But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?
quote by H.P. Lovecraft
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I Knew What Poets Know
If I knew what poets know,
Would I write a rhyme
Of the buds that never blow
In the summer-time?
Would I sing of golden seeds
Springing up in ironweeds?
And of rain-drops turned to snow,
If I knew what poets know?
Did I know what poets do,
Would I sing a song
Sadder than the pigeon's coo
When the days are long?
Where I found a heart in pain,
I would make it glad again;
And the false should be the true,
Did I know what poets do.
If I knew what poets know,
I would find a theme
Sweeter than the placid flow
Of the fairest dream:
I would sing of love that lives
On the errors it forgives;
And the world would better grow
If I knew what poets know.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Travellers gallery
Travellers gallery
~
welcome to the travellers gallery
the windows frame a world
from water coloured rivers
to pastel forests and fields
sketched out towns spread out
between charcoal cities
nameless people, faces
all passing in a hurry
the travellers gallery presents
a life in motion exhibition
all in natural hue colour
by bus, train or car
the landscape and portraits
become ingrained in memory
welcome to the travellers gallery
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Broken Fairy Tales
Heres a little story that I made up
So let's play make believe
In my castle on the cliff
I look out to sea
I just wanna have some fun
I just wanns have a good time
My party is nothing special
I just can't seem to realize
In my little fairy tale book
That's where my dreams wait for me
In my little own world
My prince waits for me
Broken dreams and fairy tales
One of those things I know so well
My fantasy dreams aren't real anymore
They're just Broken Fairy Tales
The wicked witch dreams in her sleep
She is making green elephants for tea
She cackles and cries
The witch is alive and she's ready for the sun
A white horse rides the waves
His mane is silver and snow
The moon which rides
Along the great tides
Is living his life to the full
In my little fairy tale book
That's where my dreams wait for me
In my little own world
My prince waits for me
Broken dreams and fairy tales
One of those things I know so well
My fantasy dreams aren't real anymore
They're just Broken Fairy Tales
Walking through my winter wonderland
The pine tree's sway, glistened with snow
As we walk along, we hear Santa say
'Welcome to the book of Broken Fairy Tales.'
Broken dreams and fairy tales
One of those things I know so well
My fantasy dreams aren't real anymore
They're just Broken Fairy Tales
As I wake from my dream I realise
That this is my broken fairy tale
poem by AnneMarie Hewlett
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fairy. Tales. Of. Tomorrow.
I speak of dreams
When u. And I.
Attain bliss. Becoming We.
Pure love. Satisfied.
Cinderella. Beauty and the Beast.
Speak of Fairy tales. Tales of love.
Dreams. Of a new dawn.
I speak of these dreams.
Holding us together.
Waking us in the mornings.
Hope for a new day. With a new hope.
For a Happy ending. And a ‘happily-ever-after’.
Of tomorrow.
Travellers, like poets, are mostly an angry race: by falling into a daily fit of passion, I proved to the governor and his son, who were profuse in their attentions, that I was in earnest.
quote by Richard Francis Burton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thirsty Travellers
When zebras migrate plain to plain
They brave the hunters, too,
These travellers have much to gain
As each one sees it through...
Consider running to and fro,
Attacked on either side,
Then panicked, wondering where to go,
When there's no place to hide...
Such are the burdens each must face
The whole day long, no doubt,
In seeking some great resting place,
Like that's what life's about...
Survivors left to tell the tales
Of how, somehow, they lived,
Despite the fact another fails
And loses life's sweet gift...
Thirsty travellers find the shore,
To line up cautiously,
To face the crocodiles and more
Takes utmost bravery...
Each baptised zebra takes his chance,
With courage rarely known...
In hopes, somehow, the odds enhance
When none there swims alone...
Denis Martindale, copyright, December 2012.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Thirsty Travellers'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Poets Expresion
People are for ever correcting
A poet's right to express
Those of us who use English
As a second language
At times do make mistakes
But a Poets Expression
Stamps a mark on your mind
To imagine and dream
About worlds of the unknown
You delve in their minds
And stir the images of life
And implant them your expressions
Your expressions on life
Poets are many with their
Own impressions on life
Give up to the poet's
And clap them with praise
So from this poet who dreams?
To be just like them
Wise and experienced
In sharing my dreams
Fare thee well good poets
Encore and good night
poem by Kaila George
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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.
quote by T.S. Eliot (1920)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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We As Poets
We as poets must command a sacred accent over a language of our choice,
We as poets must gift the minds of a failing generation,
We as poets must demand a clear explanation and a fair occupation,
We as poets must dissolve into particles and dust if we have not known enough,
We as poets must destroy the living standards of low quality,
We are to be the poetry of utmost perception and suffering.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Poets and Fools
Dreams are for fools and poets
Let the dreamer dream
And the poet write
And let us mere mortals pine.
From my pen comes dreams
And my dreams I no longer pen
Through the darkness I wade
All I need to say is said.
poem by Robert Green
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Shakespeare's Peerless Legacy
It's Shakespeare's peerless legacy
That stands the test of time,
With tales of awesome majesty,
Triumphant and sublime,
With heroes and with heroines
And villains by the score,
Such that the magic soon begins
With poetry galore...
So many words that shaped his plays,
So grandiose in style,
With twists and turns as each relays
Each character's profile,
With swordplay, too, and deadly dreams
And schemes both fair and fowl,
Behold how callous evil streams
Beneath each darkened cowl...
To think, he sat and wrote and wrote
On parchments old and new,
Expressing lots and plots to gloat
The evil that men do,
Or tragic tales, sweethearts alive
With love that cannot die,
Or heroes hurt, will they survive
Or will they make us cry?
Behold the peerless legacy
Of sonnets, plays and prose,
With such a place in history
His legend overflows,
Such that the world owes much to him,
The globe knows this full well,
For he had talents to the brim
With wondrous tales to tell...
Reflect upon this, poets now,
No matter, young or old,
To strive for glory here, somehow,
Takes more than skills or gold,
Regardless of your rhymes and such,
Your themes and dreams to catch,
Will you ever really do as much,
His legacy to match?
Fear not, each has a place on Earth,
A destiny to bear,
Such that the Lord knows each has worth,
If fellowshipped in prayer...
Adopted children of the Lord,
I challenge you this day...
Write rhymes Lord Jesus can reward,
Before you pass away...
---
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Amelia
I was driving across the burning desert
When I spotted six jet planes
Leaving six white vapor trails across the bleak terrain
It was the hexagram of the heavens
It was the strings of my guitar
Amelia, it was just a false alarm
The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets thru to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm
People will tell you where theyve gone
Theyll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Where some have found their paradise
Others just come to harm
Oh amelia, it was just a false alarm
I wish that he was here tonight
Its so hard to obey
His sad request of me to kindly stay away
So this is how I hide the hurt
As the road leads cursed and charmed
I tell amelia, it was just a false alarm
A ghost of aviation
She was swallowed by the sky
Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly
Like icarus ascending
On beautiful foolish arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm
Maybe Ive never really loved
I guess that is the truth
Ive spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude
And looking down on everything
I crashed into his arms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm
I pulled into the cactus tree motel
To shower off the dust
And I slept on the strange pillows of my wanderlust
I dreamed of 747s
Over geometric farms
Dreams, amelia, dreams and false alarms
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yeah, but now suddenly - you know, universities are notoriously market oriented, too.
quote by Jim Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Real Poets
THE REAL POETS
The real poets are few in number and largely known by name
The rest of us are endless frustration in aspiration
Words upon words upon words
Dreams upon dreams upon dreams
Getting and going nowhere forever unheard
The real poets find their anthologized place
And we know them over and over and over again
The rest of us just appear this only once
If we appear at all
And our words and our hearts and our minds
Do not encompass and inspire the endless rereadings
Time and Time’s Wounds make again and again and again
We are once only always forever losts
Nothing will save us
These words too coming in the wake of a long night’s reading
Of the poems of others
Cannot sustain and redeem
Cannot be what they would be
Cannot help and cannot save
Me or you or anyone we love
Even as poetry.
God Who Knows All
And in the End Decides on Everything
Has made us smaller even than the Angels
And our place in the Divine Song
Is not as far as we know
Anywhere heard at all.
Goodbye world
We are going
We have done what we could
We have written and written and written
Oxymandias’ poet will remain
And we will not
The lone and desert sands will stretch away
When we are not even a single grain.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Unknown
She is most fair,
And when they see her pass
The poets' ladies
Look no more in the glass
But after her.
On a bleak moor
Running under the moon
She lures a poet,
Once proud or happy, soon
Far from his door.
Beside a train,
Because they saw her go,
Or failed to see her,
Travellers and watchers know
Another pain.
The simple lack
Of her is more to me
Than others' presence,
Whether life splendid be
Or utter black.
I have not seen,
I have no news of her;
I can tell only
She is not here, but there
She might have been.
She is to be kissed
Only perhaps by me;
She may be seeking
Me and no other; she
May not exist.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Breakfast is a notoriously difficult meal to serve with a flourish.
quote by Clement Freud
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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