Goading the Muse
this man used to be an
interesting writer,
he was able to say brisk and
refreshing things.
at the time
I suggested to the editors and
the critics that he was one to
be watched
and also that he had hardly yet been
noticed
and that he certainly should now be
noticed.
this writer used some of my
remarks as blurbs for his
books, which I didn't
mind.
all of his publications were little
chapbooks, 16 to 32
pages,
mimeographed.
they came out at a
rapid rate,
perhaps three or four a
year.
the problem was that each
chapbook seemed a little weaker
than the one that preceded
it
but he continued to use my old
blurbs.
my wife noticed the change
in his writing
too.
'what's happened to his
writing?' she asked me.
'he's doing too much of it, he's
pushing it out, forcing it.'
'this stuff is bad, you ought to
tell him to stop using your
blurbs.'
'I can't do that, I just wish he
wouldn't publish so much.'
'well, you publish all the
time too.'
'with me,' I told her, 'it's
different.'
yesterday I received another of his
little chapbooks
with his delicate dedication scrawled
on the title page.
this latest effort was totally
flat.
the words just fell off the
page,
dead on
arrival.
where had he gone?
too much ambition?
too much just doing it for the sake
of doing it?
just not waiting for the words to
pile up inside and then
explode of their own
volition?
I decided then I should take a whole week
off,
be on the safe side,
just shut the computer down,
forget the whole damned silly
business
for awhile.
as I said, that was
yesterday.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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Related quotes
Paperback Writer
(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Untitled Song
I tried my best to get over you
Kept my distance so I wouldnt have to show
That the things which I kept hidden by my casual smile
Were the things that I needed you to know
You could have seen the acting on the stage
You might have read the writing on the page
You could have noticed that a heart went breaking into two
But you never knew it was I was falling for you
Sometimes I still think I could get to you
Then I laugh and think I could swim the seven seas
It seems when Im set to fly theres a storm up in the sky
When Im set to sail there isnt any breeze
You could have seen the acting on the stage
You might have read the writing on the page
You could have noticed that a heart went breaking into two
But you never knew it was I was falling for you
Its been some time now that I saw you in a photograph
Looking just the way you did so long ago
I could almost see you throw your head back and start to laugh
In that gentle way that used to let me know
Things were okay and a hurting song is just a cliche
And whats the use if they only always fade away
Just like the sun just like everyone but you
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I gave up writing blurbs because you make one friend and 200 enemies.
quote by Leslie Fiedler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil
The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Send it to someone who can publish it. And if they won't publish it, send it to someone else who can publish it! And keep sending it! Of course, if no one will publish it, at that point you might want to think about doing something other than writing.
quote by Robert B. Parker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Young Letter Writer
Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penned,
A youthful writer oft will stop,
And bite his pen, and lift his eyes
As if he thinks to find in air
The wished-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixëd stare.
But haply all in vain-the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;
And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustomed letter-writing.
Courage, young friend; the time may be
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.
Even then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcomest words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Yesterdays
(arkeen / james / billy / rose)
Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never told
Now that i'm startin' to learn
I feel i'm growing old
'cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that i'll always see
Time just fades the pages
In my book of memories
Prayers in my pocket
And no hand in destiny
I'll keep on movin' along
With no time to plant my feet
'cause yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that i'll always see
Some things could be better
If we'd all just let them be
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Got nothin' for me
Yesterday, there was so many things
I was never shown
Suddenly this time i found
I'm on the streets and i'm all alone
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Old pictures that i'll always see
I ain't got time to reminisce old novelties
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday's got nothin' for me
Yesterday
Yesterday
song performed by by Guns N' Roses
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The One
'Come over here' he said
'Let's you and me
talk private.
I've noticed you
noticing me
and I wonder if
that is illusion
and am I making it up
or if it is true
and you did
notice me.
If not fine
I'm gone.
If so
let's talk.
What is the truth?
She:
'Yes I noticed you-
I saw you;
I mean
but that is all-
I noticed'
He: 'Well what did you think of me
when you noticed me?
Did you like me? '
She: ,
'Like you?
I don't know you'
.
'Well what did you think.
Well I thought you, , , ,
Actually I didn't
I wasn't thinking
I was just noticing?
'
Ok, nothing
no spark?
'No, no spark.'
In my twenties i would look into every
face and ask
are you my Future One?
And each face I peered into
would be examined and evaluated
and ultimately graded
and done within 3 seconds.
But if one
noticed me
noticing
I would end up
in conversations
like the above one.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I love chapbooks. They're in some ways the ideal form in which to publish and read poems. You can read 19 poems in a way you can't sit down and read 60 to 70 pages of poems.
quote by Robert Morgan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Without Lip Or Sucking Of Tongue
Of course I know 'how' I arrived.
And the length of time it took,
For anyone to notice my presence.
Although it was not my presence,
Or reason why...
That I began this journey to be noticed.
I was much too young.
Like a puppy first seeing its tail for the first time...
And curious as to where it came from.
Who knew?
I didn't!
Until I began following an attraction,
That seemed always in my mind.
Of course I 'know' how I arrived.
I first heard my voice.
And my parents noticed it.
I learned if I used it in certain ways,
They were there.
I was a baby them.
Then I connected my voice to words.
I was in awe that letters were attached.
And those letters attached used in different ways,
Made those words I said more or less effective.
Then I began to see those letters change,
As I began to print them by hand slowly.
I was amazed! .
Then I discovered certain words I shouldn't say!
I should never have been told that.
Because even today...
I will use those same words to chase people away.
Of course I know 'how' I arrived.
And I used a lot of cussing along the way.
Trust me.
But I stopped when it was pointed out to me,
I 'seemed' to have had more intelligence than that.
And whoever said that to me,
Had no clue as to how curious I was.
'Ma?
What's intelligence? '
~Someobody who asks too many questions.
And is about to get on my last nerve.~
'You talking about me? '
~Are you or are you not in my face? ~
'Why can't I ask you anything,
Before it's turned into a test? '
~And if you want to pass,
You know what to do.
Without lip or sucking of tongue.
You got that, mister? ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Great writing is a submission to a creative force that seems to use the writer as an instrument. The writer finds that the words stream out, almost as if someone else were producing them. Writing becomes a process of discovery.
quote by S. O'Brien
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cancer Rising
Mind called the meeting with just Heart and Lungs attending:
Mind said:
'What is the problem? '
Heart said:
'I had been pumping as usual last week bringing Blood
back and I noticed that I was a two pints short from the usual flow.'
Lungs said:
'I was pumping oxygen and I noticed it as well. There was a shortage, not enough blood was coming back.'
'So, ' Heart said 'I sent some white blood cells down to the liver to investigate.'
'And, ' Mind said.
'Well, Crystal came back, she is the While Blood cell leader and she said that 'we definitely have problem down there. We have two problems.' she said.
'And? ' Mind said.
'Well first Crystal reported she found a group of cells had all gotten together, just outside the liver and had started to grow out of control, so out of control that they blocked all of the blood flow to the liver such that less blood was getting to Liver and therefore, Liver couldn't do it's job.
'What happened then? ' Mind said.
'Crystal asked who was in charge and a man stepped up and said 'I am.
'His name was CC Crystal told me.'
'So what did this CC have to say for himself? ' Mind said
'He said that since he and his cell friends were pumping enzymes blood and other purfiers to Liver that they wanted to be paid.
Other cells joined in' CC said.
'And soon there were thousands and millions of them clamoring to be paid before they would spend time pumping blood.' Crystal said.
'Liver didn't know what to do.
But, Crystal said:
The more cells that joined CC's group the more of them that had to be paid such that the price kept going up and up and less and less blood was actually being pumped.
'Liver started to turn yellow, ' Crystal said.
'That won't do.' Mind said.
'Let's go down and have a talk with Mr. CC.' Mind said.
They all retired from the Brain and took the Blood stream down to the Liver which was looking pale and yellow indeed.
'Hi, ' Mind said, 'you don't look well.'
'Well, ' Liver said, 'I am not well. Look around me.
Mind looked around and saw cells dying in the area around the valves which fed blood to Liver.
'My God, 'Mind said, 'this is horrible.'
Suddenly off to the side he saw green blood cells, enormous in size coming toward the group.
'My God, ' mind repeated is that them.'
'Yes, ' Liver, said, 'they are enormous since they get most of the blood and then they want to sell it back to me at prices I cannot afford.
We have never charged for blood before Mind.'
'No, Liver, we have never charged for blood before.' Mind said.
Well, they are now, ' Liver said 'and here comes their leader CC.'
'What does CC stand for.' Mind inquired.
'Cancer Capitalist I think, ' Liver said.
'This won't do.' Mind said, 'at this rate and doing this doesn't he understand that the entire body will be dead in days? The germs and viruses will flood the entire system and Mr. CC will be dead along with the rest of us here in the body.'
'Obviously, 'Liver said 'he is not that smart.'
'We want our money, ' CC said approaching without greeting anyone 'and we want it now, ' ignoring MInd, Crystal, Heart and Lungs.
'Everyday, ' CC said we grow larger and have more and more need of more and more blood.'
Mind said 'CC, is that your name? '
'Yes, ' CC said, 'that is my name Mind.
And just before you start to lecture me, hear this. You mind need blood too and if never reaches Heart and Lungs you will suffer if you defy us.
We want our money. Pay up'.
'Well Mr. CC you seem like a smart fellow. Do you not realize that if we all die here, you will die as well.'
'Maybe, ' CC said 'but we have a plan to create a wall of cells around ourselves and survive and find another body to infect. We will live on, '
'I see, ' said Mind, 'you plan to take over the world one body at a time?
'One body at a time.' CC repeated.
Mind Heart, Lung and Crystal paused and then Mind said:
'Liver lets go over here and talk private.
Mr. CC we will get back to you in a second.'
To be continued
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Yesterday, When I Was Mad
Yesterday (yesterday yesterday)
Yesterday (yesterday yesterday)
Yesterday (yesterday yesterday) when i was mad
Yesterday (yesterday yesterday) when i was mad
Darling, you were wonderful, you really were quite good
I enjoyed it, though, of course, no one understood
A word of what was going on, they didn't have a clue
They couldn't understand your sense of humour like i do
You're much too kind
I smiled with murder on my mind
Yesterday, when i was mad
And quite prepared to give up everything
Admitting, i don't believe
In anyone's sincerity, and that's what's really got to me
Yesterday (yesterday yesterday)
Yesterday (yesterday yesterday) when i was mad
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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Do it your way for Stephen Stirk
Sometimes the words that writers use
have different meanings and values.
For words don’t always mean the same
and common words don’t play the game.
Some words can mean their opposite
A writer must be explicit
selecting words in such a way.
Their meaning is as clear as day.
Avoiding in particular
the words that seem familiar
That sound the same when they are not.
Meanings can differ quite a lot
Like seams and seems or there and their.
A writer has to be aware
Simplicity is his finest tool
and that his readers as a rule
Are not concerned with the syntax
Your words should help them to relax
If they do not then you will fail
your efforts all to no avail.
Although your words are scholarly
perfectly composed grammatically.
Successful writers in the main
make sure they write to entertain.
They cater to the public taste
they haven’t got the time to waste
Writing works which won’t be read
That will not earn their daily bread.
Those who write professionally
research their market thoroughly.
The must be certain it will sell
and some of them do very well.
Amateurs, who post on the net
are not constrained they can forget
The publishers and critics views
and simply write the way they choose.
Though they won’t earn a single cent
it doesn’t matter, They’re content
with comments that their readers make.
They love to write for its own sake.
23/06/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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At one time I thought the Editor of the Lancet would kindly publish a letter from me on the subject, but further reflection led me to doubt whether so insignificant an individual would be noticed without some special introduction.
quote by William Banting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Mite
Creasing pages with dried up wrinkles
dust mites moving across the page,
Words crowding inside the folds
are deteriorating as they age.
Words that were penned so long ago
from inside the writer's brain,
Oh that we could iron them out
so they would remain
intact with all of their meaning.
Instead, we have lost the best
of what we cannot see.
Was it humor, drama or satire?
Only the mite knows best.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Pages of Life
Yesterday's page has benn written
it is over.
Tomorrow's page has to be written,
it is still has to come.
But,
Today's page can be written,
only by you.
It is only yours'
so, live the best today by correcting your past pages
and making ways for your future roads.
Life is yours' and live it to the fullest.
Today,
never think about past,
erase them from your mind,
think about future,
by writing your today.
poem by Yashika Goyal
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