A distillation...
Our poem is a distillation
wrung from common and raw elements
unhusked grains of experience
drops for the journey's flask
caught from barely accessible slopes
of a deep desert well
sweet syrups tapped
from the surface of a long-lived tree
risen darkly from the hidden roots
poetry a hard-won slight reward
preserved, patrolled and guarded
once captured, always held
these works are power for their defenders
like a proof of science
which cannot be unfounded
I laboured most of my life
fifty years and maybe more to learn
to sift so lightly the dirt and stones
and urge to surface from the mass
one translucent gem or two
that could defy for us the vice of time.
poem by Frank Bana
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
0009 A palinode
and there was this one
which I was particularly proud of
where I thought I’d caught
just the right pace, then
the change of pace when
the poem goes deeper
and then the perfectly chosen metaphor
with a rallentando
which made it musical
and ended it just
knock-’em-flat
sheer poetry
then last night
I read your poems
for the first time in oh fifty years
and there it was
almost identical and
I realised where I’d got it from
and the part of me that
wasn’t bruised ego wept inwardly without naming any cause
and maybe when I’ve recovered
and demoted my poem in
the collected works of pride
I’ll marvel at the power of poetry even if yours not mine
which can lie low in the mind
for fifty years and not only that
but may well, and here we should be careful
but reflective, respectful even awed,
have subtly infinitesimally but significantly
like some homeopathic almost unquantifiable tincture,
altered my whole life. For fifty years.
now that’s something
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Scratch The Surface
Scratch the surface serve a purpose
scratch the surface don't waste my time
Such empty life Such simple sheep night after night
herd to the creeps all hidden faults beauty is null
such shallow sight barely skin deep
What is the force that drives the superficial
tell me what keeps their minds remaining little
so afraid of what they'd see underneath the fantasy
so afraid to actually scratch the surface.
All mirrors hide Big money lies faillure inside
big lying eyes that's maybe why eyes are the soul
they take so much time big dollar signs
song performed by by Sick Of It All from Scratch The Surface
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Making Poetry
Why did I make a poem?
It's more than you can imagine
It's not about black or white
Because the power of poetry that I'm dumbfounded
Look at the whole Bible, everything is poetry {not, but a holy book down from Allah is the truth}
Abstract ideas of science are all from the poem
Idealism actual human life is poetry
I'm just trying to be honest...
Creating poetry for me is more than anything
Not me want to be Jesus or Muhammad {but imitate their pious}
But I do not know what my purpose {paradise}
Only the most important is to produce poetry
I just write from the unreal world
Introduce something to people here
Are they willing to accept it or not does not matter
Since the poetry of the poem is the image of eternity
Who continue to fly and only revealed to the seeker
Poetry for me is more important than life
More important than my beloved
More important than my brother
Because the poem can represent any
Why did I make a poem?
When you reject the poem in your life
It has a form of poem to poem
Actually you can not escape from poetry
But you did not realize it, be aware of?
Indeed the poem is really real
Do you not believe how strong poetry
Look at all the countries in the world today
All poems must have an ideology
Ideology of all States is poetry
Do you still deny its power?
From now on, deep down consider
The poem is more than just blank words without the influence
(30 April 2002)
poem by Irvan Hermawan Saichu
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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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An uncreative medicine
no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.
No Poem Is An Original
No poem is an original
everyone who writes
poetry thinks their poem
was an original, it just so
happens that their poem just
surfaced to the top
of their mind first, so they
were able to write it.
Everyone has love, hate
compassion buried deep
in their soul.
Poets are able to bring
all of this to the surface,
to construct, add the words,
but it is not an original
idea, for the poet because
they wrote it now, it
becomes an original for them.
Who has not heard a song,
read a poem, story or book,
seen a movie and said,
to themselves, hey I had
that same idea.
Only thing is, someone else
brought it to the surface
of the mind, and wrote it first.
Even this poem I'm writing
now is not an original
someone out there
has this idea buried
deep in their soul.
So if you have an idea
for a poem, get busy
write it, don't wait,
or you won't write an original
start today,
don't delay.
wrote 2-2-07
There Was A Poem About Poetry
THERE WAS A POEM ABOUT POETRY
There was a poem about poetry
Written by a poet whose name was hidden within the lines-
The poem about poetry
Became a song in the night
And a distant metaphor
For the incomprehensible journey that is life-
It became anything it could be made to be-
Love,
A world of a kind,
A mystery,
The holy sounds of light far far away -
All the poems we know are like this,
In the darkness they say one thing
But in the light in the light
Oh how dark and deep and far and lonely they are-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Don’t be an uprooted Tree
Seed is sown and the embryo is formed
Legitimate or not, radicle develops into root
Root penetrates into the surface of the soil
Absorbs water and food, turns seed into plant
Inherits the culture of the earth beneath.
It’s in root science that, it moves in
Right direction to fetch the exact need.
Stem gives the support and balance to stand
Branches form the vitality of the plant
Leaves prepare the food to survive
Bearing even odds the plant grows into tree.
As long as deep roots embraces mother earth
The tree shows confidence and attracts.
Location and depth are the might of the tree
Flower, fruit, shade, firm soil, H2O and CO2
Vary from tree to tree, but all owe to root
Never there is an existence beyond this means.
Still human trees surrender under the pressures
Try to get uprooted from the surface and means
Hoping for better flower, fruit, soil and breeze
Truth is, an uprooted tree, a timber, put to ablaze.
-vidi-
22-04-08
poem by Vidi Writes
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Surface Calm
Surface calm enfolds
the hidden tiger
of repressed emotions
sleeplessly prowling
within the inner reaches
of the mind’s cave.
Surface calm here holds
attention – geiger
counting the ocean motions
of reactivity, radioactivity
tuned into the wave lengths
of the [he]art’s rave.
Surface calm explodes
upon the calm surface
of a sheet which enfolds
the hidden tiger of.....
25 May 1991 revised? 31 May 2005
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ortus
How have I laboured?
How have I not laboured
To bring her soul to birth,
To give these elements a name and a centre!
She is beautiful as the sunlight, and as fluid.
She has no name, and no place.
How have I laboured to bring her soul into separation;
To give her a name and her being!
Surely you are bound and entwined,
You are mingled with the elements unborn;
I have loved a stream and a shadow.
I beseech you enter your life.
I beseech you learn to say ‘I’
When I question you;
For you are no part, but a whole,
No portion, but a being.
poem by Ezra Pound
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Hot Hot
Beneath that hard covered rock.
I know there's something you've got.
On the surface you are cool.
But deep within you're hot!
You keep your-mind-confined.
Like a sweet treasure hidden.
You want to offer me a bite.
And I know just how you like it!
And the birds and the bees sing and hum.
And When I sting you'll know you're stung.
Beneath that hard covered rock.
I know there's something you've got.
On the surface you are cool.
But deep within you're hot!
Hot hot!
You keep your-mind-confined,
And hot!
Like a sweet treasure hidden...
So hot!
You want to offer me a bite,
That's hot!
And I know just how you like it!
Hot hot!
And that's what I've got!
And the birds and the bees sing and hum.
And When I sting you'll know you're stung.
And when we're done no one will run!
From the morning Sun 'til the Sunset comes.
'Cause we're hot!
Like a sweet treasure hidden...
So hot!
You've kept that mind confined!
And hot!
It's so delicious we both lick it!
And the birds and the bees sing and hum.
And When I sting you'll know you're stung.
From the morning Sun 'til the Sunset comes.
Sssssyou'rehot!
And I know just how you like it!
Hot hot!
And that's what I've got!
And the birds and the bees sing and hum.
And When I sting you'll know you're stung.
Beneath that hard covered rock.
I know there's something you've got.
On the surface you are cool.
But deep within you're hot!
And the birds and the bees sing and hum.
And When I sting you'll know you're stung.
And when we're done no one will run!
From the morning Sun 'til the Sunset comes.
Hot hot!
Hot hot!
Hot hot!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Dying Ex Football Champion
Around his bed his friends and family but of them he's not aware
His life's journey about to end old Joe the ex footballer player
On his back his eyes closed to his surroundings the life from him ebbing away
Last month he celebrated his eightieth birthday and today his life's final day.
Pre-deceased by his wife Mel she died five years ago
The last two years of his life's journey for him painful and slow
Most of those he played with and against in his football years to the Reaper long gone
But like the battler that he is to the end he's battling on.
Fifty five years ago the Captain of the great Premiership team
By football fans from near and far he was held in high esteem
But time takes care of everyone and everyone means all
And time has also taken toll of the champion of football.
Around his bed his friends and family a silent vigil keep
The end of his life's journey no more than an hour away he is in his final sleep
'Tis a fact those who love life do find it hard to die
But 'tis also a fact that all human beings are mortals and facts do never lie.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Landscape 28 Meniscus
The molecules of water are held together
By weak electrical forces
That extend in all directions.
At the water surface, the upward forces,
Having nowhere watery to go,
Lie along the surface
To form a thin skin, called a meniscus.
This is the skin that holds water drops,
Supports water striders,
Even skips stones.
I came once to an Adirondack Lake
On a still moonlit night.
The lake seemed full of fireflies,
Flashes of light in the water
As far as the eye could see.
I finally discovered the source of the light,
The sudden movements of water striders
Riding the meniscus
Bent the water surface
Into a curved mirror
That reflected glimmers of moonlight.
The Japanese make a flower arrangement
In a vessel with a perfectly level rim.
The vessel is filled with water
To a level above the rim
The water is held from overflowing
By a curved meniscus
That bends light like a lens.
In the center of the water
Floats a single perfect flower
That sends tiny ripples across the water surface
And crinkles the meniscus
When the vessel is vibrated.
poem by Stewart McKenzie
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Wordpower for Bro J.T.Early
It was as a schoolboy he
became entranced by poetry
He loved the rhythm and the rhyme
which made his words keep to strict time.
His talent was quite natural
although it was unusual.
He understood instinctively,
what was and was not poetry.
He learnt with words he could command
although he did not understand.
That he was casting potent spells
which tapped into the deepest wells
of other folks experience.
But as he grew in confidence.
In time he came to realise.
His childhood choice had been most wise
and that by mastering poetry.
He’d also mastered wizardry,
he held the power to bless or curse
just by the power of his verse.
He chose to use his power for good
as any decent poet would.
So he confined his wizardry
where it belonged to poetry.
Remember poets when you write
it is your duty to delight
to educate and entertain
and never to another’s bane.
10-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poetic piers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Alliance of Poetry and Science
Poetry and Science don’t always
Appear to marry very well
But there are times
Amid these rhymes
When similar stories they tell
Science supports the quite Poetic view
I am both like and different from you
Though we hail from a like molecular start
Differences arise to set us apart
Poetry and Science do keep
Some common goals in mind
Both delving into the deep
While seeking to aid mankind
By examination of life’s glory
Both illuminate the human story
Scientists do quite logically rely
On observations of scientific eye
Poetry and Prose are much different art
Better envisioned when aided by the heart
Poets need not ever argue with Science
Nor should those of Science forgo reliance
On the value of the views brought
By what Poetry has wrought
If something at length be True
Such Truth will be valid then
No matter latter have you
Proved it by Science or Pen
poem by Mary Havran
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There Are So Many Ways Of Making Poetry
THERE ARE SO MANY WAYS OF MAKING POETRY
There are many ways of making Poetry
Some make poetry simply
As I do –
Others are richer by far.
Some like the surface
And others like hidden depths and mysteries.
There are many ways of making poetry
I have only one which is my own
But there are so so many others
More beautiful and deep and perhaps more everlasting.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Verducation Distillation
Verducation distillation
Did you think the weapons could go go green
Did you thing think the thresholds stood still unseen
In mass ash production circulation blood machine
Chain chant reigns no kit kat break to flee
Chewing at McDonald's an early lunch of me
Chilly sights of spices and a broken tv
You hop
You scotch
You watch
A sit com for a clown rip rapping a seat to sit
A bang bang smoking pot puffing at ‘that's it'
A broadband surface for ms to transmit
It's they
For a day
An early month of May
Clicking at an interpreter's sign
Of things both evil and divine
An indifferent ‘that's fine'
Too nigh
You fly
You sigh
Sigh sign deep inhale an early breeze
Breathe in the green at a too late ease
Before real life moves and all movies freeze
Verducation distillation
Did you think the weapons could go go green
Did you thing think the thresholds stood still unseen
In mass ash production circulation blood machine
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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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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Migration
Migration
In this rich flat landscape there are no stones they had to
travel to the far mountain and with mule and cart it was
a long arduous journey. Stones were only used as base for
houses and as grave stones, but since these were stolen
so this practice ended, the dead had to do with wooden
crosses which tend to rot when it rains. Farmers buried
their stones under a mass of soil, for safety mounds of
them dotted the flat landscape and made it less monotone.
Modern time, a railway line stretches across the land and
ends in a haze were the mountain begins, stones are now
a common thing, way, all and sundry has one, the poorest
even have gravelled strewn back yards. A clever man decided
to open a rise and sell stones a souvenir as a memory of
the past, when life was idyllic, but he found a mass grave,
not only human skeletons but also household goods, toys
and musical instruments.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Fresh Dirt
They were relieved!
They had finally found something negative,
To hold against me.
I was relieved too.
They can finally find something to do with their lives.
They had been searching for years.
I did the best I could to leave some dirt on the surface.
I had to redo most of it.
Since I wanted them to find fresh dirt.
And an opportunity to do 'something' else,
Before they ran out of time...
To at least catch up with it!
And I'm still accused of being thoughtless.
I can't believe it!
And that dirt was at least three or four years old.
Well...
It was the best I could do!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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