You Don’t Look Like An Author
Many, many years ago,
thirty odd years in fact
I met a woman at a writing class.
We have been friends
ever since our meeting then.
It was a little while after that meeting
that she said to me.
“You know, David,
when we first met
you didn’t strike me as being an author
as you didn’t look like one to me.”
I’ve joked about it with her ever since.
Because what does a writer look like?
Is there some set format
in everyone’s eyes
of what a writer is suppose to look like?
If someone knows
could they please tell me,
then I’ll change my image
and start looking like one.
27 February 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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A Mirror Image
How many times when reading a book,
do we identify with the characters within?
Their traits they have we share,
their loves and heartaches
their lives go through somehow mirror our own.
It’s as if the author was writing about us.
As though he has put us under a microscope
and then writing down everything, he saw.
However, we know this isn’t so
because he or she has written
segments of their own life
and by accident they happen to mirror ours.
Every writer will tell you
that they have their characters under control.
Having written numerous novels,
I know the characters take on a life of their own
and do what they want to do.
We become their instrument as they guide us on our way.
We end up writing what they want us to say.
To every writer his characters are real,
they live, breathe and feel.
The more you write about them,
the more alive they become.
So the next time you pick up a book
and the characters seem real,
they probably are to the author
who looks after them.
24 September 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Requiem For A Poet
The ground laid waste beneath me
no flowering fruits lay there,
no fertility of imagination,
no quest to ride upon.
Gone are the flowing shrub of words
that coloured the winding path
upon which poets tread.
Left behind the words dissolve
and the metre melts away.
Maybe some day in the future
this pen will write again,
but until that day comes along,
this is a requiem for a poet.
and so long to all his friends.
19 February 2011
Author’s Note:
Before anyone thinks that I am giving up writing or I am in a writer’s block. This is just a poem as I am neither giving up or in a writer’s block..
DVH
poem by David Harris
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We Knew But Didn’t Know
Occasionally people come into our lives,
people we knew but didn’t know.
We knew them from our early years
before life sent us in different directions.
Years would pass before we met again
with this person we knew but didn’t know.
The passing years had changed us both,
wiser but strangers no less.
In the exchanges that follows a friendship grows.
A friendship that was never there before
with this person we knew but didn’t know.
Everything happens for a reason
and the reason is not for us to know.
In meeting it changes us, ignites a flame within,
a flame of caring given a chance should have been.
Now in maturity we get to know that person
we knew but didn’t know.
What the future holds is as uncertain as tomorrow,
but we walk towards it with this friend,
a person we knew but didn’t know.
27 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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A Personal Journey
If someone had told me years ago,
poetry would make my name.
I would have politely smiled
and nodded yes,
and not believed a word of it.
I remember once
attending a poetry reading
and calmly getting up
and declaring I was not a poet,
and then wondered why everyone laughed.
They must have realised something
I did not know
that in fact, I was a poet,
of course, that was a long time ago,
and much waters
have crossed under the bridge of my life.
The doodles I once called poems
were in fact poems after all.
Some were much better
than I could ever dream of.
It took me a long time
and the internet to realise that fact.
Now I have started a new dawn
within my writing career,
taken steps down roads
I never thought I would go.
The journey has not been unmarked,
as I have gained so much more
than just becoming recognised as a writer.
I have gained so many friends across the world.
Something I could have only dreamed about
in my younger years.
17 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Inter-twilight love
I suppose I love you twice
And I realize I hate you once.
Even I'm not sure
That I am really capable to hate you
But you can make me oscillate
Day by day
Between hatred and
The feeling called love
By you only
Until it will be almost impossible
To keep this feeling alive
And I can explain you
It is because
This breakable mechanism called love
Which normally starts from the souls
Didn't start within us from there
But from another secret place
Of our being
And I can explain
You see, our feeling consists
In fact
Completely of passion
And voluptuousness
So, if our love couldn't really start
How can be finished something
It didn't start?
In fact
Our feeling has two faces
Hatred and passion
But, confusively as usual,
We try to call it love-woman
And love-man
In order to facilitate this meeting
We need
A lot of sap
The sap of... sex
The sap of... reason
The sap of...introspection
And the sap of... lie
So you, woman- love-man,
Moreover, inter-twilight love
You have the fault
For not being capable to be born
I 'm not guilty as a woman
And you're not guilty as a man
When
The sap of..... goodness
The sap of...... trustingness
The sap of...... knowledge
And the sap of..... faithfulness
Cannot flow
To the leaves of our souls
More especially our son
Who waits to be born
Is the most guilty.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Eve
Detdicated to Eve Croft
May she Rest In Peace
It was over forty years ago
when I first met her.
I had barely left my teens.
She was older than me;
in fact, she was a friend’s mother.
Divorce had left her lonely
with three sons to bring up.
Life was not easy,
not much time to herself.
Slowly after meeting her,
a friendship between us grew.
To make her life sustainable
I took her out
from time to time.
We held hands at the pictures
and when we went anywhere.
She often worried
what people would think of me.
I didn’t really care what people thought.
Eve was a friend
and there was nothing more to be said.
For the next couple of years
our friendship never wavered.
We would hug and smile
whenever we did meet.
There was never any romance involved,
we were just very good friends.
I never forget when she had an offer
to move in with someone.
She was so worried
that I would think badly of her.
She was almost in tears
when she told me his proposition.
I put my arm around her shoulder
and reassured her it was all right.
That our friendship would never diminish
regardless what she did.
Sadly, her going away
was never meant to be.
She fell ill with cancer
and went to live with her sister
who would care for her.
It was the last time
I was ever to see her.
It was a few years later
I bumped into her eldest son.
When I asked him about his mum
he looked at me strangely
with tears holding back I his eyes.
She died I thought you knew.
I said that I didn’t.
He said he couldn’t stop
as he had a bus to catch,
and then he was gone.
With head bowed, I turned away
and started walking home.
Tears leaked from my eyes
making small lines across my cheeks.
My regret then and will always be
that I never had a chance
to say a proper goodbye.
1 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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Opportune Moment
Never ask me why I became a writer
because I couldn’t tell you why.
I just pick up a pen
and the words just flow again
off the top of my head.
I never planned to become a writer,
it just happened.
One day I picked up a pen
to doodle a bit
and the words came streaming out.
Now after over forty years
the words keep coming out.
I have no problem with that,
though there is times I wish
they’d pick a more opportune moment
when they are about to arrive.
2 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Writer- a must?
Out of what does a writer write?
Out of hatred or perversion;
Out of denial or deprivation.
Why does a writer write?
To vent his anger or hatred.
To cry out from pain or lust.
How does a writer write?
By borrowing or distorting.
By modeling or duping.
For what does a writer write?
For an applause and a place.
It alone suits him, an idler.
What is the use of a writer?
For him to flaunt his skill.
For readers to idle away
Does the society need a writer?
Does a woman need cosmetics?
Writer is a part of civilization
16.05.2007.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Our Meeting Place
I met you here sometime ago
How my whole world changed
My heart raced beyond belief
Oh I felt the sudden change
Our Meeting Place
Forbidden I was to see you
Our ages was too far apart
But I knew deep inside of me
That didn't matter too my heart
Our Meeting Place
Things have passed since then
We somehow both drift away
But when I look on back again
It brings me to those very days
Our Meeting Place
poem by Suelynn Walters
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My Canadian Chronicles 002
It was instant recognition
We just looked at one another
and instantly the years melted away.
With open arms, we hugged
neither wanting to let go.
A wonderful sensation
and then the talking began.
7 June 2009
Author’s Note: This depicted the first meeting at the airport of a classmate Suzanne Gaddess after 51 years.
poem by David Harris
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Two Strangers
In 1958, I last saw someone
whom would disappear from my life
until December 2006.
Our meeting was not face to face,
but across the internet.
Three cheers for technology.
She recognised me from an old school photo
it was not until I saw the class photo
after she pointed out herself
that I did recognise who she was.
For countless years you see,
I thought of her under a different name
which why I did not recognise her straight away.
The New Year came and we talked
about how our lives in the intervening years.
She introduced me to a friend
whom did the same thing as me - write.
At first, I was confused
and within our correspondence,
my confusion did show.
I gave out so many mixed signals
that I shudder to think at what she thought.
Slowly as time passed,
I grew more admiration for these two strangers
who suddenly entered into my life
and they became firm friends.
Years before I had given up on writing,
the one thing that I did best.
Like two earth angels,
they lifted me and carried me though
to a new chapter in my life.
The names of these two angels
are Suzanne Gaddess and Melvina Germain.
Between them both,
they gave me friendship
and much, much more.
They dragged me from the pit of despair
and showed me the right road to take.
I have never looked back since,
well only occasionally
to make sure my two loving friends are still there.
In 2009, I plan to meet them
and give each some great big hugs
to these two wonderful strangers
I met across the internet.
14 November 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When I went to college I took a creative writing class and decided in a week to be a writer.
quote by David Guterson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Visalakshi-2
Her husband died of a car accident.
It took place about three years ago.
Now she is free of encumbrances.
Hence I could talk to her as freely as
I did fifty two years back in her village
Where I met her, where we fell for each other.
I managed to get her phone number.
The last meeting of us was in her house
With her spouse, some twenty years ago.
She has married seven years after
Our episode, in the year I married,
Both being unaware of each other.
I saw her there after thirty two years
By when a lemon skinned beauty queen
Has turned into a dry skinned wrinkles.
I got her over phone and shared her grief.
She was upset, implying her bond with him.
She declined my offer of any meeting,
However incidental it might be.
‘Let us forget ours as a child game
With no renewal at this stage and age’
She said. Anxiety driven, she enquired
About me and family and my life.
Now she is seventy and weak as she told.
She is as old as me who am still robust.
It means we both were sweet seventeen
When we loved each other that went to
Being together with clothes stripped of
In her bolted room with a resolution
To elope, till we were caught red handed.
How quick a woman vomits her ex lover!
24.06.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The pathos of the death
I didn’t share my grandmother’s anxiety
Of going to die
When she was about to die.
I didn’t share my father’s similar anxiety
When he was waiting for his death.
I too will end up meeting the same fate.
Each one thus dies with no one minding.
10.01.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nervous
I am getting nervous
and you may well ask why.
In six months from now,
I am returning to the land,
which shaped my early years
to meet with a classmate
of that period of time.
Although we did not know
each other very well way back then
in recent years that has changed
and a friendship has grown.
Now in six months time
a reunion has been planned
and I am as nervous as a newborn kitten,
which has just opened its eyes.
I visualise in my head
how are first meeting is going to be,
but knowing how life is
it won’t be that way at all.
12 December 2008
poem by David Harris
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My Next Thirty Years
(track 12 - time 3:37)
(phil vassar)
I think Ill take a moment, celebrate my age
The ending of an era and the turning of a page
Now its time to focus in on where I go from here
Lord have mercy on my next thirty years
Hey my next thirty years Im gonna have some fun
Try to forget about all the crazy things Ive done
Maybe now Ive conquered all my adolescent fears
And Ill do it better in my next thirty years
My next thirty years Im gonna settle all the scores
Cry a little less, laugh a little more
Find a world of happiness without the hate and fear
Figure out just what Im doing here
In my next thirty years
Oh my next thirty years, Im gonna watch my weight
Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late
Drink a little lemonade and not so many beers
Maybe Ill remember my next thirty years
My next thirty years will be the best years of my life
Raise a little family and hang out with my wife
Spend precious moments with the ones that I hold dear
Make up for lost time here, in my next thirty years
In my next thirty years
song performed by by Tim McGraw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm Going To Stop Pretending That I Didn't Break Y
I'm gonna tell you what you need to hear
And I'm a little too late, by three or four years
And it may not make much sense now that we are apart
But I'm going to stop pretending that I didn't break your heart
You see, I never thought enough of myself to realize
That losing me could mean something like the tears in your eyes
And I wanna tell you I'm sorry, but it's too late to start
But I'm going to stop pretending that I didn't break your heart
And it's Christmas Eve, years down the line
Sittin' wishing I treated you better when you were mine
And I have no way of knowing where you are
But I'm going to stop pretending that I didn't break your heart
I didn't mean to hurt you
I didn't know what I was doing
But I know what I have done
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lonely Roads
Sometimes we walk down lonely roads
and the whole world seems against us.
Then we’ll have a chance meeting
and our world will change.
Through that meeting, we find a friend
to help us through the rough times in our lives.
A person who will take it upon themselves
to lead us through the troubles
that besiege our lives.
Lift us up when we are down;
bring a smile to our face
when all we can do is frown.
They take the burdens we are faced with
and persuade them to go away.
When we want to thank them,
all they say is don’t thank me
as you maybe able to do
the same for me someday.
21 March 2008
poem by David Harris
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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