Returning Again
I envision the very first
Uttered words of Man ascending
Like misty vapor suspended
As endless cloud-filled vibrations
That eventually rain down
On forthcoming generations
In the form of inspiration;
Imbuing the susceptible
Psyche with imaginative
Powers of profound expression;
The maker of philosophers,
The artists, writers and poets
Whose effectiveness must return
To its primal source whence it came.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Related quotes
My Ever Profound Inspiration
My Ever Profound Inspiration
Is a fortress in my romantic garden
With rounded eyes filled with rage
And a heart that never harden
I don't know him personally
He doesn't know me as well
But he is My Ever Profound Inspiration
The man to whom I fell
My Ever Profound Inspiration
Is my every day morning dew
He is the bitterest nightmare
My sweetest dream that won't come true
He'd been my only one
All throughout these years
My Ever Profound Inspiration
Had bring me lots of tears
My Ever Profound Inspiration
Is now lost in nowhere
I don't know where he is
And this is hard to bear
I know someday we'll meet again
Perhaps he can already give me affection
Be his woman, his bride
His Ever Profound Inspiration
poem by Pink Butterfly
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Versatilty
I think that I can claim to be
a poet who is versatile.
I try to write my poetry
in varied form and varied style.
I emulate and imitate
styles of great poets of the past.
To show that I appreciate
poets that time has over cast.
Although long dead their words live on.
A source of inspiration to
poets today.Though they’re long gone
and I give credit where its due.
Although some things I write are new
I cannot trace their origin.
I trust my muse as poets do.
She prods me until I begin.
She tells me there is no such thing
as writers block there cannot be.
A poor excuse for not writing
I’m not allowed to be lazy
That’s something she won’t tolerate
and drags me from my bed to write.
Though I protest the hour is late.
She is insistent that I write.
If she should choose to stay away
I’d seize the opportunity
to simple have a lazy day
Without my conscience pricking me.
11-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Misty Cloud And Misty Sea
Misty Cloud called to blue Misty Sea,
Rise up to gather rain drops with me
Misty Sea called to driftin' Misty Cloud
To drift with you high up I'd be proud.
Misty Sea rose to join Misty Cloud,
Moist Misty Cloud came wet an' proud.
Joe Raindrop spoke to wet Raindrop Flo,
Dare you to drop down on Sea below.
Raindrop Flo splashed upon Misty Sea,
Joining pool of drops same as she.
Flo called to Raindrop Joe. I fell free
Dare you to drop down on wet Misty Sea.
Joe Raindrop splashed down on Misty Sea,
That's how rainfall comes down so free.
To drop on pleasant land or the Misty Sea,
Livin' things grow when rain falls free.
poem by Marion Gentry
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Los Angeles
Skyscrapers
Break the sky,
Smog chokes the air,
Endless buildings go on
Forever-
Los Angeles Times-
LAX,
Traveling down the 10
Towards Santa Monica,
Dirty
Filthy
Ragged city.
Where are the artists?
Poets?
Writers?
Musicians?
All at home creating
The city. Inspiration
For the willing.
Ugly, dirty, ragged,
Beautiful.
This
Filthy
City.
poem by Randy Briggs
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Who stands with me?
True poets write in meter.
Not because they think it’s neater
but because the flow is sweeter
When their words are read aloud
as they perform before the crowd.
Their poems pass the acid test.
Prose writers do not choose to rhyme.
They see it as a waste of time.
Although their word choice is sublime.
Without meter it is prose,
not poetry as they suppose.
Their definition I contest.
Poetic prose it’s plain to see.
Can not be classed as poetry.
I can accept you disagree.
I know I have a biased view
I think I am entitled to
Decide which one I like the best.
I choose meter every time
Preferably with lines that rhyme.
I find such poetry sublime.
Though I enjoy well written prose.
Each to his own I must suppose
So write the way that suits you best.
I am old fashioned I admit
and not one whit ashamed of it.
I do not find rules inhibit.
Free expression of my views
They merely mean I have to choose
the words that will express them best
Free form, free verse, poetic prose.
Are methods other writers chose
as being fit for their purpose.
To rebel against fixed form.
Which was regarded as the norm.
Just to be different from the rest.
But fashions change and now free form
Must be regarded as the norm.
I see no reason to conform.
I choose to write my poetry
In the old way that pleases me.
A lonely voice raised in protest.
The wheel of fate will slowly turn
Metered poetry will return
and well deserved plaudits earn.
I hope I live to see the day.
when classic poets can display.
That fixed forms can outshine the rest.
Monday,06 December 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Writers and Poets
Here I sit
At a desk dimly lit.
Holding an unsharpened pencil
Over a piece of old, faded paper,
In my mind lingers a vague intention
Within the unformed idea
Of somehow writing something.
With no clear idea, theme or plan.
Only the restless desire to write.
It's raining. Again.
It seems to rain often.
Not the weather.
Life.
Interior drops fall,
Like flower pedals sacrificed.
Beautys death, the ransom price.
My desire lives in poetic rhythms,
Not in serious writers cadences.
I am not a writer.
- I hope to be a poet-
There is a difference? one may ask;
Oh yes, I believe so.
I'll attempt to express why.
In poetry words flow,
Like living waters.
In writing ideas are built within words.
The writer builds something,
Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water,
To cause it to go somewhere precisely.
Writers form canals to move readers
To certain places.
Poets open up the dark clouds over life
Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls;
Thirst quenching beauties that all
-in one way or another-
Are in great need of.
Writers, thankfully, take people
To places where they are able
To realize their own thirst.
Poets give them the drink.
The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings.
Writers and poets together
Make the dark a bit brighter,
The waters a bit more navagatible,
The way a bit clearer,
And the thirst of life
A bit more quenchable.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Stories Of This World
The stories of this world,
A fool becomes rich;
The hate of this world,
A wise man is killed;
An allegory,
And like the elements of this world.
The hidden things of honesty and dishonesty,
But are they writers? !
So am i also;
For the stories of this world are too many to write about.
Are they artists?
So am i;
Are they Core-Maths teachers?
So am i;
Are they philosophers?
So am i;
Are they travellers?
So am i;
Are they poets?
So am i;
Are they innovators?
So am i;
Are they saints?
So am i;
And like a veil taken away,
With gritted teeth in range.
Endless genealogies,
Out of envy with fable minds;
And like old wives' fables and the old men in town,
But a light shone in the prison room.
The stories of this world are too many to write about,
With empty schemes and the reward of iniquity;
But i need seven men of honest reputation,
And like my life in the cave of love.
Light out of darkness and hope out of sadness,
Try to dream big always!
For this world is engraved in letters on stones,
And i am as you are over there.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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We to Sigh Instead of Sing
"Rain and Rain! and rain and rain!"
Yesterday we muttered
Grimly as the grim refrain
That the thunders uttered:
All the heavens under cloud --
All the sunshine sleeping;
All the grasses limply bowed
With their weight of weeping.
Sigh and sigh! and sigh and sigh!
Never end of sighing;
Rain and rain for our reply --
Hopes half-drowned and dying;
Peering through the window-pane,
Naught but endless raining --
Endless sighing, and, as vain,
Endlessly conmplaining.
Shine and shine! and shine and shine!
Ah! to-day the splendor!--
All this glory yours and mine --
God! but God is tender!
We to sigh instead of sing,
Yesterday in sorrow,
While the lord was fashioning
This for our To-morrow!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Complementary viewpoints for friend Chandra
Philosophy and poetry
are not completely different.
Each represents a way to see
What is not always evident.
Philosophers and poets try
to understand the universe.
The answers which they can supply.
Expressed in turgid prose or verse.
Philosophers can be abstruse
and difficult to understand
Because of how they phrase their views.
I don’t dismiss them out of hand.
I much prefer the poets verse
To endless reams of complex prose.
I do not think I am perverse
Simplicity I must suppose.
Is really what appeals to me.
the poets seek to entertain
and yet express with clarity.
Philosophers try to explain.
Their reasoning in great detail.
They just succeed in boring me
Their efforts are to no avail
I will admit quite openly
I simply cannot spare the time
To plough through densely written prose.
But I find poetry sublime
I like the way it ebbs and flows.
The insight that a poet shows
can entertain and educate.
Philosophers try to impose
their views, discouraging debate.
Which does not sit too well with me.
Folks can’t stand being patronised
and will rebel instinctively.
A fact that poets recognise.
They are content to share their thoughts.
With anyone who chooses to
read the verses they have wrought.
Which may express a different view
To that of the philosophers.
You draw your own conclusions
and choose which version you prefer.
Perhaps your own opinions.
Philosophy and poetry
Are both legitimate attempts
To explain some mystery
By folks of different temperaments.
22/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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My sisters were going out with artists and poets, and eventually it was the creative world which attracted me.
quote by Luc Ferrari
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The worth of a civilization or a culture is not valued in the terms of its material wealth or military power, but by the quality and achievements of its representative individuals - its philosophers, its poets and its artists.
quote by Herbert Read
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To the spirits of Abn 'Arabi, poet, and Averroes, philosopher
The philosopher asked the poet,
Does what the poets and the mystics
find in their hearts, agree
with what the philosophers have discovered
or reasoned to be true?
The poet answered
Yes, and No
and between the two
is a place, a space, where
the mouth is silent,
the pen hovers poised above the paper,
the eyes sparkle,
the heart leaps and rejoices,
and the mind soars on journeys
beyond anything that was known before
and lives experiences never before experienced;
finds words behind words
that were never spoken before,
sounds behind sounds
never heard before,
a knowledge beyond love,
a love beyond knowledge..
a place where poets and philosophers
meet together in a world of wonder.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Bestowers Of Transformative Vision
pathos suffering passion
ripe within bodily experience
pathos of culture artistic expression
artists the 'I give birth to'
shape shifters people creators
bestowers of transformative vision
sentence seen is life vibration alteration
passionate in artistic creation expression
enrichers of web strand seekers beholders
artists hung upon vision quests
artists hung upon life beat heart beats
artists hung upon eyes burning in soul flame
artists historical now you see them now you don’t
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Rain Storm
I can see the tears run down your cheek
But I still throw my words around
Like the cloud does when it rains outside
The rain is falling
And there's no shelter to hide under
So you keep getting wet by the rain
Then you hear the thunder of my words
As I seem to get louder
Then I strike you down
Like the lightning hits the ground
You eventually see the rainbow
After the rain
But the rain will come back
For another round
You can count on that
But your never ready for the rain storm
That comes with the storm that I've created
You would think it would get easier each time
But somehow it get harder to deal with
But I made my choices and I made up lies
To cover up the truth that I didn't want you to see
So your stuck in the rain with me
Until I let the rainbow shine again
Inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists. There is, there has been, there will always be a certain group of people whom inspiration visits. It's made up of all those who've consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors, teachers, gardeners — I could list a hundred more professions. Their work becomes one continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A swarm of new questions emerges from every problem that they solve. Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know."
quote by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Deeper Inner Meanings
Let us ponder
the words and phrases
poets and artists
have used
as we delve
into obvious
and deeper
inner meanings.
What is exact origin
of these so often
quoted famous
choice chosen words?
A spontaneous
eureka phrase
born instantly
in the mind
or a protracted
laboured discourse
cunningly created
a deliberate conceit.
Writers so love
their ingenious
imaginative poetic
chosen images
writing must contain
such images
as metaphor simile
personification
a comparison
which is extreme
or far-fetched
wins accolades.
However the exact
meaning as envisaged
by moods of original
penmanship are not
conceived embodied
as a clone interpretation
by readers separated
by time space cultural bias.
We the reader impose
individualistic insightful
meaning as dictated by
personal taste possibly
skilled literary criticism.
Rhetoric discourse read
might be described as
a clever trick of arbitrary
whim, written by magicians
of illusion; yet many scripts
can be traced to proven
historical events which
occurred in the artists lifetime.
Good criticism will progress
from an introductory How
into What a text means, based
upon insightful and plausible
readings, with appropriate quotes
to sustain the argument chosen.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Pink Clouds Never Rain
I have never see a pink cloud rain before.
I have only seen a magenta bolt of lightening try to strike my heart, and
Aqua tears trickling from my dazzled misty eyes, down my
Flushed and lonesome cheek, though
I have never see a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have seen spotted purple snakes crawling up my bedroom walls, and
Transparent bubbles filled with dreams floating before my very eyes, though,
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, though
I have seen a reddish sun cast shadows down upon a tortuous, rippling river;
I have seen tears cascading down a sloping hill, and
Gulls flapping their gentle, feathered wings atop some cragged cliffs, although
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, although
I have heard eerie and commanding thoughts and voices
That no one else could hear.
I have had disturbing, stabbing thoughts that have injured me inside, though
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, although
I have slid down an icy mountainside on a very sunny night.
I have wept a sea of deep blue and purple tears, though
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never heard thunder clap behind a rosy cloud, or seen
Tears fall from heaven or have heard angels singing.
I have had morbid thoughts of loss, death and suicide,
While thunder clapped, and
These pink clouds could not rain.
Perhaps someday I shall see a pink cloud rain upon a
Magnificent world, which I have created for myself,
Where tall green and golden reeds are surrounded by swirling water pools, and
A hallucinogenic sun sets behind high and mighty mountains-
And there, people would be trustworthy and true to heart.
No, I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, although,
I have seen almost everything there is to see-
Some good sights and some bad-
I have heard some screaming voices echo in my mind, although,
Some quiet ones as well.
I have seen some orange and, pinkish sunsets, and mirages in
The fortress of my own mind, however-
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, and
I have never seen a pink cloud weep before….
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Romantic Poets Forever!
Spirit of poets immortal intoxicates me complete
With poetic mood transporting to exotic world
Full of magic, vision and fantasy never ending
Making poet and reader forget in the vast Universe!
Poets of the calibre of Coleridge, Shelley and Keats
Engross one in pure poetry inspiring high forever
Whenever the mood is out of control even for a while
By their intoxicating romantic expressions ever!
Romantic poets of the first order still rule the realm
As what they have created for the world to enjoy
Make poetry an endless source of inspiration
Changing all ever bright with sparks of ideas novel!
Whenever I am out of mood I seek their blessings
To recharge and recover the lost mood to write ever!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Your Cloud
where the river cross
crosses the lake
where the words
jump off my pen
and into your pages
do you think
just like that
you can divide
this you as yours
me as mine to
before we were us
if the rain has to separate
from itself
does it say "pick out your cloud?"
pick out your cloud
if there is
a horizontal line
that runs from the map
off your body
straight through the land
shooting up
right through my heart
will this horizontal line
when asked
know how to find
where you end
where i begin
"pick out your cloud"
how light can play
and form a ring of rain
that can change bows into arrows
(i found a thrill)
who we were isn't lost
before we were us
indigo in his own
blue always knew this
if the rain
has to separate
from itself
does it say pick out your cloud
song performed by by Tori Amos from Scarlet's Walk
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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