Poetry is all nouns and verbs.
quote by Marianne Moore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Verbs v. nouns
Nouns…
they’re dead things; names
you give to things to render them
immobile; to make them yours, your very own; fit for nothing
except scrapheaps, museums, dictionaries, armchairs;
but they make you feel good;
you have control over their world;
you don’t have to think about them any more;
they’re all locked up safe in your collecting-box,
the noun for which is head:
you can sound important with nouns:
this government’s raft of measures
for fiscal stimulation of the economy
but verbs… ah, verbs!
you can’t own them, push them about,
collect them, be important about them;
they own themselves;
they’re outdoor words: going about their
lawful business, doing what they're best at,
measuring their own life as they work;
adapting themselves to what needs to be done
which nouns can’t do without a committee
and then it’s too late; happy
to be themselves, being; even
being while they’re doing.. don't you wish
you were a verb?
Nature – (that’s a verb, by the way,
not a noun) – is all verbs; evolution
is a verb (not a theory):
DNA’s a verb – you can’t own it
like a noun…it doesn’t even
want to own you…
so, be a child – put your boots on,
run, splash, shout look at all those verbs;
how bright the world, what fun,
nothing to put in your pocket to take home
(or if you do, it’ll change to a noun, your noun,
in your pocket, in your drawer, gathering dust:
verbs don’t have the time to gather dust…)
verbs are for observing; verbs are for
seeing for the first time; wow! Verbs are for
inventors, explorers, tree-climbing,
coming home after a day of verb-watching
tired and looking forward to tomorrow
and sleeping soundly, maybe even
thanking, laughing, giving, living;
God is a verb.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Is Movement Without Effort
Poetry is movement without effort
Poetry should take you to places far beyond what your eyes can see
Take you to places where you can be free
Poetry is movement without effort
All you have to do is think and feel
and it will move you
and make your experiences real
poetry can cause pictures to form in your mind
speak a thousand verbs, a thousand nouns, or a thousand rhymes
all written for you to experience on a personal level
poetry is a journey
to self discovery
out of a thousand doorways to roads never walked travelled or taken
poetry can cause your eyes and your heart to awaken
remind you of a friend’s love remind you that your never forsaken
because while you live you can experience life to the full
poetry is movement it is a tool
for cataloguing things seen and unseen
for poetry can be the very fabric from which we dream!
poem by Daniel Hooks
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What We See As...
What we see as nouns
are verbs to God…
see the water in this glass –
clear and still;
taste the water in this glass –
its sweet taste with no taste..
watch the Spring rain;
smell the earth give thanks
see the washing blowing on the line
smelling happy to be clean
see the mighty river, fierce
to reach the sea
watch the evening sea-fog roll in over the bay;
see the city washed afresh in the morning sun;
look up to the glorious theatre of clouds,
obeying water’s laws for all to watch;
know what mercy is; how it descends – appears,
as the gentle rain from heaven within;
what we see as nouns
are verbs to God
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Most metaphysical words in Hopi are verbs, not nouns as in European languages.
quote by Benjamin Whorf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words And Words
let us have an illusion of words
mesmerize ourselves with the movements of its verbs
and pretend about the beautiful feeling of its adjectives
let nothing be too personal about nouns
let us not be too excited about some interjections
let us shy away from so many questions
no orders, no imperatives no coercions
for tonight let there be only demonstrative pronouns
lips kissing, arms embracing, neck petting,
thighs making on top of each other hands entwine
fingers running, abdomens ebbing
let all be not just wishes, let it not just be on subjunctive moods
let there be verbs of romance, let there be sentences of lust
let us forget for once the word much abused by all:
i do not wish to utter it, let not love be feigned.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Weary Poet
Lethargic verbs coax sleepy nouns
along verses of poetry
in the wee hours of the night.
A flickering fluorescent Light
tremulously glows its paleness
above the weary poets head,
each tremor depriving him sleep.
The first rays of sunlight shine through
the rooms window, devouring
the artificial annoyance
while his tired head slowly descends
onto his outstretched left forearm;
the pen still resting in his hand
while his dreams devise completion.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Something Understandable
in your busy life
there is no time for
a puzzle
and so to make things
easier for you
i am simplifying words
i am giving you
all nouns and
adjectives
i am setting aside
all the verbs
like a still painting
you may stop
and find yourself
there
immobile
calm and still
stuffed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0008 A Love Poem in a New Old Language
Wilfrid Chin Sue says that poetry
is about ‘about’, and thank you Wilf
for that, and thanks too from us poets all
to e.e.cummings for reminding us
that lurking in the words between
the words we give most value to
like nouns and verbs and adjectives
are the words that hint,
about the presence of the subtle
so here’s a love poem about your about
because when it comes down or up
to it, it’s all about just what’s about
you – like the scent you loved to use
which brought and brings
you into an empty room
and the things you left about
which speak of you
more subtly even than your scent
and your near… ah yes, your near…that's never far from me
and your around
that made eyes light up, with life and joy and love
and your between
which I shall not speak
(about)
and the because of our true together
which I could write (about) endlessly
because of its endless, its inexplicable,
its because
which reminds me of your beyond,
which I would not write (about) in case
I wept, or failed, or failed and wept
oh so many other, being one
but most of all
I miss your
around
poem by Michael Shepherd
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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I Conquer The World With Words
I conquer the world with words,
conquer the mother tongue,
verbs, nouns, syntax.
I sweep away the beginning of things
and with a new language
that has the music of water the message of fire
I light the coming age
and stop time in your eyes
and wipe away the line
that separates
time from this single moment.
poem by Nizar Qabbani
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Wallace Stevens: The Click of Marbled Orbs
(Sonnet as Keynote to WS)
The stout man puffs on his Havana cigar
And picks canary chords on his blue guitar,
Fashions flawed words and spindrift sounds
Into day-glow verbs and glass-blown nouns.
How much the notion of a supreme fiction
Derives from bric-a-brac and spiffy diction
None knows. Say his thickest absolutes
Derive from blue rotundities of fruits:
His crispest jugglery performs the feat
Of hardening stealthy points into concrete
Trombones, sausage-makers, cattle skulls,
And pettifogging buds. His monocle's
Univocal, a prop that lets him see
Glories in pewter, and mere poetry.
(Published in The Wallace Stevens Journal, Fall 2005. Vol.29. No.2 p.304)
poem by William F Dougherty
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The Creation of a Single Composition
It has been said, poetry is nothing more that placing
The proper word in its proper place.
How simply stated for the effort of a single composition!
Beneath the primeval of our subconscious mind
Lies the clay-material of all creation,
The strata of spiritual sedimentation,
Laid down before our birth.
From this wet plastic matter comes the substance
Of our imagination, the foundation
For the architecture of our reflections.
Sculpting images by the vocabulary used,
The writer cast, molds and shapes
The verbs and nouns into their final stage
Of fluid acquiescence.
Thus, the poet, by placing each word
Into its proper place, gives power, vision and speech
To every inaimate object;
Translating the infinite invisible,
Into sacred symbols,
From the potter's mind of thought.
(Blank Verse)
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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The Grammarians Funeral
Eight Parts of Speech this Day wear Mourning Gowns
Declin'd Verbs, Pronouns, Participles, Nouns.
And not declined, Adverbs and Conjunctions,
In Lillies Porch they stand to do their functions.
With Preposition; but the most affection
Was still observed in the Interjection.
The Substantive seeming the limbed best,
Would set an hand to bear him to his Rest.
The Adjective with very grief did say,
Hold me by strength, or I shall faint away.
The Clouds of Tears did over-cast their faces,
Yea all were in most lamentable Cases.
The five Declensions did the Work decline,
And Told the Pronoun Tu, The work is thine:
But in this case those have no call to go
That want the Vocative, and can't say O!
The Pronouns said that if the Nouns were there,
There was no need of them, they might them spare:
But for the sake of Emphasis they would,
In their Discretion do what ere they could.
Great honour was confer'd on Conjugations,
They were to follow next to the Relations.
Amo did love him best, and Doceo might
Alledge he was his Glory and Delight.
But Lego said by me he got his skill,
And therefore next the Herse I follow will.
Audio said little, hearing them so hot,
Yet knew by him much Learning he had got.
O Verbs the Active were, Or Passive sure,
Sum to be Neuter could not well endure.
But this was common to them all to Moan
Their load of grief they could not soon Depone.
A doleful Day for Verbs, they look so moody,
They drove Spectators to a Mournful Study.
The Verbs irregular, 'twas thought by some,
Would break no rule, if they were pleas'd to come.
Gaudeo could not be found; fearing disgrace
He had with-drawn, sent Maereo in his Place.
Possum did to the utmost he was able,
And bore as Stout as if he'd been A Table.
Volo was willing, Nolo some-what stout,
But Malo rather chose, not to stand out.
Possum and Volo wish'd all might afford
Their help, but had not an Imperative Word.
Edo from Service would by no means Swerve,
Rather than fail, he thought the Cakes to Serve.
Fio was taken in a fit, and said,
By him a Mournful POEM should be made.
Fero was willing for to bear a part,
Altho' he did it with an aking heart.
Feror excus'd, with grief he was so Torn,
He could not bear, he needed to be born.
Such Nouns and Verbs as we defective find,
No Grammar Rule did their attendance bind.
They were excepted, and exempted hence,
But Supines, all did blame for negligence.
Verbs Offspring, Participles hand-in-hand,
Follow, and by the same direction stand:
The rest Promiscuously did croud and cumber,
Such Multitudes of each, they wanted Number.
Next to the Corpse to make th' attendance even,
Jove, Mercury, Apollo came from heaven.
And Virgil, Cato, gods, men, Rivers, Winds,
With Elegies, Tears, Sighs, came in their kinds.
Ovid from Pontus hast's Apparrell'd thus,
In Exile-weeds bringing De Tristibus:
And Homer sure had been among the Rout,
But that the Stories say his Eyes were out.
Queens, Cities, Countries, Islands, Come
All Trees, Birds, Fishes, and each Word in Um.
What Syntax here can you expect to find?
Where each one bears such discomposed mind.
Figures of Diction and Construction,
Do little: Yet stand sadly looking on.
That such a Train may in their motion chord,
Prosodia gives the measure Word for Word.
poem by Benjamin Tompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Language Scrum
It was a gathering of the Metaphors
who likened all things
to all other things
never identifying Essences;
leaving nothing as the core..
Similes arrived stating triumphantly that
they were superior to the merely metaphoric
and especially to the Gerunds.
The Nouns were enraged
claiming that they were the origins of things named
and all that could be named.
They all held the Dangling Participle in contempt
whose cohorts hung at the end of the table
speaking in sentences fragmenting.
The Pluperfect laid claim to wedding the Past
and Present
and to having had given birth to Language.
The Action Verbs demurred claiming that all history
depended upon them and their meanings and consequences.
'We are action' they said
'you are all after-thoughts and musings.'
So it was the Poetry Slam
the battle of the Language Parts
cogitating on sentences
and what they mean.
Metaphor opened saying 'poetry is contest-
a battle of words in the arena of created meaning-
designed to feed the brain, open the mind;
give sight to the blind.'
'We are all part of a wagon wheel
and each of us has only a spoken
truth.
'Yes' Simile said 'we are all like angry rose buds
trying to bloom.
Verbatim declared that all Poetry
was based on faith and faith alone.
Anything else was Untruth.
Gerund hung back claiming all meaning is hidden by
hidden meaning and that clarity was mystical.
So in the scrum, no one was able to find the ball.
And then they all went home.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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In The Name Of ………
Watching the wilting dividers,
wanted to declock the time
in timeless death:
though life must move on.
After amputation, body waits to be lifted,
negating the bed.
Now it was time, which would you like,
nouns that hurt?
Or verbs that heal?
After stepping down
from my self
said the star, I have become
a black moon. Three bombs went off
within three minutes. Was it a Mendelson’s
syndrome after general anaesthesia?
The chemical god wanted to distemper
a flock of sheep. God
save the earth.
poem by Satish Verma
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The Music of your Voice
A vase upon the mantelpiece,
A ship upon the sea,
A goat upon a mountain-top
Are much the same to me;
But when you mention melon jam,
Or picnics by the creek,
Or apple pies, or pantomimes,
I love to hear you speak.
The date of Magna Charta or
The doings of the Dutch,
Or capes, or towns, or verbs, or nouns
Do not excite me much;
But when you mention motor rides -
Down by the sea for choice
Or chasing games, or chocolates,
I love to hear your voice.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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Panchadasi Chapter Two
O Lord, You are my own self..
remind me, now, that my own self is You..
and that’s about the measure of it:
if I were to speak of You, or praise You,
I would speak verbs, and nouns, and sentences;
remind me, Lord, that every verb
speaks of, and yet hides,
Your Creating, here and now;
that every noun speaks of, and hides
the single every name of You;
that every sentence describes, hides,
Your Creation and its beauty;
so take me, know me, Lord, to be
Your silent worshipper and friend
in the stillness of the temple of OurSelf.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Poets Mind
In a poets mind,
silence has stopped chatter,
traffic noise, childish play.
A hum from a distance sings,
words begin to congregate.
Choosing nouns, verbs and
adjectives, words collected
from the gentle light…..
Lines of tenderness and love
merge into a lovers pledge.
Music for her mind,
sonnet of love and promise
to adore forevermore.
08-06-2009
Inspired by Anjali Sinha's poem Words
poem by Bob Blackwell
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