrogant prick
Give me a poet to learn from
Good or not, they still stand by their writing
While people who write poetry are weak.
Standing behind what people believe is good
And tossing away what people don’t like
A football player takes it all with him.
Touchdowns and fumbles, passes and interceptions
While couches talk about years when they
Were the best, but forget about all the others.
I can’t learn from a poetry writer
I need to know the mistakes and shortcomings
Or else history is damned to repeat itself in me
Give me a poet any day.
poem by Reyes Suarez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poet in His Own Time
Who am I to criticize others,
I'm a poet in my own time,
my own place and my own world.
I just write what I see feel,
and hear.
My poetry may be different,
I don't follow the path
of other poets, but that's
ok, let them write what
they must write in their
own way.
All poetry is beautiful,
some takes longer to
understand.
We're all in this together
we write the poetry that
fulfills our needs.
(4-11-07)
It Is Time To Write Another Kind Of Poetry
IS TIME TO WRITE ANOTHER KIND OF POETRY
It is time to write another kind of poetry-
To leave behind the self-reflection
The poems on the poet the poem and the poetry -
It is time to rediscover that the world is rich in unsaid dreams
And the poet must see too the beauty of what has been unsaid before
And what has been said many times before -
It is time to write another kind of poetry
And to leave myself as poet subject behind-
I have not yet done this here
But tomorrow and the next day perhaps
There will be other worlds.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Keeping His First Wife Now
IT’S OH! for a rivet in marriage bonds,
And a splice in the knot untied—
The sanctity of the marriage tie
Is growing more sanctified!
They’re getting mixed up in society,
There’s an awful family row,
For Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is “keeping” his first wife now!
Oh! she belonged to the smart, smart set
(Where reasons are far to seek)—
And the wedding and “crush” are remembered yet
As the “smart” things of the week.
Never an atom of love had she,
But they had a child somehow—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has the love of his first wife now.
Mad for “notice” and “talk” was she—
A butterfly blind as a bat—
She would flaunt for a season a divorcee,
Or divorce him, failing that.
He played his part and she held his heart
As light as her marriage vow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has a hold on his first wife now.
She swore in Court what the world knew false,
With never a thought of shame—
She was free to flaunt to her heart’s content,
But she found it mighty tame:
The talk of the “town” for a week or two—
The gush, the smirk and the bow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is the God of his first wife now!
Her soul grew sick of the smart, smart set,
Or her conscience drove her wild—
Or she craved for “notice” and “talk” once more—
Or perhaps because of the child;
But they met at last and they met again—
No matter the where or how—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is in love with his first wife now.
’Tis a “terrible life” for the second young wife,
But she married him too for “place”;
And she mustn’t forget that a smarting set
Belongs to the human race.
They say it’s fixed up in camera,
And, if that is the case, I’ll vow,
That Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Will marry his first wife now.
And there is a song of the English world
And a song for the English race:
The second husband and second wife
Must ever take second place.
So cherish the best that you find in the first,
And a margin of width allow:
The future looks after itself too well!
Look after the first ones now.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gypsy's Wife
And where, where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight
I've heard all the wild reports, they can't be right
But whose head is this she's dancing with on the threshing floor
whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?
Ah the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, "My body is the light, my body is the way"
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the bride's bouquet
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight?...
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
And there is no man or woman who can't be touched
But you who come between them will be judged
And where, where is my Gypsy wife tonight
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poetry Of Confession
THE POETRY OF CONFESSION
The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-
Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-
The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –
The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-
The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –
A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Ideal Husband
An ideal husband doesn't argue,
He never squabbles or swears,
Only about his wife he cares.
He always says kind words,
Doesn't do anything that hurts.
Doesn't play cards or guzzles away money,
Days and nights repeats: You are my honey!
Out of the rest he is much wiser,
He is not poor or a miser.
In all he is good and so nice,
Always gives a good advice.
An ideal husband is very strong,
And his wife is never wrong.
Even in bed he is the best,
Every day with him is a fest.
At other women he never looks,
And plus to that he nicely cooks.
He is so handsome and not boring,
And you will never hear him snoring.
His wife is blameless and so gorgeous,
She goes out and he's not jealous.
In all his wife he loves to assist.
Does such a husband really exist?
It seems he can be found only in dreams.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 22 of September,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Gypsys Wife
And where, where, where is my gypsy wife tonight
Ive heard all the wild reports, they cant be right
But whose head is this shes dancing with on the threshing floor
Whose darkness deepens in her arms a little more
And where, where is my gypsy wife tonight?
Where, where is my gypsy wife tonight?
Ah the silver knives are flashing in the tired old cafe
A ghost climbs on the table in a bridal negligee
She says, my body is the light, my body is the way
I raise my arm against it all and I catch the brides bouquet
And where, where is my gypsy wife tonight? ...
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove
These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
And there is no man or woman who cant be touched
But you who come between them will be judged
And where, where is my gypsy wife tonight? ...
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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