Elegy for a Poet
I hark back to the days when I
Began, in pen and ink,
To scrawl some petty poems,
How to feel, and how to think,
And people seemed to like the way
My simple little rhymes
Would trace a basic pattern
Through the heartache of their times.
So I continued writing; then
I typed my manuscripts,
I hit the keys so hard that
All my paper fell to bits,
But still I persevered, until
Computers stole the scene,
And little plastic keyboards
Put the words up on a screen.
But all along I used the name
Of Earle E. Everett,
I used it in the magazines,
And on the Internet,
My work was always copyright
I'd scrawl that little ©,
To keep the rights forever
For my family and me.
Then recently, while surfing through
A site I'd never seen,
A poem that I'd written years ago
Came on the screen,
I read it with nostalgia then,
I sat and read it all,
But written at the bottom was
The name of - 'Charles McFall'.
I looked in vain for something
That would say that it was mine,
That poem was a grape I'd plucked,
New fallen from the vine,
But nowhere did it state the name
I'd always seen there yet,
No sign that it was written by
The poet Everett.
I sat there stunned, and fearful
And angry, fit to burst,
I mailed the new Webmaster,
And I must admit - I cursed!
I said that stolen copyrights
Would take him straight to hell,
But there was no reply, the site
Was 'Unavailable.'
For weeks, until the early hours
I scanned that little screen,
I looked in vain for Everett,
The poet I had been;
But one by one my poems
On the sites, both one and all,
They ended with the message -
Copyright, by Charles McFall.
I went into the Office, thought
To phone the Inter-police,
For surely they could help me,
Could advise me on the case,
But then I met Security, they'd
Locked the Office down,
They said I didn't work there,
So I staggered off to town.
I thought I'd better phone the wife
I'd left in bed asleep,
I had an awful feeling, and
That feeling wouldn't keep,
I rang the mobile number, and
I said: 'Is that you, Darls? '
She muttered in her sleepiness:
'You'll want my husband, Charles! '
I'm sleeping in the gutter, in
A big old cardboard box,
Some hobo caught me sleeping
And he stole my shoes and socks.
I've given up on poetry,
On writing overall,
You'll hear no more from Everett,
I'm merely….
Charles McFall
23 July 2008
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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PH, To Me
When I joined the ranks of poets
At PH a few months hence
I found a group of people
Whom I now consider friends
Though, as a poet, I suspect,
I’ll ne'er be thought renowned
Still I love to show my work
Where it’s seen the world around
This site has been a boon to me,
Writing more than I used to,
And I think, by reading other bards
My own work’s been improved
I see this site as a privilege
And, one not to be abused
When angry tensions oft arise
It leaves me quite confused
Each item I submit in verse
Though meaningful to me
I suspect that, not, to all who read
Twill be their cup of tea
At times, much better poets
Than I, their work, submit
And even though, I know it’s great
I just can’t “get into” it
But if, alas, I take offense
At values, different than my own
I, simply, note the poet’s name
Click the mouse and move along
If a rude and contentious poet
Should offend enough, on site
Their work, no longer, would be read
Which would be their ultimate price
Copyright C R Clark-4/28/2008
poem by C.R. Clark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My birthday was different this year
As I was rummaging through
the file boxes my wife had left for me
in the garage
I found a yellow legal pad
scribbled with hand written poems
I had written one night
in a almost crowded coffeehouse
waiting for a poet friend from Chicago
to come up north to read
The poems talked about
how I waited and waited
before too long
several anxious poets
ran up to the microphone
not afraid to trip over themselves
share their delicate poems
about romance and almost romance
detailing having a job they don't like
and it seemed to me
they were also not liking much else about their lives
besides their job they didn't like
My Chicago artist friend as usual
was more then an hour late
which isn't bad considering Chicago
is almost three hours away
so most other places
damn, she would have been early
When I read the poem
I wrote about being at a reading
I didn't want to be at
I realized I was spending my birthday
by myself in a coffeehouse
writing poems
not making much eye contact
with people I didn't even like
although one of the poets
I think Francine is her name
came up to me during a break and said 'hi'
but she didn't remember my name
or knew it was my birthday
and a couple of days after my anniversary
or that I was getting a divorce
that poem I read
was a good sign of things to come
because this year
on my birthday
I woke up with a new friend in my bed
multiple orgasms for her to share
before having a nice breakfast together
of eggs, sausage, hash browns and italian toast
cooked on the George Foreman grill
and things didn't look or feel
the same again
poem by Oscar Mireles
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Commenting (Please Read)
This poem is dedicated to a very dear friend in Canada.
Melvina Germain.
The first person who left a heart prints on my work almost a year and a half ago. Mel, a million thanks from me.
Love and Hugs.
David xxxx
Some people read your work
and then pass on their way,
never leaving a comment
whether they liked it or not.
For any writer good or bad,
unless someone makes a comment on your work,
you feel left out in the cold.
For those who think that comments do not help,
let me tell you what comments have done for me.
For six or seven years I had given up writing,
I swore I would never lift my pen again.
Then in January 2007,
I posted a few old poems on a poetry site.
I was confused and lost at the time.
Never though for one moment
anyone would want to read my humble work.
I was wrong.
Through the comments I received,
I started writing again.
Since the 19th January 2007 to today the 14th June 2008
I have written 1132 poems, a 80,000 word novel,
collaborated on over 20 poems
with two young ladies half a world away from me
and published my first book of poetry.
For under a year and a half
that is not a bad record
and it happened through the encouragement in comments.
So the next time you read someone work
and there is a space for a comment,
leave one please.
Those little heart prints can change someone’s life
and encourage them on to do better things.
Your comment does not have to be lengthy,
just a word or two will do.
Remember it is good to help someone
and by leaving a comment,
that is just what you will do.
I always leave a comment on everything I read
knowing how others comments have helped me.
14 June 2008
poem by David Harris
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A Poem Can Be Written Anywhere, Anytime
A poem can be written anywhere, anytime-
A poem can be written too early in the morning
While waiting in Talpiot for ‘Rami Levi Supermarket’ to open-
It can be written in one’s head in a frozen Army barracks in Beit El
Or in a small room on Rav Berlin St on an old Smith- Corona
In the first happy years of one’s marriage-
It can be written for years from Haganah St. in French Hill
In the family years and the lonely ones
It can be written walking by the sea in Tel Aviv
With small children in hand-
It can be written on the same shore years later when one’s life has been broken
By Love’s desertion-
It can be written in old age on Rehov Shahal in Givat Mordechai
As one takes joy from the birth of one’s first grandchild-
A poem can be written anywhere anytime-
I have been writing my poems in Israel
For more than half a lifetime-
May those too
Who come after me
Read and Write Poetry here.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Will The Poem Written Today/ Read Well Tomorrow?
WILL THE POEM WRITTEN TODAY/ READ WELL TOMORROW?
Will the poem written today
Read well tomorrow?
Will what seems so right now
Last beyond the time of its being said?
Or am I a poet of the present moment only
Who in the saying believes in what is said
And who fails in the long – term reflection?
What will remain of all my ‘presents’
And all those times of writing
And feeling it is true?
Years from now
Long after I will be able to read any poem
Will these lines mean anything
To anyone?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Day The Last Poet Died
As the Earth was being bombarded,
Meteors crashed down with all of their might
And the dust rose high into the sky
And God's sunshine was hid from Man's sight...
Alone, beneath the dying Earth,
One man was now searching a cavern
And so full of wonder at what he saw
That he began in writing his poem...
Mankind was perishing above
As the last poet was writing his rhymes
Oblivious to the final prayers
At the very end of Man's times...
He smiled as the poem was written,
Corrected a few lines and sighed,
For the cavern was filled with a glowing
That filled his young heart with new pride...
Then the cavern was trembling all over
And the glowing was crushed in an hour
And the beauty and glory had vanished
As all of Man's dreams had turned sour...
The aliens discovered the planet...
The poet the last man alive...
The rescued him, healed him and fed him,
With strong hopes the man would survive...
Translating his poem to their thoughts,
They read all the thoughts in his mind...
Preserving his poems forever
As the legacy that he left behind...
Denis Martindale, copyright, December 2011.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Charles Akalaonu
Wher are you Charles Akalaonu?
Where are you to read my muse?
I have beeen searching everywhere to find you;
Charles Akalaonu where are you?
I hope to find you one day,
I hope to meet you one day,
I hope to see you one day
Maybe one day you will read this poem.
Where are you Charles Akalaonu?
Maybe one day your children will read this poem;
Charles Akalaonu where are you?
Maybe one day your siblings will read this poem;
Say hello to your wife and children,
Great the entire members of your family as well;
Maybe one day you will read this poem.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The guy who ones us..
and there’s this guy,
hits my poems every day
devotedly
that’s a lot of poems
doesn’t read them,
just hits them
to dropp another 1 in the voting box
on new poems, or ones he’s already oned, alike
he or she no surely he
girls have better things to do
saw some poems had rated 10
naturally assumed that this was faked
because he’s like that, decided
it was time to take me down a peg
but adding his comments – no,
too public, better do it secretly
then announce it publicly
as an act of holy justice..
if a poem’s got no rating – bliss!
a very public 1 like a steaming turd…
if it’s already got a 10, a 1
will bring that down to 5.5..
and there’s always tomorrow..
a 10, two ones make 4.0..
a 10, three ones, make 3.3.. and so on…
alas for him, he can’t ever reduce my score
with 10 plus 1 to the xth, to lower than 1.0…
funny, I still feel the same me in my poems…
I hope there’s only one of him,
it’s an awful waste of time, chasing
a paper power, a passing screen…
fun though it is, to spread childish smears
across the adult world…
needless to say, his many weeks of work
have served to elevate our hit-rate…
and as we sink on one list, then we rise
on another… the injustice of it all…
now the real false figures are his, not ours…
and then, he thought, it’s time for Frank..
and then, for Tara.. and who next?
maybe some I haven’t spotted?
That high scorer above all,
Nikki, so far, has escaped his attention…
But then, Nikki has no poems to one!
last year, he was called Joe Fazio or some such,
this year, he’s called ‘Poet Watch’..
if only… I’d be happier, as a poet,
if he had read the poems he oned…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Charles Bukowski
A Man
(just that. A Man, as it was written by a
Charles Bukowski, it has become a priceless
poem in his poetry collection series)
there is another poem entitled
A Man
(same form, same everything, nothing added, nothing
subtracted, written by a certain Ric S. Bastasa,
and the Great Poets of This Site, twitched their faces,
niked their eyebrows, rolled their tongues in their cheek,
and said,
a flop!
who is he?
well, it is in the name, it has nothing to do with the poem itself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hemingway Never Did This
I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.
now I don't think this 3-pager was immortal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.
and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?
if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.
let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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My Next Poem
My day began, so up I got, with no plans what to do.
All tidied up, a brewed a pot, with cereal to chew...
I walked to the conservatory, sat down with pen in hand,
With paper for new poetry, some basic and some grand...
The afternoon was going well, ten poems almost done,
Yes, everything was going swell, warmed by the Summer sun...
And then he came to interrupt, my poem from its flow...
My word, that guy was quite abrupt, I thought, he'll have to go...
He was another poem, friends, they visit me that way...
And their impatience never ends, until they're done O.K.
I told him straight, to get in line! He scratched his head at this.
I told him that I must decline, as writing's hit-and-miss...
'I've got five others there outside and each must wait his turn! '
That's when the poem cried and cried, as if respect to earn...
I told him straight, 'It won't work, mate, I've seen it all before! '
He joined the queue and waited late and thought it such a bore!
But when he'd read my poem through, he wept with tears of joy!
He told me straight, 'May God bless you! It helps each girl and boy!
It teaches young and old alike! It's wonderful, my friend...'
I said, 'Goodnight, now take a hike...' Then went to bed...
THE END...
Denis Martindale, copyright, February 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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This Is A Poem Written To Escape Doing Something Else
THIS IS A POEM WRITTEN TO ESCAPE DOING SOMETHING ELSE
This is a poem written to escape doing something else
Perhaps in a way all my poems have been written to escape doing something else
Some lifetime work I never wanted to do?
Some hard business task?
Some duty of life I felt myself not up to yet?
Some meeting some personal confrontation?
But this poem
A small poem indeed
Is written because I fear the longer work I have to do
Will not be alright-
But then don't I also fear this poem too and all the poems
Will not be alright?
All my life I have been escaping into poetry-
Why in my old age how in my old age
Should I
Change this now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In Romantic Channel of Thought
I’ve written this poem to impress you.
Will you give your heart in exchange for a poem?
Perhaps you don’t even know how much you worth!
Still now you are only like my poems
And I am a poet who has composed you!
Why do I still watch movie on you so hazy
On the screen of imagination
In Romantic channel of thought!
I’ve searched for you in so many places!
I really don't know whether you will be here
by my side
In this life!
If I knew who are you
Where are you!
poem by Asif Andalib
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Sometimes I Find Poems
Sometimes I find poems
Like they were jewels in the sand
So excellently written
A blessing to read and understand.
Sometimes I find poems
Composed like it was a work of art
The writer weaving word tapestry
As he writes diligently from his heart.
Sometimes I find poems
Laced with just verbal grime
With random musings or lost words
That to read them is a total waste of time.
So to the writers who value the pen
With all respect, I give you my salute
With the hope you keep writing again and again
And to this site your work you contribute!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Moments Of Writing Poetry
Draft poems sometimes like
loose ripped off pieces of paper
to be drafted out roughly upon.
Draft poems hang around
in the strangest places waiting
to be written out one day.
Draft poems wait for a poet
to wake at the beginning of day
to be written out, in any
seized moments, sacrificed.
This is now time, shower time, eating time,
reflective time, conversation time, work time;
t.v. time, driving time, riding motorcycle time,
going to sleep time, cooking time, or any time.
Draft poems can only be written
in spared moments of seized time.
Draft poems can only be written today,
they will not wait for fair weather like hay,
which lays around waiting to be harvested.
Draft poems will not wait for a clear sunny day to dawn,
and then mature slowly, over a perfect golden summer.
Draft poems are ever now or never
if they are ever to be swiftly written.
A draft may possibly be perfected
upon any future day of favoured writing;
but a draft never written is a poem
never written, never completed, never known.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Before I Sleep Tonight
i have written many poems
and you have been reading
perhaps all of them and you
even remember what i have
written and left there, i always
tell you i am busy, for i am,
doing anything, reading and
writing each poem, each
feeling, but before i sleep
tonight, as i will write this as
my last poem, let me tell you
given the choice between
poetry and you, you know too
well, that i will choose you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poems What I Wrote
Invited by a local School
To read my poems out,
The children giggled at the fool
And thus caused me to doubt,
But I pressed on, towards the end
Of each one that I did,
I then looked up to find one friend,
Yet not one single kid...
But I pressed on, not giving in,
Concisely as before...
And thinking somehow I would win,
Each snore I could ignore...
I must admit I sighed a bit,
You know what children are...
Yet I continued with true grit,
My last one wasn't far...
So I pressed on and read it proud,
Each word defiantly!
Yes, I stood tall and I spoke loud
With my best poetry...
The silence then was deafening!
In fact, I almost snapped!
Then the children stood up cheering
And clapped and clapped and clapped...
Denis Martindale, copyright, September 2012.
The poem was written in regard to a TV series
on Sky Digital's Disney Junior and Disney Junior+
entitled A Poem Is... It was described in this way:
A series of classic poetry shorts read by iconic
British celebrities combined with powerful
animation moments from Disney's magical legacy...
But what if the poet were to go to a School and
had to read his poems out in front of the children?
As they say, 'Good luck with that...'
poem by Denis Martindale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem That Makes You Alive
from the office the paper works pile up
like a mountain where you walk only a few steps
where it is so steep
and you want to rest on the grass because you feel like
you are dying in a minute
and they understand why sometimes you have to stop
and get some air from the window facing the sea
when you go home for lunch
with your wife
your shoulder hangs a little bit down
like a hanging plant from a branch of an old tree
your eyes are drooping
and you lose your appetite
not the food but for life itself
you have been doing things by compulsion
this bread and butter thing
this normal course
this work that is dictated upon us
society moves like a clockwork
office like a jail
the world like a cell to you
you keep your computer open
after lunch you sit in front of it again
punch the letters and tell the screen
this is my life
this could have been my work
writing poems, this poem and the rest of the poems
this makes you alive
without milk without the cradle without the bottle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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a sequel on charles bukowski's 'SO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER?
he has his message clearly said: a writer is chosen
he does not have to move heaven and earth
to make a poem or write an essay
or finish a novel, for he is the
privileged soul
the chosen one
the prophet
the messiah
the secret prince
the hidden king
the divine incarnate
whatever
whoever
and words simply come to him like
a light from the sun
embracing him with so much inspiration
that he merely sits there by the throne of his porch
and simply listens to the dictated poem.
he says it is a burst inside your heart
an explosion inside your head
and you simply have to listen with your heart
and mind and soul
and there everything comes so easily
day by day and on and on and on
ad infinitum ad aeternum
there is no sweat
or hard work, there is no striving at all
to become the chosen one
for the inspiration
it comes even if uninvited
it perches on your chest like a bird and sings
it stays there until you die or it dies with you
there is no madness
or murderous intent or this lostness
they are not necessary
to be a writer one does not have to
stay for hours and write a piece and stare at the
screen of the computer and tire your eyes
with so much pressure
Is that so Charles? Did you not once believe
that Elvis Presley is nothing?
Did you not look for a job, or even try to find your lost self
for twenty years or so or even more?
There must be this irony.
And if that be so, I think i must believe you.
He does not bother at all, how can he be a poet?
Not you Charles, someone else.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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