Swansong
“Look! The aging poet sleepwalks again.”
“Sir, should we wake him from his nightly tour? ”
“No! God no! His heart could not stand the strain.”
“He’s heading for the open study door.
His ambulant steps on the floorboards creak
With every step along the corridor.”
“Listen! The bard is beginning to speak.
Let’s heed his words, step softly on the floor.”
“Where do you lead me
Erato? Oh! The study
What for may I ask? ”
He sits at his desk with his pen in hand
Writing vigorously on a tablet
Almost as if it were by some command.
His outline cast a dreamy silhouette
On the study wall caused by the moonbeam
Shinning through a curtained opened window.
“He writes with eyes closed in his dream”
“Be still! He calls out the name, Erato”
“Erato, you say
This love poem is my last?
How so, may I ask? ”
The poets hand stops writing a moment
Than briefly begins again then desists
Completely; lays the pen down and laments
While rising from his chair clenching both fists
Then begins to walk toward his bedroom
“Should we read what the old bard has written? ”
“Not now! Let’s follow him back to his room
“But...” “Please keep quiet! He speaks once again.”
“Erato I have
Finished what you asked of me
This is my swansong.”
The old poet reached the side of his bed
And gently slid under the bed covers
A smile appears than wanes. “Is the bard dead? ”
“Yes! He’s gone where all the poet lovers’
Always go: with the lovely Erato”
“I hear a lyre! Do your ears hear the same? ”
“Yes! It plays for another poet’s soul
That enters Erato’s love poems domain”
*******************************
Standing at the old poets study desk
The two men look down upon the tablet
And begin to read the verses expressed
This saddest of nights both will not forget
My Swansong
In life all things must always reach its end
My life is no exception to this rule
True love was writing verses with this pen
And know for sure I had not been a fool
Love was all I had to offer in life
Expressed in many forms of poetry
Each I shared with my friends and loving wife
Intent was never a commodity
My time has come; the flame of life grows dim
And everything I have seen in this light
Was through the eyes of love I owe to Him
My hand grows weak, my effort ebbs tonight
I see your face, your myrtle crown and lyre
You strum the strings, sweet music to my ears.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Related quotes
A poets dream
Hippocrene (hĭ p'ə -kren‘) is a fountain on Mount Helicon, Greece, sacred to the Muses and regarded as a source of poetic inspiration.
Mnemosyne (nemoz'ini) is a titan who is the personification of remembrance. She is the mother of the nine muses: “All nine muses have a science or an art to protect. Cleo protects the stories of heroes, Urania astronomy, Calliope elegies, Melpomene the tragedies, Euterpe flute playing, Erato love poems, Tepsicore choir lyrics, Thalia the comedies and Polyhymnia dance and music.”
“The Muses love to sing and dance. They are superior in musical competitions and any one who dares to challenge them will always fall short, just as those who question their importance.”
In a dream I drink from fount Hippocrene.
The daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne
Encompass me while I quench. Nine muses
Guarding their arts from human abuses.
'I'm not here to challenge or to question;
Nor I seek material possessions.
My presence among you in this dreamy
State is caused by my love of poetry.
And you, Erato, muse of all love poems
I'm a sleepy poet asleep at home.
It's known by some you sing beautifully.
Would all you muses’ sing a song for me?
My thirst is quenched from draft of drinking cup.
Please! Please sing for me before I wake up.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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A Message Here For All You Poets
The love poet writes of lovely things like true love and flowers in bloom
And the roses in the poet's garden scent of a sweet perfume
And the gentle hearted applaud him saying what a marvellous poet
He surely is a child of God and one worthy of note.
The love poet writes of love of God and the God fearing say
He's a fine poet one of the best love and respect to God he pay
He hear no evil speak no evil only write of God and love
And there's a place reserved for him in God's Kingdom up above.
The social issues poet writes of the poor and few his verses read
They say he writes such morbid stuff sob stories we do not need
He keeps highlighting the downtrodden and those in poverty
He ought to put more trust in God and in Humanity.
A message here for all you poets don't write of the downtrod
But write of affairs of your heart and write of your love of God
And some will say how great you are and your praises they will sing
And they will pay respect to you and call you their Poetic Queen or King.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Swan Song
A poets quill lies on his desk
Atop a sheet of coffee-stained
Paper containing stylish script-
An Edwardian handwriting.
The quills point appeared to be dry
For sometime, likewise the inkwell.
On closer inspection the words
On the page became legible:
“My Swan Song” the title began.
It continued: “The flame of life
Grows dim and everything I have
Seen in this light was through the eyes
Of love. Love was writing verses
With this pen.” The words ended there.
Further searching found a yellowed,
Crinkled obituary clip:
“Today the town is saddened by
The loss of its poet Albert__...”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Why People Become Poets Poets Dreams
have you ever wondered why people become poets?
poets have been around since the beginning of time
and they have been mostly men, speaking of their loves, life
and emotions.
famous love stories, plays, movies, all seen thru a poets eyes.
just as the centuries have gone by and everything in life has changed
so have the poets.
there is now as many and if not more female poets
than male poets. why? because they are more sensitive to emotions
and are not afraid to show or speak of it, unlike men who want to
show the 'MACHO MAN IMAGE'
poets see life thru different eyes for different situations
and write about it in so many forms, and see the light and
the darkness in everything, including the good and bad.
it may be just one word, or a line, or verse
that enters their mind to start creating
what will become a poem,
what is the poets dream that you will create?
a love story, a sad story, one of fear or hate, or passion
one of beauty, or war.
so many things to choose from- but it doesn’t matter
what you may choose, you must take the first step.
just as reading this is the first step to start on your way to writing poetry
and opening up your mind and soul.
touching other people and receiving comments
and feedback on your writings will help you to improve
on your weak areas.
some people do it because they are looking for fortune and fame
while others want to communicate with others, and others
just to see their names on something other than
a bill being paid.
poem by Louis Rams
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A Journey Of A Poet
A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.
Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions
A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind
With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry
Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words
A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.
A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection
A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Birth Of Verse
The words unspoken rest within the tomes
of dictionaries and thesauruses
Their overpopulated muted homes
await the poet to give them voices.
'Oh! Wordy friends, beseech your help I must.
Inspire me with living elements
that I may structure verse with words I trust.
Let truth bespeak my worthiness intent.
And give it rhythmic regularity.
Allow its message avenues of grand.
Have muse, Erato, speak with clarity
to humankind and make them understand
that poetry, the universe of love
and Truth is His only recourse thereof.'
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Potential Poetry!
Love has no fear whatsoever in the world;
Poet does all by his love of all matters here;
Poetry is inspiring words of poet for all!
What's not possible by poetry is nothing!
Impossible is expressed in possible words
Making unknown known by poetry only!
Forms and style are poets own creations;
Poetry is ever new in expression of ideas
Inspiring all to be enthusiastic, enlightened!
Love of Nature, life, beauty and love poetry
Explores always deep to express truth new!
Poets are gods of Earth to men to new realm!
Poetry briefly converges all in a nutshell
As powerful as atomic energy in control!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Private Poetry
Every poem, Every poetry,
Where are all the poets?
Hiding out, Hiding away.
In the beaches, forests,
In the caves and rooms,
In the islands and temples.
Make their private poetry,
Every now and then,
Here and there,
Over here, Over there.
Somewhere, somewhen,
Someone, somebody,
No one, No body,
Some here, some there.
Somehow, not matter how,
Everywhere, every when,
Every turn, every look,
Every search, every research,
There is a private poet.
Making a private poetry,
Writing private poems,
Writing lovely poems,
Writing profound poetries.
For the world and all
To ponder,
To reflect,
To open our heart,
To hear and listen;
What poets have
To say and write,
In a private poetry,
For the world to read
And treasure.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Last
When the light dims from my eyes
there will be no fatherly hand
to hold on to mine
to feel the last pulse
of life beating
while the darkness claims me
and when I disappear from life,
glide into death
You are the Father
that I find on the other side.
[References: "Erato" by Anyte. Laaste (Last) by Riana Scheepers.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Prophecy: To George Keats In America
'Tis the witching hour of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen --
For what listen they?
For a song and for a charm,
See they glisten in alarm,
And the moon is waxing warm
To hear what I shall say.
Moon! keep wide thy golden ears --
Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! --
Hearken, thou eternal sky!
I sing an infant's lullaby,
A pretty lullaby.
Listen, listen, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby!
Though the rushes that will make
Its cradle still are in the lake --
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe, is on the cotton tree --
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm, is on the silly sheep --
Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby!
Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee
Midst of the quiet all around thee!
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!
But a Poet evermore!
See, see, the lyre, the lyre,
In a flame of fire,
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing,
Awake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze --
Amaze, amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares,
It dares what no one dares!
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharm'd, and on the strings
Paddles a little tune, and sings,
With dumb endeavour sweetly --
Bard art thou completely!
Little child
O' th' western wild,
Bard art thou completely!
Sweetly with dumb endeavour,
A Poet now or never,
Little child
O' th' western wild,
A Poet now or never!
poem by John Keats
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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A Poet Of Our
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Poet Of Our Time
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Crown Of A Poet
When my pens are all dried up
And my writing on Earth is done
I will then take off my tarnished crown
And I will hand it off to my son.
To continue the writing that I have started
As from this world I have parted.
A poet my son he will become
To reflect his life in rhyme
To bring forth beauty and wonder of himself
Which will take a never ending life.
For the last poem is like a kiss,
For one is born whenever there is a wish.
A poets pencil is his best friend
And a piece of paper is his canvas of white
To paint the words that have been unpainted
And to stir the soul and open the mind.
To bring forth again the smiles and tears,
That has been locked away for so many years.
And when my pencils have all been broken
And my writing pads are burnt in fire
I will then loose my poetry crown
As I will seek a higher power.
Where my poems will be written upon the sky
Where tears again I will never cry.
My tarnished crown will become my sons
To write on Earth what he sees best
To write during the day and at night to pray
For a poet, as he knows no rest.
For sleep does seldom ever come.
To the one whose fingers are always numbed.
And when his hands are old and tired
The Lord then will give him his sleep
For a job isn't finished until the Lord says so
But then never again will He weep.
And then my crown I will give to my son,
So the dream of ours, will never be done.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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You are the poet
Poet is a journalist
Watches the feelings
Watches the emotions
Watches the world
Watches the light and
Watches the dark
He thinks everywhere
Others can’t imagine
-o-
Chasing the thoughts
Searching the words
Forming the sentences
To give the expression
To put the life in it
-o-
Poet is like a cook
Collecting good ingredients
Cooking the feelings to
Present in better way
-o-
Poet is like a soldier
Fighting in the war and
Fighting with the self
Feeling the pain and
Bleeding the emotions
Making room for self
To express the story
To save the people
-o-
Poet is like mother
Cooking the soft food
Feeding smoothly
Treating the readers like his own kids
Reader’s happiness is poet’s happiness
If you can’t praise, no problem
But don’t forget to acknowledge
-o-
Poet is the center of universe
Editors, Music directors,
Composers, singers, musicians,
Media everybody is rotating around
-o-
Poet writes to quench intellectuals
Poet writes to entertain good listeners
Poet writes to move hearts
Poet writes for a cause
Poet write for entertainment
Poets write to express themselves
Poets write to share their feelings
-o-
When time is running
Poem is the history
In present it reflects the story
Poem gives the hope in future
-o-
Poet is the planter
Plants seeds into your hearts
Make sure that it sprouts
Brings the thoughts into actions
-o-
Poet is the director behind your actions
Poet is the motivator behind your feelings
Poet is the coach who puts you on track
Poet is person whom your heart likes
-o-
Poet is the soldier when he uses poem as bullet
Poet is the coach when his poem moves your heart
Poet is the love, when he gives poem as flower
Poet is the parent, when he consoles you in your troubles
Poet is the healer who heals souls
Poet enters different roles
To justify the poem and to justify the people
-o-
Poem is the form of literature
We can find in holy books
Poem is the feelings
Poem touches the hearts
-o-
Sun can be seen in day
Moon can be seen in night
But poem is there day and night
Poem is powerful than nature
Poem don’t have life and death
Just it flows from heart to heart
Poet is the instrument
In the hands of the poem
-o-
If you drink a cup of alcohol
It may stay there just for hours
If you read a good poem
Nobody knows how long it gives the kick
-o-
When you have time, read a good poem
When you have time, write some poetry
When you have time, share a poem
-o-
You will be the poet, when you read a poem
You will be the poet, when you put on paper
You can be the poet to change your self
You can be the poet to change the world
You must be a poet, to enjoy this life
Waiting for you, to listen to your poem
-o-
poem by Bhavani Polimetla
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry
A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY
A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.
The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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