The Bookworm
A moth, I thought, munching a word.
How marvellously weird! a worm
Digesting a man's sayings --
A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows
At the shape of a poet's thunderous phrases --
How unutterably strange!
And the pilfering parasite none the wiser
For the words he has swallowed.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Riddle
A moth, I thogh, munching a word.
How marvellously weird! a worm
Digesting a mans sayings -
A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows
At the shape of a poet`s thunderous phrases -
How unutterably strange!
And the pilfering parasite none the wiser
For the words he has swallowed.
Riddle
A moth, I thogh, munching a word.
How marvellously weird! a worm
Digesting a mans sayings -
A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows
At the shape of a poet`s thunderous phrases -
How unutterably strange!
And the pilfering parasite none the wiser
For the words he has swallowed.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Inside Words
Inside a letter housed in a word
Is an inner ink, going on a second;
Offering pink notice that turns red.
We read a picture of knowledge
And learn a new thought too vital
And delicious that it is eaten.
Inside one word, we heal a few phrases,
More like a power that freezes
And despises, forming clues of words.
These are weird tales for the numerous
Haters of words. Inside the letter is a word.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Funny That
Funny how a smile can light up your day
Strange how a stranger can fight fears away
Weird how a puppy can constantly play
Odd how simplicity makes it all okay
Funny how writing can say more than a talk
Strange how a head can be cleared with a walk
Weird how someone loves you enough to stalk
Odd how someone thought of inventing a common fork
Funny how laughter can wipe tears from your face
Strange how chocolates can be hidden with no trace
Weird how there's billions yet still so much space
Odd how we've survived together as the human race
poem by Alex Daydream
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Weird
Isnt it weird. isnt it strange.
Even though were just two strangers on this runaway train
Were both trying to find a place in the sun
Weve lived in the shadows, but doesnt everyone
Isnt it strange how we all feel a little bit weird sometimes
Isnt it hard. standing in the rain.
Youre on the verge of going crazy and your hearts in pain
No one can hear though youre screaming so loud
You feel all alone in a faceless crowd
Isnt it strange how we all get a little bit weird sometimes.
Sitting on the side. waiting for a sign. hoping that my luck will change.
Reaching for a hand that can understand, someone who feels the same.
When you live in a cookie cutter world being different is a sin.
So you dont stand out. and you dont fit in. weird.
Sitting on the side. waiting for a sign. hoping that my luck will change.
Reaching for a hand that can understand, someone who feels the same.
When you live in a cookie cutter world if youre different you cant win.
So you dont stand out and you dont fit in. weird.
Isnt it strange how we all feel a little bit weird
Strange, how we all get a little bit.
Strange, cause were all just a little bit weird sometimes.
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
A Poem To A Poets!
the poet see crooked
and talk weird too
like a drunk
perdition in his insane!
No one can understand a Poet
Just you and me, like poet we are
The poet say 'Dr. Jivago'?
It means like a movie? No
it means my love for you! ! !
Or he asks yourself, Am I Evil?
No, he does not evil
I am in silence, affirm the poet! ! !
In silence never he will be
BONG, kick the can! ! !
WAR
AAA
RAW
in silence he is!
Trapped in a tower
a terrible place
just for one second to rest
like almost all of us
He said' I gone'
but gone like no one
gone with strenght
strange and revolutionary Poet!
No one can understand a Poet
Just you and me, like poet we are! ! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The moth hound
Of a coon hound
you have heard
there's plenty around
i have found
a very strange dog
who's nothing, but a moth hound
when ever, you see
he sees a moth near by
the moth trys to flee,
it isn't no match
as my dog goes after the moth,
and makes a wonderful catch
he eats it all the way
and chews and swallows
he looks at me, now he wants to play
Glass
Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.
A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.
Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.
If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.
poem by Robert Francis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Our time table is set
with compatable food for thought
digesting our words
haiku by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I am not a poet
They say I am not a poet,
I, too, think so,
I am not a poet,
For I dare not turn the truth,
Into falsehood,
Or vise-versa,
I refrain myself from decorating
my verses with words and phrases,
To create sensation.
I call spade a spade,
In the simplest term
I may not be a poet,
But am aware of,
The mysteries of love,
I may not be a poet, But know how to detect,
Imitations in emotions.
I am aware of,
The cavity the society bears,
The thriving double standards,
The artificial claims of love,
I know I am not a poet,
I prefer to remain a simple person, Without being obsequious,
I can accomplish my task,
I just say what I feel,
So what if they do not send
Their inspiring comments,
So what if they take my request for flattery,
I would go on expressing my feelings,
Whether they like it or not
For I am not a poet at all.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old Words
Diggin' around the ole treasure chest
Tryin' to find a gem,
Wonderin' if any of these old words
Could shine once again -
I've used them all
In the past,
So I naturally figured
They just couldn't last-
But still
Here they are,
Right where I left them
Inside my mental Mason jar-
I recall screwing the lid
Down extra tight,
In attempt
To keep them out of sight-
For due to fear
I'd put them far away,
Afraid of being called 'Ignorant'
I vowed smarter words to say-
I thought to be impressive
I needed words a bit longer,
To be a powerful poet
Phrases a bit stronger-
So, to feed
My own vain frailty,
I tried to use words
Beyond my meager mentality-
But, I am older now
And have come 'round to realize how,
Just like true, good friends
It's those old words that suit me(and love me) the most, in the end-
I find it's best to use
Old words I know,
And slowly learn more
As patiently I read and grow.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Parroting Courtesies
my niece asks me to hand a spoon
and i ask her to say 'please' and she utters the word
(perhaps her mama does not teach her the word)
and i hand her the spoon and she is afraid to say the word 'thank you'
and i tell her to say the word and she says it as though it is a strange word
for her (perhaps her dad, who is my brother seldom uses the word in their
house)
and then i tell her after she says thank you 'welcome my dear'
and she giggles, perhaps the words are ticklers to her frail body
to her small hands, to her fingers which grabbed the spoon as though
there are not so many
so many spoons in this world, we know that,
but the courtesies are forgotten, as this happens i feel like i am
parroting words, and sometimes i reflect: do i also really understand
these words, deep down to the longings of my heart?
thanks, but am i that really thankful to God?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Today... 'The Word
Word of love and the Word made flesh
Word incarnate forever blessed
Word of life and the Word of light
Word of power and Word of might.
Word that was spoken, Word of the Lord
Word of the Law and the Word of God
Word of peace and Word eternal
Word of truth and last Word of all.
Word of wisdom and the Word of healing
Word from heaven, a Word so appealing
Word fulfilling the Word of prophecy
Word of the Spirit and Word of destiny.
Word of exhortation and Word of grace
Word of encouragement and Word of faith
Word of promise and a Word of insight
Word from the beginning and Word of delight.
Word of knowledge and a Word of boldness
Word of peace and the Word of righteousness
Word of the covenant and Word of love
Word of the Father from heaven above.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
A Vacuole....
haven't you taken a closer look
at the vacuole? it is owning a space for itself
and what you do not see is that
it is ingesting emptiness upon
its own open mouth
and just like you digesting everything
to tiny pieces
until everything gets so fluid
upon its own belly
the universe begins to take shape
and move
just like our own feelings of emptiness
we must learn this art of
ingestion
taking things and converting them
into fluids
until they take the shape of our faces
our future
and fears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I used to think that anyone doing anything weird was weird. I suddenly realized that anyone doing anything weird wasn't weird at all and it was the people saying they were weird that were weird.
quote by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Poeta Fit, Non Nascitur
"How shall I be a poet?
How shall I write in rhyme?
You told me once 'the very wish
Partook of the sublime.'
Then tell me how! Don't put me off
With your 'another time'!"
The old man smiled to see him,
To hear his sudden sally;
He liked the lad to speak his mind
Enthusiastically;
And thought "There's no hum-drum in him,
Nor any shilly-shally."
"And would you be a poet
Before you've been to school?
Ah, well! I hardly thought you
So absolute a fool.
First learn to be spasmodic -
A very simple rule.
"For first you write a sentence,
And then you chop it small;
Then mix the bits, and sort them out
Just as they chance to fall:
The order of the phrases makes
No difference at all.
'Then, if you'd be impressive,
Remember what I say,
That abstract qualities begin
With capitals alway:
The True, the Good, the Beautiful -
Those are the things that pay!
"Next, when you are describing
A shape, or sound, or tint;
Don't state the matter plainly,
But put it in a hint;
And learn to look at all things
With a sort of mental squint."
"For instance, if I wished, Sir,
Of mutton-pies to tell,
Should I say 'dreams of fleecy flocks
Pent in a wheaten cell'?"
"Why, yes," the old man said: "that phrase
Would answer very well.
"Then fourthly, there are epithets
That suit with any word -
As well as Harvey's Reading Sauce
With fish, or flesh, or bird -
Of these, 'wild,' 'lonely,' 'weary,' 'strange,'
Are much to be preferred."
"And will it do, O will it do
To take them in a lump -
As 'the wild man went his weary way
To a strange and lonely pump'?"
"Nay, nay! You must not hastily
To such conclusions jump.
"Such epithets, like pepper,
Give zest to what you write;
And, if you strew them sparely,
They whet the appetite:
But if you lay them on too thick,
You spoil the matter quite!
"Last, as to the arrangement:
Your reader, you should show him,
Must take what information he
Can get, and look for no im-
mature disclosure of the drift
And purpose of your poem.
"Therefore, to test his patience -
How much he can endure -
Mention no places, names, or dates,
And evermore be sure
Throughout the poem to be found
Consistently obscure.
"First fix upon the limit
To which it shall extend:
Then fill it up with 'Padding'
(Beg some of any friend):
Your great SENSATION-STANZA
You place towards the end."
"And what is a Sensation,
Grandfather, tell me, pray?
I think I never heard the word
So used before to-day:
Be kind enough to mention one
'EXEMPLI GRATIA.'"
And the old man, looking sadly
Across the garden-lawn,
Where here and there a dew-drop
Yet glittered in the dawn,
Said "Go to the Adelphi,
And see the 'Colleen Bawn.'
'The word is due to Boucicault -
The theory is his,
Where Life becomes a Spasm,
And History a Whiz:
If that is not Sensation,
I don't know what it is.
"Now try your hand, ere Fancy
Have lost its present glow - "
"And then," his grandson added,
"We'll publish it, you know:
Green cloth - gold-lettered at the back -
In duodecimo!"
Then proudly smiled that old man
To see the eager lad
Rush madly for his pen and ink
And for his blotting-pad -
But, when he thought of PUBLISHING,
His face grew stern and sad.
poem by Lewis Carroll from Phantasmagoria and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Anxiety
do you love me really
have you thought me recently
do you still care about me
I want to ask that question
but the words swallowed by the dark of night
do I have a right to say
will you answer my call
should I understand you further
I'm always at your side
but your voice becomes strange and distant
can I share my burden
am I doing something wrong
can I feel you again
I want to hug you to squash this anxiety
but doubt trap me in the cage of stone
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!