My Crime
I get lost in metaphor,
I'm confused with simile
Or what analogy is for,
Though I try some imagery.
I transgress with my meter
And force with my rhyme,
I guess as a writer
That is my true crime.
'A man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.'
...................................... ..........................July 23,2009 Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.
quote by Andre Gide
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You cannot discover new oceans unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.
0004 The world has lost the ear for rhyme
The world has lost the ear for rhyme.
It still makes children squirm with pleasure;
and from some witty pens and minds, its fireworks fizz;
so, after all these centuries of rhyme
and all the games of meter, dancing words,
should we now mourn its passing?
Have we lost the music of another world?
Instead, the easy unpretentious discourse,
sober, light, familiar, honest -
the world of daily, homely, shared sharp life,
that's now preferred. Not prose;
much more than 'chopped-up prose' as those may say
who think that poetry should be more visibly hard-earned;
- as if a human life set down in honesty
were not a poem in itself, unwrit;
'prose with enhanced consciousness' it's often now defined;
and consciousness - now that's earned, if you like...
and simile, and imagery, and metaphor - all the repertoire
of glorious poetry - they're all still here
to work their magic; if more played down, now,
unostentatious as T-shirt and jeans;
unostentatious as the beating, bloody heart.
And yet, when years bring tears
and time brings death and dying,
it's time for rhyme, to heal the heart
and charm away the crying.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Common Addiction among Poets
Intoxicated by the inspiration
Of his trade—
With mental powers at work,
A true poet rarely sleeps.
His mind ever churning
With powerful imagery
That produces thought,
Sound, rhythm and gesture.
He molds with metaphor,
Shapes with simile,
And paints with irony—
To produce a beautiful symphony
(Like some great maestro) ,
For himself and all who would enjoy.
Little wonder he rarely sleeps.
© 2009
poem by Walterrean Salley
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A Well Crafted Word
Why am I so philosophical, a philosopher a long time ago once wrote.
The song writer, script writer, poet and novelist like to use a great quote.
Some poems are written with a catchy rhyme and a theme.
A well crafted word can help and be a great writers dream.
Everyone knows that the pen is mightier than the sword.
A well crafted word can give the reader great reward.
'A metaphor is just like a simile'; An unknown author once quoted.
It's true about all writers I know, they all hate their words being misquoted.
To writers one and all, a well crafted word is always a must to write down.
Just remember this about all writers, they can make great use of a pronoun.
poem by Nichole Kaci McKnight
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What is METAPHOR, anyway?
Quiet down, class
Mick wants to lecture you
about one of his pet subjects
METAPHOR
in poetry and verse
What's an analogy?
Is it a comparison? Of how many things?
How are they alike?
Synonyms - image, symbol, trope, figure
of speech, simile, allegory, correlation,
likeness, personification
You know these things?
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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Critique Of Poetry
A poem is a sorry thing,
Not fit for reading to a king:
It’s often full of silly rhymes
That waste a lot of people’s times.
But modern poets can’t rhyme at all,
Which really is abominable;
Their rhythm quickly gets all out of whack,
Because I guess it just seems like for rhythm and rhyme they don’t have the necessary knack.
Phrases created on demand
Which nobody can understand,
Like wool that's thrown across a fence
And stirred until it is quite dense.
Syntax gets twisted out of shape
Not unlike a grinning ape -
Examples which of, I think cannot,
So, yet to learn have I a lot.
Poems do not make much sense
When talking of abstract sentiments
Or waffle philosophical
On subjects what ain’t topical.
A poem can be so abstruse
It makes you feel you’re quite obtuse;
You scratch your head until it’s sore,
And still can’t follow any more.
So poets often write of love,
Usually rhymed with “heaven above”,
Neither of which they know about -
But mostly they are not found out.
And many a poet is a bore
With simile and metaphor
That fill up many an empty line
With silly thoughts like yours and mine.
A simile is like a ball
(Or maybe not - I can’t recall) ,
Or like a man who runs around
And never seems to touch the ground.
A metaphor’s a stranger’s child,
And so to you it might seem wild;
But just when you think, “This is rum! ”
It up and bites you in the part of the anatomy on which a homo sapiens normally sits.
Now, if you think you’ve got my drift,
Then you have a very special gift,
‘Cause I can’t understand myself -
So, best to leave me on the shelf!
poem by Rory Hudson
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Know Holds Bard
To fix a headlock on a
metaphor, or
clamp a full nelson on a
simile, body slam a weak
double-entendre &
choke the life out of a
forced rhyme. To get a toe hold on a
trochee, apply an
armlock that brings a
cliche to its knees, dropp an elbow on
trite alliteration, or
execute a powerbomb as easily as
coining a phrase. To lay the smackdown on
doggerel, and fling a
timeworn platitude from the ring, bridge
out of a writer's
block, pin
down
that cringing flowery sentiment &
celebrate that
seamless rhyme as the
referee slaps the
mat with that triplet coda &
calls for the bell
fresh and sharp as a sapling sprouting new
looming over your flattened foe
as the oak stands awesome and true.
Poetry and wrestling, each an art
not easily mastered,
like shaping a schooner from fresh-cut wood
or a god from alabaster.
poem by Cretan Maineiac
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An African writer
I am an african writer
with the melodious lyric
flowing rivers of endless music
with words filled banks
of rhythmic juice
I am an african writer
the flower with the sweetest nectar
colourful juices of flowing oceans
oceans of endless streams
I am an african writer
dwelling by the shrine
in earnest worship to the gods of poetry
invoking my elders before me
warlord of the verbal war
I am an african writer
born with a pot of words
Caressed with the river of the niger
And burnt with the power of endless chatter
I am an african writer
With dead digits and ancient inks
Torn sheets with flee bugs
bestow to a journey of endless music
And beautiful heritage
I am an african writer!
Forged with letters and blood of lines
Strange eyes to a stories side
And rewarded with the gift of true sight!
poem by Venessa Ambrose
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Writer
Night Writer
Why not write now
No time can be righter
No one to tell you how
To live your life
Or design for you your lies
Does it suffice to have a wife
To tell you when it satisfies?
You've written before
Little at night, more by day
At night write more
You'll discover a way
To make stars into a sun
That will shine for you as gold
But gold is as good as gone
When you get to be this old
Poem writer
Up and write about modesty
It's what everyone talks about
That's you and your honesty
Who cares if the others doubt?
You came in time
But does time know who you are?
You have a claim on rhyme
But rhythm takes the measure by far
Into a new realm
Of words on words on words
They just overwhelm
Can't you hear what they've heard?
Maybe hearing loss
Is not the loss of hearing
Maybe it's that distant toss
When you hear the echo before the feeling
Now you're here and now
Now is the time's to write
Now's the time to fulfill every vow
Now's not the time to lose sight
Of what you might lose
If you don't write every night.
poem by Ragy Sandid
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Mick takes it seriously!
'Hell, i read in bed, on the train, or walking
down the hall, don't you? ' Mick said.
We were sitting in his kitchen.
Celia was on the barcalounger
in the den watching a soap on TV -
Days of Our Lives sounded like.
'Books of Tennyson and Keats not my cup
of tea exactly, nor do I fancy them circling
overhead either - bleeding dangerous, that!
Sure, I puzzle over rhyme and meter, simile
and metaphor - shit! I went to college, too!
Can't hardly get that stuff out of my head!
I've bayed at the moon when I drink enough -
the curse of the Irish, right? But no dancing,
please! not in this neighborhood!
Celia is my idea of beauty, though a bit long
in the tooth, like the old Lab sitting with her -
they both shine with the patina of age,
know what I mean? They're the poetry
of my life, and I write about them both
in many guises! Say, is this Valentine's Day,
or am I sappier than usual! '
I agree with Mick all the way.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.
quote by Andre Gide
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If
Real failures
Come not from defeat or failing,
It is the forfeiture
Of the first step at trying.
...................... .....................................
July 21,2009
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One doesn't discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.
quote by Andre Gide
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Confused
I am confused with love and fear.
I am confused with the taste of my tear.
I am confused of where I'll go.
I am confused of what I'll know.
I am confused of whos my family.
I am confused of what makes me happy.
I am confused by what I do.
I am confused of what's true.
I am confused by your touch.
I am confused oh so much.
poem by Jean Pullman
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Coffee Courage
The bitter coffee kicked;
I shook and then I licked
My lips and gave a sigh.
Shattered eyes encouraged,
I nearly had envisaged
Waking up an eye.
Another sip; a jolt –
Not unlike a bolt
Of wattage from the mains.
My sockets under strain,
I tried it once again:
Aha! The light, the searing white –
My God, the bloody pain!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
Courage, courage, coffee courage,
Courage, courage, courage,
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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At Sixty
At sixty, one will surely find
There is a very little trace
Of fleeting dreams in aging minds -
What's left is just some empty space.
At sixty, one finds excess time
For sadness and regrets,
For unshed tears were lost in years -
A place gray memories are set.
At sixty, there is little hope
To mend the pained and broken heart,
The failing sight now try to grope
At all the prospects that depart.
At sixty, prayers lost and said
Like ghosts now randomly returning -
Each night, as one there lays in bed
To God his peace he will be making.
'To man belong the plans of the heart,
But from the Lord comes the reply of the tongue.'
Proverbs 16: 1
................................ ................................................. .....................
Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
July 24,2009
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Dreams, Stars, and You
Broken dreams
Like distant stars
Still bright it seems
But so very far.
Like waves on a beach
That kiss the shore,
They are out of reach
Lost forevermore.
That dream is you...
So far and fleeting,
Like waves untrue
Love always leaving.
.........................................
August 2,2009
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Exaltation (Naani)
This truth abounds -
Empty vessels make the most noise
While the filled ones
Know how to silence their own sound.
-
July 8,2009 Tarlac City Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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That's Art (Clerihew)
The painter Michaelangelo
Should have done the Sistine al fresco,
Unlike the great Rembrandt
Who worked inside the house of his aunt.
........ ................................................. ..................
July 7,2009 Tarlac City Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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