Called Into Play
Fall fell: so that's it for the leaf poetry:
some flurries have whitened the edges of roads
and lawns: time for that, the snow stuff: &
turkeys and old St. Nick: where am I going to
find something to write about I haven't already
written away: I will have to stop short, look
down, look up, look close, think, think, think:
but in what range should I think: should I
figure colors and outlines, given forms, say
mailboxes, or should I try to plumb what is
behind what and what behind that, deep down
where the surface has lost its semblance: or
should I think personally, such as, this week
seems to have been crafted in hell: what: is
something going on: something besides this
diddledeediddle everyday matter-of-fact: I
could draw up an ancient memory which would
wipe this whole presence away: or I could fill
out my dreams with high syntheses turned into
concrete visionary forms: Lucre could lust
for Luster: bad angels could roar out of perdition
and kill the AIDS vaccine not quite
perfected yet: the gods could get down on
each other; the big gods could fly in from
nebulae unknown: but I'm only me: I have 4
interests--money, poetry, sex, death: I guess
I can jostle those. . . .
poem by Archie Randolph Ammons
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Related quotes
I See You But You Don't See Me
i am invisbile
i have the powers handed to me by the gods
to be invisible
on this site to have many faces to have many
forms and colors and
dispositions
beyond gender
beyong boundaries
religion, beliefs, beyond what you ordinarily call
poetry
i am invisible to anybody's closed eyes
narrow alleys
i have wings i can always fly
i have horns i can always bully each
one of you here
you do not see me
but i always see you
when you fall
it will be my poetry
that will stop the falling
when you melt
it will be my poetry
that will solidify you
the gods the gods
they must have cursed me
i am always invisible
even to myself
i touch but i do not feel
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry The Beacon!
Beacon of literature is ever poetry only!
Greatness of literature lies in quality ideas;
Richness of language depends on poetry;
Worthiness of matter in poetry only is best!
Writing needs creative mind whatever thing is!
Novels, Short stories, Prose and Poetry are they
That enhance the richness of literature ever;
That too writing poetry makes one great sure!
Having chosen the form of poetry to write itself
Is not an easy matter as it needs skill and time
To write what one feels, thinks and conceives
In heart, mind and soul, otherwise no good at all!
Other forms of literature needs concentrated work
But poetry needs natural ability to express free all!
poem by Ramesh T A
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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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Retrieved Poetry
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
But the inspiration that befell the poet,
But the gods that cursed the poet
Would never allow him grow weary.
It keeps pouring out like morning dew
From sundown to cock crow.
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
Those would get paid
That wishes it out of this world.
Judgement day, the pay day, even today
,
Memories linger of what the gods inspired.
Only poetry has survived a worldwide flood.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
But the inspiration keeps coming,
But the memory keeps living.
Poetry lives on even when the world is dead;
It dies only if it is not poetry
And there is only a good few poetry.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
Until we start seeing poetry as poetry
And nothing more, until that day,
Until we start thinking he is inspired,
Until we stop thinking for the poet;
He is possessed he is innocent.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument.
Even as we cut from the same tree,
Even as we speak same universal language,
You cannot cut deep if your axe's blunt.
We can never speak from same mouth.
You can only say your own thought.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument,
If poetry is dead killed by death,
If poetry is dead swallowed by death,
The corpse should be in our front.
We should know how to bury it.
We should dig not cover it with dust.
Poetry is dead,
If poetry is really dead,
There is cause to weep bitterly,
There is cause to think deeply
For the world has been stripped naked.
For poetry is great, ageless, timeless, bottomless
At the burial we must remain emotionless.
poem by Chime Justice Ndubuisi
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It is true that short forms of poetry have been cultivated in the Far East more than in modern Europe; but in all European literature short forms of poetry are to be found - indeed quite as short as anything in Japanese.
quote by Lafcadio Hearn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry Has Some Advantages
Poetry has some advantages
Over other forms of Literature-
It is ordinarily smaller than most other kinds of writing
It can be read in a shorter time-
People who would not try to write in more demanding forms
Can try to write in it-
Its subject is human feeling
It touches on our deepest experiences-
Almost everyone has a poem in them
And most a poem they have been moved by-
It is everywhere
And seems to be a part of every culture-
Language at its most intense is what Poetry is
And most of us have our intense moments-
Poetry is open to us all
And we can take it with us wherever we go.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Songs Of Poetry
Poetry is the wave
drenching the sea-shore!
Sea-gull hovering overhead!
Poetry is lilack
Poetry is lily
Poetry is rose
Poetry is cherry!
Poetry tears down the cheek
liquidated in joy!
liquidated in grief!
Poetry consoles the soul!
As glass of sherry!
Poetry draws the out-line
....the cosmos forms!
Poetry paints the blue
....the sky performs!
Poetry waves the desire
...love sings along!
Poetry paves the way
....makes us strong!
Poetry dreams and cry
....erases wrong!
poem by Suvra Bhattacharya
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Muse for Me
My poetry doesn’t rhyme or flow
My poetry has no meaning and no feeling
My poetry has sex and violence written into it
My poetry cares for no one
My poetry is lost without you in it
Save me from my angry thoughts and schemes
I don’t want to be lost in a void where all write is uninspired
Become a muse for me, my poetry
poem by Double A P SS
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.
It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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All Poetry... All The Time
All Poetry … All The Time
I Love To Read In Rhythm & Rhyme
I Love To Write Of Wistful Wishes
And Lips Speak Of Love Like Bold Kisses
All Poetry … All The Time
Poetry, Is A Medication For My Mind
Poetry, Has A Power To Overthrow Pain
Poetry, Should Be Spoken, Again and Again
All Poetry … All The Time
I Am Really Thrilled To Find
More Poet Lovers, and Their Word Artistry
All The Time … All Poetry
All Poetry … All The Time
May Each Poetic Puff, Rise & Climb
Into The Clouds, Up To The Stars
(Or Maybe Just Linger, Where You Are) …
All Poetry … For All Of Time
Written & ©: 5/24/10
By: MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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Poetry On The Chin
You gouged my mind's eye,
Tantalised all inner thought,
Shocked from unknown angles;
Sold me, told me cold,
Unfolded, moulded;
Shouldered any harbouring
Of empty morals.
You spun me round; undressed -
Pestered me with background riddle -
Piffle came to gleaning meaning.
And you stripped out prejudice - for none
Must exist in poetry,
Lest you close up an open mind
And f**k up as reader;
Lest your heart is not a bleeder -
It has to be - let it flush out
Upon your sleeve.
You lay apart my thinking brain
And let in the literary pickings of a
Great poetic phallus.
Yes, poetry can be callous.
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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No Shame
See me, I have no shame
Poetry's a losing game
Tongue in cheek, but it's all the same
Poetry's a caring game
My memory could be amazed
Yet it's been erased
I have nothing planned
My Brain could use a hand
Lines cannot be found
Please look all around
I'll get a helping hand
This Poem's a futile stand
Have I lost my mind?
Poetry I'm sure you'll find
Sometimes, can be unkind
By those who are unsigned
Just ignore the sods
Let them pray to their gods
You know I have no shame
Poetry's a funny game.
poem by Gordon David
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...
Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.
But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'
Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.
The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.
Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.
I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.
It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?
poem by Maddy Macleod
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Prose-Poetry
Once prose and poetry existed side by side
Two styles of literature, each with its bound
Jealously guarded by the literati
Lest prose masquerades as poetry.
The First World War smashed all fetters,
Soldiers wrote heart-rending poetic letters
To sweethearts, friends, fathers and mothers.
Newspapers published their anguish and horrors
The literati classed them as prose
And turned up their nose
At such a new trend of mongrelised poetry;
But the public gave it name and identity
Prose-poetry began to gain respectability.
Prose-poetry is a contradiction in terms,
An oxymoron; a paradox of many forms.
When well written, words flow as though in rhyme
Thought and syntax together dance with rhythm.
Some pen few lines haphazardly,
String words together arbitrarily,
Flit between thoughts randomly,
Structure their poems casually.
They want us to see them as thinkers
In fact, they are just wearing blinkers.
If only they could see their folly
They’d stop abusing prose-poetry.
poem by Isam Hussain
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I Write In Lead Part 2
You see I write in lead
cause having poetry impact my life
Everyday is empowering
Can't complete a thought 'cause
Before I can access feelings stored inside
My mind is weaving another strand of meaning and context
'Cause Poetry's deciphered my semantic properties
Unraveling down to the morphological units
Unlacing more of me
And that I don't need a pen
To bleed thoughts of truth
Let me know cause I don't understand
Can't put into concrete thoughts
My grasp of linguistics no longer suffice
To decode the relationship between
Mind and hand
pen and poet
Carefully marking down gibberish
Only understood by the two
I guess that's how it works
Some things have no outside reason to stand
But the only one that comes from within
An I write in lead cause
I can't get out the right pattern of words
I keep erasing
Always in search of a better way
To state how it is that I
am processing poetry
I don't want to use pen
cause fact of the matter is poetry
Shakes the profound core
My factory of thoughts
Engraved permanently in paper
Leaves no space to illustrate
How poetry pushes me to the edge of language
And then I realize
The edge is more like an extending bridge of vocabulary
I can continue building letters
Making meaning
There's no saying
Where interpretation will stop
That is what
poetry is
Making my hand ache
but the thought of not scribing
Leaves less space
For our bridge to extend
Connect To find a better way
to spill my insides out
Poetry's my speech therapy
Cause the more I interpret poetry's word
the more I record how its being comes forth
tough and registers in a soft key
Through syllables
The more clearly I see
through the lens I read
The world and my synthesis
is me
I want to take all of poetry in
So it lives endlessly in meaning
If the path of our voices crosses only momentarily
I'd like for poetry to still live through my expression
Aiding the love affair of
Mind hand and heart
poem by Samantha Campbell
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
Drinking Poetry
at first glance
you taste its first sip
it is bitter and had always been
as bitter as grief
and you drink it anyway
everyday
until then when bitterness
does not taste bitter anymore
and then you drink it anyway
everyday
and everyday you drink cup by cup
poetry
your friend do not believe you
doing this
they cannot take it anymore
you drinking this bitter
concoction
everyday
you are true to this calling
drinking poetry
until it has become your habit
your vocation
your mission to write all that you feel
all that you can
what they do not know
is this freedom this blood from poetry
bitter and salty and sometimes bland
has become so sweet as honey
and these sap caused the growth of
your feathers and wings
and then one day you fly away
far away so so far away
to that clouds and mountains to that castle of the gods
and goddesses
and there you drink with them
and there they welcome you as one of them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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