En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Poetess...the oak...the descent Pt 3

Deeper…darker,
the pull ever stronger
Girdling her arms…
tendrils of mist,

Toward a huge, hulking Oak,
seen dimly afar
Tugging her toward it,
unseen hands on her wrist

It stood alone in a clearing,
lit by gibbous moon
Long wide gash in it’s flank,
from long ago lightning

The poet could feel coldness,
and knew all too soon
That what was to come,
would become much more frightening

The far distant cry
of her name in the night
Was riven to pieces
and blown away in the breeze

Her heart hammered hopelessly,
face frozen in fright
As our young lady poet, …
Entered… “the land neath the trees”

poem by David Whalen
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The Poetess...the woods...the mist Pt 2

The poet looked all about her,
in the moon glow so dim
Felt a slight tug…
as something pulled her… further within

First, , , hesitant steps…
with a look oe’r her shoulder
Back at the house
with it’s lights slowly dimming

The tenous pull
on her hands growing bolder
Her eyes torn away,
in tears… deeply brimming

Sepulchral black limbs
Spider close overhead
Vision shimmers and swims
In fear… and in dread

Is this poetic justice?
And if so…for what deed?
Was she being taken in malice
The pull Quickened…paying no heed!

faint, distant voices, calling her name
Made her try to stop…made her resist
But the unseen fantasm, tugged all the same
And pulled the Poet, yet deeper into the mist

poem by David Whalen
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I Tried To Open The Wide Book Of Night

I tried to open wide the book of night
To look into its eyes - like a lover
That pretended of his love confession as of right
And so to Hastings Gardens went I in the night.
Wide, wide before the long night stood
No corner stopped my glance no space
Its boundary showed and manifested
To my glance long tall continous lay the night
In its mischievous slumbering
Wherein it dreamt dreams I know not
Nor thereof heard the silent trees bespeak.
How many nights before me came
How many, many nights
And they were certes here like this night
As I look from the bastions to the sea
And fancy its silver bosom dance and gleam
In the moon’s amorous light to-night:
So gleamed the light on the sea-waves
When the French besieged and held
Our noble city: how many a lover
Stood looking on the sea and at his love
As mid-night in his satined robes tiptoed:
Rippling stood the waves and waters wild
And fancy its silver bosom dance and gleam
In the moon’s amorous light:
For years and years the welcome Briton stood
Perhaps here where stay I and his foot
Could be heard pace all sentinel
Into the dark glooms of silent night
From casements near opening on the seas
And houses nearby in dreaming bent
Through the long night, the long and weary night
That was of many nights that were
And will be of many nights that will
And when I stay not on the bastions and
Feel not the sea-breeze my face cool
Night after night will come and children small
Few years born will come and go:
And after children small will come again
Night after night will come and speak
Unto the rocks that front the sea
And playing with lapping sea-waves all the night
Unheard, unseen, unnoticed in the times
And in the flight of years and centuries full lost
And when night comes and still the sea
Will shine – its silver bosom dance and gleam
In the moon’s amorous light.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Before a Poetry Reading

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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I Am More A Poet

I AM MORE A POET THAN ANY OTHER KIND OF WRITER

I am more a poet than any other kind of writer-
But I am not a pure poet -
And not the best of what a poet could be-
I 'think' in my poetry
And it tells me what I dream and feel-
It is my soul-

God made me a poet
Perhaps not a good one as I would have liked to be-

It is so wonderful to be able to write these lines now
After long long hours of difficult silence.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not

The poet I am, and the poet I am not

‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 02: The Screen Maiden

You read—what is it, then that you are reading?
What music moves so silently in your mind?
Your bright hand turns the page.
I watch you from my window, unsuspected:
You move in an alien land, a silent age . . .

. . . The poet—what was his name—? Tokkei—Tokkei—
The poet walked alone in a cold late rain,
And thought his grief was like the crying of sea-birds;
For his lover was dead, he never would love again.

Rain in the dreams of the mind—rain forever—
Rain in the sky of the heart—rain in the willows—
But then he saw this face, this face like flame,
This quiet lady, this portrait by Hiroshigi;
And took it home with him; and with it came

What unexpected changes, subtle as weather!
The dark room, cold as rain,
Grew faintly fragrant, stirred with a stir of April,
Warmed its corners with light again,

And smoke of incense whirled about this portrait,
And the quiet lady there,
So young, so quietly smiling, with calm hands,
Seemed ready to loose her hair,

And smile, and lean from the picture, or say one word,
The word already clear,
Which seemed to rise like light between her eyelids . .
He held his breath to hear,

And smiled for shame, and drank a cup of wine,
And held a candle, and searched her face
Through all the little shadows, to see what secret
Might give so warm a grace . . .

Was it the quiet mouth, restrained a little?
The eyes, half-turned aside?
The jade ring on her wrist, still almost swinging? . . .
The secret was denied,

He chose his favorite pen and drew these verses,
And slept; and as he slept
A dream came into his heart, his lover entered,
And chided him, and wept.

And in the morning, waking, he remembered,
And thought the dream was strange.
Why did his darkened lover rise from the garden?
He turned, and felt a change,

As if a someone hidden smiled and watched him . . .
Yet there was only sunlight there.
Until he saw those young eyes, quietly smiling,
And held his breath to stare,

And could have sworn her cheek had turned—a little . . .
Had slightly turned away . . .
Sunlight dozed on the floor . . . He sat and wondered,
Nor left his room that day.

And that day, and for many days thereafter,
He sat alone, and thought
No lady had ever lived so beautiful
As Hiroshigi wrought . . .

Or if she lived, no matter in what country,
By what far river or hill or lonely sea,
He would look in every face until he found her . . .
There was no other as fair as she.

And before her quiet face he burned soft incense,
And brought her every day
Boughs of the peach, or almond, or snow-white cherry,
And somehow, she seemed to say,

That silent lady, young, and quietly smiling,
That she was happy there;
And sometimes, seeing this, he started to tremble,
And desired to touch her hair,

To lay his palm along her hand, touch faintly
With delicate finger-tips
The ghostly smile that seemed to hover and vanish
Upon her lips . . .

Until he knew he loved this quiet lady;
And night by night a dread
Leered at his dreams, for he knew that Hiroshigi
Was many centuries dead,—

And the lady, too, was dead, and all who knew her . .
Dead, and long turned to dust . . .
The thin moon waxed and waned, and left him paler,
The peach leaves flew in a gust,

And he would surely have died; but there one day
A wise man, white with age,
Stared at the portrait, and said, 'This Hiroshigi
Knew more than archimage,—

Cunningly drew the body, and called the spirit,
Till partly it entered there . . .
Sometimes, at death, it entered the portrait wholly . .
Do all I say with care,

And she you love may come to you when you call her . . . '
So then this ghost, Tokkei,
Ran in the sun, bought wine of a hundred merchants,
And alone at the end of day

Entered the darkening room, and faced the portrait,
And saw the quiet eyes
Gleaming and young in the dusk, and held the wine-cup,
And knelt, and did not rise,

And said, aloud, 'Lo-san, will you drink this wine?'
Said it three times aloud.
And at the third the faint blue smoke of incense
Rose to the walls in a cloud,

And the lips moved faintly, and the eyes, and the calm hands stirred;
And suddenly, with a sigh,
The quiet lady came slowly down from the portrait,
And stood, while worlds went by,

And lifted her young white hands and took the wine cup;
And the poet trembled, and said,
'Lo-san, will you stay forever?'—'Yes, I will stay.'—
'But what when I am dead?'

'When you are dead your spirit will find my spirit,
And then we shall die no more.'
Music came down upon them, and spring returning,
They remembered worlds before,

And years went over the earth, and over the sea,
And lovers were born and spoke and died,
But forever in sunlight went these two immortal,
Tokkei and the quiet bride . . .

poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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This Poet Is Always Beside You

You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Heart’s Chill Between

I did not chide him, though I knew
That he was false to me.
Chide the exhaling of the dew,
The ebbing of the sea,
The fading of a rosy hue,—
But not inconstancy.

Why strive for love when love is o'er?
Why bind a restive heart?—
He never knew the pain I bore
In saying: 'We must part;
Let us be friends and nothing more.'
—Oh, woman's shallow art!

But it is over, it is done,—
I hardly heed it now;
So many weary years have run
Since then, I think not how
Things might have been,—but greet each one
With an unruffled brow.

What time I am where others be,
My heart seems very calm—
Stone calm; but if all go from me,
There comes a vague alarm,
A shrinking in the memory
From some forgotten harm.

And often through the long, long night,
Waking when none are near,
I feel my heart beat fast with fright,
Yet know not what I fear.
Oh how I long to see the light,
And the sweet birds to hear!

To have the sun upon my face,
To look up through the trees,
To walk forth in the open space
And listen to the breeze,—
And not to dream the burial-place
Is clogging my weak knees.

Sometimes I can nor weep nor pray,
But am half stupefied:
And then all those who see me say
Mine eyes are opened wide
And that my wits seem gone away—
Ah, would that I had died!

Would I could die and be at peace,
Or living could forget!
My grief nor grows nor doth decrease,
But ever is:—and yet
Methinks, now, that all this shall cease
Before the sun shall set.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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She Brought Them All Kindly To Her Grave

of course i know what coldness is
apart from something that is cool

when mother died her hands were extremely cold
for my hold
i let them go
there was no sadness
there was that happiness of letting her rest
and giving myself a little space

for tomorrow
when coldness comes again in an empty room
with open windows
i know not what panic shall be

my hands are extremely cold these days
when i kiss them
my lips become frozen
they break like glasses

i cannot speak
there is no way that my tongue shall give in to
words
it cannot face coldness in the mirror
of my face

since you ask and you demand an explanation i open my hands
and i let your hands touch them

i cannot speak i am afraid i will be cruel
you must hold these extreme coldness for a long time
so you can all let them go
like white birds against a dark sky

so you can also experience what happiness
i had when i let go off
mama's fears

when mama closed her eyes
because what was important she knew
need not be said anymore

she brought them all kindly to her grave

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Old Rhyming Poet

In his early eighties his best days long gone
But the gray haired old poet he keeps penning on
Though many see him as of another time
Sixty years as a poet and still writing in rhyme.

Though not seen as a mentor to the young poets of the town
He once was the Regional Poet Laureate and he knew of renown
When rhyme it was popular a long time ago
And his hair was as dark as the wing of a crow.

Not hard to tell he's known a far better day
The old rhyming poet that the years have left gray
It has been more than five decades since he was in his prime
Eventually we all become victims of time.

In time as in life few things do seem to last
And verses that rhyme are now seen as of the past
But to him to stop writing would be living a lie
And he will be a poet till the day that he die.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Poet And The Lonely Lady

one summer a poet writes about
true love
and happiness
and this lonely lady
chances upon the lines of this poet

and she has tasted the sweetness
of happiness that love can bring

she loves every word in the poem
feels the ecstasy of every line
and every night
she says she cannot sleep
thinking, feeling,
wanting to be lost and be held in
his arms

she decides to love
the poet
ultimately
she travels to the place stated in his address
hoping to see him
so she will finally know
his love that touches her
in the bottom
of her heart

only to find out
it is sad
that the address does not exist
and the poet does not live there
and does not even
exist
perhaps only in the imagination
of those who want to love
and be loved

she is so sad she jumps into
a conclusion that love is a
lie
that the poet is a
liar

since then, she stops reading the poems
of that poet
(or any other poet)
who never dies
because he for once never ever lived
in the first place

except the poem
perhaps
which to date still convinces lonely ladies to live and believe
to love and be loved

that which defines
what love is
where love is found

and find it somehow in the arms of one
who is real, like it is alive, like it is true
to the one beside her
who touches her
with his
warm hands
who melts
her in his eyes

because
even unwritten by any poet

this love is still so beautiful....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Lady Of Solitude

All summer long she touched me
She gathered in my soul
From many a thorn, from many thickets
Her fingers, like a weavers
Quick and cool
And the light came from her body
And the night went through her grace
All summer long she touched me
And I knew her, I knew her
Face to face
And her dress was blue and silver
And her words were few and small
She is the vessel of the whole wide world
Mistress, oh mistress, of us all
Dearly dead; queen of solitude
I thank you with my heart
For keeping me so close to thee
While so many, oh so many, stood apart
And the light came from her body
And the night went through her grace
All summer long she touched me
I knew her, I knew her
Face to face

song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A new Poet

a new poet - first the
glow of the moon, then
overcast sky, then
thunder and lightning
the short interval between
shadows and lights
the delicate situations
that one has to fit in
on the page, white, yellow or blue
to make light, light
and the thunder, thunder,
and all the frightening winds
and storms that come in between
then the close of the rain
the loudness of the raindrops
taken over by drizzle and
little swirls of fresh breeze
that fuel the acme of enjoyment
for the senses and the mind
the final lines of a poem so well
written that it feels the weather
has cleared, so that the sun shines
through fleeces and in a sky so blue
one cannot help feel one has reached
wonderland - the glow of a new poet
is a child heaving in excitement
as he made that first round on the
pedals when he learns to cycle

rewritten from:

A new Poet

a new poet - first the
glow of the moon, then
overcast sky, then
thunder and lightning
the short interval between
shadows and lights
the delicate situations
that one has to fit in
on the page, white, yellow or blue
to make light, light
and the thunder, thunder,
and all the frightening winds
and storms that come in between
then the close of the rain
the loudness of the raindrops
taken over by drizzle and
little swirls of fresh breeze
that fuel the climax of enjoyment
for the senses and the mind
the final lines of a poem so well
written that it feels the weather
has cleared, so that the sun shines
through fleeces and a sky so blue
one cannot help feel one has reached
a piece of wonderland - the glow of
a new poet is a child heaving in excitement
of that first round he makes on
the pedals when he learns to cycle
j

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Snow

The voice of the tree gets frozen
and the snow falls on the heart of the winter

it has been broken
as always
but the craziness of lover and poet goes on

if the surreal dreams
touches the corridor
of my reality

I promise
I will not ask much from winter
an eternal coldness may be

it is naked
as always

no warmth
no warmth

Dear,

snow is falling everywhere
on the streets
on the trees, rooftops
and on the mirror
an ivory white
something....

and I'm breathing in
the dust of the snow
like I breathe the poetry of Mayakovosky

It pains
the long night
a broken naked winter

no! you can't be so heartless
neither I can...

Dear,
I have been like a pale winter
where snow is covering
my city of Veronese

but my frozen hand is trying to write

your name on it...!

poem by Jyotishman Debnath
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Under the same moon.

Under the same moon. (poem/storyline)

Separated by Miles,
True love strengthens by distance,
Two hands longing to be held,
Two hearts -Beating as one,

Two pairs of eyes,
See beyond the world,
The sky...Is not the sky,
The moon...Is not the moon,
The stars...Are not the stars,

But a gateway,
A runaway,
To being together,

Bonding as one,
both stare onto the clearing of the moon,
They see each other in the sky,
They stare upon it,
They feel, they realize
Their not alone, But standing face to face,
To find love under the moonlight,
Distance relives but shares the same sky,
The towns people are silent and asleep,
Only two names, one boy, one girl-
Exist as the waxing gibbous turns full,

Seconds pass by fast,
Her hand touches his heart,
His hand touches hers,
A sudden movement,
They are holding each other,
Locking hands and eyes,
Every night they visit the same moon,
Just to be with each other,
The morning slowly breaks the dark,
the sun takes over the moon,

Til' this day the moon has never gone,
But is hiding to come again every night,
to bring two together,

Years past,
the moon still never gone,
what was once a little boy, and once a little girl,
grow older,
They're skin wrinkles,
eye sight fades,
strength dims,
bones weaken,
But now together-
two look in each others eyes,
searching for the past,
for now and old woman,
and an old man,
Still holding each others hand.

That night they both go to heaven,
Together,

But as the moon shall come again,
there they will stand,
Together,
As a little boy and girl.

Holding each other,
under the same moon.

poem by Danie Babcock
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Untitled

Hopelessly adrift in the eyes of the ghost again
Down on my knees and my hands in the air again
Pushing my face in the memory of you again
But i never know if it's real never know how i
Wanted to feel never quite said what i wanted
To say to you never quite managed the words to
Explain to you never quite knew how to make
Them beleivable and now the time has gone
Another time undone hopelessly fighting the
Devil futility feeling the monster climb deeper
Inside of me feeling him gnawing my heart away
Hungrily i'll never lose this pain never dream of you again

song performed by by Cure
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poet And Woman

Woman, you are incomplete without poet,
Poet, you are also imperfect without woman.

The soil is incomple without the root of trees,
The sky is incomple without the clouds,
stars or the shining Moon,
The river is dead without the dancing of waves,
And, the poet's heart is a desert without a woman's love.

The forest is incomplete without the wild animals,
The sun is lost in darkness without its light,
The trees are but a row of emptiness-
without the chirping of the birds,
And, a woman is but half without a poet's imagination.

poem by Nazmul Haque
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The Poet Finds....

The poet finds whatever the moon could not see,
The poet finds whatever the earth does not know,
The poet finds whatever the sun could not see,
The poet finds whatever others do not know,
The poet finds whatever the stars could not see,
So why do the heathen rage and the people plot vanity? !
For she who is pregnant is closer to us,
And the hart pants after streams of water.
Your tears have been your food night and day,
And like your inner self in the lan dof your muse;
But the poet finds whatever the sun could not see.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I'm A Poet

I'm a Poet
A twister of words
I open a world unseen to others
I bring meaning to the meaningless
I use words as my weapon
It's a double edged sword
I can bring beauty to a slum land
Horror to a smile
I can give life to the dead
Immorality to a flower
Then destroy it in the next line
I'm a poet
A rhymer of words
I see the unseen
And create new worlds
I am an artist of the written
A magician of the pen
I can make words rhyme
Or go free verse
It all depends
On how I feel in that moment
I'm a poet
To the end

poem by Rachel Dowd
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The Right Mask

One night a poem came up to a poet
From now on, it said, you must wear a mask.
What kind of mask? asked the poet.
A rose mask, said the poem.
I've used it already, said the poet,
I've exhausted it.
Then wear the mask that's made out of
a nightingale's song, use that mask.
Oh, it's an old mask, said the poet,
it's all used up.
Nonsense, said the poem, it's the perfect mask,
still, try on the god mask,
now that mask illuminates heaven.
It's a tight mask, said the poet,
and the stars crawl about in it like ants.
Then try on the troubador's mask, or the singer's mask,
try on all the popular masks.
I have, said the poet, but they fit so easily.

The poem was getting impatient,
it stamped its feet like a child,
it screamed. Then try on your own face,
try the one mask that terrifies,
the mask only you could possibly use,
the mask only you could wear out.

The poet tore at his face til it bled,
this mask? he yelled, this mask?
Yes, said the poem, yes.

But the poet was tired of masks,
he had lived too long with them,
he snatched at the poem and stuck it in his face.
Its screams were muffled, it wept, it tried to be lyrical,
it wriggled into his eyes and mouth.

Next day his friends were afraid of him,
he looked so distorted.
Now it's the right mask, said the poem, the right mask.
It clung to him lovingly and never let go again.

poem by Brian Patten
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