Bring Forth
Bring forth the blind people who have understanding and,
The deaf who desire to hear the truth;
For a nation is now gathered around me,
And i will pour forth my speech in parables!
Know and believe me and read my lines,
For out of them flow the river of love! !
But like a path inthe mighty waters,
For the style of my poetry is now a new thing to you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Related quotes
Together we shall overcome
‘Together we shall overcome’
‘Poetry for the Deaf’
Eh! What
What Eh!
What did you say?
‘Poetry for the Blind’
It’s called Performance poetry
It’s loud; so real
It’s written down
But only in Braille
‘Poetry for the Dumb’
For their eyes only
Read only
Poetry for the Deaf, Blind and Dumb
We will work it out between us
Please don’t make it:
Evil; no hear
Evil; no see
Evil; no speak
Once it is explained
The words the pen did lay
We will all understand in our own way
Yes, once the words are written
In addition, the reasoning is known
We three together will decipher the poem
‘Together we shall overcome’.
MICMAC
poem by Michael Micmac Mccrory
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If life’s a river
If life’s a river
Flowing on a course
Long proven to be the best way
To reach the sea, then flow on
If the rocks and boulders
Are the cross
Each one of us is given to bear
Let our river flow around rocks
Over time, the sharp edged rocks will
Be rounded by the rivers flow
Ever there, but not so jagged
As they were before
The ever changing banks have seen
A trickle grow into a youthful stream
And swelling into a mighty river
That sometimes mingles with another
Every river looks for a path
That’s less rocky, a shorter way to the sea
Ever quietly flowing
Ceaselessly searching
Until one day, when it is time
A new path opens
The river changes path
And yet, every river pours into the sea.
poem by Anita Atina
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Lifted From Descriptive Restrictions
What is this thing called poetry?
Is it depictions...
Of vignettes connected.
Bridged between something said profound.
Recited as a sonnet...
With emotions sat upon it.
Exciting enough to be passed around?
Many try to describe poetry,
With an intellect approach...
Hoping to dull
Diverse interpretations,
With meters, tempo, rhyme
And lines counted!
Learned by rote and blurted.
Regurgitated from memory!
Can true poetry be defined without rhyme?
Can thoughts unconnected but colorized,
And flavored to moisten
Be the choice...
Of those who prefer their poetry moist?
Even though uncomprehending,
The meaning or intention of clues planted.
Seeded by the writer
Delighted to tease with mystery, sex
Or emotional pain aimed at the reader!
Can true poetry be defined,
As heartfelt expressions
Written to describe what then
Is in one's mind.
And who is to say there is a correct way
To reveal what one has to say with or without rhyme.
When those times come to pour a flow
That arrives and awaits the rush.
And thrusting that wish to be expressed as is!
What is this?
That has to find,
Poetic lines.
Requested or not!
When all it wants to do,
Is be delivered for what it is!
Searching for an accepted way...
In a style one owns,
Like none other conveys...
And lifted from descriptive restrictions,
To expand the demands of understanding!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Words of liberation for my nation
Chains of slavery are still over my people.
Notorious minds still over power innocent minds.
What can free the black child, what can free my nation?
I ask in pain and suffering in the dark jail cells,
What can free me from mental slavery?
How to know right from wrong?
How to think free and build a free society?
The solution is in the words of liberation, the words of wisdom.
I write and recite a revolution, my revolution my poetry.
I do n’t need praises or worship but only recognition and understanding of the people to words of liberation, understanding of poetry.
I stand before you to present poetry,
I stand before you to present the words of liberation to my nation.
Poetry that builds, poetry that destroys.
Poetry that destroyed the impious minds of colonists in Rhodesia.
I speak of poetry that built freedom in South Africa.
When I speak of poetry I mean the true meaning of words.
Words of wisdom,
Words of freedom,
Words of liberation,
Words to free my nation.
The words of liberation to my nation
Words of liberation to free my generation
Poetry-poetry-poetry-poetry-poetry.
poem by zimi Nakeni
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The Pool Of Poetry
From the Pool of Poetry let the thirsty spirit sup -
From truth and fantasy... Come, drink, and drain the cup!
According to your taste, from folly to sublime,
Each verse can be embraced or spurned twixt prose and rhyme!
Just bring your present views and all that you hold dear -
It’s up to you to choose from what you see and hear...
Perhaps you'll find a friend! A phrase you'd like to quote,
A tale you'd hate to end... Or some short anecdote!
Whatever you may find, twixt ecstasy and strife,
It could help change your mind and even change your life!
Each generation shares Man’s greatest legacy -
Wise children learn their prayers from the Pool of Poetry!
Discerning souls confess the debt they'll always owe
To bards that chose to bless each one that strives to grow!
From the Pool of Poetry comes wisdom that refines!
Yet insight is the key! Read thoughts between the lines!
For doctrines come and go and ‘facts’ of science, too...
Love’s Truth resists the flow and this God shares with you!
From the Pool of Poetry let the thirsty spirit sup!
From truth and fantasy... Drink up! Drink up! Drink up!
poem by Denis Martindale
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Daytime Nightime Suffering
What does she get for all the love she gave you
There on the ladder of regrets?
Mighty river, give her all she gets.
What does she get for all the love she gave you
There on the ladder of regrets?
Daytime nightime suffering is all she gets.
Where all the prizes for the games she entered
With little chance of much success?
Daytime nightime suffering is all she gets.
Come on, river, all the flow
Let your love of you people show.
Come on, river, flow through me,
Let your love of you people be.
You are the river, I am the stream.
Flow mighty river through me.
What does it pay to play the leading lady
When the like the damsel in distress
Daytime nightime suffering is all she gets?
No less (no less), no more (no more)
No sea (no sea), no shore (no shore)
No sand (no sand), no pail (no pail)
No fairy tale anymore.
Come on, river, flow through me
Dont be stopped by insanity.
Come on, river, overflow,
Let your love for your neighbours show.
You are the river, I am the stream.
Flget it.
But if we forget it every now and then.
But if you dont feel it, later on youll regret it.
And if we let it we could set it free, you and me.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry Is All In One!
Passion for poetry is insatiable!
Poetry gives pleasure nothing can!
Poetry is many subjects under one roof!
Poetry never bores to write and read ever!
Poetry is a compression of many ideas in a nut shell!
Poetry displays power of pen to capture men ever!
Poetry captures as photo castles built in air!
Poetry is spontaneous over flow of ides!
Poetry flows free if extemporary!
Poetry is prolific words sure!
Poetry is a thing of joy!
Poetry is beauty!
Poetry is witty!
Poetry cheers!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Waters Of Scapa Flow
Seagulls fly low over the waters
of Scapa Flow
where giant warships lie sleeping
in the waters far below.
At the end of the First World War
the Germans gathered their ship in line
and the scuttled them.
Rather than hand them over
to the victors of the war.
Now the mighty warships sleep soundly
with the fish deep blow
in the waters of Scapa Flow.
6 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Have I Lost The 'Visionary Gleam?
HAVE I LOST ‘THE VISIONARY GLEAM?
Have I lost the ‘visionary gleam’?
Did I ever have it?
Is Death ‘luckier than we’ think
Or ‘lucky’ at all?
How supreme can a fiction be?
And whoever really has drunk ‘the milk’ of paradise?
Why should a rose be sick or dead?
And why should ‘patience to prevent that murmur reply’?
Who said ‘The glory of God is davka in dappled things?
And what kind of fool compares what he builds to what ‘birds build’?
Can a skeptic be a poet in a real way?
Can poetry be read by those who doubt the truth of its lines?
Wasn’t he who said beauty is truth and truth beauty dying and lying at the same time?
What does it mean to steal a line of someone else‘s great beauty
And turn it into one’s own petty gripe?
Poetry is better served by the real thing,
Than by pastiches and parodies
And skeptical borrowers
And fake rivals in anxiety of influence-
One can take from the vast book of the living dead
The most treasured lines
And betray them into irony and silliness-
Yet those lines out-top the little later commentators
And make me wonder why I exercise my mind
In vain exercises like this
Instead of trying to write the true poetry-
‘Life is real life is earnest and the grave is not the goal’
Here he lies where he longed to be, home is the sailor home from the sea and the hunter from the hill’
Master of my fate, captain of my soul?
Do not take the lines literally
Read them with love and understanding
When they say something meaningful and beautiful to you
Hold on to them.
A poem is a poem for a that
Even for the wee slick cowrin beasties.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Read It And Learn From It
Create your won individual style as i am doing now,
For i know you by the poetry of your message;
But i am here to bring out a change.
This is my style and this is the muse that you want to read,
So read it and learn from it;
For the peace of my state of mind is talking to you.
Read it and learn from it,
For the industries are now ready for my conscience;
But this story is not over yet.
This is the poetry of a classical individual with the mystic order of life,
But live and let us live on this earth with peace and love;
For the colour of my heart is like the colours of the rainbow! !
And this creative writing of mine is for all to share.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I Flipped A Coin And It Landed On It's Side
Crazy people
who think themselves to be sane
crazy people
all around me....they are everywhere
speaking.....writing......conjecturing
a virtually endless and painful jeremiad
filled with lament and needless regret
that they see and they read.....
but fail to hear the dissenting word
interpreting it all as our fate
while they......deaf from rhetoric
and blind of the truth...
have mistaken me....for one of them
my worst nightmare.....
crazy people thinking that I give a damn
crazy people
maniacal and unglued
look around...do you see them too?
they out number us by many
and most of them vote
drive cars and write poetry
what to do?
we must try to blend in
or risk detection
only when we are no longer mistaken....for one of them
can we be who we are
What lunatics we all must become in order to survive
Copyright (c) 2007 Ted Sheridan
poem by Ted Sheridan
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I Like The Way
Somewhere inside my evolution
Karmically I seek retribution
Looking for love in physical beauty
Desire is the drug of the bourgeoisie
And now I try to intellectualize
Like a glimmer of good in a bad man's eyes
I am consumed by the flesh haunting me
I know temptation taunts the empty
So pour yourself over me
Until there's nothing left to see, yeah yeah
Because I like the way you move in the dark
I like the tension, the tension and the spark
The decadence of giving into desire
Creates such entropy within
Looking for love in spiritual faces
Blind to the art of fabrication
I'm like a baby sucking mama's milk
Want to drink my fill and then some
Leave me alone
I always thought I was better than this
But temptation tempts the temptee
Pour yourself over me
Until there's nothing left to see, yeah yeah
Oh, because I like the way you move in the dark
And I like the tension, the tension and the spark, oh
Because I like the way you move in the dark, oh
You know I like the tension, the tension and, the tension and the spark, oh
This physicality
Shifting me chemically
Such power over me
It's just desire
I know it's treachery (shifting me chemically)
I know it's just skin deep (such power over me)
I know I should resist
I'm just too tired
Too tired
There's just one thing missing
One thing missing here is
Love
I like the way you move in the dark
I like the tension, the tension and the spark (so pour yourself over me)
You know, I like the way you move in the dark (so pour yourself over me)
You know, I like the tension, the tension and, the tension and the spark
So pour yourself over me
(There's just one thing missing)
(One thing missing)
Until there's nothing left to see
(There's just one thing missing)
(The tension and the spark)
(One thing missing)
(So pour yourself over me)
There's just one thing missing
One thing missing
(So pour yourself over me)
(I like the tension, the tension and the spark)
(There's just one thing missing)
One thing missing here is...
Love
song performed by by Darren Hayes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Talking River
I hear the river
Words flow down the pebble creek through my heart
Defy my understanding
It comes from unknown source, and
Proceeds to unforeseen destinations
It mirrors everything in my life, and says
It’s okay to make mistake sometimes
River passes us by, and
Flow on to other places
So often I listen to it for a second
Hold the words in the palm of my hands
Before it slips through my fingers
Always the river
Remind me love and hatred has no end
So are words has no limits
I will listen to what you say, and
We listen to the river again
The talking river holds its promise
Its steady flow forgives all blemishes
Its current washes off sinking debris
Cleanse our heart as we listen to it
Ode To The Peshtigo
It starts as just a trickle, a spring which comes up from the ground, fed by many tributaries, to become one of the biggest rivers around.
Always there, constant flow.
Before it had its name, Native Americans used it as a highway, for even today people still travel it the same way.
This river has seen many a traveler, explorers, settlers, trappers, loggers, fishermen, hunters and boaters.
Spring, summer, fall and in winter, even though covered with a blanket of ice and snow, the river steadfast in its flow.
Stretches of water, blissful and serene.
Its rapids, waterfalls, noisy when one is near, yet tranquil to the ear.
This river is home to many animals, fish and birds.
For whoever visits this river, many places seem yet undisturbed, but one thing is certain, the river will always be there, constant flow, the mighty Peshtigo.
poem by Alvin Schaut
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I Am That Glorious Nothing, In Everyone and Everything!
It is dawn for me,
dawn of a life,
at dusk of my life,
Neither its a new life
nor its the old one,
When everything is destiny and fate,
Why I have to wish and will,
If Gods gave me something,
That took back with interest,
God is lovable lender of pressure
as well as pleasure,
Takes more than gave
and one's pain and loses of freedom
are the compound interest paid!
Prayer with desires and ambitions,
Succeeded only to make me prey to more desires!
Every heart is full of love,
And that it filled with Life's love,
And it make one
love the life!
Life's own turns,
Depends on the path destined,
Radius of the path make all difference!
Sometimes it flows like a river, dives deep,
Or has more depth, where it flow slow,
Sometimes fast where depth is low!
Life is a like river for the one who destined to flow down to ocean,
But life is not river to one has seen ocean everywhere,
Life doesn't flow,
Only it is flow of energy from higher potential to lower potential,
From youth to old age,
From freedom to bondage of senses and deeds!
Think Ramdas, Think of that great Truth,
Where there is one neither born nor die,
Only dream and sigh!
From that nothingness,
Nothing I brought,
To that nothingness I can't take anything,
Whatever looks like this thing, that thing,
Everything is nothing
for this nothing, neither came nor go,
I am neither a glacier to melt and flow,
nor I am rock to stay here!
I must go before I want to know myself,
I want to die in my ownself,
Before I can live unto my own
nature!
I never want win anything,
As my win is not my win,
And I have neither one to win,
Nor something to win,
As I amthat everything in nothing
And that glorious nothing among everyone and everything!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Poem about Poetry - Writing poetry for poetry's sake
does the waterfall fall
because it wants to be heard, seen?
does the mighty river flow
because it wants to be admired, painted?
does the rainbow arc over the sky
because it wants to listen to a love wish made in its name?
does the moon shine because it wants to be written an ode?
no, no, none cares for even an echo of a response from the world.
so should poet, shouldnt he?
poetry, yes poetry,
should run through him
like the river that pours out to sea
the water that cascades down the waterfall
the rainbow that colours the sky
the moon that subtly crowns, lights up night
without those ego/desire attachments
where buddha appends all human sufferings
real poetry runs from that part of our soul, world
that is a part of everybody's world
like the river, waterfall, rainbow and moon
admiration, if any, goes back to nature
where the poets belong
real poets as homo sapiens dont crave for them.
they are not instruments made for such low ideals
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Watching The River Flow
Whats the matter with me,
I dont have much to say,
Daylight sneakin through the window
And Im still in this all-night cafe.
Walkin to and fro beneath the moon
Out to where the trucks are rollin slow,
To sit down on this bank of sand
And watch the river flow.
Wish I was back in the city
Instead of this old bank of sand,
With the sun beating down over the chimney tops
And the one I love so close at hand.
If I had wings and I could fly,
I know where I would go.
But right now Ill just sit here so contentedly
And watch the river flow.
People disagreeing on all just about everything, yeah,
Makes you stop and all wonder why.
Why only yesterday I saw somebody on the street
Who just couldnt help but cry.
Oh, this ol river keeps on rollin, though,
No matter what gets in the way and which way the wind does blow,
And as long as it does Ill just sit here
And watch the river flow.
People disagreeing everywhere you look,
Makes you wanna stop and read a book.
Why only yesterday I saw somebody on the street
That was really shook.
But this ol river keeps on rollin, though,
No matter what gets in the way and which way the wind does blow,
And as long as it does Ill just sit here
And watch the river flow.
Watch the river flow,
Watchin the river flow,
Watchin the river flow,
But Ill sit down on this bank of sand
And watch the river flow.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I want someone to read
I want someone to read
my poetry today
and somehow I want it
to be something
that brings joy and a smile,
or something that makes
teardrops flow,
or to give a better understanding
of life and its intricacies,
Or a person to pause
to think about the deeper cause
and never just to be
another dull thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On The Poet And Poetry: The Complete Text
1
Shakespeare and Kalidas and Homer
had no need to flaunt qualifications
so don’t trumpet too much of yours
2
in this kingdom
where one writes
there is no seniority, each is equal
3
it is not important to be a poet;
the thing is to bring the poetry
4
one may win titles
and may be crowned Poet Laureate:
but only time points out
the poet from the crumpet
5
none of your self
and none of your importance here:
just poetry, if you can,
poetry is all that’s needed
6
poetry can be
like a sky filled with wrangling clouds
or as a sky without a wisp
7
in poetry one wakes from dreams
and it may yet be
that one’s wakefulness is itself but a dream
8
in poetry there are no
clichés in thought and phrase;
and what is left there is
the resplendent and the living
9
the writer who repeats
inaptly
word, phrase and concept read or heard
comes second-hand into a market for bad verse
10
one writes;
one does not fill one’s mind with the words:
I want to achieve
11
one writes and
the self disappears
and what is left is understanding
12
poetry leaves one
rich inside
and ordinary outside
13
the fool defines poetry
and poetry defies all definitions
14
poetry entertains, inspires;
poetry tickles, distracts, and shapes and frees -
but its true intent, no one knows
15
expand your understanding of the self –
it includes the world
16
if one had no coins
one cannot buy bread;
but not all the world’s wealth
can bring you poetry
17
celebrate your locality
but go beyond the parochial;
go beyond the region’s arrogance
to reach minds across cyberspace
18
many lines, and countless lines
many pages, and thick volumes
don’t make poetry
19
Oh no!
Not another love poem!
Oh no!
Not another poem about oneself!
20
rhyme, technique and meter
and tricks of prosody
don’t make poetry: passion does
21
the fool speaks of having
written the most number of poems in the world;
and the same fool speaks of quantity
22
we rarely succeed
if one does not go
beyond oneself
23
you wink, you twinkle
you want praise;
you write and you publish online
and you want to win titles –
and so poetry eludes you always
24
a hundred titles, a hundred prizes
a hundred spots of fame
and international renown
all these pale, all pale
before a single line of luminosity
25
the ambitious write pathetic verse;
the lover yields
and poetry embraces such a one
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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