Poetas En Este Mundo
Poetas En Este Mundo (Spanish Version)
Escribiendo poesia
Es un arte muy profundo
Yo creo que hay muy pocos
Poetas en este mundo
Poets in this world (English Version)
Writing Poetry
Is an art that is very deep
I think there are very few
Poets in this world
Edwin Tanguma (10/9/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
No Se Que Hacer Con Tigo (Spanish And English Versions)
No Se Que Hacer Con Tigo (Spanish And English Versions)
No se que hacer con tigo
La muerte no trai umbligo
No tengo nigun amigo
Que mas quieres que te digo
I Don't Know What To Do With You (English Version?
I don't know what to do with you
Death does not have a belly button
I don't have a single friend
What more do you want me to say to you
Edwin Tanguma (10/10/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He, The World and I
There was the world
I walked on the world
He was there, and there existed the rest of the world
He had the world
I was in the rest of his world
There was someone else in his world.
Then, it was over.
-
Ele, o mundo e eu.
Existia o mundo
Eu passava pelo mundo
Ele havia, e existia o resto do mundo
Ele tinha o mundo
Eu estava no seu resto de mundo
Existia outrem em seu mundo.
Então veio o fim.
poem by A.J. Simiema
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Poets'food
I find poetry in my life
In my smiles
In my tears
In my day to day sufferings
I find poetry in my sadnesses
Humiliations, disillusionments
I find poetry from the night badly slept
From my dreams badly dreamed,
Lost in the blackout of my life
I find poetry of what I could have lived
And I didn’t.
I find poetry from everything I have lost,
Of what I tried to give but I couldn’t
I find poetry from my soul,
from my viscera so that everybody
Can smile.
.
ALIMENTO DOS POETAS
Tiro a poesia
de minha vida
dos meus sorrisos
de minhas lágrimas
de meus sofrimentos
do dia a dia.
tiro a poesia,
das minhas tristezas
humilhações, decepções
tiro a poesia
das noites mal dormidas
dos meus sonhos
mal sonhados, perdidos
na escuridão de minha vida
tiro a poesia
daquilo que poderia
ter vivido e não vivi.
tiro a poesia de tudo que perdi,
daquilo que tentei dar e não consegui
tiro a poesia
da minha alma,
das minhas entranhas
para que todos possam sorrir.
Translated by Nelson Francisco de Andrade
poem by UMBELINA FROTA Linhares Pimenta Bastos
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing Poetry Is A Cosmic Trip (Italian Sonnet)
Writing Poetry Is A Cosmic Trip (Italian Sonnet)
Writing poetry is a cosmic trip
There are infinite possibilities
Its like sailing a ship upon the seas
You never know what will roll off your lip
There are times you have to shoot from the hip
It's easy to write about birds and bees
Its hard when you write about ticks and fleas
People want to read what's modern and hip
Most cultures change as time goes rolling by
The arts are constantly evolving too
The artist must always be flexible
He must be like the fox cunning and sly
A poet is a master of word cull
He should not think can I he must just do
Edwin Tanguma (10/06/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Trilce
Hay un lugar que yo me sé
en este mundo, nada menos,
adonde nunca llegaremos.
Donde, aún sin nuestro pie
llegase a dar por un instante
será, en verdad, como no estarse.
Es ese un sitio que se ve
a cada rato en esta vida,
andando, andando de uno en fila.
Más acá de mí mismo y de
mi par de yemas, lo he entrevisto
siempre lejos de los destinos.
Ya podéis iros a pie
o a puro sentimiento en pelo,
que a él no arriban ni los sellos.
El horizonte color té
se muere por colonizarle
para su gran Cualquieraparte.
Mas el lugar que yo me sé,
en este mundo, nada menos,
hombreado va con los reversos.
-Cerrad aquella puerta que
está entreabierta en las entrañas
de ese espejo. -¿Esta? - No; su hermana.
-No se puede cerrar. No se
puede llegar nunca a aquel sitio
-do van en rama los pestillos.
Tal es el lugar que yo me sé.
In English
There is a place that I know to me
in this world, nothing less,
where never we will arrive.
Where, still without our foot
it got to give for a moment
it will be, in truth, like not being.
A site is that that is seen
in each short while in this life,
walking, walking of one in row.
More here of same me and of
my pair of yolks, I have interviewed it
always far from the destinies.
Already you can iros on foot
or to pure feeling in hair,
that at him they do not arrive nor seals.
The horizon color tea
one dies to colonize to him
for its great Cualquieraparte.
But the place that I know to me,
in this world, nothing less,
hombreado it goes with the reversos.
- You close that door that
it is half-opened in the entrails
of that mirror. - This? - No; its sister.
- it is not possible to be closed. Not
she can never arrive at that site
- do goes in branch the latches.
So it is the place that I know to me.
poem by Cesar Vallejo
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Private Poetry
Every poem, Every poetry,
Where are all the poets?
Hiding out, Hiding away.
In the beaches, forests,
In the caves and rooms,
In the islands and temples.
Make their private poetry,
Every now and then,
Here and there,
Over here, Over there.
Somewhere, somewhen,
Someone, somebody,
No one, No body,
Some here, some there.
Somehow, not matter how,
Everywhere, every when,
Every turn, every look,
Every search, every research,
There is a private poet.
Making a private poetry,
Writing private poems,
Writing lovely poems,
Writing profound poetries.
For the world and all
To ponder,
To reflect,
To open our heart,
To hear and listen;
What poets have
To say and write,
In a private poetry,
For the world to read
And treasure.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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What More Is There To Do
What More Is There To Do
What more is there to do
What more is there to say
At times poetry seems
Like it is mere child's play
Edwin Tanguma (10/9/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Are A Few Poets
THERE ARE A FEW POETS
There are a few poets
Beyond the poetry you and I know
And are capable of –
There are a few poets
Who seem to write a poetry
Which is Poetry itself,
A Poetry which is everything Poetry should be-
Those poets are somewhere else
On a level far beyond any we can hope to reach-
They are Poetry –
And we we are the little listeners and readers
Who can in awe and praise worship
What we ourselves will forever be incapable of.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Will Miss All Of You
I Will Miss All Of You
I have grown weary
Of writing poetry ‘til dawn
I don't think that you all will miss me
When I am finally gone
Poetry is my love
And I will miss her much
But when it comes to poems
I have written a bunch
I will miss all of you
Whom I call my friends
If it were not for you all
I would never have picked up my pens
Maybe one day I will come back
To play with you all with our words
For there will always be the many
Who think that our poetry is for the birds
Edwin Tanguma 2/28/2012
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Il Volo
He caminado por las calles
Las luces de tus ojos
Y siempre al fin decirte solo ado dispara
Te di mi amor y no lo olvides
El corazn y el anima
Y siempre al fin decirte solo ado
Cuando el dolor te tome...Oh no
Cuando el amor te implore
Abrzalo, abrzalo
Sueo un mundo de oro
Que se ilumine todo me har tanto bien.
Es un sueo, algo verdadero
Que ilumine el cielo
Nada que perder.
He visto el sol en esos ojos
Que fueron mi quimera
Y siempre al fin decirte solo ado dispara
Te di mi amor y no lo olvides
Mi corazn, mi anima
Y siempre al fin decirte solo ado
Que a donde van los das mi amor
Las fugas, las caidas
Abrzalo, abrzalo
Sueo un mundo de oro
Hemos cado en vuelo
Mi sol
Hemos cado en vuelo
Hemos cado en vuelo
Mi cielo
Hemos cado en vuelo
Baby don't cry, Baby don't cry, Baby don't cry,
Baby don't cry, Baby don't cry
Y si este amor inmenso Te doy
Este dolor que ciento
Abrzalo, abrzalo
Sueo un mundo de oro
Es un sueo algo verdadero
song performed by by Zucchero
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Este Seu Olhar
Este seu olhar is so romantic
Este seu olhar is beautiful
Este seu olhar is full of love
Este seu olhar is full of mystery
poem by Aldo Kraas
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You Scare Me
You Scare Me (This one is written for and about poetry. It is not meant to or for any person in general)
You scare me
More than you'll ever know
That is why
I feel that I must go
Edwin Tanguma (9/28/2011)
poem by Edwin Tanguma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let the world change you and you can change the world. (Deje el mundo cambiarle y usted puede cambiar el mundo.)
quote by Che Guevara
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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For All The Poets
FOR ALL THE POETS
This is a poem for all the poets who have no name,
For all those who have written and failed,
And for those who have not written,
And failed.
This is a poem for all the poets who dreamed themselves poets,
And were never, and will be known as poets
To the world.
This a poem for all those
Who after years of effort
Still live in an oblivion
They will die in.
This is a poem for all those
Who whether they have poetry in them or not,
Will never be heard or read,
For what their hearts must tell
Someone else.
This is a poem for all the silent poets
Those who live in silence
And whose silence is eternal
For all those whose only poetry
is the poem they have lived within themselves.
This is a poem for all those who would- be poets
And a poem for those
Who despite their efforts
Did not make their poem known.
This is a poem which may be for you,
And I know is for me
A confession
To make us less alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poets and Poetry
Poets love writing poetry Poetry releases there feelings there are all kinds of poetry, but poetry is in all life nothing can change that. Poets and Poetry is always around us this poetry is about poetry so you decide if you want poetry in your life.
poem by Jeeva Premachandran
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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