Borrow'd Plumes
[A Preface and a Piracy]
PROLOGUE
OF borrow’d plumes I take the sin,
My extracts will apply
To some few silly songs which in
These pages scatter’d lie.
The words are Edgar Allan Poe’s,
As any man may see,
But what a Poe-t wrote in prose,
Shall make blank verse for me.
poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Related quotes
Blank Pages
Blank pages
Blank books
Lie with only drowning white
No pretty messages in the sand
No clocks to turn a hand
Blank pages
Blank books
Looking into an empty void
Like staring at purgatory
Words with no meaning making up a story
Blank pages
Blank books
Stay staring at the celing
Empty without effort
Nothing without words
poem by Autumn Winds
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Lost poem
It was on this page, then gone
Like feathers blowing in the wind.
Where is the prose I wrote?
Not a letter is in sight.
I am looking with all my might.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?
Today I wrote a new poem,
Was it lost in cyberspace?
I hope not for I might not know it,
Even staring at me in the face.
Give me a break, my memories are at stake.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?
Blank
Blank pages, blank lines
Blank heart, blank mind
Blank feeling, blank soul
Blank high, blank low.
I dont know why
You just cant see
That all you've ever known
Is the blank side of me.
Edgar Allan Poe
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
He'll tell you tales of horror
then he'll play with your mind
if you haven't heard of him
you must be deaf or blind
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
He'll tell you about Usher
whose house burned in his mind
his love for his dear sister
her death would drive him wild
The murder of a stranger
the murder of a friend
the callings from the pits of hell
that never seem to end
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
The diabolic image of the city and the sea
the chaos and the carnage that reside deep within me
Decapitations, poisonings, hellish not a bore
you won't need 3D glasses to pass beyond this door
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
No Nosferatu Vincent Price or naked women here
a mind unfurled, a mind unbent is all we have here
Truth, fried orangutans flutter to the stage
leave your expectations home
And listen to the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
We give you the soliloquy the raven at the door
flaming pits the moving walls no equilibrium
No ballast, no bombast
the unvarnished truth we've got
mind swoons guilty
cooking ravings in a pot
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
Tell-tale heart a rotting cask
a valley of unrest
a conqueror worm devouring souls
keep the best for last
Rings for Annie Lee
as Poe's buried alive
regretting his beloved's death in
all her many guises-a
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Song
I wrote a song
It's called 'my life'
I tried my best to make it a good one
I'd never written a song
Twas indeed my first
I had an eraser
I couldn't clean my mistakes though
It turned out to be a long song
A hundred and twenty pages worth
A page a year
I made a mess of it
Blue pen made a mark
As depression took a quarter of it
Yellow pen made an entrance
I decided it was better than blue
Red pen tried to hurt me
As all anger was kept inside
Green pen whispered a note
I wished I had my neighbour's song
So many colours on just one song
Twenty-five pages were dark
I knew not which way to go
I tried to turn a page but couldn't
I basked in pages gone
Hence left several pages blank
Twenty-five pages were wet
As tears serenaded my heart, it did the pages
Too much pain in one song
Tried to change the words
The things I thought all made the song
On a scale of good to bad, bad stole the day
I searched and found other songs titled 'my life'
I wrote my song the way they had
My song was like a painting
One in utter disharmony
One drawn by a clueless artist
But an artist whose passion burned his painting
I set my heart on fire on page 35
There had to be more
And more I had
On page 120, my eyes were dim and hands tired
Since pages couldn't be turned
My mind sat, and looked back
What had I done?
I'd been mountain high
I'd been valley low
I'd been good
I'd been bad
I'd been....
I lay my head on my song
Took my last breath
But before I did
I held a girl
Who had a song called 'my life'
She read my song
And shed a tear
And said I had written....a masterpiece.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Two schools of thought.
.
The lady chose to take offence
Although I said she wrote fine prose
She may not know the difference
between poetry and prose
She thought that she wrote poetry
But what she wrote was free form prose.
I offered no apology
It was not my fault that she chose.
Not to learn the basic rules
defining prose and poetry
Two very different writing schools
in which to show your artistry.
The so called experts can’t agree
and coined the term poetic prose.
Though writing cannot possible
be classed as poetry and prose.
If it’s not metered it is prose
no matter how poetical.
But you’re entitled to compose.
Fine prose and call it poetry.
Though I suggest respectfully
you should be proud of writing prose.
As some do most successfully.
But it was poetry I chose
Thursday,11 March 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Land Of Edgar Allan
Remember The Raven?
We do around here.
The Domino too, upon sunset appears.
A fallen man's point.
An introvert's harbor.
Twas the land of Edgar Allan.
Need I say more?
E'er fouls, walks, run.
Not Edgar's Raven, the orange and black one.
Black-eyed Susan's - my back yard.
The dock of the bay - my front door.
Twas the land of Edgar Allan, hon
E'er, I say more.
I Write The Songs
Ive been alive forever,
And I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together,
I am music,
And I write the songs.
I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special thing s.
I write the songs that make the young girls cry.
I write the songs, I write the songs.
My home lies deep within you,
And Ive got my own place in your sole.
Now, when I look out through your eyes,
Im youg again, even though Im very old.
Chorus
Oh my music makes you dance
And gives your spirit to take a chance,
And I wrote some rock n roll so you can move.
Music fills your heart,
Well, thats a real fine place to start.
Its from me its for you,
Its from you, its from me,
Its a world wide symphony.
Chorus
I am music, and I write the songs.
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Between the pages
Between the pages
~
between the pages
we line ourselves in verse
where we play out a story
of our own making
the turns and twists
brought through words
etched upon the page
ink flows to its own beat
like a raging heart
pouring out before the eyes
a world becomes forgotten
lost in the celebration
between pages
each line shared
written
in its own breath
creation begins
time lapses
into our verse
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Number Three
Theres only two songs in me and I just wrote the third
Dont know where I got the inspiration or how I wrote the words
Spent my whole life just digging up my musics shallow grave
For the two songs in me and the third one I just made
A rich man once told me
Hey lifes a funny thing
A poor man once told me
That he cant afford to speak
Now Im in the middle like a bird without a beak cause
Theres just two songs in me and I just wrote the third
Dont know where I got the inspiration or how I wrote the words
Spent my whole life just digging up my musics shallow grave
For the two songs in me and the third one I just made
So I went to the president
And I asked old whats-his-name
Has he ever gotten writers block
Or something like the same
He just started talking
Like he was on tv
If theres just two songs in ya, boy
Whaddaya want from me?
So I bought myself some denim pants
And a silver guitar
But I politely told the ladies
Youll still have to call me sir
Because I have to keep my self-respect
Ill never be a star
Since theres just two songs in me
And this is number three
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shopping Without Edgar Allan
We will always shopping go
Without Edgar Allan Poe.
We go shopping, hopping, hopping,
From this store to that.
Edgar Allan was a Poe
Who never ever had to go
Shopping.
O.K., and so perhaps I lied,
And so perhaps his lovely bride,
Annabelle Lee and he
Went shopping, like
The rest of us.
poem by Fred Babbin
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Lines Extracted From A Dream
'I think of it like a book,
I dont care for your self-authored words
of pity and sorrow, though yes they are just.
It isn't the narrative in you that interests me...
It is those blank pages in you that hold my court,
All books have them; those blank pages at the end,
Unfilled and undetermined, where you havent yet scribbled.
They are yet to be subject to anything,
And even if they are not destined for a happily ever after,
That does not mean i can't hope to find solace and closure in them.
What is to stop us writing our own fable in spite of what is already written?
What already is, is,
But what will be is ours to fathom through the velvet folds Of fate.
Surely.'
poem by Graham Stone
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Edgar Allens Crow
All outside is white as snow,
except for Edgar Allen's crow.
Quietly and so serene,
till Edgar Allen's crow does scream.
Waking me from peaceful dreams,
to hatred in the night.
Now I know all Edgar Allen's,
madness in his write.
Stalkingly he walks the window,
pecking on the vane.
Now I know why Edgar Allen,
wrote of things insane.
Tis not a raven in my head,
that drives me to these words.
But this blackened beast which will not cease,
hes such a noisy bird.
I scream and shoo but he don't move,
seems fear he does not know.
Hes not a the raven that I think,
hes Edgar Allen's Crow.
poem by Ken Bennight
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The Blank Space Inside Us
there are blank pages
some say that it is a must that something must be drawn
words to be written
thoughts to stifle, capture,
stuffed,
there is a day that you prefer
to keep a blank sky
a dark sky without stars
no light
when you close your eyes
you are at home with this blank page
words become
invincible
but they are all there
perfectly correct
well viewed by the eyes of your heart
somehow you go beyond
your every
day fences
move away, jump and run towards
an island of light
a patch of green grass
still no stars
pure blank
it is when you do not believe in the power of thoughts
when what preoccupies you
is nothing when you are finally one with all
space
it is too peaceful to even dropp a word
like a pin on
a shiny floor of tiles....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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We learned a verse of this and that and we were having fun with the songs. Tommy would make up stories to go along with them and I would yell at him, 'Hey, stupid, that's not right,' and he was like a silly kid trying to impress.
quote by Dick Smothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poetry Has Gone Out Of Me
The Poetry has gone out of me
I am as blank as prose-
There is no force of feeling in me
Flat as a lox my words on the page-
I am the middle of the Midwest
Going on and on on the surface only-
I have no inside-
No wind shakes me-
Words are words and only words,
Detached from all emotion-
How flat stale not even weary and unprofitable can a blank confessional poem be?
The feeling of being without feeling
No feeling at all.
A lox inside and a lox on the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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She Sang the Songs...
She sang the songs... he wrote the words;
sweet words of love, in perfect time
to her style... soft words of love;
the lyrics to her Country songs
of love and heartbreak, hope and sadness;
life spread out in flawless rhyme,
but they were really hopes, and dreams
of his...
he knew this, all along.
She wrote songs as well; and, when he read them...
his heart missed a beat;
Beneath the stave, below the notes...
her lyrics, in her childlike hand;
soft words of love, he longed to hear
her say to him...
all whispered, sweet;
now, here they were, before his eyes...
but, accident...
or gently planned?
Were they whispers of her heart...
or just composed from out her head?
he had no way of knowing,
but... in either case, her words were sweet;
a silky glide across the page...
a wistful ballad... hearts that bled;
he sadly smiled, yes... his heart bled as well,
but,
to a different beat.
She sang the songs... he wrote the words,
words from his heart... soft, yet intense;
Perhaps, one day, she'd see
they were for her...
and, not her audience.
poem by Dream Weaver
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I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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