Unknown
She is most fair,
And when they see her pass
The poets' ladies
Look no more in the glass
But after her.
On a bleak moor
Running under the moon
She lures a poet,
Once proud or happy, soon
Far from his door.
Beside a train,
Because they saw her go,
Or failed to see her,
Travellers and watchers know
Another pain.
The simple lack
Of her is more to me
Than others' presence,
Whether life splendid be
Or utter black.
I have not seen,
I have no news of her;
I can tell only
She is not here, but there
She might have been.
She is to be kissed
Only perhaps by me;
She may be seeking
Me and no other; she
May not exist.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Related quotes
The Poet
The poet can only utter the word fine
The poet has to bear the sorrow and the sin.
The poet can only say I am happy
The poet can only say I feel no aches no pain
The poet can only say I am not in loss
The poet can only say I am in the side of only gain.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Running For My Life
Running
Down the hall
The bell is ringing
I’m late for class
I’m late for life
Running
From this thing
This big, black, ugly
Swirling, shifting, changing thing
This thing that is everything
But is thin as air
Is really nothing at all
Running
From this thing
This thing I call “The Black”
That chases me
Seemingly
For all eternity
Running
From my past
Passing right by the present
Into my future
Into one of these doors
The doors that line the hall
The hall of life I’m running down
Running because I’m late
Running for my life
Running
Past these doors
One of them is the right door
The door through which I must go
Oh, how do I know
Which key on the jingling ring in my hand
Opens the door to my future?
The door to everything
I’ve ever wanted to do
Or be
The one door through which
That thing
The Black
Cannot follow me
Oh, look
Up ahead
That might be it
That door just screams my name
(But they won’t like that door –
It doesn’t fit their mold)
So what?
Who cares?
It’s my life
It’s my future
That door is me!
Now I’m
Searching
For the key.
The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The life of a Poet
The poet listens
the poet hears
he writes down
all his fears.
He observes things
that others don't
going to places
that others won't.
Inspired by simple things
like a sound or smell
the poet has lots
of stories to tell.
Even when asleep
his mind isn't at rest
in fact this is the time
it's at it's creative best.
The poet can be a restless soul
his life reflected on the page
some verse can be sweet and mild
then full of anger and rage.
The poet can be mysterious
and write in a strange way
he will say Black is White
and that night is day.
The poet is an artist
but instead of paint it's the word
painters want their work to be seen
but poets just need to be heard.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Water On Glass
Written by ricky & marty wilde
Cascading down
Theres a sound vaporising into vision
Its a sound in my head
That I feel and it shuts me in a prison
Say it wont last
Say it will pass
Always the sound in my brain
Can you hear it
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
Dancing away
Like the lights on a moving coloured river
Sounds in my head seem to run
And again I feel a shiver
Say it wont last
Pray it will pass
Always that sound in my brain
Can you hear it (can you hear it)
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
Water on glass running down again
Water on glass that sound
Water on glass running round again
Help me, the sound of running waters
Coming down
song performed by by Kim Wilde
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Lady Fair
She is most fair
When they see her pass
Other ladies
Look no more into mirrored glass
But at her
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Running running
Running Running
away from my tears
away from my pain
away from my fears
away from my shame
away from my peers
Running Running
ill be with you there
ill make you happy
Ill be your right pair
Rnning Running
i wish i was gay
i wish for that happiness
i wish? must i may?
Running Running
im running so fast
away from my family
away from my past
running running
i am so ashamed
i am so embarrassed
im a bottle of pain
poem by Brittany Ray
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Travellers gallery
Travellers gallery
~
welcome to the travellers gallery
the windows frame a world
from water coloured rivers
to pastel forests and fields
sketched out towns spread out
between charcoal cities
nameless people, faces
all passing in a hurry
the travellers gallery presents
a life in motion exhibition
all in natural hue colour
by bus, train or car
the landscape and portraits
become ingrained in memory
welcome to the travellers gallery
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Ghost And Me
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
Everybody has washed their hand clean of...
A mistake that never happen.
A birth that was more like a regurgitation.
I didn't mean to do that.
Oh oh but you did.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
Now tell me
How hard is it to forgive
When one denies you everyday..?
Oh just disappear.
I wish you weren't here.
Those are the words I continuously hear.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
Voices marching to a beat.
Voices marching to an eventual defeat.
Running through a slaughter house just to fix a broken soul.
An what does it expose?
Is the blood real?
A talentless man with no cloths.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
I hate it.
It isn't fair.
But in this world of despair.
Tears will never heal these wounds.
For they're continuously felt each and everyday.
The pain will never go away.
It is here to stay.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
No never again.
A march to the very end.
When I'm hanging from that rope
I want nothing from you.
It is what you gave me.
Suffering silence.
The stillness that is so quiet.
No one is here except...
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Song
Now we will be happy, happy, happy,
and, lordy, lordy,
happy and happier still,
happy running down the happy hill
like two happy rills and more
hoarding the strands of their song
into a happy orotorio
falling down, down, down, headlong
running to calm cadenzas of pooled skill
run, run, run, run, run
if happiness, mind you, were the moon
I'd grab both its horns and hang on.
Now we shall be happy, happy, happy
and happy, happy, we'll
be happy and happier still
happy running over the happy hill.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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New Train
Full blown silence in an empty room
A former bride and a former groom
A folding table and a folding chair
A folded hand of poker there
All new directions must go everywhere
Big round people in a cool little square
You cant cut it with a boat or a plane
Man its gonna take a new train
Youll be leaving on a new train
Far away from this world of pain
And when you look out your window youll see
Your home your baby and your family
No melted ice cube in a paper cup
Hell youll be happy youll be all shook up
The friends that greet you will be
Simple and plain
When you step down from that new train
Collected volumes of history say
Man makes mistakes most everyday
The half a pound of chopped ground round
Is still a burger when it goes downtown
No faded photographs of yesterdays
Are in the books that I read these days
To fly away from that memory town
You must keep both your feet on the ground
Cause youll be leaving on a new train
Far away from this world of pain
And when you look out your window youll see
Your home your baby and your family
No melted ice cube in a paper cup
Hell youll be happy youll be all shook up
The friends that greet you will be
Simple and plain
When you step down from that new train
Ill be leaving on a new train
Far away from this world of pain
The friends that greet me will be
Simple and plain
When I step down from that new train
New train, new train.
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The war Widow
I.
Black-veiled, black-gowned, she rides in bus and train,
With eyes that fill too listlessly for tears.
Her waxen hands clasp and unclasp again.
_Good News_, they cry. She neither sees nor hears.
Good News, perhaps, may crown some far-off king.
Good News may peal the glory of the state--
Good News may cause the courts of heaven to ring.
She sees a hand waved at a garden gate.
For her dull ears are tuned to other themes;
And her dim eyes can never see aright.
She glides--a ghost--through all her April dreams,
To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night.
Wraiths of a truth that others never knew;
And yet--for her--the only truth that's true.
II.
_Good News! Good News!_ There is no way but this.
Out of the night a star begins to rise.
I know not where my soul's deep Master is;
Nor can I hear those angels in the skies;
Nor follow him, as childhood used of old,
By radiant seas, in those time-hallowed tales.
Only, at times, implacable and cold,
From this blind gloom, stand out the iron nails.
Yet, at this world's heart stands the Eternal Cross,
The ultimate frame of moon and star and sun,
Where Love with out-stretched arms, in utter loss,
Points East and West and makes the whole world one.
_Good News! Good News!_ There is no hope, no way,
No truth, no life, but leads through Christmas Day.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poets, Oh! Poets awake awake and face the world!
Life is bright and a pleasure to enjoy!
And above how nice to see the moon light!
Love is without blemishes and bliss in life!
Poets lie; lie more as much as you can!
Always write the positive traits
And suppress the negative, is it your habit
Or consciously do you do, to flinch the reality?
How do you get pleasure living in falsehood?
Life may be bright and but it has darkness inside
Which can't be overlooked, the moon has a spot
Love is a lust tick which sucks blood.
Poets play happy, happy game as much as you can!
But reality is truth, truth is the more reality
Make believe is a fairy tale lies only in the dream
When you awake it breaks in thousand pieces
Poets, oh! Poets awake, awake and face the world,
As it is! It is more beautiful and more truth in it.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Seeking For Happiness
Seeking for happiness we must go slowly;
The road leads not down avenues of haste;
But often gently winds through by ways lowly,
Whose hidden pleasures are serene and chaste.
Seeking for happiness we must take heed
Of simple joys that are not found in speed.
Eager for noon-time's large effulgent splendour,
Too oft we miss the beauty of the dawn,
Which tiptoes by us, evanescent, tender,
Its pure delights unrecognised till gone.
Seeking for happiness we needs must care
For all the little things that make life fair.
Dreaming of future pleasures and achievements
We must not let to-day starve at our door;
Nor wait till after losses and bereavements
Before we count the riches in our store.
Seeking for happiness we must prize this-
Not what will be, or was, but that which is.
In simple pathways hand in hand with duty
(With faith and love, too, ever at her side),
May happiness be met in all her beauty
The while we search for her both far and wide.
Seeking for happiness we find the way
Doing the things we ought to do each day.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Eyes of Swayambhu
Beloved poet 'Icchuk'!
On one of those days that have become history
a few days before you were killed
we are together - you and I
and with a pair of underground hands
you had scribbled a couple of sleepless dreams
at this very place
where, under the eyes of Swambhu
I am at present
seeking for those days
albeit in recollections!
Beloved poet 'Icchuk'!
When the news of your murder
reached villages and counties
like a momentous storm
the eyelashes of all seekers of a bright sky
were simultaneously soaked
and villages, tired of scarcities
wept along with me.
Papers sold more copies
for carrying the news of your demise.
The hapless people wept at your end
until their tears gathered to form a Gandaki -
yes, they were the same people
whose future you are seeking
even after your demise
the way people search for saligrams
in Kaligandaki.
Children sang mourning songs.
Beloved poet 'Icchuk'!
All these happened at the news of your murder!
A day after your murder
I asked the keen eyes of Swayambhu
whether a sun
with an old bag
and a lean body
roamed around, thither
as it did a day or so
earlier in the past.
I asked further
if a moon with sweet dreams
came that way, or not.
Have you seen
the foot marks of his murder?
Mounted on the top of this hill
did you recognize
the corpse of my beloved poet?
Tell o, the great eyes of Swayambhu!
You were, for sure a witness,
when my beloved poet was killed.
Did you ever see him around?
©
poem by Matrika Pokharel
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Poetribute
Poets are few
But the pens are plenty Is like the world is running to his end
With no minute and hour paused to rest
Running as if to fulfil long-told revelation
Poets have all gone beneath the sand
The pregnant graveyards
Where they sleep with the hope to be born
To another world hereafter
Death be not proud
You can only claim the flesh
But not the soul
O the poets are few
And the pens are plenty
Hard are the words out.
To combat untruth in men
poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
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