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The Poet And The Bird

Said a people to a poet---' Go out from among us straightway!
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways
Makes fitter music to our ears than any song of thine!'

The poet went out weeping---the nightingale ceased chanting;
'Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?'
I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun.'

The poet went out weeping,---and died abroad, bereft there---
The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails:---
And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there
Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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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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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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The Small Nightingale

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird

Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!

I have tried to save myself but i failed to?

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a sorrowful bird

Oh! god forget about this;
Listen about the frog

The frog was jealous of me as i sing so well
He wants me to die

Nightingale Nightingale
I am a little bird

BUT, I am a dying bird
BUT, I am a dying bird.

Oh! god save me!
Oh! lord save me!

poem by Abhishek Nair
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A poet's song

A poet's song
Is one of singing.

A poet's song
Is one of felling.

A poet's song
Is one of thanksgiving

A poet's song
Is one of understanding.

A poet's song
Is one of knowledge.

A poet's song
Is one of wisdom.

poem by Natasha Norville
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Bird Raptures

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale,
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.

Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale.

O herald skylark, stay thy flight
One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
Leave us tonight the nightingale.

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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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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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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The Poet Who No Longer Believes In Himself

THE POET WHO NO LONGER BELIEVES IN HIMSELF

The poet who no longer believes in himself
And writes on anyway-
The poet who is too weak to stop writing-
The poet who has died as a poet,
Before he has as a person-
The poet who may never have lived as a poet-
The old old old schnook,
Still trying to write a poem
And believing he has done it once again.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poet is free

Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Critic and Poet: an Epilogue

("Poetry must be simple, sensuous, or impassioned; this man is neither simple, sensuous, nor impassioned; therefore he is not a poet")

No man had ever heard a nightingale,
When once a keen-eyed naturalist was stirred
To study and define--what is a bird,
To classify by rote and book, nor fail
To mark its structure and to note the scale
Whereon its song might possibly be heard.
Thus far, no farther;--so he spake the word.
When of a sudden,--hark, the nightingale!

Oh deeper, higher than he could divine
That all-unearthly, untaught strain! He saw
The plain, brown warbler, unabashed. "Not mine"
(He cried) "the error of this fatal flaw.
No bird is this, it soars beyond my line,
Were it a bird, 'twould answer to my law."

poem by Emma Lazarus
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A Poet’s Song

A poet’s song
Is one of singing.

A poet’s song
Is one of felling.

A poet’s song
Is one of thanksgiving

A poet’s song
Is one of understanding.

I am Qalme Tari Mistress of Death Nat. Norville.
Cretics Welcome.

poem by Athena Goddess of Wisdom Lumis Light to all
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Morning Sunshine

This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see

The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet

Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?

This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me

I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry

poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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Sandra Fowler is no more!

Dear Nimal,
Sandra passed away in the early hours of this morning. She flew away to be with Jesus, her King.
God Bless,
Nancy

I have no words
when the West Virginian Nightingale
was quiet forever?
I write to Comrade Jesus
please loook after her well
and this deepest sympathy to my poor poet God
to inform me when she comes to us
as a poetess again!
Your painted sky is gloomy today
And I know why?
I have a teardropp in my heart!
And I hear your song till I close my eyes forever
'Before the music ends? '*

*fondly to my life-school teacher who taught me when I argued sometimes about certain things, she muttered that life is a song and you have to sing before the music ends?

nimal dunuhinga

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Clear Vision

O poet have a clear vision
Sooner or later you are dying
O poet have a participation
In this vibrant poetry community
Sooner or later you are dying
O poet you do not know minus
And you know only plus plus
Sooner or later you are dying
Here is your eyes here is sun
Here is bird here is song
O poet you are here with butterflies
You are here with the whirlwind
Sooner or later you are dying
O poet you are above you are below
You are behind you are a head
O poet this world is your garden
And you are blossoming here in passion
And you are making a story
O poet you have a clear vision
And you are here at this moment.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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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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Nightingale

(ferry/manzanera)
Before the morning comes, will I hear your song
Come little nightingale, I wont be here for long
When youre up there flying, do you care
If theres no one else around?
When your lover leaves you in the air
Do you waver, do you fall?
Now while the moon is high
Shall we, nightingale,
Duet all through the night
A pair of souls for sale
Stars cluster glistening
Captive till the dawn
Patiently listening
Theyve heard it all before
Should I stay here or should I go?
I couldnt bear to be alone
Was it really love I saw?
Oh, now Ill never know
What is this I hear?
I recognise that song
Sweet little nightingale I knew youd come along
Soon when the morning comes.
We will both be gone
So sing pretty nightingale
Lead, Ill follow on.

song performed by by Roxy Music
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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Nightingale

Nightingale
Sing us a song
Of a love that once belonged
Nightingale
Tell me your tale
Was your journey far too long?

Does it seem like I'm looking for an answer
To a question I can't ask
I don't know which way the feather falls
Or if i should blow it to the left

All the voices that are spinnin' around me
Trying to tell me what to say
Can I fly right behind you
And you can take me away

song performed by by Norah Jones from Come Away With Me
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Nightingale

WHEN the moon a golden-pale
Lustre on my casement flings,
An enchanted nightingale
In the haunted silence sings.

Strange the song—its wondrous words
Taken from the primal tongue,
Known to men, and beasts, and birds,
When the care-worn world was young

Listening low, I hear the stars
Through her strains move solemnly,
And on lonesome banks and bars
Hear the sobbing of the sea.

And my memory dimly gropes
Hints to gather from her song
Of forgotten fears and hopes,
Joys and griefs forgotten long.

And I feel once more the strife
Of a passion, fierce and grand,
That, in some long-vanished life,
Held my soul at its command.

Ah, my Love, in robes of white
Standing by a moonlit sea,
Like a lily of the night,
Hast thou quite forgotten me?

Dost thou never dream at whiles
Of that silent, templed vale,
And the dim wood in whose aisles
Sang a secret nightingale?

Whither hast thou gone? What star
Holds thy spirit pure and fine?
In this world below there are
None like thee: and thou wert mine!

For a season all things last,
Love and Joy, and Life and Death;
Thou art portion of my past,
I of thine, whilst Time draws breath.

Fades the moonlight golden-pale,
And the bird has ceased to sing—
Ah, it was no nightingale,
But my heart—remembering.

poem by Victor James Daley
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Poet, O Poet

Let not the dog out
The poet cried.

Poet, poet, O poet
Imagine, imagine and imagine
Your imagination is our wealth
Your imagination is our health
Imagine, imagine and imagine
Create things on your own
In your own world my dear poet
That is not known and that is owned.

Let not the dog out
The poet cried.

Poet, poet, O poet
We have no control over anything
We have no control over the land
That is dreamy.
It is only you O poet
Who can control us from that land
Where nothing to be shame
Where no body is there to blame
Where there is only fame and fame.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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