Flooding
Flooding
Posting volumes
Of several poems
Covers the page
Blocks other choices
And fences other writers
Yet is no guarantee
That flooding is read
For all the poetry
For the myriad words said
Remains suspended
Unread
Unread
Unread
Dead.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Related quotes
My poems are stored
My poems are stored
In a funeral box
Kept beside the bed
They go unread
Similar objects are kept
Locked in my heart and head
They go unread
The habitation of my poems
Is bonded red
They go unread
All poems are offerings
To the god that can not read
For poems are only human
Made things
The bees do not care for them
Neither does the birds
Or the trees with better
Things to do then
Take note of them.
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Unread Words
THE UNREAD WORDS
The unread words
I have made with my life-
Once piles of pages -
Are more and more letters on a screen
‘saved’
on disks and on keys and even ‘online’-
where they go on being
(perhaps deservedly)
neglected.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Walking Into You
Tonight
the nectar will be spread
to tame a random tormentor.
Black and white,
I never saw my father weeping.
Lonely he was.
I am
my own creation today
weather beaten. Confession to -
confession, unread. When the-
storm was tethered,
there was flooding and neck deep-
you were in tears. Am cannibalizing
my own poems, to write a new line.
It was a midnight moon.
poem by Satish Verma
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0317 Fingertip to fingertip, a human net
i think it's really wonderful
that with all the million poems on this net
people find their way to read what each of us has read
or written.
it's like a shining human net around the world -
fingertip to fingertip in space
all connected by the love of poetry
and the poetry of love.
so instead of moping and chewing our pencils,
feeling pathetic and unread
we can dedicate all our poems to all those real people who - yes! -
actually read them
and say
It's you I wrote them for - and you - and you-
and now I know you're there
I'll write some better ones for you in time,
that what it's all about...
and if I'm silent for a time
working on something that's good enough for you,
remember -
love, love, love
poem by Michael Shepherd
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No Unread Poem Will End The Despair I Feel Now
NO UNREAD POEM WILL END THE DESPAIR I FEEL NOW
No unread poem will end the despair I feel now
Nor will a poem read
By one or two.
Should the world say
I am a poet.
Perhaps this would mean something.
I don’t know.
No one knows,
No one cares.
I am a poet only for myself
And for myself too
This begins to be
Nothing.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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0027 In Honour of Honour and WHAuden
You asked me which of Auden’s poems
were my favourite, and I sighed
for memory’s fade, then walked to the dusty shelf
where next to those volumes of Eliot
with their brown-paper covers for those
precious wartime books allowed
a ration of Canadian paper for
fighting men to read in those
few moments of leisure for the open heart and
the vision of a peacetime world, was
‘Collected Shorter Poems 1930-1944 W.H.Auden’
which fell open at page 54,
‘In Memory of W.B.Yeats (d.January 1939) ’
‘Earth, receive an honoured guest…’;
those pages yellowed more than
the others around them as if
read often late at night
under what was still gaslight
with respectful but unwashed hands
after cocoa and biscuits with a scrape of butter
and it all came back: 1953, that was the year
when there was only one poet Yeats..
and poetry and music were the same;
I turned the pages – they fell open once again,
‘Time will say nothing but I told you so’…
So many poems there, unread, or unremembered,
how could it be that I abandoned Auden,
not hearing his music, while
other interests began to pull?
Then I sat silent at the thought
that a great poet of great mind, great heart,
was writing, writing, most of my lifetime
while I was wrapt in other things;
sat silent, honouring
what is to be honoured
as best we can;
what is to be honoured.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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On A Day To Day Endeavor
something that you love
comes to you on a day to day basis
and what you do
becomes you: that is poetry.
congratulations! famous or not
read or unread, bland or too bitter
salty as spanish ham
or as sweet as novelino wine
it does not really matter,
keep writing, no one is looking.
poet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sad good bye
I decide to stop posting
On "Muse India" with silent protest
As articles go unnoticed or unread
A sign of ungratefulness to the dead
May be poems are not up to standard
For which they may be considering as sub-standard
I am what I am and can never be changed
For poet, it is unbearable and must be well managed
I have often aired my grievance
On number of occasions and not once
It is shame for the poet not to have been heard
He can not be left behind without being read
It is not the question of forcing the readers
They are well judged and well read leaders
What can be read and what can be neglected remains their domain
I am ordinary poet so concern definitely remains
Even birds change nest when their existence is threatened
With a heavy heart to think of "no return"
Yet it is long association that pinches heart
Otherwise life is full of uncertainties and must find good start
I migrate to green world where I hope to settle
It may be possible there I will be among herds of cattle
Yet it is literary thrust that compels me to think on those terms
I shall have time to move in new world with no rich return
I thank to all who have helped me to encourage
Not to loose heart despite being outraged
The stage actor may definitely want little claps
Else it may called an visible insult amounting to slap
I shall endeavor to extend my support
To all those whom I consider needs good rapport
Little words of appreciation for their creative work
I must remain on their side without offering a jerk
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Pace Outrunning Comments
posted twenty poems on line so fast
pace out running all potential comments
lead poems quickly vanished unread
poem by Terence George Craddock
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For my poems, written so early
For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,
That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
For my poems about youth and death
-- For my unread poems!
Scattered in dusty bookstores,
Where no one ever buys them!
For my poems, like precious wines,
A time will come.
poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Paper Rain
From miles above
poured the paper rain
Flooding the streets
whiteing out the clear September day
peoples thoughts floated from the hell fire
like paper rain
First like a mist
then like a monsoon
the paper rain spread across the city
engulfing the running masses below
in a hurricane of paper rain
When the storm stopped
and the clouds of fire ceased
millons of unread words litter the streets
like a sea
of paper rain
Swept into the gutters
went the thoughts of the dead
the paper rain gone
Until the next unpredicted storm arises
and the heavens pour down peoples sorrows
ON PAPER RAIN
GOD BLESS ALL THE VICTIMS AND THERE FAMILYS
OF THE SEPTEMBER 11 TRAGEDY
poem by Vincent Armone
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Ego
Silence
she
does not
break.
Pretence
I do not
shed.
Love
becomes
casualty.
Mind
goes blank.
Heart
remains
unread.
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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A Song
He is only a poet
He has no name, no wealth
Just words and words unsaid,
His words and poems unread
And I think he's silly
His stupid ideas who need it?
.
But I think it's unfair
Pastors fly on private jets
Leaders lie to their subjects
Hungry children can't be fed.
Religion had caused a strife
Everyday brothers lose their lives
Bigots should be chained
Agnostics, not insane
Athiests should be educated,
Another God, frabicated.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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Hidden Away
There are too many melodies
that go unheard.
For they are still in the mind
of those unstirred.
There are too many poems
that go unread.
For they are still in the mind
of the poet's head.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Speak To Me
Ive seen something new
Seems that its in you
Now theres something I must do
Theres so much more
To forgive you for
But nothing said
My lips unread
Ill try something new
Open up to you
What more can my conscience do
Theres so much more
To forgive you for
Speak to me
Nothing will help more than your honesty
Give to me
Knowledge that I can show some sympathy
Speak to me
Speak to me
Broken into two
Once torn now made new
The first time, Im embracing you
Theres so much more
To forgive you for
But nothing said
My lips unread
Speak to me
Nothing will help more than your honesty
Give to me
Knowledge that I can show some sympathy
Theres so much more
To forgive you for
But nothing said
My lips unread
Speak to me
Nothing will help more than your honesty
Give to me
Knowledge that I can show some sympathy
Speak to me
Nothing will help more than your honesty
Give to me
Knowledge that I can show some sympathy
Speak to me
Speak to me
song performed by by Olive
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0124 A Dead Poet Comments on 'Comments
Erstwhiles,
of candle-laboured hours and screwed-up eyes,
the quill scratch-scratching, the paper ragged rough, the ink
unwieldy, black and unredeeming
as a judge’s cap –
fame – or barely fame,
the least to be hoped for, a mere ‘name’ – a
mere sheet of scrawled, curled paper
passed around a smoky coffee-house: they
so shrewd of eye and savage oft of wit;
or at the best, the whim of jobbing printer:
then, fame or forgetting lay beyond this life.
The grave’s a humbling, private place
where even poets labelled ‘metaphysical’
begin their education quite anew…
and yet, and yet - some centuries ahead,
some divine post-classic irony may devise
a means of universal access
to poems quite unread
(alas, and oft unread their readers too…)
and so, humbled by cold grave and death,
there’s one more humbling yet to bear:
the stripling’s comments on a verse that lives,
the poet – would he know it – dead:
‘Not so great – keep writing’…
raising in these bleachwhite bones and grimjaw skull
the faintest meta-physical, unseen
ghost of a smile
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Your love to me was like an unread book.
quote by Countee Cullen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What a shame to die, when I have so many unread books!
quote by Marcelino Menendez y Pelayo, translated by Dan CostinaÅŸ
Submitted by Dan CostinaÅŸ
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A dream which has not been interpreted is like a letter unread.
Books
books after being read
become nothing
but things
books unread
are treasures of gold
undiscovered
beneath your feet
books unshared
are thoughts unspoken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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