A Poet’s Thought
TELL me, what is a poet’s thought?
Is it on the sudden born?
Is it from the starlight caught?
Is it by the tempest taught,
Or by whispering morn?
Was it cradled in the brain?
Chain’d awhile, or nurs’d in night?
Was it wrought with toil and pain?
Did it bloom and fade again,
Ere it burst to light?
No more question of its birth:
Rather love its better part!
’T is a thing of sky and earth,
Gathering all its golden worth
From the Poet’s heart.
poem by Barry Cornwall
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Poet
I am a poet.
I feel the colours of pain.
I watch the sky in the rain.
Waiting for the sun.
I hear soft promise
Of golden days.
As music stabs
When it plays
Deep in my heart.
I am a poet.
The moon is my mother.
She sings like no other
With dulcet tone.
When I am left alone.
She bathes me in blue.
As I die within the night
And lie with the dew,
Until the next starlight.
I am a poet.
I want that forever kiss
Carried by breeze
To bring sweet bliss.
That i can keep
Deep
Within my aching soul.
For when the drums roll.
And I fade
Into dark forest shade.
Then my music
Will pass through you.
Like a lovers sigh.
Hear the ocean cry
For a lullaby
In lonliness.
I could never possess
That beauty.
But will forever
Share
The rose that
I dared not to die.
A dreamer and a poet am I.
poem by Kevin East
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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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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Verbal Tapestry
Such tapestries of magic wrought
by masters of their chosen art;
whose measured worth cannot be bought.
Within this place wizardry's taught
and each magician plays a part
in tapestries of magic wrought.
A diverse and bewitching lot,
some sassy, saucy, suave and smart;
whose measured worth cannot be bought.
Across the zones of time and thought
they serve poetic a-la-carte.
with tapestries of magic wrought.
With grace a moment can be caught
by artists of the quill and heart,
whose measured worth cannot be bought.
And with fresh, enchanting thought
this simple wizard makes a start
at tapestries of magic wrought.
whose measured worth cannot be bought.
poem by John Roche
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Parting
There's no use in weeping,
Though we are condemned to part:
There's such a thing as keeping
A remembrance in one's heart:
There's such a thing as dwelling
On the thought ourselves have nurs'd,
And with scorn and courage telling
The world to do its worst.
We'll not let its follies grieve us,
We'll just take them as they come;
And then every day will leave us
A merry laugh for home.
When we've left each friend and brother,
When we're parted wide and far,
We will think of one another,
As even better than we are.
Every glorious sight above us,
Every pleasant sight beneath,
We'll connect with those that love us,
Whom we truly love till death!
In the evening, when we're sitting
By the fire perchance alone,
Then shall heart with warm heart meeting,
Give responsive tone for tone.
We can burst the bonds which chain us,
Which cold human hands have wrought,
And where none shall dare restrain us
We can meet again, in thought.
So there's no use in weeping,
Bear a cheerful spirit still;
Never doubt that Fate is keeping
Future good for present ill!
poem by Charlotte Brontë from Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell (1846)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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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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Cradled In His Love
When the world throws at me it's wretched darts,
And the world tears at the soft under belly of my heart.
And all communication seems rendered from above,
I'm reminded of the saying, Cradled in his love.
For you see in deed tis true,
Cling tightly fellow traveler, this phrase will see you through.
When each day is as darkest night,
This phrase will remind of the Saviors loving light.
Cradled in His love, wonderful place to be,
My body maybe racked with illness yet I am free.
Bars may hold me in my place; my only light comes from God above.
Waves may be hurling me about, still I'm cradled in His love.
Much I have done as I have trod this earth,
Much of some value, some of little worth.
As I would mourn the "little worth", I see a sweet white dove,
That reminds the, "Son you are cradled in my love".
Just as the Savior His end could see,
Was cradled in His love, the same can be said of me.
Before Pilate, and held cold steel upon the cruel cross.
Cradled in His father's love, none could be lost.
When storms do rage and blow,
There is but one thing I know.
I may at times lose my grip on Him, but of this be assured,
I am always in His heart, I'm always adored.
My sin may cause Him to turn His head, to close His eyes,
However, once cradled in His love, sin cannot break loves ties.
Truth be said, before I was counted as one of his flock,
Upon a black heart, He did knock.
Asking to come in and abide was His simple plea,
His gift would set me from sin totally free.
Today I'm bond slave am I, tis true,
A servant cradled in His love, dear friend I would desire the same for you.
R. K. Hart 2000-12.
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 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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The Poet
The poet can only utter the word fine
The poet has to bear the sorrow and the sin.
The poet can only say I am happy
The poet can only say I feel no aches no pain
The poet can only say I am not in loss
The poet can only say I am in the side of only gain.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THOSE who misspell
And those who are still coping up
With their metaphors
The techniques
Of rhyme & beat
Those who think
They do not
Know how to
Write poetry
And those
Who fear
What to say
What to write
What the others say
About their poetry
And those that doubt
Their writing
Abilities
Their thoughts
Their feelings
Their feelings
Their feelings
Yes
Yes
Their feelings
Or those who simply
Fear that they may only
Be displeasing
And disappointing
And those whose
Sense of confidence
About this thing
This poetry
This poem thing
Those that still
Hide what they
Feel to what they
Think
Is prose
Those who think that
Their life
Is not worth
Sharing in the
The beat and
Rhyme of poetry
Behold
The mere thought
About life
About a beating heart
The pulse
The eyes that blink
The fingers fidgety
That type the words
Of feelings
Of feelings
Yes
Yes
About feelings
It is all about feelings
The genuine feelings
Of your life
You type them
Each word
To another word
A chain of words
A long chain of words
Like playing the music
To the piano keys
Like strumming
The strings of a
Flamenco guitar
A certain music
A certain beat
To the sound
Of your computer keys
Hear the beat
And the rhyme
Of your computer keys
Each word
To another word
To a chain of words
To a longer chain of words
You are running a chain of feelings
You are chasing a chain of feelings long chained in your hearts wanting to be free
To be free
To be free
Yes
Yes
You, feeling to be free to run free to be all free
Like you were scattering red rose petals to this pedestal
Like you were sprinkling waters to this garden
Like you were splashing waters in the sea
Like you were bathing playing dancing in the rain
Like you were humming a tune to a trek on a hill
Like you were making love with your beloved the whole night
Behold
A poet in you is born
Behold
You are typing
A poem
You are
Feeling
And you are
By all means
Now a poet
I hereby baptize you
With that name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poet's Pride
Oh, it is a quiet harmless pride
Of simple and innocent poet's heart;
It is the heat inside a hearth
That is cool and calm outward.
It can burn and engulf the steel,
Dissolve the earth to fluid dreams
While sits upright on the golden throne
Of the poet's safe candescent heart.
The poet's pride is on a tripped ride
While exposed on an open road,
Like a patient from a mental ward
With inward versus outward fight.
While expanding to far off horizons,
Poet's pride is light like birds;
While grim like clouds,
It cools and pours confidence around.
It is a strange candescence inside
That exposes nuances of the self;
It is a strange candescence inside
That seizes shams from its shades.
Poet's pride is frozen enlightenment,
Pure and thick fog of innocence;
Poet's pride is a cleansing holy fire
That melts gold to give it shine.
Warm like a dear darling's hug,
Cold like Antarctic ice-shelf,
Soft like gold and hard like steel,
The poet's pride is humility in disguise.
It creeps like cool breeze
Or sweeps like a tempest;
It spreads sweet fragrance
Or leaves back sad wreck.
A rare grace of imbalance is pride
In the deepest caves of a poet's mind,
The eerie smoke of the poetic brood
Fills the air with a soothing indolence.
Poet's pride soars like a kite in the sky
While calm reflections delve to the self;
Poet's pride dips deep when hurt
While the sham world ignores his worth.
Pride is a wall that blocks path
Of easy virtues for a speedy flourish,
A riddle of likes and dislikes is pride,
Where walks a poet with royal grace.
The poet's pride, his strength and worth,
A protective sheath that absorbs shocks;
The poet's pride, his being's depth,
Whence uprises his poetic breadth.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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A Poet's Work
A poet's work is a mystery indeed.
It springs from his mind like a fertile seed.
It's not his place to question its emergence,
But to record and marvel at its resurgence.
Each word, phrase, sentence is predisposed
Like a babe that is born already composed.
It's mission to convey ideas and messages clear
With style and flair never before existing here.
When a poet views release of his finished piece,
Best enjoy as an observer or emotions increase.
How each work is born, like the child at birth
Is shrouded in mystery as is so much on earth.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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The Work Of A Poet
A poet’s work is a mystery indeed.
It springs from his mind like a fertile seed.
It’s not his place to question its emergence,
But to record and marvel at its resurgence.
Each word, phrase, sentence is predisposed
Like a babe that is born already composed.
It’s mission to convey ideas and messages clear
With style and flair never before existing here.
When a poet views release of his finished piece,
Best enjoy as an observer or emotions increase.
How each work is born, like the child at birth
Is shrouded in mystery as is so much on earth.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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A Poet
Not everyone a poet be
It takes more than a show of words
Or feigned esteemed ability.
These attributes are so absurd!
Like inkless pens expect to write
A single word of poesy.
A poet lives to dream each night
Ideas wrought subconsciously;
And when the golden sun has gleamed
Its steady subdued morning glow
The poet wakes from fondest dreams
Imbued by schemes the night bestowed
Into a measured rhyming gem:
Conjured dreams become a poem.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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The Poet and The Angel
The poet woke up in his bed, he dressed and faced the day,
Not knowing what lay just ahead, he paused as if to pray.
Then suddenly, the angel came, right there within his room,
So how could things then stay the same? For that none could assume.
'Write down the words that I impart! ' the angel told him straight
And thus the poet made a start, in fact, he couldn't wait!
'Repent and mend your ways on Earth! Repent and start again!
Repent for every soul has worth. Repent for God not men! '
The poet nodded his consent, the words now on the page,
For this was always God's intent, as seen from age-to-age.
'The choice is yours and yours alone! The same for every man!
And Jesus waits the ones who've shown they wish to serve God's plan! '
How true, the poet sagely thought, there's no excuse at all.
We ought to do the things we're taught, or else we're bound to fall.
'You still have time to do what's right! Repent and serve the Lord!
Arise, stand fast, walk in the light, or else lose your reward! '
Of course, the poet's heart agreed, for that made perfect sense
To each lost soul that saw the need and each one that repents.
He asked the angel, 'Who's this for, lost Gentile or lost Jew? '
The angel shook him to the core, 'These words are just for you...'
poem by Denis Martindale
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Galadriel
My love is turning.
Like a wheel of fire she burns her way.
My love is burning.
She's a light to guide me through the fray.
Galadriel, spirit of starlight.
Eagle and dove gave birth to thee.
Galadriel, spirit of starlight.
You are my love and earth to me, my
Love and earth to me.
My love is seeing.
Through unabiased eyes she reads the signs.
My love is searching.
For new life somewhere she's bound to find.
Galadriel, spirit of starlight.
Eagle and dove give birth to thee.
Galadriel, spirit of starlight.
You are my love and earth to me.
My love and earth to me.
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Finds....
The poet finds whatever the moon could not see,
The poet finds whatever the earth does not know,
The poet finds whatever the sun could not see,
The poet finds whatever others do not know,
The poet finds whatever the stars could not see,
So why do the heathen rage and the people plot vanity? !
For she who is pregnant is closer to us,
And the hart pants after streams of water.
Your tears have been your food night and day,
And like your inner self in the lan dof your muse;
But the poet finds whatever the sun could not see.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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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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Dreams of Poetry
Some men dream for fortune,
others dream for fame.
Some to go where none have been,
most dreams are all the same.
Some men dream of lovers,
so do some for hate.
Many dream to die in peace,
and be let inside GODS gates.
Men do dream for peace on earth,
a son born first in birth.
Many still do dream has children,
and want their moneys worth,
But me I dream of pleasure,
for men who read my words.
I dream to be poet,
a poet whom is heard.
Heard and loved and wanted for,
what lies inside my heart.
When I dream of anything,
poetry is where it starts...
poem by Ken Bennight
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