The Poet
Until he hears Apollo's call
To make a hallowed sacrifice,
A Poet lives in feeble thrall
To people's empty vanities;
And silent is his sacred lyre,
His soul partakes of chilly sleep,
And of the world's unworthy sons
He is, perhaps, the very least.
But once Divinity's command
Approaches his exquisite ear,
The poet's soul awakens, poised,
Just like an eagle stirred from sleep.
All worldly pleasures leave him cold,
From common talk he stays aloof,
And will not lower his proud head
Before the nation's sacred cow.
Untamed and brooding, he takes flight,
Seething with sound and agitation,
To reach a sea-swept, desert shore,
A woodland wide and murmuring...
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Related quotes
Sonnet: Eight Times the Shakespearean Sonnet Number
So sacred is my motherland India;
So sacred is my state called Tamilnad;
So sacred are its rivers, Himalaya;
An Indian citizen born, I’m so glad!
I’m proud to be my mother’s eighth male child;
I’m proud to be a man believing God;
I’m proud to be a Nature’s lover wild;
I’m proud to be an Indian Poet mod.
Thanks to my schooling, good education then;
Thanks to my good up-bringing by parents;
Thanks to my God for my talents and ken;
Thanks to my earthly-life and common sense.
Let me perform something that’s truly great!
’Tis God Almighty who can change one’s fate!
8-8-2001
Dedicated to all my NRI brethren world-o'er!
Be proud of your origin always!
Be patriotic!
poem by John Celes
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Greatest Questions
Little boy;
What does thy know about destiny?
The poet;
I know but little about destiny
Little boy;
If ye tells me I know I will live life peacefully
The poet;
Destiny is like a wind which blows in the arabian sea,
Upon which it next direction is unknown,
You will see men growing greatly at their tender age but their next minute is unpredictable
Then, reverse it could be my former line
Little boy;
You mean destiny is like a deep wide sea
Which the direction you follow leads you any where
The poet;
Hey!
Brother we began our lives here
Tomorrow you may be richer than I
The creator has already created us before we exist
Little boy;
Then I will go to a sorcerer to foresee my destiny
The poet;
Destiny can never be look into
Even those who are summon
By the name foreseers
Do not know when termite will eat them
Little boy;
Can destiny be ever change?
The poet;
It can be change only with prayer
But my lord only give those he will
Little boy;
When shall we die?
The poet;
And so I laugh...
Death is inevitable
Non but my lord and those who had gone
Can talk about it
Little boy;
I mean
How will I die?
The poet;
For you know not where and how you were born
The the knowledge of
Where and how you will die remains with Allah
He creates the world and know every hidden things.
Little boy;
How can I live this world
The poet;
Boy!
Walk as if non is looking at you
Talk as if non is listening to you
Think as if you are thinking for others
Pray and make sacrifice
Let The Night Sleep
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With the night I sleep
Beyond the world to peep
Universe will sleep
Plants and trees
Birds and bees
Stars and moon
To sleep very soon!
Fruits and flowers
Joy with showers
Will sleep with me and the night
Not to keep the life very tight!
No dawn of the day
Right upto the dooms day!
Sleep permanent
In the world impermanent
I'll sleep without light
My agonies will sleep
My worries will sleep
My pains will sleep
My sins will sleep!
While in sleep
I am pure
I am peace
I am noble!
While my body is asleep
Awake my soul I keep
Sleep akin to death
Death akin to sleep in mirth?
Let the night sleep
Sleep for ever deep
With night I sleep
Sleep to eternity
Soul to merge in Divinity!
poem by Subbaraman N V
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Sons Of The Silent Age
Sons of the silent age
Stand on platforms blank looks and note books
Sit in back rows of city limits
Lay in bed coming and going on easy terms
Sons of the silent age
Pace their rooms like a cells dimensions
Rise for a year or two then make war
Search through their one inch thoughts
Then decide it couldnt be done
Baby, Ill never let you go
All I see is all I know
Lets take another way down (sons of sound and sons of sound)
Baby, baby, Ill never let you down
I cant stand another sound
Lets find another way (sons of sound and sons of sound)
Sons of the silent age
Listen to tracks by sam therapy and king dice
Sons of the silent age
Pick up in bars and cry only once
Sons of the silent age
Make love only once but dream and dream
Dont walk, they just glide in and out of life
They never die, they just go to sleep one day
Baby, I wont ever let you go
All I see is all I know
Lets take another way down (sons of sound and sons of sound)
Oh baby, baby, baby, I wont ever let you down
I cant stand another sound
Lets take another way in (sons of sound and sons of sound)
(sons of sound and sons of sound)
Baby, baby, baby, fire away!
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come on baby no more cry
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my soul to keep
My soul unworthy take my heart
That while I sleep my life depart
Now I lay me in my bed
A loaded gun against my head
My soul is barren wasted done
I lay me down a loaded gun
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my soul to keep
That should you die before you wake
It is your soul the lord did take
hush-a-bye, hush-a-bye
I'll sing to you a lullaby
And then we'll both lay down to die
Come on baby no more cry
Mama's got a big surprise
She put it right between your eyes
And no more no more baby cries
Ssshhh now baby go to sleep
I pray the lord your soul to keep
I will not weep, I will not weep
That should you die, Before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take
Now I lay me down with you
The Lord can have my own soul too
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my soul to keep
My soul unworthy take my heart
That while I sleep my life depart
110909
poem by Terri Turrell
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poets
an old woman poet,
stood behind the table,
doling out plate after plate,
to the line of faces...
taking the time...
to ask each their name.
a young student poet,
jerked from the picket line,
beaten, and arrested...
now sits in jail.
the young man poet,
just home after a 12 hour shift,
went next door and mowed
his elderly neighbor's grass.
a young girl poet,
took in the stray cat,
fed it, and held it...
and rocked it to sleep.
the poor poet,
makes a pallot on the floor
of his empty room,
for the homeless to sleep on.
the old man poet,
goes to work again,
minimum wage with a smile,
to feed his sick wife...
the common poet,
build houses, works on machines,
tills gardens, works on cars...
treats everyone the same...
and no one knows his name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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One Unto The Other
What can a poet do for you?
Open up your heart
to let the sunshine through.
What can a poet say to you?
Words so powerful
to put your past in review.
What can a poet give to you?
A moment of prayer
to make you feel brand new.
What can a poet make alive in you?
A picture of your soul
as it comes into view.
What can you give the poet you read?
The chance to reach you
with something you need.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Goodbye Poet! ! ! !
Very sad when a Poet close your book
leave his pen and left us
So we say: There goes, Aphrodite, Apollo, Hades
find your ethereal Muse and make peaces with God
Because
The Poet goes different
He goes taking all of us with him
He goes but leaving your scrolls, hymns
His IlÃadas, Odisseias
For ever and Never
Because
The Poet let us different
He dare to be absent without a motive
confront dead and write the more beautiful Poem
Poet's heart now beats alone!
So go Poet
Go, because you are different
poem by Mirna Morgan
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The life of a Poet
The poet listens
the poet hears
he writes down
all his fears.
He observes things
that others don't
going to places
that others won't.
Inspired by simple things
like a sound or smell
the poet has lots
of stories to tell.
Even when asleep
his mind isn't at rest
in fact this is the time
it's at it's creative best.
The poet can be a restless soul
his life reflected on the page
some verse can be sweet and mild
then full of anger and rage.
The poet can be mysterious
and write in a strange way
he will say Black is White
and that night is day.
The poet is an artist
but instead of paint it's the word
painters want their work to be seen
but poets just need to be heard.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Poets' Poison
Another breath
in this empty skin as
The Poet's dreaming
once again:
'Love is death...'
The Master said,
imbibing I-magine's
magick and
sinks …
one still, solemn,
soular drink
of the scribbler's sacred
solvent ink
revolving, resolving
absolving, dissolving
his hyperindensity
hemlock-heavy
handed, heartened
hallowed head.
poem by Randy Resh
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Poem Is The Metaphor/ For All The Poet Is Not
The poem is the metaphor
For all the poet is not-
It lives in its own way
Beyond the fine line
Of the poet’s sacred intention.
It knows a holiness of its own,
And perhaps no holiness at all.
It is what it is
As all things are what they are-
And if it means more than first appears,
And if it says endlessly new sounds,
The poet never knew he uttered,
Still somehow deeply it connects
To where he is and what he was and what he will be,
When he is not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem to my Dad
11/22/82
by Emma Beverage
They left him there
Like an empty shell
An empty shell - silent - still
They left him there
So we could stare
So we could stare
At this hollow shell
It looked like my dad
Had gone to sleep
Sleep, sleep, eternal sleep
Sleep that made my family weep
And as I stared, this thought grew
Thoughts would never - again pass through
My daddy’s head
My daddy was dead
Someone had come to steal his soul
I heard his footsteps shuffling - slow
I heard his footsteps
When they took his soul.
poem by Emma Beverage
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The Potty Poet
Upon the computer keyboard,
With QWERTY squashed about,
The poet slept and soon he snored,
Four-thirty... tired out...
And there he dreamt he was awake
And typing poems still,
As if he didn't need a break
Or tiny sleeping pill...
But God was keen to calm him down,
Excited as he was
And gently eased away each frown
For he was loved because
The poet had a heart of gold,
Although his eyes were red,
Yet didn't do what he'd been told
And simply go to bed...
God sighed at such a silly man,
His whole life left to live,
As if God didn't have a plan,
More poems still to give...
Impatience is a tragic mask
That blinds the weary soul,
Such that the poet didn't ask
The Lord to take control...
So pace yourselves, don't be like him,
Take one day at a time...
Don't be obsessed, filled to the brim
With poetry and rhyme...
Sleep brings a boost, a needed lift,
As if to grease the wheels,
Sleep is a precious holy gift,
A sacred rest that heals...
Let eyes stay closed, let dreams unfold,
Let lessons still be learned,
Let fantasy at last take hold
Till daylight has returned...
The potty poet gave his all,
He'll sleep ten hours or more...
Regardless, poets, great or small,
That's what our beds are for...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Poet as a Feeler of Pain
What makes a poet?
Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like a conduit,
a plainspokenness to grief,
the hairs of the head
dancing on end,
the blood swarming
with the voices
of all those who have died,
will die,
& will also be born?
Is it a catch
in the throat
that awakens the eyes,
is it in the eyes themselves
or is it something
in the heart?
I think it is pain-
an openness to pain,
so that the least leaf
cuts the hand
& the smallest tear
cuts the cheek
like jagged crystal,
so that the world
is a sick infant
& the poet its mother,
praying, crooning, promising
to be good
if only the cure
takes.
There is, of course,
no cure.
Poetry does not cure
the poet
& the poet
does not cure the world.
Usually he catches
the world's diseases
& dies
even before his time.
But against all odds
& all indifference,
another one is born.
The world must have
someone to feel its pain
& speak of it.
The poet is that mouth.
poem by Erica Jong
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Only In Sleep (An Attempt To Be Relevant)
only in sleep
shall i make love with you
only in sleep
shall you caress my body
only in sleep
shall this love have
mutuality
only in sleep
shall we two become one
only in sleep
shall passion be
only in sleep
can i be true
after this sleep
one takes the mask again
dresses up for the
coming hours
well poised and respected
one meets lies with lies
quick as a sparrow
meek as a dove
but foxy still
with all your wiles
only in sleep
shall we all be weak
only in sleep
shall love
be love
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poet's Song
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
I have read
Works of great men and women
Simple poems and stories
I also have written
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I love poetries
So too are stories
They are simple daisies
Filling my fantasies
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
It is my refuge
When in sorrow
My hopes and dreams
In my unknown tomorrow
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I am a poetess
With the dream of sharing
And with my knowledge and skills
Tomorrow, my dreams I will be fulfilling
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I and my works
May never be great
But I will never lose hope
In God, I place my faith
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I will never surrender to failure
I shall never retire until I reach my goal
I will read and write literature
I will hear the cry of my hoping soul
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
poem by Belleza Edella Marian SwanCullen
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A Waif
My soul is like a poor caged bird to-night,
Beating its wings against the prison bars,
Longing to reach the outer world of light,
And, all untrammelled, soar among the stars.
Wild, mighty thoughts struggle within my soul
For utterance. Great waves of passion roll
Through all my being. As the lightnings play
Through thunder clouds, so beams of blinding light
Flash for a moment on my darkened brain -
Quick, sudden, glaring beams, that fade wawy
And leave me in a darker, deeper night.
Oh, poet sould! that struggle all in vain
To live in peace and harmony with earth,
It cannot be! They must endure the pain
Of conscience and unacknoeledged worth,
Moving and dwelling with the common herd,
Whose highest thought has never strayed as far,
Or never strayed beyond the horizon's bar;
Whose narrow hearts and souls are never stirred
With keenest pleasures, or with sharpest pain;
Who rise and eat and sleep, and rise again,
Nor question why or wherefore. Men whose minds
Are never shaken by wild passion winds;
Women whose broadest, deepeat realm of thought
The bridal veil will cover.
Who see not
God's mighty work lying undone to-day, -
Work that a woman's hands can do as well,
Oh, soul of mine; better to live alway
In this tumultuous inward pain and strife,
Doing the work that in thy reach doth fall,
Weeping because thou canst not do it all;
Oh, better, my soul, in this unrest to dwell,
Than grovel as they grovel on through life.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Poem about Poetry - a premature death
to let the poet in them die
their mind must have fallen
flat like a corpse
cant the moon not be
made a queen so that
she could doze off in the
light of his care?
nay, of course, they
did not let the poet go to sleep
he was wrapped
and bundled away in the
shadows of the day
by the flood of sweats
to bring the food on the table
by the torrent of thoughts
to get life smooth sailing
the poet, the poet, he can
sleep for a while and hopefull
will not die too prematurely
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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