The Truce Between the Sexes
For a long time unhappy
with my man,
I blamed men,
blamed marriage, blamed
the whole bleeding world,
Because I could not lie in bed with him
without lying to him
or else to myself,
& lying to myself
became increasingly hard
as my poems
struck rock.
My life & my poems lived apart;
I had to marry them,
& marrying them
meant divorcing him,
divorcing the lie.
Now I lie in bed
with my poems on the sheets
& a man I love
sleeping or reading
at my side.
Because I love him,
I do not think of him
as 'Men,'
but as my friend.
Hate generalizes;
love is particular.
He is not Men, man, male-
all those maddening m's
muttering like machine-gun spittle,
but only a person like me,
dreaming, vulnerable, scared,
his dreams
opening into rooms
where the chairs
are wishes you can sit on
& the rugs are wonderful
with oriental birds.
The first month we lived together
I was mad with joy,
thinking that a person with a penis
could dream, tell jokes, even cry.
Now I found it usual,
& when other women sputter
of their rage,
I look at them blankly,
half comprehending
those poor medieval creatures
from a dark, dark age.
I wonder about myself.
Was I always so fickle?
Must politics always be personal?
If I struck oil,
would I crusade
for depletion allowances?
Erica, Erica,
you are hard on yourself.
Lie back & enjoy the cease-fire.
Trouble will come again.
Sex will grow horns & warts.
The white sheets of this bed
will be splattered with blood.
Just wait.
But I don't believe it.
There will be trouble enough,
but a different sort.
poem by Erica Jong
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Related quotes
Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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Ears Are Closed
There is one basic problem that sits between them.
They all have been conditioned to believe,
Each one of them were born to lead.
And no one perceives a listening should be done.
Where the foundation,
Of true leadership begins for anyone.
That is why what's going on can not be fixed.
Those involve desire to captain their own ship.
And ears are clearly plugged to be closed
While those of flapping lips persist...
The resolving of their started problems,
Should lay on someone's shoulders.
But not on theirs to take the risk.
'You should be blamed for this! '
No.
You should be blamed for this!
'No.
You should be blamed for this! '
No.
You should be blamed for this!
*EVERYONE SING:
You should be blamed for this,
No.
You should be blamed for this,
No.
You should be,
You should be...
You should be blamed for this!
You should be blamed for this,
No.
You should be blamed for this,
No.
You should be,
You should be...
You should be blamed for this!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Oh The Poems And More Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE MORE POEMS
Oh the poems and the more poems
The wonderful poems I am writing all the time
God has given me this gift
And when I wait in the right way
And when I listen to myself properly
The poems come in ways I could never have thought of or imagined before
They come as mysteries as gifts as surprises
As wonderful to me as perhaps to you their possible readers
Oh the poems and the more poems
The wonderful poems God has given me
And the light of this day and so many other days, also.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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0009 Favorite Poem
and you can’t remember much
about the first time you read it except
that it held you to the end, but most of all
this one line, which seemed to hold
the key to the whole poem
as if you were opening the closet of your mind
to bring out something which you knew was there
but instead something way at the back
called to you and you remembered
a moment from way back you thought
you had forgotten
and then you read the poem again
in company with the poet and
yes that’s it, and the two of you
became friends for life, almost
related.
So, now you’ve read all their poems,
feel some more than others but
as if you wrote them all in the same room
where you read them together
and you wait for their new book with
a sorta family pride
and like family,
you leave the poems for a spell,
grow up a little, then
come back to visit -
they mean more;
can it be,
you've both grown?
each time you come back to them
you carry them more close to you
in fact you feel that you could write
poems very much like theirs
as if you’d inherited, too,
the family gift
and though you wouldn’t of course
seek them out in person except
in a reading where you’d
have to share their warmth
with the rest of their extended family
but not say much since
you are a, well, close relative,
if you happened to be driving a route
not far from them, you’d detour,
park a little distance from their house,
but have it in your sight,
hope you might catch a movement,
wait a few minutes, then
start the car with almost a sigh
half relieved that you didn’t have to try
on their cautiously polite doorstep
to find words to say
you love them in their words,
which you almost wrote together,
lived them together;
love them like life itself,
love them
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Erica Kane
[verse:1]
Shes back on the street her fear for night
Feel you with grief she cuts like a knife
Beck you the things that no others could do
She turns a profess into a fool
Oh she aint hard to get the girl gets around
Those that she met their distant to drown
Shell make ya change like you like you never believe
She turns a working man into theif
Oh
[chorus:]
Shes erica erica erica erica
Shes erica erica erica erica
Shes erica erica erica erica
Shes erica erica erica (erica kane)
Shes erica erica erica erica (yo yo)
Shes erica erica erica erica
Shes erica erica erica erica
Shes erica erica erica(erica kane)
Oh back on the block shes at it again
Shell be your friend as long as you spend
I know she torn whole familes apart
She shoot a posion arrow straight threw your heart
Oh this is the day for erica kane
Theres nothing to lose none for her gain
Shell make a honest man steal from his folks
And drain a million man until he go broke
[chorus x2]
[bridge:]
I really dont think you should mess around
Cause all shell do is bring you down
And theres nothing for you to gain
And she goes by this name...
[chorus x2]
song performed by by Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All My Poems Rage In Me
ALL MY POEMS RAGE IN ME
All my poems rage in me,
Written and unwritten
But now I only write this one down
As if it in this moment
Stands for all of them.
Oh God what would I be
Without the poems
And what I am really
With them?
The day has been so long
And the twilight has come
And silence is all around me
And the Poems continue to rage
As if I never lived
And they too
Only will die.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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We Need Poems To Make Us Love Life More
WE NEED POEMS TO MAKE US LOVE LIFE MORE
We need poems to make us love life more
Poems that will make us happier
Poems that will make us kinder, better people.
We need poems that will inspire us
That will add to our sense of the world’s Beauty
We need Poems that will make us love others as we love ourselves as we love God.
We need holy poems
And joyful poems
And blessed poems
And kind poems
We need poems which will make us love life more
Which will help us love others and ourselves more
God more
We need poems.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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If You Have The Nerve To Listen
If you have come to believe,
Someone can actually be blamed...
For your pitiful life lived?
Look in the mirror!
Add that person to your list as well.
If you want to accuse anyone,
For failures you feel?
Point your finger at everyone,
Who tolerated listening to your nonsense...
As they allowed you to get away with this!
A dead end just doesn't happen.
An accident in the making,
Has had several eyes withnessing it.
A mind condoned to drift into foolishness...
Had been nurtured to follow,
A path one sought with assistance directed.
If you have come to believe,
Someone can actually be blamed...
For your pitiful life lived?
Look in the mirror!
Add that person to your list as well.
And if you have the nerve to listen,
To yourself tell you where to go?
Pay attention!
It may be the beginning for you,
To the doing of 'something' about it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Writings
I never keep track of the number of poems
I have written to get to present places.
I wonder how much fire, how much desire
And yearning for healing have inspired me
After those good-byes and heartbreaks -
When you bid farewell for another town,
When frequency of your calls dropped down,
When your call never ever happened again,
Then I waited in vain for far too long,
Then I imagined jumping down the Empire State,
And you appear like a ghost of the past to tell me:
'What the hell was I thinking when I left?
Is it too late for you take me back? '
Ex-lovers have a skin twice as thick as their victims.
They are never into poetry for it is too lame for them.
While poets pour their hearts out to their craft,
Exes are online hooking up with Mr./Ms. Horndog.
Well, verses grow like vines. Words pile up in my head.
I can mesh some together and create a ballad,
Reserve a few lines for future experiences.
Dramatic, melodic, cathartic, such warm company,
Warm enough for cold wee hours of the morning -
Poems make life become more than about lovers.
Endless pages of rhymes, sheets of haiku -
The swinging of the pendulum is all I hear.
My voicemail is empty; my email, as well.
The ceiling seems farther by the hour;
But the poems and I do not have signs
Of divorcing each other.
poem by Je'free Y .
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George Crabbe Wrote Of
George Crabbe wrote of hardship and poverty and woe
In the England he lived in a long time ago
But perhaps his poems might be more popular today
Had he looked at life in a less truthful way.
George Crabbe wrote of children in dire poverty
The poor sad victims of Human cruelty
And the poems full of pathos and the poems full of truth
Of a poet who was blessed with the great gift of ruth.
He wrote of human cruelty to their own kind
A God in the soul of such a person you'll find
He did not write of mythological figures or monarch or squire
He wrote for the poor his type I do admire.
Of the poverty around him he was all too aware
But poets like George Crabbe they have always been rare
Though if you feel a bit down and a good laugh you do need
His poems lacking in Humor are not for you to read.
Of the poor souls of England George Crabbe did write
His poems not hard to understand or to read or recite
And though as a person and poet he was great
Such poets the masses never do celebrate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Dream Miracles God Speaks To Soul Mine
I gave God two more poems today
two perfectly harmonic resonating poems
two poems dream mind writ
two poems never to write out
two poems never to public post
the first fruits the best
I vowed to give God
in awaiting dreams I gift
poems to God is gifted best poems
God smiles I watch heaven’s eyes
across cosmos God’s love is given
across created God space prayer given
love gifted given God’s love shines
dream miracles God speaks to soul mine
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Poet’s Prayer
Lord forgive me
That I have chosen to become a poet
Forgive me for what I write
The poems of my life
Grant me such devotion
To write the poems that I love
Grant me the love of poetry
That must not distract me
From tenderness
Make my desire last long
Make my disillusion short
Uproot from me these impure desires
From those poems that trouble me
Let not some images confuse me
Let not some metaphors numb me
Let not my dullness sadden me
Let your radiance descend upon
The modesty of my poems
As you once gave radiance
To the prophets who cannot speak
For themselves
Let me be a strong poet
Able to love and defend
the poems for the
women and children and land
Grant me the talent to make
The poems that they may still
Recite and remember
Even when I am gone
In my weakness as a poet
Make me strong
To scorn the poems that are not pure
To shy away from the fires
And flames that do not light
The lives of other men
And women too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Clever All Pleasing Poems
who writes clever all pleasing poems...
such a poet must surely steer safe passage clear
of floating minefield topics politics religion
to please all with any poem
is rather a mission impossible
there are those who love rhyme
there are those who hate rhyme
love or hate nature love poems
love hate every other topic possible
we seem to live in an age where
the personal 'I am offended by that'
is a trivial attention seeking sport
which belittles writ serious issues
thus our Poem Impossible Team
seeking to write all pleasing poems
must also entertain
in an attempt to crack
serious hard cases
from mask too serious
a judgemental frown
quick write poet clown...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Love Is Sure
LOVE KNOWS NO BOUNDARY
BUT IS IT NECESSARY?
TO LOVE IT ON ONE SIDE AND PUZZLE ALSO BESIDE
THAT EXPOSES GAME
NO ONE IS TO BE BLAMED
LOVE IS BLIND
YET WE NEED TO TAKE CARE AND FIND OUT
IS IT, IN FACT, UNIAUE AND ESPECIALLY TO TALK ABOUT?
LOVE HAS ITS ROOTS
NO ONE IN AIR CAN SHOOT
AFFORDS LESS TIME TO ENJOY FRUIT
PROVIDED MALE AND FEMALE ADJUST AND SUIT
LOVE IS NO ACCOMODATION
NEITHER IT IS COMPROMISE NOR A SPECIAL RELATION
IT IS BOND AND THAT MUST EXIST FOREVER
TO BE SEEN IN PUBLIC AND WALKED TOGETEHR
IF BIRDS CAN SHOW IT WITH PLEASURE
WE HAVE IT IN OUR LIFE AS TREASURE
LOVE IS THE ONLY THING TO BE FOUND SO PURE
THAT LIFE RUNS SMOOTHLY THEREAFTER FOR SURE
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mean Erotic Poems
as i arrive you go away
in an instant
saying bye
i got to go, i have a date on the island
somewhere
distant, so distant from you
you left a note telling me my erotic poems
are mean
and not exciting and not turning you on
like a woman should be
reading about sex, sympathy, some tea and company
some smoke
making love to the red curtains
some hard liquor
to make your breast stiff
and
a fighter, like the way how hard i turn on
you
and like the way my hands go wild and smash
the softness of your thoughts
you leave and heave an ending sigh
your signature
of
i hate you, i hate you, i hate you
perhaps even promising not to read
any poem
of mine anymore, anywhere, anytime
i understand,
the poems are mean, they are not meant for you
they long for someone
somewhere and her name lingers still
in my arm like a rose tattoo
there is a thorn there
always and some drops of blood
dried
now, more like some drawings, mere drawings of my youth
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Oh The Poems
OH THE POEMS AND THE POEMS AND THE POEMS
Oh the poems and the poems and the poems
Oh the love of Literature
Oh all that stuff
I have given my life to-
Words and meanings and feelings
Pages and pages and pages –
What it is all this literary life for?
When out the window out the door
With our eyes we see in an instant other worlds other dreams?
I don’t know and I will never know
And Literature is certainly far more than I can say it is-
Oh the poems and this poem and this day turning grey
And all my life old and old and more old and more old-
Oh why oh why oh why
And always back to God
My last rescue and refuge and escape
I who have read so much Great Literature
And can only write this-
Oh the why and the oh oh oh and the words
And the whole world of Literature
I would belong to and do not.
Oh the words oh the world oh the Literature
Oh God help me please can’t you please help me a little or not?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Other Side of the Page
I pass to the other side of the page.
-Pablo Neruda
On the other side of the page
where the last days go,
where the lost poems go,
where the forgotten dreams
breaking up like morning fog
go
go
go
I am preparing myself for death.
I am teaching myself emptiness:
the gambler's hunger for love,
the nun's hunger for God,
the child's hunger for chocolate
in the brown hours
of the dark.
I am teaching myself love:
the lean love of marble
kissed away by rain,
the cold kisses of snow crystals
on granite grave markers,
the soul kisses of snow
as it melts in the spring.
On the other side of the page
I lie making a snow angel
with the arcs
of my arms.
I lie like a fallen skier
who never wants to get up.
I lie with my poles, my pens
flung around me in the snow
too far to reach.
The snow seeps
into the hollows of my bones
& the calcium white of the page
silts me in like a fossil.
I am fixed in my longing for speech,
I am buried in the snowbank of my poems,
I am here where you find me
dead
on the other side of the page.
poem by Erica Jong
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A Question Mark
There is a hinge
of bone
where your chin joins
your cheek.
I like to stroke it
in the flicker
of a local movie;
I like to take
your laborer;s hand
when you are
cautiously-
(O proof of love!)-
driving my car.
You bring me gifts
of food;
I write you
poems of blood.
Your scars are vertical;
mine are horizontal.
You lost your spleen;
I loosed a daughter
on the world.
Your hinge of bone
tells jokes;
while mine chants
poems.
An unlikely pair,
though which pair
is ever likely?
When I cannot
look at your face,
I look
at your cock-
a question mark
asking the sky
how can
heaven
be fucked?
poem by Erica Jong
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No poems published
Since two days no poems are published
As if space has been run out or finished
May be poems are not required
I keep mum as no use to be inquired
I send poem daily as usual
But it has been taken as casual
I have no room to worry
At least I am spared from agony
Comments are well taken and placed
Poems are no were seen as chased
May be some new criteria is laid down
Place might have been reserved for poets quite well-known
I shall need no regret
As it happens with fate
Sometimes favor is shown as good luck
Sometimes clock runs out of time and struck
So is the life to come to an end
For people, well wishers to shed tears as friend
Some may be remembered and some may be forgotten
As the disappearance may be all of sudden
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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