The Poet as a Feeler of Pain
What makes a poet?
Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like a conduit,
a plainspokenness to grief,
the hairs of the head
dancing on end,
the blood swarming
with the voices
of all those who have died,
will die,
& will also be born?
Is it a catch
in the throat
that awakens the eyes,
is it in the eyes themselves
or is it something
in the heart?
I think it is pain-
an openness to pain,
so that the least leaf
cuts the hand
& the smallest tear
cuts the cheek
like jagged crystal,
so that the world
is a sick infant
& the poet its mother,
praying, crooning, promising
to be good
if only the cure
takes.
There is, of course,
no cure.
Poetry does not cure
the poet
& the poet
does not cure the world.
Usually he catches
the world's diseases
& dies
even before his time.
But against all odds
& all indifference,
another one is born.
The world must have
someone to feel its pain
& speak of it.
The poet is that mouth.
poem by Erica Jong
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Related quotes
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 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
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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 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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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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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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A Poet
a poet knows nothing best than a seer, nay neither
touches like a magician nor prays like a monk, yet!
feel the tremendous heart that breathes and sees the
oozing shadow of the light, a poet lives
Oh! what wonder! each word exists where
every poet has come to paste, as the world
turns its page every color the pen refreshes
as the poet begins to tell, every feeling makes it
to fulfill, though in every edge there is always some
sad stories that everybody could feel and relate
a poet always wins in every ink of a pen, there is
always pain, turning others' gain, the end
holds on to reign, and the heart of the immortal fight
has just begun, transcend beyond it rainbow's
plain, wherein every poetry the dying soul comes
to raise the wonderful surprises of life
as the fulfillment has gone, and every one's dream
has achieved and the poet now wishes to repose in the
lamp light grave the pen it lays, leaving the world to
be freed watching my hand to flee
wish me luck; the time has to come, where my day is
counted in the pen everyone is perfected and my
moment is for you to remember that in very write our
soul leads us to be upright and every way is alright,
and now haggle me to know that I am a poet at the
end of my life
a poet in a shining armor of light.........
poem by Antonio Liao
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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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I Am A Poet
Iam a poet
ı was born a poet
ı feel that frommy childhood
why the storks
chatter on the chimneys
and nest there
their young beak black
their eggs catch cold in winter
ı am a poet
but sometimes ı am misunderstood
that upsets me
very
sometimes people scold me
why the hell you look at me
strangely
they say
do ı resemble someone
do you recognise me
ı am just a poet
ı cannot say
ı s ı t my fault
to be born poet
ı wanna write a poem about you
so ı look and try to understand
your attitude
why does this bother you
ı was born so
ı watch a little child
leaving her mother
throwing herself to the water shower
in the pool in spring
then ı ask the child to return to mother
cause she is looking eagerly looking AFTER
does not like a stranger
she does not know what a poet is too
and lives plain and direct
ı am a poet
ı wish
ı were not born so
ı long for a humble and simple life
living may be in poverty
cause understands me nobody
even the closest around me
poem by Metin Sahin
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The Poetry Of Confession
THE POETRY OF CONFESSION
The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-
Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-
The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –
The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-
The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –
A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Uncurable Pain
Someone out there has a cure to my pain,
But the faster they cure mine someone else feels the same.
It's probably a cure for my pain, maybe it is, or maybe it's not,
Whatever this pain is, it hurts alot.
My pain is like a river that never starts to flow,
But I know I'm not the only person with pain, other people have pain also.
Pain is like one of a kind like me and you,
It doesn't hurt as bad because I know it is something that I got to live through.
This pain is a mixture between life and death,
It was me all along hurting myself.
poem by La'Kira Jackson
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Love Poet ~ Odd Poet
“Give some respite, oh odd poet”
Said a love poet with a smile
“Discard all that pain and regret
Sufferings and ideals futile
Give your readers some amusement
Draw them close with the nature’s pull
Feed them with beauty’s enchantments
And treat them with love, fad and zeal
Know oh odd poet, that all the arts
Are to amuse but not to chisel
The connoisseurs’ delicate hearts
Allow them some thrills to revel
Be a poet-doctor who can heal
Ailing hearts with sweet sonnets
Limericks and lyrics beautiful
But not with tears, wails and shouts
Thought the odd poet, for a while
And said, ” Yes! I’m a doctor-poet
I care my patients with concern real
I strive hard to give right treatment
I quite prefer bitter truth pills
Oh love poet, as cure permanent
To aesthetic morphine to lull
My patients into a false comfort
poem by Sathya Narayana
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Poetry and Poet
Poetry is poet's inner world,
Churnings of Self in distinct words;
Poetry is not black and white,
Grey, nuances of diverse hues
In kaleidoscopic word-networks
That capture all formless clouds
In the deep sky of the poet's world.
Poetry is poet's outer world,
His expressions in proper norms;
Bare thoughts, his rogue fights within
Dressed well for the popular nod;
Poet's world, a messy snake-pit,
A burrow of rats, snakes, insects,
Fighting to spring in riotous words,
Filter'd for world in elegant words.
Poetry is never a judgement,
Sheer whispers from heart to heart
Beyond what words do transport;
Words in lilt and dance, poetry,
Links they bond, cadence they ring,
Makes a poetry, a true poetry,
A mirror of poet's inner turmoils,
His hopes and strengths in right words,
Indecisions he suffer, his deeper Self.
Poetry is release from inner cauldron,
Steams from within in guise of words,
Quiet flames of the inner hearth
That flared for long finding a vent;
Poetry, a relief, a joy of sharing,
Sharing the Self with the world outside,
Back to the source from where all came;
Poet is the priest, poetry, his hymns,
Offered to the world for peace and grace.
Poetry sprouts from the morass of soul
And grows out of poet like pipal tree
And outstays him;
Fleeting is poet, but not his poems,
Poetry is the poet universalised;
It sucks his thoughts, sucks his force,
Spreads outwards to enrich the world
And leaves the poet richer and strong
Like fire and good deeds always are,
How much you share, so richer you are.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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World view
Come to poet
And enjoy life.
Come to poet
And see beauty.
Come to poet
And know truth.
Come to poet
And have patience.
No non-sense can
Disturb you
And you have
At your hand
World view.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Praying For Rain
the farmer poet
walking barefoot
in the dust,
looking upwards
towards heaven,
praying for rain.
the blue collar poet
walks between the rows
of machines gone silent
in the deserted building,
looking upwards,
praying for work.
the nurse poet
stares at the line
of people wanting help,
no insurance, no money
looking upwards,
praying for hope.
the politician poet
surrounded by the din
of deals being made
without conscience
or integrity,
looking upwards,
praying for dignity.
the mother poet,
pushed into a corner,
no food, no money,
cant pay the rent or
buy clothes.
looking down
into her children's eyes,
praying for God!
the human poet,
looking inwards,
praying for all
that lives
praying for rain!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
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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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This Night Has Opened My Eyes
In a river the colour of lead
Immerse the baby's head
Wrap her up in the news of the world
Dump her on a doorstep, girl
This night has opened my eyes
And i will never sleep again
You kicked and cried like a bullied child
A grown man of twenty-five
Oh, he said he'd cure your ills
But he didn't and he never will
Oh, save your life
Because you've only got one
The dream has gone
But the baby is real
Oh, you did a good thing
She could have been a poet
Or, she could have been a fool
Oh, you did a bad thing
And i'm not happy
And i'm not sad
A shoeless child on a swing
Reminds you of your own again
She took away your troubles
Oh, but then again
She left pain
So, please save your life
Because you've only got one
The dream has gone
But the baby is real
Oh, you did a good thing
She could have been a poet
Or, she could have been a fool
Oh, you did a bad thing
And i'm not happy
And i'm not sad
Oh ...
And i'm not happy
And i'm not sad
Oh ...
And i'm not happy
And i'm not sad
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Metal Beat
Nobody knew me so I bought some time.
An hour or two with a friend of mine.
Somebody lied so I burned their soul.
Somebody screamed and the fire burned cold.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I soothe the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
Like someone walks on their grave.
I booked a small room in a cheap motel.
Somewhere to hide and a cure to sell.
I call it fashion, Ill make them bleed.
No one to love but a ghost to feed.
I was a puppet pulling my own strings.
I cant believe that I did such things.
I was a shadow but God forgives.
Now Im a priest and jesus lives.
- adlib -
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
Like someone walks on their grave.
How can I save you if you dont confess?
Kneel down bitch be truly blessed.
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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