The Work Of A Poet
A poet’s work is a mystery indeed.
It springs from his mind like a fertile seed.
It’s not his place to question its emergence,
But to record and marvel at its resurgence.
Each word, phrase, sentence is predisposed
Like a babe that is born already composed.
It’s mission to convey ideas and messages clear
With style and flair never before existing here.
When a poet views release of his finished piece,
Best enjoy as an observer or emotions increase.
How each work is born, like the child at birth
Is shrouded in mystery as is so much on earth.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
A Poet's Work
A poet's work is a mystery indeed.
It springs from his mind like a fertile seed.
It's not his place to question its emergence,
But to record and marvel at its resurgence.
Each word, phrase, sentence is predisposed
Like a babe that is born already composed.
It's mission to convey ideas and messages clear
With style and flair never before existing here.
When a poet views release of his finished piece,
Best enjoy as an observer or emotions increase.
How each work is born, like the child at birth
Is shrouded in mystery as is so much on earth.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Am A Poet
Iam a poet
ı was born a poet
ı feel that frommy childhood
why the storks
chatter on the chimneys
and nest there
their young beak black
their eggs catch cold in winter
ı am a poet
but sometimes ı am misunderstood
that upsets me
very
sometimes people scold me
why the hell you look at me
strangely
they say
do ı resemble someone
do you recognise me
ı am just a poet
ı cannot say
ı s ı t my fault
to be born poet
ı wanna write a poem about you
so ı look and try to understand
your attitude
why does this bother you
ı was born so
ı watch a little child
leaving her mother
throwing herself to the water shower
in the pool in spring
then ı ask the child to return to mother
cause she is looking eagerly looking AFTER
does not like a stranger
she does not know what a poet is too
and lives plain and direct
ı am a poet
ı wish
ı were not born so
ı long for a humble and simple life
living may be in poverty
cause understands me nobody
even the closest around me
poem by Metin Sahin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
This Poet's Responsibility
When I’m inspired I’m but an observer,
Enthralled and encompassed in a mosaic of fervor.
The ideas are finished and I’m but a scribe,
Laboring for understanding as each word I imbibe.
So often after a work is recorded,
I read it to comprehend what was reported.
Most surprising of all is that after my screening,
I’ve transcribed words without knowing their meaning.
Themes are random and messages mixed.
Their origin unknown since I remain transfixed
As I record them without any rhyme or reason.
To do less would be intellectual treason.
I’m grateful I received this precious gift.
I know I must give others a lift
By passing on these messages from somewhere above.
Like life, problems are transient, so be happy through love.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Child Is Sweet Any Day Of The Week
A child that's born on a Monday
holds beauty in sight and mind.
A child that's born on a Tuesday
is graceful, sweet and kind.
A child that's born on a Wednesday
is a treasure, so they say.
A child that 's born on a Thursday
sees a quest with each new day.
A child that's born on a Friday
is loving and freely gives.
A child that's born on a Saturday
shows great work through how they live.
A child that's born on a Sunday
is happy, carefree and gay.
I guess you could say that a child is
special, no matter what the day.
poem by Christine K. Trease
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Painted House Is Like A Poem.
In a way-A house painter is like a poet...
The house painter or average person just might not know it.
A lot of cleaning, sanding and preparation of the surface takes care and time...
Compositions, editing and thought polishes the rhyme.
When finished, they both are a work of art...
A lot of sweat and work is done by the artist's own part.
In the end, a finished polished piece...
Makes the artist, happy and at peace.
The work is finally done...
What hard work, finished-Now
feelings of enjoyed fun.
poem by Michael Gale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
X’mas
Born was a child in a manger;
Born was the son of God, the Father;
Born was the love of the Maker;
Born was for men, a Redeemer.
Born was a baby boy, a king;
Born was on earth a prophet great;
Born was the love of God in human form;
Born was a Messiah.
Born was a son of a carpenter;
Born was the king of Jews;
Born was the living God as flesh;
Born was a Savior.
Born was a babe, who brought,
Joy and peace to the world;
Born was a babe on a bed of hay,
As angels choirs kept singing on.
Born was the spotless Lamb of God
Who was to die on the cross;
Born was a divine child,
From the Virgin Mary’s womb!
Born was Lord Jesus Christ,
Who paid the price for our sins,
And by His death and resurrection,
Made it possible for sinners too,
To go to Heaven.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-25-2006
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mysteries Revealed
Mysteries that men have heard, are revealed in God’s Word.
What were once mysteries, have been revealed for all to see.
The mystery of Jesus Christ, who’s the very Author of all life.
A mystery of purpose in Christ, how in Him we have New Life.
Another mystery of Jesus Christ, is how we gain Eternal Life.
There’s the mystery of Israel, and how they fit into God’s will.
Israel is hardened for awhile, so God can include the Gentile.
God didn’t forget the nation; they’re included in His Salvation.
By redemption in God’s Son, Jew and Gentile become one.
The mystery of The Gospel, and how in Christ it was fulfilled.
And the mystery of The Church; those in Christ by New Birth.
My Friend, not to be remiss, there’s the mystery of Godliness.
The mystery of His Revelation; an unveiling of God’s Salvation.
The mystery of end times friend; what God shall do in the end.
The mystery of hope in Glory; the purpose of the Gospel story.
Behold, I show you a mystery, one that every eye shall see.
Christians will not all see death, but be changed in a breath,
In the twinkling of an eye, they will see Christ, but will not die.
While men left upon the earth, will not see men of New Birth,
For only those men born again, shall be raptured in the end.
All the mysteries of past sages, are fulfilled in the Rock of Ages.
God spoke in prophets of old, in Christ fulfilled mysteries untold.
Christ’s Revelation revealed to all, redemption from Adam’s fall.
Christ revealed His Salvation, to every Jew and Gentile nation.
If you accept Christ as Lord, the mystery is a mystery no more.
A Scientist and A Poet!
Strange are these men,
people can enjoy their work,
one can't compare these,
but let us try end enjoy!
Scientist and Poet,
One studies the worlds,
And another studies words,
Both can be above human mind,
One play with his logic and another plays word magic!
Both scientists and Poets,
Meditate,
One upon his experiments,
And another upon mind,
One studies cause and effect in this world,
Another studies love and affectaction of world!
One take pains work for some purpose,
Another can lie under the nose,
Both stumble on luck,
Scientist discovers a truth,
Poet always plays with so many of them!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet: Misjudge Him Not, O Critic
Go to hell, ye critic who tries in vain,
A poet’s love-affair to unravel;
His sensuous sex details- to pry insane;
From his own poems composed, a marvel.
Remember thou, the poet’s a Creator!
And with time, turns a literary Wizard;
In the art of painting words, a Master;
Who can write even about a lizard!
Oh, denigrate not, man of such greatness,
With silly conjectures, thine assumptions;
Mar not his name with acts of carelessness,
Belittling his work beyond redemption.
Oh, let the man in each poet remain!
And judge his art for art’s sake, sans disdain.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Born In Time
(first release, live version, february 1, 1998, new jersey center, new jersey)
One, two, a-one two three
In the lonely night
In the shadows of a pale moonlight
I think of you in black and white
When we were made of dreams.
I walk alone through the shakin' street,
I'm a-listenin' to my heart beat
In the record breaking heat
Where we were born in time.
Not one more night, not one more kiss,
Not this time, i'll have no more of this.
It's much too cruel, it's much too cool, way too revealing.
You came, you saw, just like the law
You married young, just like your ma,
Oh babe, how you left me reelin' with this feelin'.
Up on the rising curve
Where the ways of nature will test every nerve,
I held you close and got what i deserve
Where we were born in time.
You pressed me once, pressed me twice,
You hang the flame, but you'll pay the price.
Oh babe, and that fire is still smokin'.
You were snow, you were rain
You were striped, lord and you were plain,
Oh babe, truer words have never been spoken or broken.
In the hills of mystery,
In the foggy web of destiny,
You can have what's left of me,
Where we were born in time.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Life Is Fog Bound
Life is a mystery, a fog shrouded puzzle
With images and characters
All fuzzy round the edges.
We are uncomfortable with mystery
It denies our certainties our black and whites.
Our logic fails to work, is inconsequential.
Our faith journey is only clear when looking back
The now and the future remain fog bound.
For those who seek a certain path
Crystal clear and straight and narrow
Will find their way encumbered, misted over
In the reality of our being pilgrims led by him
Who is the way, the light in a puzzling world
poem by James Tipp
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Poet’s Thought
TELL me, what is a poet’s thought?
Is it on the sudden born?
Is it from the starlight caught?
Is it by the tempest taught,
Or by whispering morn?
Was it cradled in the brain?
Chain’d awhile, or nurs’d in night?
Was it wrought with toil and pain?
Did it bloom and fade again,
Ere it burst to light?
No more question of its birth:
Rather love its better part!
’T is a thing of sky and earth,
Gathering all its golden worth
From the Poet’s heart.
poem by Barry Cornwall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An anxiety is seen
Writers and poets do not grow
They have their own course to follow
They may excel in their own way
They may be close to reality and do not run away
They are like new born or infants
Ideas come and go as quick and very instant
They got to be translated in real terms
They are always treasures as precious gems
They air their views without any pollution
It is their sacred task and resolution
It can set the major upheaval
It is their views and efforts to excel
They have their own fancy as small child
They can not afford o be wild
Thir approach should be dedicated and very mild
Their stand is appreciated and not simply filed
They have reputation and very good fame
They do not run after money or name
For child it may be fun or game
It shall never put him into shame
Some of his work may invite wrath
That may not go away with his death
He may be known for his radical views
He may be forgotten without getting dues
The life is short lived and end like butterfly
He may have discredit and only to feel shy
Still he has high morale to live and enjoy
He has many novel ideas to employ
He may not have standing army or weapon
His words are mightier and reflected in pen
The change is bound to take place and occur
He has to undergo personal losses and to incur
“ life thus moves on “
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I'm tired of being this solemn poet of the masses, the enigma shrouded in a mystery.
quote by Michael Stipe
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
My Blood, My Poem
So many works of my life
I dodge to write these verses
So much time I spend behind
Every couplet, every epithet sucks
A little dropp of my blood
Every letter sheds sweet from my ducks
Every line steals my sweet sleep
Every phrase is my dream and hope
I breathe in every word
Every punctuation dips in deep emotions
If it does not work and effects the heart
For whom these are composed
The masculinity of this poet is crushed
The stone heart of mine cries through eyes
Tears roll down, my blood is worthless! !
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The life of a Poet
The poet listens
the poet hears
he writes down
all his fears.
He observes things
that others don't
going to places
that others won't.
Inspired by simple things
like a sound or smell
the poet has lots
of stories to tell.
Even when asleep
his mind isn't at rest
in fact this is the time
it's at it's creative best.
The poet can be a restless soul
his life reflected on the page
some verse can be sweet and mild
then full of anger and rage.
The poet can be mysterious
and write in a strange way
he will say Black is White
and that night is day.
The poet is an artist
but instead of paint it's the word
painters want their work to be seen
but poets just need to be heard.
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Today... 'Beginning Of The Creation Of God
In the beginning was the Word.
Before the dawn of time He stood.
Spoke creations word 'Let there be'
beginning this worlds destiny.
Light shot forth in splendid array
and commenced creations first day.
Galaxies sprang into being.
Pristine life at its beginning.
Earthly time Jesus first began
according to His wondrous plan.
Out of the dust making a man
and in His likeness formed Adam.
But mankind sinned and fell from grace.
Sin had entered the human race.
So God came to earth as a man
in Bethlehem where Jesus began.
Man and God, this great mystery
knit together so wonderfully.
By the Spirit in Virgin womb
God, in time a man had become.
This Babe now in Bethlehem born
has heralded a great new dawn.
Jesus, a man had come to earth.
Man enters heaven by new birth.
The new creation has begun.
The firstborn was God's only Son.
Many sons and daughters raising
join together in God praising.
By the Faithful and True Witness
all forgiven as they confess
to the Amen of salvation.
Beginning the New Creation.
(see also the additional information below in the Poet's box)
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
Vote! | Copy!
Born In Time
By bob dylan
In the lonely night,
In the stardust of a pale moonlight,
I think of you in black and white
When we were made of dreams.
I walked alone through the shaky streets,
Listening to my heart beat
In the record-breaking heat
When we were born in time.
Just when I thought you were gone, you came back
Just when I was ready to receive you.
You were smooth, you were rough,
You were more than enough.
Ah babe, why did I ever leave you
Or believe you?
In the rising curve,
Where the ways of nature will test every nerve,
I took you close and got what I deserve
When we were born in time.
Just when I knew who to thank, you went blank
Just as the firelight was gleaming.
You were snow, you were rain,
You were stripes and you were plain.
Oh babe, can it be youve been scheming
Or was I dreaming?
In the hills of mystery,
In the foggy web of destiny,
Youre still so deep inside of me
When we were born in time.
song performed by by Eric Clapton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!