Ashleigh Rising
and out of the sombre light
a quiet entrance he makes-
a poet in whom life is not so much delight
as it is the unfolding of self amid the pain.
poem by Frederick Kesner
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Related quotes
The Pain I Can Control
The pain I can control
The pain that makes me whole
The pain that stops and brings some tears
The pain that erases all my fears
The pain that I inflict with this knife
The pain that might be last in my life
The pain that brought me to my knees
The pain that woahed me full of pleas
The pain that made me see the light
The pain that is bringing me home tonight
The pain that is wrong and bitter
The pain that makes me feel fitter
The pain that my friends say is wrong
The pain that makes me feel so strong
The pain that makes my friend sad, and cry
The pain that makes her want to die
The pain thats not just pain to me
The pain that makes everyone see
The pain that thats tearing me apart
The pain thats ripping apart my heart
The pain that I'm addicted to
The pain I can't give up. Not even for you..
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pain Is
pain is what i go through everyday
pain is just being me
pain hurts once its in you
pain is painful
pain makes you sufer
pain makes you want to cry
pain makes you want to scream
pain takes control
pain makes others hate you
pain makes you mad
pain makes you want to hide or runaway
pain want let you sleep
pain makes you want to stab yourself
but your love ones stop you
they show how much that they care
and thet they love you
poem by Melissa Dixon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poet Should Be
A POET SHOULD BE
A poet should be
A spring day
a morning dream
A source of Love-
Help to others
A poet should be
Kind
And
Quiet
And leave the reader
A little bit of light
Gentle Happiness.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shades
Pop/bowie
You gave me a present
The paper was blue and green
I unwrapped it with pleasure
These are the best shades Ive ever seen
You can be my girlfriend
Forever and a day
I never thought I was worth much
Or that anyone would treat me this way
Im not
The kind of guy
Who dresses like a king
And a really fine pair of shades
Means everything
And the light that blinds my eyes
Shines from you
It makes me come in the night
It makes me swim with delight
I like this pain
I like this mirror
I like these shades
I could have had a problem
I might have never followed through
The other guys are in trouble
They wouldnt listen to a girl like you
These shades say something
Ill bet they cost a lot
I hope I dont break em
I hope we dont break up
Im not
The kind of guy
Who dresses like a king
And a really fine pair of shades
Means everything
And the light that blinds my eyes
Shines from you
It makes me come in the night
It makes me swim with delight
I like this pain
I like this mirror
I like these shades
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brown Leaves
The passage of dead leaves in spring
Is like the aged vanishing.
Amid the bustle and delight
Of beauty thronging sound and sight,
Their lengthened course we hardly know
Nor mark their exit when they go.
Yet through the burst of budding green
And blossoms rich with varied sheen
A brown leaf sometimes flutters by
And breeds a sombre revery.
poem by Gamaliel Bradford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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12/09....Pain
Pain...............
It has many forms, some hurt worse than others
Some cause you to bleed, while others make you cry
Some make you want to die, or be dead, while
others just make you want to stay in bed
Pain, its like a bee stinging you in the face
Pain, its like someone sprayin you with mace
Pain, its like having your best friend die
Pain, its like biting into a hot piece of pie
Pain, its like a knife tearing your skin
Pain, its like not having any friends
Pain, its like having your heart ripped in two
Pain, its like not knowing what to do
Pain, is a common thing for me
Pain, it fills my life with sorrow and misery
Pain, it makes me want to cry everyday
Pain, it makes me feel the worst way
Pain, it drives my life and the things I do
Pain..........please leave me alone!
poem by Sacred Garden
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Women And Poems
With as much pain as a human being becomes a woman,
That much pain makes a woman a poet.
A word takes a long year to be made,
a poem an entire life.
When woman becomes a poet, she is totally a woman.
Then she is mature enough to give birth from her suffering heart,
Then she knows how to care for a word.
You have to be a woman first if you want to give birth to a poem.
A word without any pain is fragile, breaks when touched.
Who knows more than a woman all the lanes and alleys of pain!
poem by Taslima Nasrin
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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 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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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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Living In The Dark Vs.. Living In The Light
The poet gets depression when he is living in the dark
Also it is depression that it is hard for the poet to control in his life
Basements are ussualy dark and reminds me of a subway station
But sometimes it gets too hot and the poet has to open all the windows
Of the house so the house can cool of
The dark doesn't feel safe for the poet
But the light feels safe for the poet
When the poet lives in the light he is more energetic
And he can do a better work when he works on his poetry
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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The Poem Of The Night
The Poem of the Night
The poem of the night
is a quiet poem.
It listens only
to itself.
It calls no one;
It remains as it is
where it is,
waiting with the subtle light
which makes it mean
what Beauty does.
The Poem of the Night
is a quiet life
and a light of Love
Looking at God's world
and smiling at it-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Shhh…..
Shhh…..
Quiet…..
Poet
At work
Quietly step
Around my
Door
As to not disturb
The poet
At work
Gently tiptoe
And be
Quiet
As a mouse
As to not
Disturb
The poet
At work…..
poem by Twisted Rose
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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Sestina
I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.
This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.
But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.
All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?
Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large-eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.
For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.
Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Take The Pain Away! (january 22 2011)
i sit here away feeling the pain
the pain of losing you
the pain of being alone.
the pain of my heart breaking
the pain of longing for you.
the pain that my pasted has made for me
the pain the razor makes when it slides across my arm to make me get away from the pain inside.
the pain has taken over my life never giving me a min to be happy
please won't you take the pain away please!
poem by juggalette Tiffany ann
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Doctor Makes a Perfect Poet?
‘A Physician makes a perfect poet, ' why?
-He sees the human being in more ways
Than other professionals throughout his life:
In times of suffering, joy, ecstasy, pain;
From womb to tomb, in throes of death, dying.
In coma, Id, super-ego, ego;
And when one regains life by miracle;
In anger, anguish, depression and guilt;
In hate and vengeance, cancer-stricken late;
In sleeplessness, despair, hysterical,
In every age, sex, walk of life on earth.
A doctor makes a perfect poet - true;
His art of observation, inference,
Inquiry, patience, imagination,
Render him way ahead of most people.
But poetry comes by inspiration best!
Poets are born and moulded through sheer toil;
The art of listening, empathy, ethics,
Makes doctor's mind and heart utmost ideal
For poesy - word-painting - a God's gift!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-10-12
poem by John Celes
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