I was in Paris at an English-language bookstore. I picked up a volume of Dickinson's poetry. I came back to my hotel, read 2,000 of her poems and immediately began composing in my head. I wrote down the melodies even before I got to a piano.
quote by Gordon Getty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
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Poetry is Dead
Capital D.
Go to the bookstore if you don’t
Believe me
See if you can find the poetry
Way back in the back where
Most people seldom go
If you do find it, what
Do you see?
Frost and Dickinson and
Susan Polis Schutz
Oh, yes, Poetry is Dead.
Who killed it? And why?
We need to find the corpse
Get a sample of DNA
Re-construct a new being
A Poetry people can relate to
A Poetry people want to hear
A Poetry not only striking
But with something vividly important
To say.
(Previously published in CER*BER*US, XLIII, July 2001)
poem by Laurence Overmire
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For All Pianos All Around The World
pi
piano
piano use
piano key
piano roll
piano wire
piano note
pianoforte
piano store
piano pedal
piano bench
piano effect
piano sound
piano string
piano mover
piano maker
piano music
piano action
piano player
piano lesson
piano design
piano course
piano soloist
piano tuning
piano recital
piano replica
piano sonata
piano rhythm
piano sample
piano teacher
piano program
piano concerto
piano repertoire
piano brand name
anno piano twenty twelve
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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Through Paris 1970
As you rode through Paris
in the packed coach
the radio played
Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5
and Mamie
sat beside you
her head to one side
sleeping
her mouth open
like some fish
out of water
her hands tucked
between her thighs
her blue skirt
riding high
and the slow movement
of the Beethoven piece
began
the piano playing softy
as the bright lights
of Paris
lit up
the dull space
inside the coach
and you closed your eyes
laying a hand
surreptiously
over hers
hearing the piano
and orchestra
as if in a dream
and Mamie
never minded
your hand
on hers
or so you thought then
and as now
it would seem.
poem by Terry Collett
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Factors Given to This Earth
With a huffing puffed removed of fluff,
Mother Nature comes to turn some lights out!
No discussions are solicited when repercussions done...
Are man made not to fix.
And Mother Nature silences both minds and mouths...
With a swiftness to handle this!
Dirty deed these culprits breed,
Upon Mother's precious natural wonders.
And Mother steams with a scream and has had it!
Knocking these leechers out...
For Her is a movement to improve,
Those factors given to this Earth.
And no one will diminish them...
As Mother Nature emphatically,
In Her enthusiastic way to keep aesthetics obeyed...
Reverses dirty deeds these culprits began.
With an elimination done of sinning women and men.
And the beginning of that has begun to begin the 'beguine'.
Note:
'Begin the Beguine' is a song Cole Porter wrote
while composing at the piano in the bar of the Ritz Hotel in Paris.
And October 1935, June Knight introduce it in the Broadway musical,
Jubilee. Produced at the Imperial Theater in New York city.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Piano {Klavier}
They say to me
Open this door
curiosity screams
Whatever could it be
Back behind that door
A piano
The keys are all dusty
The strings are all untuned
Back behind that door
At the piano
But she plays no more
It so long ago
On the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
She said to me too
That I'll stay with you
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
I poured her blood
On the fire of my rage
I locked up her shrine
They questioned in time
At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
I stand by her
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
They opened up the door
And how they cried
I heard her mother plea
her father struck out at me
They tore her from her chair
No one believed me there
I was so insane
With the strech and the pain
At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
She's who I hear
As I began to play
I took her breath away
song performed by by Rammstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Dog Night
Chuck Negron
who I did meet
is really sincere
and really sweet.
I told him I wrote
'Poems of
Inspiration
and Recovery'
People who
read them
can feel
better with discovery.
My poems have
words in them
like the word
“pray”.
These poems
where on
display
in Hazelden Ctr.
that very
same day.
Now he did
sign my book
writing to my
alias Suzae.
The book he
wrote is
“Three Dog Nightmare”.
describing
his life which
is almost like
one of Razel’s
“Frightmares”
It’s about
his drug
addiction
& his word
of hope,
for anyone
addicted to
or strung out on dope.
Now buy it on
Amazon or at
your local bookstore,
it’s worth every penny
and then some more.
Written on April 2nd 2011 by Christina Sunrise
www.christinasunrise.com www.purplepoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Sonnet- To Emily Dickinson
A spinster, she remained all through her life,
And kept her poems unpublished but filed;
God was her Lover, Friend, ’midst all her strife;
She led a quiet life akin a child!
Her feelings river-like flowed to the sea;
She never let her passions form a lake;
Neither was she after name, fame, money;
She was a Poetess of U.S. make.
The Queen of wordy rhymes, she wrote and wrote;
Her poems could apply to future dates;
A Ship she was but wished to stay a boat!
On earth, she was ready for Heaven's gates.
Her volume of poetry was quite big!
Nevertheless, she never wore a wig!
7-4-2002
poem by John Celes
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0317 Fingertip to fingertip, a human net
i think it's really wonderful
that with all the million poems on this net
people find their way to read what each of us has read
or written.
it's like a shining human net around the world -
fingertip to fingertip in space
all connected by the love of poetry
and the poetry of love.
so instead of moping and chewing our pencils,
feeling pathetic and unread
we can dedicate all our poems to all those real people who - yes! -
actually read them
and say
It's you I wrote them for - and you - and you-
and now I know you're there
I'll write some better ones for you in time,
that what it's all about...
and if I'm silent for a time
working on something that's good enough for you,
remember -
love, love, love
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Eighteenth-Nineteenth Century Verse
France is the country of poems and prose
the lovely French language tells us so.
Romantic love in classical verse
dates back to Voltaire from days long ago.
The 18th century brought poets from Paris
writing about France and the Seine,
and so many other Parisian wonders
that lie in that fertile plain.
Yes France was a country of talent
In England, Wordsworth stole the scene
whilst Coleridge, another fine English poet
wrote lyrical verse about Pastures Green.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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In Paris With You
Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.
Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.
Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.
poem by James Fenton
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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
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Young Poet
Poetry was something else
written by others
somewhere else
and came from
somewhere else
but the poetry
which he did not know
called one day
in a language he did not know
so he put down words on paper
and threw the paper away
but the words did not go away
and he did not know what poetry should do
until he wrote the words
which told him
what poetry could do
for only poetry can teach you poetry
*
Gertrude Stein stood behind me while I wrote this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Chuck Negron Of Three Dog Night
Chuck Negron who I did meet
is really sincere and really sweet.
Chuck wrote "Three Dog Nightmare".
almost like one of Razel's "Frightmares"
It's about his drug addiction
& his word of hope
for anyone addicted to or strung out on dope.
I told him I wrote'Poems of
Inspiration and Recovery'
People who read them
can feel better with discovery.
My poems have words in them
like the word "pray".
These poems along with his book
where on display
in Hazelden Ctr. that very same day.
Chuck did sign my book to alias Suzae
Now buy it on Amazon or at
your local bookstore
it's worth every penny
and then some more.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 2nd 2011
www.suzae.com www.suechevalier.com
www.christinasunrise.com
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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However, I began composing as soon as I started taking piano lessons.
quote by Gyorgy Legeti
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three Dog Night
Chuck Negron who I did meet
is really sincere and really sweet.
I told him I wrote 'Poems of Inspiration
and Recovery'
People who read them can feel
better with discovery.
My poems have words in them
like the word 'pray'.
These poems where on display
in Hazelden Ctr.
that very same day.
Now he didsign my book
writing to my alias Suzae.
The book hewrote is
'Three Dog Nightmare'.
describing his life which
is almost like one of Razel's
'Frightmares'
It's abouthis drug
addiction& his word
of hope,
for anyoneaddicted to
or strung out on dope.
Now buy it onAmazon or at
your local bookstore,
it's worth every penny
and then some more.
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have Read Many Poems I Know I Never Could Have Written
I have read many poems I know I never could have written
Poems whose language was far richer and more remarkable than mine
Poems that saw as I cannot see and sounded as I cannot sound
Poems of magnificent music and many hidden meanings
I have read many poems greater than those I could ever write
And have been humbled and saddened and inspired by them
Out there somewhere else
There have been real poets
And I in my own little lines
Love and respect them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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