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An Answer to Frances Cornford

Why do you rush through the fields in trains,
Guessing so much and so much.
Why do you flash through the flowery meads,
Fat-head poet that nobody reads;
And why do you know such a frightful lot
About people in gloves and such?

poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To a Lady Seen From the Train

O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is soft as the breast of doves
And shivering sweet to the touch?
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?

poem by Frances Darwin Cornford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Flash's Dream (The Final Elbow)

Scene: Mr. Black's army is closing in on Flash & The Spivs.
After a long day's campaigning Flash, having overindulged
the alcohol, has fallen asleep in his den.
Voice: Cooee. Cooee. Flash. Flash
Flash: Who is this?
Voice: Wake up Flash. Can you hear me Flash?
Flash: Who is this? Who dares to wake me from my slumber?
Voice: Need I announce myself? Am I such a stranger to you?
Flash: Say your name. Speak!
Voice: I am your soul.
Flash: My soul?
Voice: I have come to show you who you are.
Flash: Show me who I am? I know who I am you upstart! How
dare you intrude.
Voice: You lied and schemed and took over a simple village and
turned it into a vulgar playground for your own money-
making ends. Before you came people lived simple lives.
This was a happy place. Then you ploughed up the fields,
sold off the land and lined your own pockets with the profits.
Flash: Lies! Lies! I did it to help the nation
Voice: You did it for your own preservation!
Flash: No! No!
Voice: Prepare yourself Flash, there are many who suffered at your
hands. They are craving for vengeance. Time is running out.
Flash: Can this be the end? Can this be the swan song? The final
elbow? I will not go. The people need me.
Voice: Men like you will always come and go, but the people will go
on forever. Take one final look at the past Flash. Enjoy it,
because you have no future.
Flash: No! No! No! I can't stand this.
Trumpets herald the final confrontation between Flash and himself.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flash's Dream

Scene: mr. black's army is closing in on flash & the spivs.
After a long day's campaigning flash, having overindulged
The alcohol, has fallen asleep in his den.
Voice: cooee. cooee. flash. flash
Flash: who is this?
Voice: wake up flash. can you hear me flash?
Flash: who is this? who dares to wake me from my slumber?
Voice: need i announce myself? am i such a stranger to you?
Flash: say your name. speak!
Voice: i am your soul.
Flash: my soul?
Voice: i have come to show you who you are.
Flash: show me who i am? i know who i am you upstart! how
Dare you intrude.
Voice: you lied and schemed and took over a simple village and
Turned it into a vulgar playground for your own money-
Making ends. before you came people lived simple lives.
This was a happy place. then you ploughed up the fields,
Sold off the land and lined your own pockets with the profits.
Flash: lies! lies! i did it to help the nation
Voice: you did it for your own preservation!
Flash: no! no!
Voice: prepare yourself flash, there are many who suffered at your
Hands. they are craving for vengeance. time is running out.
Flash: can this be the end? can this be the swan song? the final
Elbow? i will not go. the people need me.
Voice: men like you will always come and go, but the people will go
On forever. take one final look at the past flash. enjoy it,
Because you have no future.
Flash: no! no! no! i can't stand this.
Trumpets herald the final confrontation between flash and himself.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trains

Here I am at the end of the day
With a cup of cold coffee
From the station buffet.
On trains, on trains I seem
To spend my life on trains.
See the blue suit banker in the ticket line.
Got an evening standard with playboy
Hidden behind.
On trains, on trains he seems
To spend his life on trains.
Time after time.
Was I just dreaming?
Did I help you aboard?
Full passenger service ---
Let me help with the door.
Sit down take the weight off your feet.
Theres a train full of people Id like
You to meet.
On trains, on trains we love
To spend our lives on trains.
Join the secret world of trains.
Feel the pleasure. touch the pain.
Drift into yesterday.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet sometime
On the 17.30 where
I usually find
My friends at the end of the day.
May we pay your fare, lady?
We should like you to stay
In our train. on trains ---
Youll have to spend your life
On trains.
I hear theres an office party on the 18.05.
Youll be home for christmas if they
Take you alive from the train.
Those trains, we have to spend our lives
On trains.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet any time
On number two platform
Where I usually find
My friends at the end of the day.
On trains, trains, trains.

song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter To A Young Poet Revised

Letter to a young Poet

Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.

So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Flowery Smile

Flowery smile, flowery smile
As I glance your sparkling eyes.

Flowery smile, flowery smile
Stunning beauty, across the miles.

Flowery smile, flowery smile
Soothe my heart, makes my day shine.

Never give up, never for a while
For heart will fall, with your flowery smile.

poem by Dong Agosto
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Puzzle

Do not bury the poet
The poet bury himself.
The poet is his soul
It is seen ti poet only.

The poet see the time
And time see the poet.
Ask not the poet repeat
Another sun flash light
And you puzzled.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Jenny Dreamed Of Trains

When jenny was a little girl she only dreamed of trains
She never played with dolls or lacy kinds of things
Jenny counted boxcars instead of countin sheep
She could go anywhere when she went to sleep
All she ever talked about was gettin on to ride
She was livin in another time you could see it in her eyes
Everyday after school shed head down to the tracks
Waitin for the train that was never comin back
Chorus:
Jenny dreamed of trains
When the nighttime came
Nobody knew how she made it come true
Jenny dreamed of trains
The depots been boarded up, the rails have turned to rush
There hasnt been a train through here since the mill went bust
No one believed her when she said she heard the train
Said she was just a little girl actin kinda strange
Jenny laid a penny on the track one day
In God we trust she walked away
The very next mornin all that she could find
Was a little piece of copper squashed flatter than a dime
Nobody knew how she made it come true
Jenny dreamed of trains

song performed by by Vince Gill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet's Answer Is the Poem

The poet’s answer is the poem
Even when Poetry is irrelevant-
The poet reads the situation
As if its soul can be told in words-

The poet is a fool of course
Enslaved to what he is and what he does
He makes the poem everything
When sometimes it is nothing at all-

I am that poet I suppose
I am that fool certainly.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Put a Sock In It

Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Today there is just too much stuff.
And people are getting fed up!

Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Today there is just too much stuff.
And people are getting fed up!

Many getting sick of the pickiness started.
And when it gets sticky they can not stop.
Instigating agitation with annoyance.
Dropping all they've got to tie a mind in knots.

Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Today there is just too much stuff.
And people are getting fed up!

Can't you see them strike poses and begin to 'cheese'.
Then plop on their knees,
To make their pleas.
These same folks cry about bad luck.
With claims their butts are stuck in ruts.

Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Today there is just too much stuff.
And people are getting fed up!

Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Folks have had enough,
And fed up!

Put a sock in it,
Maybe this will rush a hush.
Folks have had enough,
And fed up!

Folks have had enough.
Folks have had enough.
Folks have had enough.
And fed up!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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 Glove Of The Live Lady.

Her glove! It was rare Ben who sung it,
That best of gloves of the lady dead!
Another's here, as one had flung it
In anger at her lover's head.
Was it but this that it was made for,
One of a pair perhaps he'd paid for,
To have it favored in this fashion?
But gloves are gloves, and passion's passion!
And he, it may be, liked her better
For her rich anger as she threw it:
'Twas worth a glove to so upset her
And know he had the power to do it,
So he might kiss the white hands after
Her passion turned to tears and laughter!

poem by Robert Crawford
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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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A Poet’s Life (Fun Poem 13)

A poet’s life is an awkward one,
he sits with pen and paper in hand,
writes down what comes into his head,
prints it up, reads it through,
only to find that someone
can’t understand
a blinkin’ word he’s written.
The most frustrating part
is that he understands it perfectly well,
so now he has to explain and tell
what the whole thing is about.
At times, a poet’s life
just wants to make you scream and shout.
So you take pen in hand again,
hoping what you write this time
they will understand.

(7 May 2007)

poem by David Harris
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Image

Breathe
This is the knowledge that I bring,
Universal worldwide culture
Inhale, exhale
I takes it all in
No second guessing
Truth brings forth a new passion
No second guessing
Push aside this fate for the ransom
Stands among, gold seven and loxd up
White wool; fire eyes, glowing in red
Water of rush, planet hold, in double edge
Falling down dead, last first, its one life
Life source, in resurrection, these bloodstains
Shining face, this morning stars reflections
Embracing light, the clearness of sunrise
Tower strong, in this refuge, my fortress
Breathe
This is the knowledge that I bring,
Universal worldwide culture
Inhale, exhale
I takes it all in
No second guessing
Truth brings forth a new passion
No second guessing
Push aside this fate for the ransom

song performed by by P.O.D.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For Peace

Flowers grow in the grass,
Baby footfalls pass
Over the fields once red,
Over the hero's head—
For Peace.

The earth, through her leafy veil,
Whispers a magic tale;
And the scholar reads in the clod
The latest news of God—
For Peace.

Brave little wires are spun
For voices to fly upon;
Words out of clouds are caught
From some witch's woof of thought
For Peace.
And the cataract's foamy troubles
Illumine a million bubbles,
In some city far away
Turning the night to day—
For Peace.

Proud trains, heralds austere,
Bring far-off nations near,
Piercing the mountain's crown,
Treading the barriers down—
For Peace.

Swift ships, that pound the sea,
Set the earth-chained spirit free,
Show the whole round world unrolled
Before the young moon grows old—
For Peace.

And the white-winged aeroplane
Laughs, in its mad disdain,
At limits and barricades
And cruisers and cavalcades—
For Peace.

Even the war engines dread—
The guns with bomb-shells fed,
The grim gray battle-ships—
Shout through their iron lips
For Peace.

Oh, never a hero's grave
But for Peace his life he gave!
And the warrior bears his scar,
And the poet sings of war
For Peace.

poem by Harriet Monroe
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Into Whining

Into whining, into guessing, a day was guessing,
More important than mahogany, but upstairs;
Forming study, the question forbade us
As the apartment of knowledge entered our minds.

We were guessing and leading to answers,
Questions survived the chances, the telegrams;
There was lying more than us and everyone,
Yet the guesses welcomed us, as they were true.

poem by Naveed Akram
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A Poet's Blues

A poet
Is having a hard time
To day
While he is writing his poem
He writes something
Om his computer
And after he finishes it he reads it
And it doesn't seem good enought for him
So he errases it
And he writes his poem again on his computer
When he is finished with his poem
He reads his poem
And he is not happy with it still
So he errases it again
And then he writes it again on his compute
Now his poem is finally making sense
And all he needs to do is to elaborate his poem
Now it it is getting late for the poet
Ans he needs a break from writing
So he goes to sleep right now

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Playing The Guessing Game

People come expecting me to have all the answers.
They want me to end their suffering, to have a cure to their cancer.
I try my damnedest to help out people the best I can.
But with such vagueness, their is need for only more questions.
You want a personal opinion, you want definitive advice on something you won't tell me about.
Thats absolute nonsense.
Stop these silly requests.
I can neither read minds or predict the future.
And even if I could I would leave it in a vague riddle that would keep you guessing till the end of time, if their is such a thing.
I have no degree in psychology that is for certain.
I don't deal with other people problems on a daily basis, but instead my own.
And they are plenty enough of them alone.
But as I write about my experiences, it is not an invitation to guessing game I condone.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Sonnet XXXIII. To The Naiad Of The Arun

GO, rural Naiad! wind thy stream along
Through woods and wilds: then seek the ocean caves
Where sea-nymphs meet their coral rocks among,
To boast the various honours of their waves!
'Tis but a little, o'er thy shallow tide,
That toiling trade her burden'd vessel leads;
But laurels grow luxuriant on thy side,
And letters live along thy classic meads.
Lo! where 'mid British bards thy natives shine!
And now another poet helps to raise
Thy glory high--the poet of the MINE ,
Whose brilliant talents are his smallest praise:
And who, to all that genius can impart,
Adds the cool head, and the unblemish'd heart.

poem by Charlotte Smith
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