En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Poet Tried To Shackle My Words

A poet tried to shackle my words,
as if from every poem
the message was stripped,
as if nowhere there was any mastery
of rhythm and sound to be found

as if I had sold my soul
to masses of people reading my verses,
as if I live in disrespect
to the expertise that a great poet
displays in his work

as if every line of mine
was just a wild cacophony
that I had flung together
in a utter hurry
to shower down on crowds of people.

Yet I while I swam against a tempest sea,
sticking to the truth and integrity,
trying to find answers to life’s mysteries
and problems
trying to expose injustice and oppression
there was boasting about a elitis clique
that totally excludes me

but they were going along the path
of political correctness and maybe indifference,
being far too scared to ruffle some feathers,
writing verses sixty times over and over
before they were becoming poems somehow,
before their words were catching some magic

believing that a great poem,
is like a jigsaw puzzle,
that you have got to unravel
with a dictionary,
where simple words can fuse together
with a own type of magic,

lacking in the ability
to find poetry in ordinary things,
to create poetry in lines
that by themselves fuses together
to create something great

but my words kept on coming,
falling into lines,
as if designed by a divine presence
and by themselves fused
into much deeper meaning
than I could find with my own abilities.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The power of words

Sometimes when you had
an idea for a poem
you didn’t jot it down
and let it be
to fade away into the naught
as if it really didn’t matter
or your words had lost their power

or was there a hidden fear,
something that you didn’t
want to talk about
or something that you didn’t
want to appear,
something that you were afraid
would kill your luck
or disturb your thoughts?

When we spoke at times
you would sarcastically say
go and write a poem about it
and I wonder if you really
didn’t care about writing
or just not about me
or was it jealousy?

Sometimes when the words
of a great poem came to me
you would demand that I immediately
do something for you
to proof my love
and not give me the opportunity
to capture the sacred words.

Yet, as time went by
and I had to leave
the words came back to you
and great verses appeared
and you said that I could string out
poems to the nth power
and wanted me
to write great messages as well
and I was afraid that card like lines
would kill the magic of words in me.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Faculty

Sometimes it seems so hard to work out the words,
and then again it seems not hard at all. Just write,
is as simple as that. There are times i can't seem to
work the words, other times the words come up
bubbling in my head with character and meaning.
At times i feel challenged by other writers, and i
begging to doubt my ability to work the words,
i simple read another writer and then i know i have
nothing to be worry about. I understand then that my
contest is with myself and not with other writers.
We all think about the same things, because once
in our life’s we all go through the same situations.
We all have the brain to create anything in our heads.
There’s nothing that i can't do if i focus and if i
don't focus; “you see” this word- focus is meaningful
in some ways, we need the focus, but in poetry we
need more the fantasy in our thoughts, the meaning
to our words, focusing can be important, but if your
head is not in the mood, there’s not going to be any
words bubbling up, even though you don’t need it so
much, because you can create a poem out of anything.
There’s one thing about writing, and reading poetry,
understanding the meaning behind the words.
Every word or phrase has a meaning behind, this is
where readers need to understand; for example-if i'm
drinking away my sorrows, it can mean, crying my
heart out, it can mean, i need to forget, it can mean,
a big hangover, it can mean, sleeping out in the porch,
it can mean, forgetting all you did last night; how many
things out of a phrase. Right know I would just like
to be in my cabin and sit right in front of the fire-place
with a bottle of wine and enjoy my pastoral life while
i write, amazing things.

poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Poem about Poetry - Poetry sites

if you wish to
have an afternoon
of fun, what about
reading throgh
the amateur poem
writing sites

the work here reeks
of things raw -
some even confessed
they wrote their work
while cutting their wrists

of things great -
some poets actually
are already carrying stars
- but think they need
to be on the ground
- stay in touch with
their best readers

of things romantic
- teenage lovers
who day in and day out
shower sweet love verses
like they would roses on
their new founded flame

of things sleazy -
some verses actually
came right off the hands
that had a minute ago
been exploring the powerkeg
of the sensous world

they should be censored
but then these considerate perverts
even took the trouble to write the
'bewarned' line

and of course
the greatest fun
are the young poets
who afford a glimpse
of their little world
the folksy rhythm
and heavenly rhyme

the greatest laugh
would be when
we stumble upon
the inexperienced
ones who think poetry
is throwing words at you,
all the words that not many
of us could actually pronounce
so that the whole piece would
sound erudite... only if you
could go beyond those words

the whole poem makes you feel
like you walk into a house
to see the bed upside down
in the kitchen, the cooking pot
on the edge of the bedroom table
the fridge at the attic
the washing machine on a flower bed
and the toilet right in the middle
of the living room

then there are those
who are queens of words
their verses run like pistils,
filamens, petals, colours
of orchids..classic, regal,
exquisitei

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

But is it

Right down within the depths of me
there lies a vein of poetry
Wherein I find when I have leisure
words which are my greatest treasure.

Words with which I can fashion verse
some silken smooth and some perverse
Each one is chosen carefully
then put together artfully.

I find them raw and unrefined
then with the power of my mind.
I create intricate designs
of words that some idea defines.

A poet is an artisan
who follows carefully a plan
that’s handed down from days of yore.
Which many men have used before.

To create formal poetry
to demonstrate their artistry.
Perchance I sometimes get it right
in verses which I choose to write.

I can imagine nothing worse
for those of us who write in verse
Than poetry which does not scan
and lacks all structure, has no plan.

Just words which incoherently
are juxtaposed haphazardly
. Which critics now suppose to be
the future form of poetry.

22-Feb-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I could have done other useful things than writing a poem

Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,

What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips

I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me

Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers

I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers

Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem

This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?

When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem

Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Where Is The Poet That Can Inspire Once Again?

WHERE IS THE POET THAT CAN INSPIRE ONCE AGAIN?

Where is the poet that can inspire once again?
I have heard them all so many times-
Even the great are only familiar lines -

I wait for something different
From another dimension-

But it is not they who are tired
Or limited-
You can find worlds in them if you reread again-

It is I who have lost my soul for Poetry
And not only for Poetry-

It is I who am old and tired –

There can be no new poet and no new poem and no new poetry
When I have gone to the other side
Where listening and hearing are impossible.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The Magic Of Words

I admit to never having read much poetry before,
But now that I’ve started, I’m eager to read more.
I’ve discovered many poems, ones old and new;
There are all sorts: happy ones and sad ones to.

Some poems paint a picture, and are descriptive in their style.
While some are humorous, and are designed to make you smile.
There are also narrative style poems, such as the ‘Goblin Market’ story,
By Christina Rossetti, there are close to five hundred lines, in all their glory.

Alliteration always sounds extremely catchy and really rather nice –
When an initial consonant is sounded, in quick succession, at least twice.
Assonance also often comes in quite handy too,
Especially when the rhyme isn’t quite exactly true.

The addition of onomatopoeia can be a real whiz,
Adding sounds like Crash! Bang! Pop! And Fizz!
I love poems which have a regular rhythm, and which rhyme,
And I try my best to incorporate these factors into poems of mine.

In rhythm and rhyme, myself, I like to try and immerse,
As I have to admit that I’m not a particular fan of free verse.
With poetry, I’m really beginning to get a little bit obsessed.
I change words around, trying to see how they sound the best.

I like to keep my writing quite simple, not complex;
I hate it when words and ideas complicate the text.
I love it when words paint a picture in my inner mind;
When a masterpiece is created, as snapshots are combined.

My mind finds it difficult to process ideas which are too abstract;
I just like simple descriptions and a smattering of interesting facts.
Unless I understand the first few lines, I can get very easily bored,
And from then on, reading the rest of it can become quite a chore.

I’m not keen on poems which, I consider, are way too short,
As they probably haven’t really required that much thought,
And, likewise, I’m not keen on poems which, for me, are too long,
As reading them, can feel like running a twenty six mile marathon.

If I see a word in a poem which I have not previously seen,
I will look it up in a dictionary, to see exactly what it means.
I always enjoy learning the meaning of the odd new word,
But I hate it when there are many, of which, I’ve never heard.

I also like to look words up in a thesaurus to learn,
If I can swap them for an alternative word or term.
Reading and writing poetry can be a real education in themselves.
You pick up books which may have previously been left on the shelf.

If you’re sat concentrating on reading or writing,
Temporary release from problems, is quite inviting.
It can have a very calming affect upon your soul,
When life’s worries and woes have taken their toll.

I don’t know if I’m just going through a phase, or if my obsession will last;
Over the last few months or so, I really have been having an absolute blast!
I’ve felt proud of some of my works - I didn’t think I could do such things,
And I’ve really revelled in the happiness, into my life, which poetry brings.

poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Let This One Poem Be About Me

Let this one poem be just about me
Let this one poem engulf all my beauty
Let this one poem define my soul
Let this one poem consume me whole
My soul was earth bound
And my heart lay in a place that it would never be found
Let this poem be what entangles my mind
Let this poem be where people will find
They will find that missing link
And this poem it will make them think
They will wonder how this girl came
They will wonder how I avoided fame
I didn’t write these words to please
I wrote these words to tease
My heart it’s the type that beckons for ease
And my taste will not accept the flavor of peas
Let this poem describe me in most simplest of ways
Let this poem show how I get through these days
And I know people will read this and say…
This girl she knew where heart lay…
Let this poem eat me whole
Let me entire heart bleed its luscious love into a broken bowl
My soul wanted only to be free
And this poem only pushed it back into me
I never will lose any part of my soul
Because then this world will swallow my inner being whole
Let this poem be what I hate
Let this poem describe with who I would mate
Let this thoughts become my ways
Let this poem be where I stray
Let this poem show how I lie
Let this poem describe how I will die
Yes I am human I cannot avoid death
Yes I am human I chose not to use meth
These words they dance upon this page
These words they have no age
These verses have lost all meaning
Because I revealed my demeaning
Let this poem describe what I deem right
Let this poem that I will always fight
My age floats through these words
And people will never understand why I want to be heard
Let this poem be only about me
Let this poem be what sets me free
And I know some day people will look at this and say…
This girl, this girl she knew exactly where her heart lay…

poem by Victoria Martinez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

The literary life

We went to the house
of Afrikaans poetry together
on weekends and spent hours there
and listened to the master lecture
and met some poet friends
around a table
with a drink or two.

Sometimes the poetry was Afrikaans,
English, Dutch or even German
and we learnt form poets
around the globe.

We discussed what we had
just learned,
asked about his views
of certain things,
or what people in the group think,
discussed poetry, life,
sometimes even politics
and philosophy
as individuals of a group.

We read our poems,
listened to other poets,
reading their own,
analysed every word, every line
comprehending meaning, impact
and sharpened our art.

Your poetry was really great,
from when I read the very first line,
but mine had still to grow
from rhyme into free verse.

At times I hated comments
that forced me to move,
but realized that it was meant
with great goodwill
and even though I was in pain
I sharpened my verse
and free verse brought
a clearer ear, making it
much easier to write
great rhyme.

Now that I had to leave Pretoria,
weekends I really miss
that great writing school,
new poems from great poets,
learning something there,
experiencing poetry at its core,
lectures from that great master
and verses of his own,
but much more
your poems.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Poetry Has A Rhythm Of Its Own

POETRY HAS A RHYTHM OF ITS OWN

Poetry has a rhythm of its own
I have lost it
I have words
I have sentences
But I have no rhythm-

I have flat lines
One after the blank other
A mind without depth
A sense of lack
But no real way
Of making a music of poetry

All my efforts now
Are like these lines
Without resonance
Simple and single in meaning
Not what a poem at its best
Should be.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Poetical Injustice,

Poetical Injustice,
They say poetry is all the feign verses,
It's a lie,
A big lie,
Poetry liers and false prophets,
To write false feigned verses,

Maybe like poetic injustice,
The vices I hate,
Hate poems,
Never knew anything about optimism,
Poetical blasphemies,
The false samaritan,
The Jezebel,
I saw her here,
Telling me,
Poet is the lie,
This is a Blasphemy,
Poet came from the true prophets,
The Saint's of these verses,
Words are life,
To speak Poetry in parables solved the mystery,
Poetry in parables, ?
What was it's meaning, ?
It was written,
All about truths and lies,
Eventually written,
Now I see,
Poetry is the Euphony,
The enigma,
The Spirit of Realism,
Nihilism, all the diction,
Poetical Justice,
Taste's like a web on all hall that never fade or fake,
But increase with depth,
Depth of realness, Poetical analysis,
Lyrical genius,
Poetical liers got to end,
Tell the Stars all about these,
For my message will go everwhere.

poem by Maxim Muyu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Above the Poets Station

You’re a poet, as they say
All you write is poetically full of art
Wince when you read your stuff
As from literacy you stand apart

Such great depiction, fiction
wordplay and poet structures
Diction, contradiction, dead
good words and writing such as
Ballads, salads and other kinds
of verses with great meaning
Acrostic, Agnostic and all other
words that see you preening
Rhyming, timing and all the stuff
that makes you look artistic
Hard to read and nothing
really makes your stuff simplistic
Excreta, meter, rhyming
All about your brother Peter
Verses with great timing
all with just a single rhyme repeater
Arty words but never farty
Dressed up in a dictionary ‘bonnet’
Time for wordsmith party
Can you find a rhyme for this – yes Sonnet!
Who was it that wandered
all around as lonely as a cloud?
Are clouds lonely? Verily it’s pondered
Do they seek your friendship in a crowd?
I.Q, Haiku, do your readers even like you?
Tanka w****er, you’re so on the ball
So pretentious’ does that saying ever strike you
Jack of all trades master of sod all

You’re a poet, as they say
and all you say is poetically full ofshit
Read up or down, I’m pretty sure
you’ll never find much sense in it

Though some was meant!

poem by Stephen Stirk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Poetic Revolution

Poetry has no simple explanation,
no words to describe how words can describe
or the evokation it causes of emotion and thought

It is a subtle magic that really does work
to be believed in for its ebbing power
grander than the simple folk, and understood by them

It has changed over the many years
from wit and wonder and vocabularic delights
to simple jest and outpouring, when communication breaks down

Who do you find a poet, or poetic, or Poe?
Is it the one who delights you, drowns you, or drags you down...
Or simply any fool with words and a pen?

Nothing is left of its grand glory, even these departed words
that might mean a subdued salvation, growing up
Poetry waits for the next revolution...

REVOLUTION!

poem by Poet Dragon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Being A Poet

I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.

Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.

At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.

If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.

There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.

I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.

Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.

In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.

With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.

Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!

poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I read another poet I could not understand

I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND

I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.

And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.

But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?

Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-

Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

I can not wait for two o’clock to come

I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
to climb on my motorbike
and to ride to the place
where the words of other poets
get life and energy
and bring bliss and burning beauty
and sometimes sincerity
or stark reality
as magic to me.

I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
to hear the words
of a master and to find something
in his thoughts that I can make mine,
as if it was buried in my soul
just waiting for the sun and rain
and interaction to sprout
growing green like a living thing.

I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
to read my own poetry
and to see what other
people make of it
and to know
if my words are truly
hitting their mark.

I cannot wait for two o’clock to come
and to experience something great
that makes life worth living
and perhaps for some time
to sit near the presence
of the Immortal One
that gives man the ability
to turn words into the magic
that life aught to be.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry

A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY

A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.

The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!

Poetry by Meena Mustafa

My brain is a recorder
It stores all black and white
Each time I write a poem
It throws a different light
It makes the reader happy
At times it makes him sad
The love of poetry
And the poems that I have
Words pour like fountain
Imagination takes its place
On a journey to knowledge
Poetry we must embrace
Poetry is my refuge
And keeps me on the path
Expressions take new meaning
And words pour out at last.
Poetry is a song that sings to the soul
The rhythm of the words that a pen can hold.

poem by Meena Mustafa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!