Favourites
Authors are funny creatures
whenever we write.
Most of the time
we don’t like what we’ve written,
but there are occasions
when we will write something
that we really do like,
then we hate
letting that fledgling out of the nest.
I’ve been writing for more years
than I really care to admit,
and yes, I have my favourites
among all the writing I’ve done.
A novel called Blind Tiger
has never left the nest
and a short story called
The Man Who Was Always Late,
again never seen by anyone.
However is saying that,
there have been a couple
I have actually let go.
Both were originally song lyrics,
which I’ve turned into poems.
One I actually sang in a concert at one time
with the curious title of
I’ll Take All The Blame.
The other has really done me proud,
it has reached the dizzy heights
of the top 500 poems here.
It was only released
because I felt it was the only good thing
I had at the time
and is called
Just Beyond The Sunset.
I loved it when I wrote it
on a merry-go-round
some forty odd years ago
as I looked towards the west
at a setting sun.
Now it is the best-loved poem I have
with another fifteen others
adding it to their favourites as well.
26 December 2007
poem by David Harris
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Little Did I Know
Little did I know forty-two years ago
when I put pen to paper
after getting off a fairground ride
at sunset that day.
That what I was about to write
would be a crowning achievement
in my writing life.
That what I wrote would be read and used
in all the four corners of the world.
It would be used to compliment
photos, painting, and memorials
to those who had passed away.
A piece of writing
which would evoke so much in many.
For everyone who reads it
get their own impressions from within it.
Little did I know
more than any other of my work,
it would make my name.
Although I have written poems
for one reason or another
that have become favourites of mine,
Just Beyond The Sunset is a dream
and beyond that sunset
my dreams have come true
in a lot more ways than one.
For little did I know
what I was writing then.
21 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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All I Can Do Now Is Write Another Poem
All I can do now is write another poem-
The poems are small,
And do not require the long hours and long years
Of the books-
Like the world as a whole
I seem to have a shorter attention span
And less patience-
A poem can be written and given a name
In minutes not years-
Though some would say a great poem
Takes the travail of years of waiting
And years of work-
But I did not say
‘All I can do now is write another great poem'
Perhaps I have in all the years of the nights never written one-
I can write the poems I write
My kinds of poems
In a fairly short time-
All I can do now
Is write another of my kind of poems-
Whether they be worth anything,
Or not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wrote A Poem I Loved
I WROTE A POEM I LOVED
I wrote a poem I loved
But I could not rest content with it.
I had to write another poem,
And another poem.
And in the writing of other poems,
Some of which I also loved.
I lost the poem I loved.
Essentially I am a writer of poems
And not their possessor.
I possess many poems of others,
But somehow mine, I cannot.
However I love them
Perhaps I really believe
None of them good enough
To be worthy of such love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Just Beyond The Sunset Revisited
Time flies by so quickly
almost in a blink of an eye
and years vanish almost completely.
It does not seem forty-three years ago
I put pen to paper and wrote
what has turned out to be my best poem ever.
The one that has attracted more attention
than any other I have written.
Its accolades still confound me
as I am in wonder of them all.
Especially as it was never written
as a poem at all, but a lyric for a song.
As a lyric, it was turned down
as being rather immature,
but as a poem, it is loved by everyone.
I find it hard to believe that forty-four people
have added it to their favourites list.
I am still rather in awe of its reception.
I am still trying to comprehend
that any one of my works would be so highly prized.
Every time I read it, I try to find
the essence everyone else sees.
The beauty within it that captures their imagination.
One day someone might explain to me
the beauty I actually captured,
at least I hope they will,
as I’d dearly love to know.
16 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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What They Will Say
Some times, I wonder if I write for the future.
That may seem like a strange statement to make.
Forty-three years ago, I wrote a poem
that at the time no one wanted to know.
Now it is my best-loved poem
read by countless people around the world.
Thirty years ago, I wrote two poems
and each one won me an award,
but at the time I wrote them,
no one wanted to know.
All of which makes me wonder
if what I wrote in my yesteryears
that then none wanted to know.
Could they all be popular now?
Today I started collecting and retyping
short stories I wrote twenty years ago.
At the time, publishers and agents
didn’t want to know.
Now twenty year on
I am wondering what they will say.
24 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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Identity Crisis!
When born, I was called “baby”
And later they called me “Abby”
Within 5 years they called me “student”
And for 7 years, like that I spent
Then they called me “teen”
I loved it and felt like a queen
Then I was called “woman”
And those times, were the best
Then some one tied a knot and called me “wife”
I hated those times, it was horrible and gross
In years I became “mother”
It was beautiful but tough
Then being called “grandma”
My times got better and better
Then at last I was called “old”
And my body was frail and cold
All this time I wondered,
Where my identity has gone
Some where in the middle, I had lost it
Through the ages, I had a crisis
An identity crisis to say!
DECEMBER 23,2008
poem by Sania Harris
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Perhaps My Poems Have Already Been Written
PERHAPS MY POEMS HAVE ALREADY BEEN WRITTEN
Perhaps my poems have already been written
Perhaps it is all now senseless repetition
Perhaps I should just stop
And go on if I can to some other form of writing
God gives us what we have
We strive to go beyond ourselves
We can to a certain point
But then we have done what we have done
We can live a million years more
And write a million more poems
But what we have to write
Is done
Perhaps my poems have already been written
And small and poor and awkward as they are
Less than the truest poetry
They are what I have and am
Good-bye myself
I cannot go home.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Brandon: Our Love Dog
You'll never be forgotton,
my dear pal of ours
many years ago of
poems you inspired
me to write.
Seven Happy years
you were with us,
so much tender
loving care we
gave to you.
Brandon you had special
magic about you,
can't explain, somehow
when I touched you,
all of my pain and sorrow
went away.
You were our love dog,
no doubt you were loved,
by all, as you also loved all.
So many bad things happened
to you on our walks, three
dog attacks, but once just me,
still have scar on my hand.
Remember the day, you were
hit by a car,
that really saved your life.
We took you to the
vet that night,
ex-rays showed a
pin from surgery in
your side, that had
been lodged, if not
removed you would
have died from
punture wounds,
the pin should have
been removed long
ago.
It was placed there
before we got you,
so one bad thing led
to a good thing.
You had a cat friend down
the street, that loved
you also, she would rub
against you with so
tender loving care.
Brandon our love dog
so many kisses you
gave us.
you used to dare
us to get your
biscuit, you would stare
at us, when we
tried to get
it you growled,
this went on
and on, till
finally you ate it.
Sometimes you would
go to hall closet
with your biscuit
I didn't know
where you were,
as I walked by
the closet you
would growl, it
was so funny.
Moths you loved
to chase, you
ate them so
many, even wrote
a poem called
the moth hound.
One very sad day,
in our life we
took you to the
vet for very
last time, you were so sick,
food you once loved,
you now refused,
pain you had all
through your frail
little body.
On Friday night,
June 13,1997 you
had such a hard
time breathing
you had to sleep
sitting up.
Seven happy years
you were with us,
so much tender
loving care you
had for us and we
for you.
On Saturday June 14,1997
while most Americans,
were remembering flag day,
we were saying
goodbye to our
true faithful friend.
Amy and I waited
in that fateful room
with you, saying our
last goodbyes to you.
The Vet entered the room,
asked us if we were
ready, are you ever ready
to say goodbye
to a love one.
Seven years with us,
but only 30 seconds and
you were gone.
We touched you and felt
life leaving your
beautiful little body.
Ten years later,
we still miss you
little guy and
love you very much,
our very own
love dog.
wrote 2-14-07
End of my Poem
I dedicate my years
Into writing poems
For you, but now that
You're gone
What more can I write?
This mark the end
Of my poems,
From my heart I loved you,
God knows I loved you.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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I Waited Outside The World Of Wonder
I waited inside the world of wonder
The poems were coming to me night and day-
I knew I had a vocation at last
So I gave myself into it-
Year after year
For years I wrote poems
They came in and out of me
Like breathing
And I found them wherever I looked and walked
And took them home and wrote them down
And they became my song and my me and my life and my joy
And oh what a wonder it was to be simply to be
Writing them down-
And now writing this one down after so many years
I too still sing and wonder why God has been so good to me
And given me so much I simply love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Will Have Written Only One
I WILL HAVE WRITTEN ONLY ONE
I wrote another poem today
The poem that I wrote yesterday
Tomorrow I will write a poem
Whose meaning will not be unknown.
Again and again I continue to write
The single poem of my only life
When all my poems and writing are done
I will have written only one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If I Can Go On Writing Poems
IF I CAN GO ON WRITING POEMS
If I can go on writing poems
I will be happy-
If I cannot go on
I will lose something of myself-
I wonder how long I will be able to go on
Days? Years? How long exactly?
I write happily now
A poem I know I can post-
Without that I might be less happy about it-
If I can go on writing poems
This will be a sign I still have hope in life-
When I am stopped or stop
Will it mean I am finished
As a person also?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Few Poems Are Remembered
FEW POEMS ARE REMEMBERED
Few poems are remembered -
Few poems are ever really known-
Few poems are chosen -
Few poems make us want to return to them again and again-
Out of thousands written every day
Perhaps one poem in a decade
Perhaps less.
This is not the poem.
One can write a lifetime
Without ever writing one such poem.
Most of us never write the poem
And most of us are not remembered either.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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How Do You Write Poetry
There is a question I am often asked,
of which I have no answer for at all.
The question is a simple one,
how do you write poetry?
To be honest I haven’t got a clue.
With me the words just trickle out
one after the other,
if they rhyme that is great
and if they don’t, I just scratch my head.
I cannot tell anyone how to write,
for me it’s just a natural thing.
I write almost everything,
novels, short stories, poems and songs.
I have even written a couple of plays,
but that was a long, long time ago.
However to tell anyone how to write,
I would not know where to begin.
The answer I give to the question is simple;
write whatever you like good or bad.
It’s yours and be proud of it
no matter what anyone else has to say.
The more you write the better you will get.
However, the most important thing
that you should always remember and that is
that you write, write, and write!
9 November 2011
poem by David Harris
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Only Time Can Tell
Just when you think something
has nothing more to give
it surprises you with a little bit more.
Forty-five years ago,
I wrote something at a fun fare
and it keeps coming back
with something exciting and new.
First, it became my best-loved poem
with over fifty-five people
making it one of their favourites.
Next, it was used in an English class
in a London college,
then it had a video make of it
and then incorporated into a symphony,
it was read out at a memorial service
for an American serviceman in Afghanistan.
Another surprise came when
it was translated into Russian
for a University in the Ukraine
and then yesterday I found
it had been turned into a country song,
which really made my day,
something I had always imagined it to be,
and the tune they used was similar
to what I envisaged when I wrote it
all those years ago.
I cannot even guess what more surprises
this piece holds in store,
only time can tell.
28 July 2011
poem by David Harris
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Pride Comes Before A Fall
The great one does not last a champion in his prime
He lost to a younger man with some help from father time
The years had left him slow time takes care of us all
He defended his pride but pride comes before a fall.
And even what a difference five or six years can make
To keep on keeping on for him a big mistake
He should have called it quits a couple of years ago
For the money he kept going though the years had left him slow.
Once feted and admired but that was in the past
And he too had his day and nothing ever last
He went down rather tame to one that he once would beat
And for one proud as he there is no pride in defeat.
The beaten one this time he has called it a day
Though perhaps six years ago he should have given his game away
But his pride kept him going wisdom never was his friend
And his glory day for him one might say at an end.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poems I've Considered Writing..All Thanks to You..
It seems I'm writing more
Than I have for quite some time..
It's not always good writing
Sometimes It's just a matter of getting out my emotions on paper
Though they say you shouldn't put everything on paper
But,
That wouldn't make me much of a writer then, would it..
I don't do it on purpose..
To be honest,
I can't really help it..
And,
When I contemplate some of the poems I've thought of writing
Since our acquaintance
Well,
Some of the following titles spring to mind..
'This should be interesting'
'I wonder how I'll ever get on in this place'
'I hope I make a good enough impression'
But, then, that's not specific to you, is it..
I'm always worried about making a good impression, doing a good job, working on bettering me...worried about what others may or may not think
I'm not in competition with anyone but myself and sometimes I think that's
Tougher than competing with someone else..
'Ummmm...I don't know what to think'
'Someone thinks highly of themselves'
This would have been about you by the way..
I guess first impressions aren't always accurate
'I think I can trust you'
'Maybe I've made a friend'
'Why did that feel like a date'
'What's wrong with me'
'Something to look forward to'
'Saying Goodbye'
'Hello Again'
'I like having you as my friend'
'Someone to talk to'
'That's...Not..What..! ! ! '
Because sometimes I feel like I can read your mind..
And,
It's not always on it's best behavior, is it..
I hope that doesn't change... it makes me smile.
'I Have to Admit, You're Kind-a Sweet'
'Nooooo! ! ! '
This would have been a funny poem..As would,
'Do you mean what you say, when you say what you say'
But, then.. I think..
'Maybe it's all in my head'
Let's face it.. I am known to think too much, too often, all the time...
It's a minor glitch with my mind...
Then, there was the minor incident where..
'Being Forced to Face That I'm Feeling....Something'
But, that's just hard for me to do..so,
'Bury it, Pretend it Doesn't Exist'
Or
'We Aren't Going to Talk About the Elephant in the Room'
Were poems that were quite appropriate to write..
I didn't write them..
Well, not quite that way..
Some others would have been,
'Uneasy with My Feelings'
'I Wonder What You Really Think of Me'
'Too Bad I Can't Read Minds'
'I'd love to know what your first impression of me was...does it still hold true'
I don't know if you have read my work..
I sometimes think it's you..
But, I figure there's no way for me to know
Unless you give me a clue..
And, maybe you have
But, subtleties are lost on me
Especially when it comes to you..
So I write..
Or contemplate writing poems..
With funny titles
Titles that don't always mean what they say
Or say how I feel
Or are specific to you...
Because writers write..
It's what they do
But, sometimes
My Poems
Might be
Just for you...
poem by Rabia Minhas
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Early Works - Jill
She has the gracefulness of a swimming swan
and gentleness of a young fawn
and like the sweetness in the song of a swallow,
her voice serenades my ears when she speaks to me
with all the radiant of diamond gleams
her eyes sparkle when seen.
Just knowing her is a treasure to befall
but loving her is the greatest gift of all
having her as a close and dear friend
is an honour one is proud of until the end
I would be honoured to shout
from the highest hill
this my tribute to the only girl I love - Jill.
Date unknown. (This poem had to be written in 1965 or 1966)
Authors note:
Jill was a girl I was madly in love with before I met my wife. She inspired and influenced a great volume of my writing at the time and since songs, short stories and poems included. My best loved poem Just Beyond The Sunset was actually written with her in mind.
poem by David Harris
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