Hidden Away
There are too many melodies
that go unheard.
For they are still in the mind
of those unstirred.
There are too many poems
that go unread.
For they are still in the mind
of the poet's head.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Related quotes
My poems are stored
My poems are stored
In a funeral box
Kept beside the bed
They go unread
Similar objects are kept
Locked in my heart and head
They go unread
The habitation of my poems
Is bonded red
They go unread
All poems are offerings
To the god that can not read
For poems are only human
Made things
The bees do not care for them
Neither does the birds
Or the trees with better
Things to do then
Take note of them.
poem by David E. Patton
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Sonnet: the Master Poet
’Tis God who inspires in me fire!
He is the Master-Sculptor and Poet!
I play a melody with strings well-set;
God-kindled heart of mine becomes a lyre.
Every poet speaks to God in his mind,
In ways so strange that both can understand;
The Poet is a singer in his band;
To God’s tenets, his songs will always bind,
With time, he communicates very fast;
The Poet takes up every word of His;
And so the poems get very well cast;
As if God gave the poet’s mind- bliss.
To thee belongs my poems, O my Lord!
They are made great byThy divine accord.
3-3-2000
poem by John Celes
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For my poems, written so early
For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,
That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
For my poems about youth and death
-- For my unread poems!
Scattered in dusty bookstores,
Where no one ever buys them!
For my poems, like precious wines,
A time will come.
poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
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Flooding
Flooding
Posting volumes
Of several poems
Covers the page
Blocks other choices
And fences other writers
Yet is no guarantee
That flooding is read
For all the poetry
For the myriad words said
Remains suspended
Unread
Unread
Unread
Dead.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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A Poem Means More Than It Says
THE POEM MEANS MORE THAN IT SAYS
The poem means more than it says.
It hears within itself the sense of what a page can’t know-
It finds in the eyes of those who approach it- melodies
Whose music relates to other poems
Read years ago –
The poem means more than it says
Because in us
What Poetry is- speaks wisely
Through every dream our hands can’t reach
Through every sound our mind cannot fathom
Through worlds elsewhere
That know more than us
And layer us deeper and deeper
In troublesome sounds unheard.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Snooze
I snooze off
With poems
In my mind
I rise up with
Poems in my
Mind
If I write
Too many
Poems…
For you
To read,
Hope you
Will not
Mind ;)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Small Need...
Let me write some poems
Let me be a poet.
Give me a pen,
Give me a paper,
And give me a few thoughts.
Let the world know me a lot
Let me be a clot.
Give my poems a rhyme
Give them a rhythum too.
And give me a name.
Let my poems be recited by all
Let my lines be quoted by the world.
Give me your fingers
Give me your mind as well.
Let me too be a poet.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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A Journey Of A Poet
A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.
Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions
A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind
With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry
Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words
A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.
A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection
A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Nosratollah Masoudi
Three short poems by Iranian poet Nosratollah Masoudi. The first two are love poems and the last is an elegy.
------
Four
The wind that does not leave your skirt,
Tempted nobody except me.
-----
Seven
I’m so naked these days, that
Your coyness can not be found in any shirt.
------
Eight
I rush around creepingly,
I even pass the dog and
In this unheard race
Near the side road,
I’m waiting for the mercy of the run away truck.
Poems translated from the Persian by Azadeh Davachi
poem by azadeh Davachi
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Epitaph For A Poet
His poems in millions sold
The poet lies here dead and cold!
Here lies the poet
Who through toil and sweat
Played word games,
Wrote many poems.
From his heart deep thoughts
Poured out in lots
Creations of his mind
Made his readers blind.
How was he as a person?
It’s mostly unknown
His own comforts he did embrace
Little he cared for others’ happiness
With mortal temptations he was bewitched
Never followed the values he preached.
Small lapses (or are they?) for a poet so great
Aloof in life, he lies solitary in death!
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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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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Like A Poet
My mind is like a Poet,
My mind is like a Mathematician,
My mind is like an Artist,
But love yourself and believe in yourself first!
Then you can compete well in this world.
Life is like fire in the wilderness at times!
But use your mind positively to correct your mistakes always;
And like your lover at the 'Space University'!
But in peace i will rule the world with my poetry,
And like a well know Poet in your neighbourhood.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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No Unread Poem Will End The Despair I Feel Now
NO UNREAD POEM WILL END THE DESPAIR I FEEL NOW
No unread poem will end the despair I feel now
Nor will a poem read
By one or two.
Should the world say
I am a poet.
Perhaps this would mean something.
I don’t know.
No one knows,
No one cares.
I am a poet only for myself
And for myself too
This begins to be
Nothing.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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To Mary Ruefle, poet
and since you're an
American Poet or
a poet writing in English
or however you might put this
in a cv which you'll surely
never need being unique
and therefore beyond all
job descriptions except poet
since you're, well, those things or
that thing
you may never have seen
a kangaroo (and in a zoo
they can't hop..)
but if you do you'll recognise it
when I say it - your mind
is metaphorically, and no-one
handles metaphors like you do may I say,
like a kangaroo - huge hops
off into the horizon of thought
with what in marsupial body-language
may be bounding, boundless
joy
a kangaroo which might in the world
of your poems which I can't hope
to imitate but I'll have a go,
be carrying a baby roo in its pouch with
its head sticking out
and a backward glance towards you
who one day will return grown-up
with a crumpled poem
in its own pouch
addressed to Mary Ruefle
mentioning in passing
immortality
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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0027 In Honour of Honour and WHAuden
You asked me which of Auden’s poems
were my favourite, and I sighed
for memory’s fade, then walked to the dusty shelf
where next to those volumes of Eliot
with their brown-paper covers for those
precious wartime books allowed
a ration of Canadian paper for
fighting men to read in those
few moments of leisure for the open heart and
the vision of a peacetime world, was
‘Collected Shorter Poems 1930-1944 W.H.Auden’
which fell open at page 54,
‘In Memory of W.B.Yeats (d.January 1939) ’
‘Earth, receive an honoured guest…’;
those pages yellowed more than
the others around them as if
read often late at night
under what was still gaslight
with respectful but unwashed hands
after cocoa and biscuits with a scrape of butter
and it all came back: 1953, that was the year
when there was only one poet Yeats..
and poetry and music were the same;
I turned the pages – they fell open once again,
‘Time will say nothing but I told you so’…
So many poems there, unread, or unremembered,
how could it be that I abandoned Auden,
not hearing his music, while
other interests began to pull?
Then I sat silent at the thought
that a great poet of great mind, great heart,
was writing, writing, most of my lifetime
while I was wrapt in other things;
sat silent, honouring
what is to be honoured
as best we can;
what is to be honoured.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Silvery Beauty Vavroovahana Patra
Innocent silvery beauty passes on the way;
Poet beholds the beauty of Beauty with gay.
The creation of Nature is alluring;
Innocent Beauty is dazzling.
Beautiful face allures passes by;
Allures lovers with gay.
Beauty is the creation of Almighty;
Beholding, poet derives gaiety.
Beauty tranquilises poet's mind on the way;
Poet derives profound peace with gay.
Curly crisp wavy long cloudy hairs entice the poet;
Mind remains in the world of peace with delight.
Innocent beautiful face allures the poet in evening;
Poet's mind is delighting.
With a little conversation mind is peaceful;
Her sweet talk is delightful.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The Music
The music flows through me
its with me everyday
the melodies flit through my mind
I can never them out of my head
It never leaves
but thats OK
you see,
I don’t mind
not one bit
because without my beautiful music
I would be nothing
I would be a hallow shell
I would look the same
but without my music
I am dead inside
Oh, the world will go on
but my own personal world
will end
so I pray that my music,
the music in my head,
never leaves
poem by Lilinoe Hall
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Which Poems Are True and Which Poems Only A Story?
WHICH POEMS ARE TRUE AND WHICH POEMS ONLY A STORY?
Which poems are true
and which poems only a story?
There are poems I have to write
They are the heart of who I am-
And other poems that tell a story my mind makes
And takes me where I do not know I'll ever really be-
There are real poems and there are imaginary poems-
And there are poems-in- between like this one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Bored On Saturday
Sitting On The Bed
Bored Out My Mind
The Only Kid Home On A Saturday
No Celly, No Food
I'm Hungry!
Nobody To Talk To
Bored Out My Mind
My Head Hurts
I Want To Do Something
I Am Bored Out My Mind
I Can't Sleep
I Can't Eat
THERE'S NO FOOD
HERE I AM ON A SATURDAY NIGHT WRITING POEMS AND I AM OFFICIALLY BORED OUT MY MIND!
poem by Monisha Meadows
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