The Study
When I walked with small,
almost baby small steps into his study
after coming slowly down the long passage
I saw him writing in the half-light,
marking exam papers or reading some poetry,
getting the words, the rhythms into balance,
and I walked in deeper to be with him,
where I heard the hoofs beating of the horse
carrying its headless Boer citizen,
and my emotions were sometimes on the edge,
when his mighty voice
folded and pulled along the Afrikaans words
but without any kind of worry or fear
for even the cannibal I heard him reading verses
that still does awake feelings in me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
My Poems Came Back To Me / As Rhythms Without Sounds
My poems came back to me
as rhythms without sounds
Imitations of anothers music
Falling down and down
Like winter snow
To whitening ground-
My poems came back to me
As distant whispers of other destinies
Flights from deeper spaces
Mankind has not yet surmised
They were somewhere in the distance of distance
Beyond all distance
In the mystical language
Only Wisdom heard
Though it had no words of its own-
Only ‘now’ and ‘more’ and ‘dreams of another century’
And I, I with all these confusing words
Wondering if my friend would ever be sane again
And why God does it this way
While I in my writing play and play again
Bringing my own rhythms back
And making poetry my own small happy game
Which I write and I write
Without memory.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Lovely Couple
The Lovely Couple
In a café I hadn’t been to before I ate an omelet with
french fries, it was flat, boring the fries were re- heated.
Near me sat an old couple reading the paper together,
when he got and up walked outside for a smoke, she read
the obituary page, but just before he came back in she
folded the paper back to the page he was on before
leaving. He was interpreting to her what he had been
reading, something about the new president in the USA,
she knew of his views, she had heard them before,
she was listening to his voice, as they were old and near
the end of a blessed lane they had walked together.
Close they sat she held his arm and now they looked young.
It is odd to think if they knew they would live forever they
may have postponed their happiness indefinitely.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Last Poem I Came To
The last poem I came to
Was not my own-
It came from other voices elsewhere
And had a thousand broken signatures written in it -
It was all my reading and all the voices of others I had heard-
It sounded like a mess,
And it frightened me by its mixed- up- ness -
But I have been reading and listening too long
The voice was of the others
But it had become mine also-
And now when I try to sound like myself
I hear them calling me by their own lines and names
And writing these words as I write them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Constantly I wonder how can I be part of it?
Constantly I wonder how can I be part of it
of a literature in which I read contempt to God,
in which people sing about relationships with the same sex;
use cursing words, the lowest language without fear?
Without Godly protection
even the mightiest fortress will fall
and this beautiful language, Afrikaans
is part of me as a born in thing.
When a great Afrikaans poet then tramples over me,
I know that he is not walking in the steps of God;
honour to the own self, self-elevation
is time and again betrayed by his words.
Still my verses in Afrikaans is holding strong,
while savages are ruling the country and are doing as they seem fit.
poem by Gert Strydom
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My Canadian Chronicles 30
Last night was kind of strange for me.
A friend took me long to a small café
to listen to some poetry being read
never thinking for one moment
that I would end up reading mine there.
It happened and I did,
my hands shook when I got up to the mike
and stood there and did my bit,
reading out what I regard the best two poems I have written.
I believe the person who organized it
was thrilled because his little group
suddenly went international when I got up to the mike.
It was a small group of about thirty,
each poet had a different style
and I had an awesome night
standing there
reading at “The Weed.”
18 June 2009
poem by David Harris
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18 Definitions Of Poetry
1) Poetry is what is Beautiful in words –
2) Poetry is the deepest feeling words can tell
3) Poetry is the soul of each one of us
4) Poetry is the morning light after the longest night
5) Poetry is a dream of dreams in a world that needs dreams to be
beautiful
6) Poetry is the Search for God and the Love of God in all holy writing
7) Poetry is Reality itself when it is doing what it should
8) Poetry is you and me and all of us when we are kind to each other
9) Poetry is more than we can say or know- deeper than the deepest
silence and quieter also
10) Poetry is the place we go to in ourselves when we need to cry out loud
11) Poetry is Love words of love and the first spring of the young lovers first
song
12) Poetry is all we are when our minds are right and strong
13) Poetry is what saves us from all the other words
14) Poetry is what ceases to exist when Cruelty comes
15) Poetry is Love and Blessing and Kindness again
16) Poetry cuts through the icy sea within and sends chills down the spine
17) Poetry is what is recollected in tranquility but also tried and tossed in
tempest on the most difficult seas
18) Poetry is open to more than what it has been It is what others have not yet created and will so long as we are human and in search of the Sublime
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Ana Ng
Make a hole with a gun perpendicular
To the name of this town in a desk-top globe
Exit wound in a foreign nation
Showing the home of the one this was written for
My apartment looks upside down from there
Water spirals the wrong way out the sink
And her voice is a backwards record
Its like a whirlpool and it never ends
Ana ng and I are getting old
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Listen ana hear my words
Theyre the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you
All alone at the 64 worlds fair
Eighty dolls yelling small girl after all
Who was at the dupont pavilion?
Why was the bench still warm? who had been there?
Or the time when the storm tangled up the wire
To the horn on the pole at the bus depot
And in the back of the edge of hearing
These are the words the voice was repeating:
Ana ng and I are getting old
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Listen ana hear my words
Theyre the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you
When I was driving once I saw this painted on a bridge:
I dont want the world, I just want your half
They dont need me here, and I know youre there (dont need me)
Where the world goes by like the humid air (world goes by)
And it sticks like a broken record
Everything sticks like a broken record
Everything sticks until it goes away (it goes home)
And the truth is, we dont know anything (dont know)
Ana ng and I are getting old
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Listen ana hear my words
Theyre the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you
Ana ng and I are getting old
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Listen ana hear my words
Theyre the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you
Ana ng and I are getting old
And we still havent walked in the glow of each others majestic presence
Listen ana hear my words
Theyre the ones you would think I would say if there was a me for you
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry
Reading poetry is my afternoon tea
It's my crossword puzzle when my time is free
It's my game of football, where I scream and shout
Reading, reading, reading; what's it all about
Nothing think I delights me so
A new poetress has a show
Or when a young poet man
In words takes he a stand
It's good to know, as the world's poets go
Tis strong and has force to show
That moments come, and they pass
Poets rise up, assume their tasks
poem by Midnights Voice
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As I work with my words as medium
I want to be profound
Deep, deeper than what i
Can possible swim
But I have seen
The limitations
Of words as medium
Of my thoughts
How can I put the
Color red
Of an apple
In words
Or the scent
Of lavender
In syllables
Here you are
Reading me
And I do not want
To disappoint
You, my reader
I want to create
A world of sensations
For such is the
World of poetry
I have long wanted
You to feel
My sadness in
Letters
My loneliness
In a single
Letter
This
i
Or...... ............................... me...................................
I want you to listen
To me
In the hush of the wind
In syllables
I want you to
Read my joys
In my phrases
Sometimes
I have given
You sentences
stanzas
I want you to
Be at home
With my words
But these are
Just words
And I must
Have failed
In bringing
Back to life
Your senses
Hopelessly
They have long
been dead
words, words, words,
And
Even this whole
Poem
Is not enough
Let me try
Again
On some
Coming
Illustrations
Birds falling
Their wings clipped
Leaves blown
Detached from
Their stems
Trees threatened
About the news
Of the coming storms
Oh I am so sorry
Your senses are sleeping
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Drunk On Poetry
Poetry surges steadily
Through my veins
I grant it to stream through them
Day in and day out
Sleep and awake
I believe it's a healthy obsession
I get drunk on it
The more I inject in me
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become addicted
Sometimes I absorb too much poetry
Reading, writing and listening
I become drunk sometimes
Poetry spills from my pen
Inking a piece of paper
And unto another and another
Constantly on every thought
Humorous, emotionally, romantic, tragic
Experiencing in life
Opinionated, factual, abstract
Political, any subject that's on my thoughts
Sometimes I become drunk
The more i inject into me
Poetry I live for
Eat, drink, sleep
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
I loose myself sometimes
When I digest too much
Poems that I write
I write for me
I share them with the world
I can't resist this urge
Poetry is what I crave
It happens to be my mistress
I become drunk
The more I inject
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become so addicted
Breathing in too much poetry
Reading, writing, listening
I'm drunk sometimes
Poetry I write
Write from experience
What I've done
What I've heard
What I've seen
What I've felt
What I've known
Poetry I live for
Eating, drinking, sleeping
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
On my thoughts poetry
Loosing myself sometimes
When I inject enough
This is what I've become
A drunken poet
poem by R.K. Cowles
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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
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I Don't Believe 'You' Wrote This!
I am told I have a way with words.
I am encouraged when I hear that said.
I remember listening to my father talk.
And when he would sing...
He would bring a different meaning,
To each word I heard.
And what his singing to them he would bring.
My mother would play the piano.
Thunderous and loud!
And when I walked through the projects...
I would sing to the trees,
I once walked into one...
Humming to the clouds.
I would make up melodies and tunes with words.
Mocking my dad and my mother's love,
For gospel verse she would rehearse.
I didn't think anything really about words I wrote.
Until my sister read a poem of mine.
And I wanted to choke her by the throat!
YES!
She was the first to read something I wrote out loud.
I was embarrassed by that.
Her nosy grown up butt...
Reading my 'stuff' behind my back!
And then she said to me,
'I don't believe 'you' wrote this! '
I must have been 13 years old...
When I started to make my writing public.
I am told I have a way with words.
I am encouraged when I hear that said.
I remember listening to my father talk.
And when he would sing...
He would bring a different meaning,
To each word I heard.
And what his singing to them he would bring.
Each 'thing' I write now...
Is added to a mixed bag offering!
And reflecting how I'm feeling at the time.
I am grateful for this blessing.
It offers a comfort and a peace of mind!
And when someone says they enjoy what I do...
I must be honest with 'you', the reader!
I-do-too!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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
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Heart Print
leaving a heart print
behind my poetry
is more than leaving
a treasure
a rare treasure
forever etched in my heart
it is more
than the highest rating that I got
even if some words
are not too deep to utter
nor in a sophisticated manner
but simple words to convey
giving my simple voice behind
it is in writing poetry
that we capture in words our feelings
the magic of human life and emotions
we wanted to convey,
to reach out
to be understood
and to understand
writing poetry
is sometimes lonely
takes me
into that place
of deep feeling
that leads to praying
my conversation to a God
who knows it all,
my all, my everything
thanks a lot,
for those wonderful heart prints
you wonderfully
and lovingly left behind
it means so much to me
they are....
the treasures of the heart
poem by Meggie Gultiano
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Small Time
small time, you call it small time
writing
is small time, there is no money
in writing, like a
politician, look at him, he does not
write, someone writes for him
and he gets the prize
the money
the pot
the jackpot
and look at you
you keep on writing
and writing
and writing
oh la la
poems, fit for a woman
her limited mind
her gullibility
her passion for words and words and words
her imagination
and look at you
poor man, poor, poor, poor
what you give
to this world, what are you giving to this world
it is not even a flower
just a poem for her, and you claim that you are winning her heart?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Is Now Reading This?
count yourself blessed
if you are reading this?
you are the rare few
who actually read others' poetry
nobody is serious about other people's life anyway
poetry reading is being noosy
an orphan in an alleyway
tries to look for a
home sweet home
count yourself doubled blessed
if you fully understand any poem
for poets write for themselves
if a poet says he writes for others
he is probably a liar
after money probably
count yourself blessed for having learnt this
for among the millions of poets
there are poets in lost alleys
trying to find a piece of themselves
the lane that runs to treasures of heart and mind
verses springing from the sanctity of the soul
many slip on the make belief lane
throwing words, phrases helter skelter
a child that tries to plant fiction in non fiction
offering honorable readers
a half baked cake nobody would take
the heaven sounds out the genius though
each of his word gets you revved up
each of the words offers a
a spectacle into real sights, sounds, tastes
and smells
the honorable readers know the fakes
from the real - just so instinctively
real words never lie
the diamond detector never fails
inspired by
Who Is Now Reading This?
May-be one is now reading this who knows some wrong-doing of my past
life,
Or may-be a stranger is reading this who has secretly loved me,
Or may-be one who meets all my grand assumptions and egotisms with
derision,
Or may-be one who is puzzled at me.
As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself! (O conscience-struck! O self-
convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers! (O tenderly, a long time,
and never avow it ;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well, interior in myself, the stuff
of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me until it must cease.10
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Tragic Love Story
can't hardly catch my breath words has frozen to cold something is missing
i've find it out it was you i've lost you
sadness distress memory
far but un spoken
we come
heartstrings plays upon tears fall slowly
heart to heart crys one last tears heartfelt
breaking slowly as your gone
my feelings dies slowly softhly the heart stopped beating dies slowly inside of me
softhly
heart reading like a story goes from heart warming that we kisses passion
a flashing back when you take my hand against your heart thoughts of emotions of your love i fell everything my heart desires
i felt a kind soft heart soft tinder kisse captured the central of our souls and heart the love was true pull us in
you obviously a man in one real nature
one feel a great sadness and distress
it broke my heart to let you go
from loving you as him leting you go
bare one's heart and soul
by change of heart his with another
his closer then near to
tears my heart out memory
i've crys in tears have you heard it all this year did i've sleept for years or is it just a dream
hearing voices sound like your is it you or its my mind that plays a sound and my ears to hear
poem by Putri Misnia Shary Bahri
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It's For Me
Poetry for me, is just like breathing
I inhale Life and exhale poems
It's for me - I do the writing
No matter, if ever, comments come.
As chosen words come out soothing
Release the pained and burdened heart
I find relief in simply writing
Touching others with what I impart.
But always the joy is within me
The reading by others may truly bless
I'm grateful they read my poetry
But the writing is my true happiness!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THOSE who misspell
And those who are still coping up
With their metaphors
The techniques
Of rhyme & beat
Those who think
They do not
Know how to
Write poetry
And those
Who fear
What to say
What to write
What the others say
About their poetry
And those that doubt
Their writing
Abilities
Their thoughts
Their feelings
Their feelings
Their feelings
Yes
Yes
Their feelings
Or those who simply
Fear that they may only
Be displeasing
And disappointing
And those whose
Sense of confidence
About this thing
This poetry
This poem thing
Those that still
Hide what they
Feel to what they
Think
Is prose
Those who think that
Their life
Is not worth
Sharing in the
The beat and
Rhyme of poetry
Behold
The mere thought
About life
About a beating heart
The pulse
The eyes that blink
The fingers fidgety
That type the words
Of feelings
Of feelings
Yes
Yes
About feelings
It is all about feelings
The genuine feelings
Of your life
You type them
Each word
To another word
A chain of words
A long chain of words
Like playing the music
To the piano keys
Like strumming
The strings of a
Flamenco guitar
A certain music
A certain beat
To the sound
Of your computer keys
Hear the beat
And the rhyme
Of your computer keys
Each word
To another word
To a chain of words
To a longer chain of words
You are running a chain of feelings
You are chasing a chain of feelings long chained in your hearts wanting to be free
To be free
To be free
Yes
Yes
You, feeling to be free to run free to be all free
Like you were scattering red rose petals to this pedestal
Like you were sprinkling waters to this garden
Like you were splashing waters in the sea
Like you were bathing playing dancing in the rain
Like you were humming a tune to a trek on a hill
Like you were making love with your beloved the whole night
Behold
A poet in you is born
Behold
You are typing
A poem
You are
Feeling
And you are
By all means
Now a poet
I hereby baptize you
With that name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Small Talk
Its not the chapters he reads when youre feeling low down
Its not the touch of his skin when you kiss him goodnight
Its not the money he spends when you want to buy a daydream
And not that miracle smile that makes the sky bright
Its not the way his hands behave
When youve turned out the light
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen
Small, small small talk that makes you want to fly, yes it does
Its not the way he believes in you like a religion
Its not the thrill that you get when hes holding you tight
Its not the way his eyes persuade
You to stay the night
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen (just like that)
Small, small small talk that makes you feel like flying, yes it does
Information, heart and soul, a whisper, a word
Confessions that have to be heard
Small small talk
Come on now, come on now
Come on - you make it rock so heavenly
Come on now, come on now
Come on - you seem to talk so heavenly
Big words...
Small talk...
Its not the way his eyes persuade
You to stay the night
Its the small, small small talk that makes it all happen
Small, small small talk that makes you feel like flying, yes it does
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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