Voices
Ideal and beloved voices
of those who are dead, or of those
who are lost to us like the dead.
Sometimes they speak to us in our dreams;
sometimes in thought the mind hears them.
And with their sound for a moment return
other sounds from the first poetry of our life --
like distant music that dies off in the night.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Has Its Own Music
POETRY HAS ITS OWN MUSIC
Poetry has its own music-
A mind empty of it
Wonders where it is.
Poetry has a rhythm of its own
Without that rhythm
Dead words dead lines dead pages.
Seeking the rhythm the music of poetry
Flat lines come
And the poem is a parody
Of true poetry.
How many flat and false poems
Have I written
In order
To help me try
To come alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Let The Music Speak
Im hearing images, Im seeing songs
No poet has ever painted
Voices call out to me, straight to my heart
So strange yet were so well acquainted
I let the music speak, with no restraints
I let my feelings take over
Carry my soul away into the world
Where beauty meets the darkness of the day
Where my mind is like an open window
Where the high and healing winds blow
From my shallow sleep the sounds awake me
I let them take me
(let them wake me, let them have me, let them take me)
Let it be a joke
Let it be a smile
Let it be a farce if it makes me laugh for a little while
Let it be a tear
Let it be a sigh
Coming from a heart, speaking to a heart, let it be a cry
Some streets are emptiness, dry leaves of autumn
Rustling down an old alley
And in the dead of night I find myself
A blind man in some ancient valley
I let the music speak, leading me gently
Urging me like a lover
Leading me all the way
Into a place
Where beauty will defeat the darkest day
Where Im one with every grand illusion
No disturbance, no intrusion
Where I let the wistful sounds seduce me
I let them use me
(all illusion, no disturbance, no intrusion)
Let it be a joke
Let it be a smile
Let it be a farce if it makes me laugh for a little while
Let it be a tear
Let it be a sigh
Coming from a heart, speaking to a heart, let it be a cry
Let it be a tear
Let it be a sigh
Coming from a heart, speaking to a heart, let it be a cry
Let it be the joy of each new sunrise
Or the moment when a day dies
I surrender without reservation
No explanations
No questions why
I take it to me and let it flow through me
Yes, I let the music speak
I let the music speak
song performed by by ABBA
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All The Poems Remain Written Where They Once Never Were
ALL THE POEMS REMAIN WRITTEN WHERE THEY ONCE NEVER WERE
All the poems remain written where they once never were
The grass and the skies of Whitman form lines in the mind of Baudelaire
The trees and dark cities of the distance form single sounds in the heart of the poet who cares
Night is more than darkness and day more than an early setting out
Each thing influences the other and calls back its own origins and end
We are going somewhere we will never know whether we write eternal lines or not
Over everywhere can be heard in the morning light the selfsame sound that through the heart of Ruth burned the alien corn
Keats is not dead, and Borges is not dead and Kafka is not dead and Wordsworth and all those who wrote great lines are not dead
Poetry is the last first eternity of the living word
And those who can hear the sounds of others greater than themselves in their own lines know
We are all writing down this last poem for ourselves and no one else
Though as we go to pray each morning the minyan tells us secretly
All our prayers together are more than any single poem can be alone
In the grey long distance where no one hears any poem at all
God writes and rewrites for us all the book of the stars in which dread is no longer a name
And beauty bright bright beauty is heard and reechoed as more than we will ever be
God is the only Poetry in the End
God is the Only One who never will be dead..
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Has A Music Of Its Own
THE POEM HAS A MUSIC OF ITS OWN
The poem has a music of its own
Without the music
It is no poetry.
My music
Faltering breaking slow
Wonders where it is going
And if it really sounds
As music should sound.
Once it was more easy to feel
The melody in me real.
Now I just do not know
So many sounds
So many words
So many claims of poetry.
Music music music
Where are you?
The sound from myself
Is only 'me' now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Other Voices
Whisper your name in an empty room
You brush past my skin
As soft as fur
Taking hold
I taste your scent
Distant noises
Other voices
Pounding in my broken head
Commit the sin
Commit yourself
And all the other voices said
Change your mind
You're always wrong
Always wrong
Come around at christmas
I really have to see you
Smile at me slyly
Another festive compromise
But i live with desertion
And eight million people
Distant noises
Of other voices
Pulsing in my swinging arms
Caress the sound
So many dead
And all the other voices sing
Change your mind
You're always wrong
song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Death of Poetry
Poetry is dead and God is alive.
I heard these words and began to cry.
Without poetry what would become of me,
Drowning in a sea of Christianity?
Poetry is dead and long let it lie
With its Thee and its Thy and its Thou and its Thine
May we never see another line
Of iambic pentameter with end-stopped rhymes.
Poetry is dead, and so it shall lay,
Mouldering at the pit of its shallow grave.
And no longer will they give a hoot
For the quatrain stanzas or the metered foot!
Poetry is dead at the bottom of the sea
With its anapests, dithyrambs, dactyls and spondees.
And also eight to sixteen lines
On your innermost feelings or the meaning of life.
Poetry is dead but how long will it stay
Before they resurrect it for another day?
Has it not been just a few years time
Since they said it was God who was dead—
-and poetry alive?
poem by Theresa Haffner
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Poetry is Everywhere
To all my friends who say –
Poetry is not my cup of tea,
I’d strongly recommend that
they watch “Dead Poet’s Society”.
Poetry is in your cup of tea,
poetry is in every wave of the sea,
poetry is in the song of a bird
poetry springs forth from each of your word.
Poetry is in the smile of a baby,
poetry is in the redness of a ruby,
poetry is the union of your heart and mind
poetry teaches you to be soft and kind.
Poetry is the song of your soul,
poetry reminds you of your life’s goal,
poetry is in a game of cricket,
poetry is in the sound of a cricket.
Imagine life without poetry -
What an empty life it would be!
Imagine a world without poetry -
What a dull place it would be!
09 June 2010
! 2: 50 pm
poem by Gita Ashok
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Music, my favorite place
Music comes to life
When life is boring
Music can tell a story
That sounds like its for me
Music can torture me
With old memories
Music can love me
When theres no love for me
Music can save me
When I am lost
Music can cure me
When I almost pay the final cost
Music can yell at me
Which keeps me awake
Music can speak softly
When I need a moment away
Music can teach me
That this world isnt just hate
Music
my favorite place
poem by Jackrabbit Krjs
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What Is Music
What is music?
What is music?
Is music the languages that shoot out of my mouth and speak in silence?
Is music the moving of my lip according to my mind command?
What is music?
Music is the one two word that my mind put together in my mouth
Music is the airs that escape a snap of my violence teeth
Music is the wisdom sound my mind and mouth produce
Music is the combine sound that entertain my ear drum
What is music?
Music is a simple sound I verbalize to state my joyful soul
Music is the jingle that loosen my soul in time of desire
Music is the sounds that launch me to a free world
Music is the spirit that struggle in me
What is music?
Music is the sound I scream from my mouth to a free humanity
Music is a one two word I yell
Music is the lyric I cry to express my mental mind,
My beating heart
My jumping feet
My shouting soul
My sweating body
What is music?
Music is the rhythm of my voice, what is music? ?
poem by Robert Otim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chaos
-ordo ob kao, order out of chaos, and the idea is that, uh, with the
Influence of powerful forces behind the scene, you can bring order out of the
Chaos that we see. we know, for instance, that much of the....
-...an eerie order underneath even chaos, as if the finger of god,, in order
And disorder, is always there....
-...i think he has nothing to support this. y-youre so full of it!
Aliens....protecting society how? chaos happens. theres too many people here...
Atlantique :
Gotta learn the way to turn
Hat over eye
Feeling dead more than alive
Give her something to rely on
One more time.
No one hears the sound
Fear is all around
Turn the music loud
No more lullaby.
No way in, no way out
Empty talk and tv shouts
Got to find the way around
No, you aint no lifer
In this town.
No one hears the sound
Fear is all around
Turn the music loud
No more lullaby.
Stop the beat, hear the sound
Time has come for you to speak
Your mind
Cant you hear the sound?
Chaos all around
Turn the music loud
No more lullaby
Dee-dee-dee x2
Learn to fly.
song performed by by Unkle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Dead, All Dead
Memories, my memories
How long can you stay
To haunt my days
She came without a farthing
A babe without a name
So much ado about nothing
Is what shed try to say
So much ado my lover
So many games we played
Through every fleeted summer
Through every precious day
All dead all dead
All the dreams we had
And I wonder why I still live on
All dead all dead
And alone Im spared
My sweeter half instead
All dead
And gone
All dead...
All dead all dead
At the rainbows end
And still I hear her own sweet song
All dead all dead
Take me back again
You know my little friends
All dead
And gone
All dead and gone
Her ways are always with me
I wander all the while
But please you must forgive me
I am old but still a child
All dead all dead
But I should not grieve
In time it comes to everyone
All dead all dead
But in hope I breathe
Of course I dont believe
Youre dead
And gone
All dead
And gone
song performed by by Queen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Everybody Dance (The Dance Of The Dead)
As the sun sinks upon the horizon,
As the dark night creeps in,
The dead dance.
On the streets they roam,
Silent,
Alone.
Everybody dances,
The saints and the sinners,
Everybody dances,
To the sound of the rhythm,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.
The dance of the dead goes on,
And on,
Never stops,
Never slows,
Time does not matter to the dead.
Everybody dances,
The poor and the rich,
Everybody dances,
To the cries to the babies,
Everybody dances,
The dance of the dead.
As your time goes up,
The dead dance into your room,
Filled with silent movements,
They twirl with grace,
And style
And ease.
They reach out their hands,
And you take it,
And join the dance of the dead.
Everybody dance,
The young and the old,
Everybody dance,
The music is playing,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead.
C’mon,
Everybody dance,
Soldiers and lovers,
Oh,
Everybody dance,
To sound they cry,
So,
Everybody dance,
To the dance of the dead,
The dance of the dead.
Oh,
Everybody dances,
Because the dance never stops.
6/05/06
poem by Charlie F. Kane
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Dead Lovers
Talons of stone black ravens
Dreams like businessmen smiling
She seeks the dead, the smiling dead
Everywhere the system crumbles
Relentless rain
Arms of a dead prince smiling
Your dreams of success come true
Dead drab selfish dreams
Our impotent moments of false success
Lost in a lost generation
Money gives her such good orgasms
She opens her legs for the dead
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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The Horror Of The War
Of night How long time it has been you and me were best friends
I can't imagine even you've changed your face
How long time every day wiped away my pain
But last night even you became a strange
Oh night you were my best friend
Even you became so cruel how strange
What's wrong the world all have changed
Ah world humanity from you is lost how a unbearable reality
The horror of the dreary war surrounding everywhere rendering sullen vain strain
Everywhere the sounds of the bombs
The mortality voice of war is shouting through the darkness of the night covering. All around
Oh night what a horror I can't bear all this pain the ugly sound of the guns and bombs what's wrong with the world
The voices of bombs through the gloomy night are destroying me inside
The echoes of terrible woes of the war are gazing at the dark like a devil
Everywhere no sign of life
No sign of humanity at the darkness is lost
What a unbearable heart pain the world is lost
I heard her voice at the dark
She was there all alone
All her lover ones have had gone
At the darkness through the ugly silent of the might
I heard her voice she were there all alone
Has she lost her mind she was crying and talking with her dead mother what a unbearable heartache
She was calling everyone looking for help
Oh poor girl humanity is dead even her father refused to come there
And told her just wait till the morning ill be there
What a world I can't bear living all these heartache
I know tomorrow will be so late
Just praying for her to be found when tomorrow comes
Oh god you may help her to stay alive
Oh you night even you changed your face
I know after today nothing will be the same even our friendship is dead.
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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The Death-Bed
In a stoic state of retrospection,
As she lay dying on the bed
She thought of all the words
She had said
To her Beloved
Some sweet, some sour
Some soothing, some jarring
Some savvy, some seductive...
Of all the words she remembered
That night, that moment
Those few last breaths
Of her fading life…
Were the words Immortal –
That would forever live on
In the heart of her Beloved
Long after she’s dead and gone…
“I will always love you”.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Difficult Life! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
no whys
but dies again and again and again
alive again and again and again
no destinations
but orientations again and again and again
lost in forested thoughts
concepts dead like machines
but improvisations again and again and again
future
but present moment-to-moment awareness again and again and again
'The End' of a film'A Difficult Life! ! ! '
Life Has A Great Customer!
Life is having one great customer,
The Lord in disguise in every life,
Blessed is the lotus, which blooms in mudfilled lake,
Golden petals lotus, in trifle suffered hearts,
May it be an Einstein,
or may a Gibran,
Such births take place in this pool,
Filled with so many problems!
Yet the love is so great,
I love my beloved more than my life,
This life is his,
This life is for him,
Every moment I die and reborn in him,
Every sound of rustling leaves,
My beloved's call,
With every wind the fragrance of beloved cometh,
Every moving cloud shows,
Different face of my beloved,
With every raise and fall of a wave,
My beloved shows up,
In every golden rays of the Morning Sun is my beloved's procession,
Rooster calling, wake up see the glories procession of beloved,
Birds singing praise of the beloved,
In dewdrops his world shineth,
Everyday if one rooster or bird gone,
It take the rebirth to sing his glory,
Every dew dropp evaporated appear next morning,
So am I to die every moment,
To this world I am dead,
Ever living and sleeping in beloved's heart,
Whenever I want my eyes to fill his glory,
I come out of his heart,
Stand aside, and look at my beloved's beautiful face!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Never in any case say I have lost such a thing, but I have returned it. Is your child dead? It is a return. Is your wife dead? It is a return. Are you deprived of your estate? Is not this also a return?
Exile
I
At dead of night about the dying fire
They told a story how the dead appear;
And men, grown still with fear,
Forgot their old desire
For those who once were dear,
And shook and trembled lest their dead be near.
Alas, poor dead who were so sweet and human!
How are you grown a menace and a blight
A thing to shun, a thing of evil omen,
Stealing unwelcome through the halls of night?,
Who knows? perhaps yourselves are much affrighted,
And struggle back, remote and bodiless,
Fearful of sounds unheard, visions unsighted,
Black echoes, and the bitter loneliness.
But for me, in my heart is no dread
Of the coming again of the dead,
But a terror of life, without one
Who made life to be life - and is gone.
II
Yes, at these tales of how the dead return,
Hope stirs within my spirit more than fear.
So strange, so strange it seems, you are not here,
And so unnatural to me 'tis to learn
The trick of life without you, year by year,
That not so strange could any specter be
Or fall of footsteps on the empty stair,
Or shapes discerned upon the shadowy air,
As is this haunting sense of vacancy,
And your persisting absence everywhere.
Ah, could I see, as in the tranquil past,
The form I long for - always and in vain, -
Should I not cry, like one released from pain:
'Dear and long absent, you return at last,
And life its natural aspect wears again!'
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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