Cursive writing does not mean what I think it does.

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Mother!

Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!

The dawn has set in a will,
The limpid heart is sleeping still!

Her work is wide than a tide,
Making her face fade a slight!

Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!

The Queen of Kingdom rests in peace,
The Queen of Home sets in work!

Her job is an endless ocean,
My smile for her is boosting mark!

Mother! , She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!

Sunday is a great relief,
To recharge her mind and physic!

Its my part to pat her today,
Let her sleep, come on sunday! !

Mother! She is a cursive art,
Let her sleep, its a sunday's part!

poem by Jayanthi SekarReport problemRelated quotes
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I Come Alive In Writing

I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -

I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-

I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.

poem by Shalom FreedmanReport problemRelated quotes
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And I'm writing

The purpose of writing poem
Is not known and I'm writing.
Excuse me, I'm writing
And writing
And writing is natural
As natural as wind
As natural as light
And I'm writing
Writing and pervading
Everywhere.

poem by Gajanan MishraReport problemRelated quotes
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When Eagles Fall

They will fall and not know why
Disaster ruled their beloved land

When Truth and Faith allowed to die
God released them from His Hand.

So They will crawl and eventually die
Their cries and pleas will be in vain

This nation lost, their God deny
Had pledged a partnership with Pain.

Their profane words that degenerate
Their cursive writing that sealed their fate

Like soaring eagles shot with arrows
Swift is their fall and much is their sorrow.

Copyright Cynthia Buhain Baello
March 2,2010
Philippines

poem by Cynthia Buhain-BaelloReport problemRelated quotes
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Scribbles Transcribed

Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.

I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.

I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.

What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme

I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.

My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.

My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.

Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.

To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.

I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.

I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.

But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.

Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.

The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.

My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..


(18-Jun-07)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e HoggReport problemRelated quotes
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Ashley Scott

For some reason when I write in cursive, it's easier and flows better for me to read that when I print.

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Howard Nemerov

Writing

The cursive crawl, the squared-off characters
these by themselves delight, even without
a meaning, in a foreign language, in
Chinese, for instance, or when skaters curve
all day across the lake, scoring their white
records in ice. Being intelligible,
these winding ways with their audacities
and delicate hesitations, they become
miraculous, so intimately, out there
at the pen’s point or brush’s tip, do world
and spirit wed. The small bones of the wrist
balance against great skeletons of stars
exactly; the blind bat surveys his way
by echo alone. Still, the point of style
is character. The universe induces
a different tremor in every hand, from the
check-forger’s to that of the Emperor
Hui Tsung, who called his own calligraphy
the ‘Slender Gold.’ A nervous man
writes nervously of a nervous world, and so on.


Miraculous. It is as though the world
were a great writing. Having said so much,
let us allow there is more to the world
than writing: continental faults are not
bare convoluted fissures in the brain.
Not only must the skaters soon go home;
also the hard inscription of their skates
is scored across the open water, which long
remembers nothing, neither wind nor wake.

poem by Howard NemerovReport problemRelated quotes
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Planning to write is not writing. Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you're doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.

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The French Teacher

I am taken with her skill of language
well versed in verse root romantics
as well, wooing and cooing
with captivating kinesthetics

intuitively she knows how to move
keep her poet jaw dropped and gushing
spilling fount flow for fumbling and wondering
that he might please her with writing
that he might please her with writing

writing, writing for offering...

form voluptuous statuesque classic
Romanesque animate becoming
hair hallowed aureate dawning and drawing
generous goddess lips eyebrows blowing

crystalline kisses through azure spectacles
spectacular splendid spectacles
inspirate azure and emerald speckled
aquamarine splendour shining

spectacles windows bowing....

But she is no mere anachronism,
mine ageless angelic antiquity
rather, an archetype for study sustaining
filling parched poets and artists hungry

unto the ages exhausting eternity

her accent accentuates geometry
I am aching articulation arching
fantastic fresco, mosaic musing
influx imagery inundating overwhelming

core etymologic elocution erotic
syntactic sublime as enamouring
and she is laconic, tutoring beauty
the virtues of verity; beloved brevity

I am putty in her hands, clay for sculpting,
molding metal for cursive casting
As for her, mine words are so such;

We are crafting each other in many languages

For Karen M
merci beaucoup: -)


copyright R. Resh 2008

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Writing The Words

I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.

I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.

I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.

I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.

I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.

I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.

So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.

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On Writing

is talking aloud to myself
i'm the first recipient of my communication,
first translator of my emotion into words.
first witness to the subtle unfolding within

writing is my strength.
writing is my weakness too
to me writing is meditation.
writing is prayer!

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I enjoy writing, sometimes; I think that most writers will tell you about the agony of writing more than the joy of writing, but writing is what I was meant to do.

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When I'm writing about reality, I'm writing about death. When I'm writing fiction, I'm writing about life.

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And So I'm Writing...

I'm hard-pressed for time,
yet I do have the heart
And so I'm writing
Know not what to pen down,
have a paper to write on
And so I'm writing

May be I'll write about 'you and me'
Or may be of 'us and them'
Feel like playing with words
And so I'm writing

May be that starving beggar's hungry looks
Or that homeless Child's beckoning eyes
Are making me scribble these lines to you
And so I'm writing

May be you'll find my words vague
Or you might decipher a meaning
Intend to leave you in the oblivion
And so I'm writing

Whatever might be the impression I create
Wish to see its reflection on your soul
And leave an imprint on your mind
And so I'm writing

May be you and I've become immune
To the pathos of mankind
Or may be there's still
A dropp of humanity flowing deep within us
Wish to arouse 'The Human Being' in you
And so I'm writing...

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Writing To

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
Writing every emotion..
With such a white background.
It makes no sound
Even as the keys I pound.
Let my words have bite
Let from my words drip out meanings beyond meanings
Its something I try to be constantly be achieving.

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
I want every heart and mind
Sucked in cause this is my world stage
No sense of the time.
Never to turn the page
Stuck in to a world oh so oh so fine

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
Listen to her melody, as she sings.
Let chaos reign down from the skies
What will this day really bring?
Will the letter say good bye?
Will it mend everything?

Making everything better.
Destroying all the consequences
That exist in your world.
Welcome to the place I visit daily.
Inspirational maddness,
It attacks, attacks, and attacks.
With perfect sadness
I must let go once more.
And then the words hit the floor

Writing to feel
Writing to heal.
Writing to steal.
Becoming one with my soul.
Fighting for its one and only control.
Its mine, Its mine. Its mine.
In this reality it subsequently is not
A constant questioning of what?

Writing to feel
Writing to heal.
Writing to steal.
With every sound, taste, and light.
The worlds get get oh so oh so bright
Understand that which is not so forthright
This is my night, and day.
So come on join me, please this way.

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I'm Not Writing A Poem Today

I'm not writing a poem today, don't feel like writing,
Instead I'll watch soaps today, while nail-biting.
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to sleep soon,
Instead I'll later wake up and look at the white moon,
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to be sad,
Instead I'm going to search for something else that makes me glad.
So peace be unto anyone that reads the letter here,
For I am not writing a poem today, just going to get a beer.

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Not The Poem Then

NOT THE POEM THEN

Not the poem then
Although it can be the poem
Writing
Simply writing
This is the duty and the meaning
And the release from meaninglessness
And the ‘enabling me to go on’
The poem is only one form of it
It is the writing which matters
My life has been this
This writing
Even if it is a poor poem now
As I write these words
I live.

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Soyinka, Intro

'But the ultimate lesson is just sit down and write.
That's all.'


so with you charles.
and so with me
here i am
writing and writing ang writing

that's all
no questions asked
anymore

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Orhan Pamuk

Nothing is as surprising as life. Except for writing. Except for writing. Yes, of course, except for writing, the only consolation.

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Anais Nin

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.

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