En.Citatepedia^®.ro

In The Day's When We Are Dead

Listen! The end draws nearer,
Nearer the morning—or night—
And I see with a vision clearer
That the beginning was right!
These shall be words to remember
When all has been done and said,
And my fame is a dying ember
In the days when I am dead.
Listen! We wrote in sorrow,
And we wrote by candle light;
We took no heed of the morrow,
And I think that we were right—
(To-morrow, but not the day after,
And I think that we were right).

We wrote of a world that was human
And we wrote of blood that was red,
For a child, or a man, or a woman—
Remember when we are dead.

Listen! We wrote not for money,
And listen! We wrote not for fame—
We wrote for the milk and the honey
Of Kindness, and not for a name.

We paused not, nor faltered for any,
Though many fell back where we led;
We wrote of the few for the many—
Remember when we are dead.

We suffered as few men suffer,
Yet laughed as few men laugh;
We grin as the road grows rougher,
And a bitterer cup we quaff.

We lived for Right and for Laughter,
And we fought for a Nation ahead—
Remember it, friends, hereafter,
In the years when I am dead—
For to-morrow and not the day after,
For ourselves, and a Nation ahead.

poem by Henry Lawson
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No More

I wrote my name on the seashore
The waves came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the air
The wind came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the sky
The clouds came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the puddles
The sun came and it was no more
i wrote my name in the dust
The rain came and it was no more
One day Gabriel wrote my name
and alas! i was no more

poem by Humna Hamid
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Those

I remember
Those nights
I wrote to you

I remember
Those days
I wrote to you

Now,
Those
Memories
Tell me,
It's been
Ages…
I wrote
To you

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Linda Song

Music: Barry Manilow
Lyrics: Enoch Anderson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He never wrote a song for Linda
He wrote as though he lived alone
He wrote of dreams that end
And of sad brave men
Inventing worlds he'd never known
But he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
Loved him back to life
When his luck ran low
But he never wrote a Linda song
He nearly broke his heart at writing
Linda kept him from despair
Standin' by his side
through the hungry days
But he hardly seemed to see her there
And he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
The one real thing in his crazy world
And he never wrote a Linda song.
When the bills piled up
He couldn't pay
He couldn't dream no more
So he hitched a ride and he rode away
And he left a note for Linda by the door
By the door
When times got rough he'd phone her
Once or twice she took the call
Then she changed her number and she turned her head
And Linda never looked back at all
He'll never write a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
All he knows is no one understands
And he never wrote a Linda song
No he never wrote a Linda song

song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All She Wrote

Something's wrong with your mind
It won't think of me anymore
Was it all a waste of time
Tell me why was I such a chore
Broken glass lies empty
Cut my voice so I can't say
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Lying here in your bed
The one that you liked to do it in
Pieces of long brown hair
Are all over it and still in my brain
I can't explain
What it's like not knowing if I'll ever cross your mind
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Sleep through the day
Fight with the night
Seven a.m. and the tv is white
Covered in snow
I never knew that hell could get so cold
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Something's wrong with your mind
It won't think of me anymore
Was it all a waste of time

song performed by by Default
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It is not half cooked

Having heard and read, I wrote.
Having seen and felt, I wrote.
I wrote of love and romance
From experience and perception.
As I wrote I was soothed.
Don’t scorn my writings as half cooked.
10.10.2007

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Legends, Elegies, Pleasures And Norma Jean

The man who wrote Legends of the Fall
Wrote; 'Don't fall in love as if fallin' off a dock at night'
But when you are struck by the thunderbolt
How do you not fall?

The man who wrote the Duino Elegies
Wrote; 'Beauty is only the start of bearable terror'
But to be stuck without beauty
Is unbearable

The woman formerly know as Norma Jean
Wrote; 'I know from life one cannot love another'
I know what she meant, but to love you
How can I not?

The man who wrote The Pleasures of Hope
Wrote; 'How hard it is to find the one just suited to our mind! '
But it is just a little too easy to find one
Who is ill suited

From Legends, Elegies, Pleasures and Norma Jean
What they wrote is unforgettable
And that is what you are muse, though near or far
In every way

poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro
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They Call It Gentle and Smile

The Sun wrote a poem
That is morning
The Moon wrote a poem
That is evening
I wrote a poem
That is love
You wrote a poem on your lips
They fondly call it gentle and smile

poem by Kavin Charalan
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Letters To No One

I wrote a letter to my love
and never received a reply.
I've often wondered why that was.
Did he up and die?

Yes, he did. It's a fact.
And because I didn't know
I kept writing letters
and kept feeling low.

These letters went to no one.
So no one wrote to me.
I've often wondered if all my words
would come back home to me?

And then one day they all came back.
'Undeliverable'
is what they said.
I guess my lover moved away
or maybe he was dead.

And so I stopped my letters.
I never wrote again.
I still have all those letters,
unopened and unread.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Against The Unending Oblivion Of Endless Death

Against the unending oblivion of endless death
I wrote a few small stories
About relatives and friends who I have loved -
I wrote so that somewhere there would be some small record of them
And not simply nothing and no trace at all-

Yet my words or not,
Who will remember them as they truly were?
Who will remember the feeling of their presence?

When I go I will take them to my oblivion with me-
And we will with billions of others
(Unless God rescues us)
Lay down in silence
Forever.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Wake Up!

You put your cleanest dirty shirt on
Then you stagger down to meet the dawn
You take a ride upon a bus, its just a fuss
You know it keeps you born
You get to know a morning face
You get to join the human race
You get to know the world
Has passed you by
Who cares? you might be dead
Who cares? you stayed in bed
Who cares? you wrote the note
Who cares? you might have spoke
Wake up!
You take a snack to fill the gap
And then youre ready for another shift
Your attention was diverted
By the girl who smiled and made the lift
The radio is blaring out
Its in one ear and then its out
You didnt notice that the records over
Who cares? you might be dead
Who cares? you stayed in bed
Who cares? you wrote the note
Who cares? you might have spoke
Wake up!
In the road a crowd had gathered
And a man was close to dead
The blood is running down the gutter
While youre yawning, nothings said
His bodys wriggling like an eel
They got no sense, no touch, no feel
Somebody better go and get a blanket
Who cares? you might be dead
Who cares? you stayed in bed
Who cares? you wrote the note
Who cares? you might have spoke
Who cares?

song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Note You Never Wrote

Later on, the story goes,
A bottle floated out to sea.
After days, when it had found the perfect spot,
It opened up,
And I read the note that you never wrote to me
After all, Im sure you know,
The mayor of baltimore is here.
After days now he can finally appear,
Now at last hes here,
But he never is gonna get my vote,
cause he never is gonna get a quote
From the little note
That you never wrote to me.
Further on, along the line,
I was arrested on the shore,
Holding papers of governments galore.
I was taken in,
But I read the note that you never wrote.
Yes, I read the note that you never wrote.
Oh, I read the note that you never wrote to me.
To me.
To me.
To me.

song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost poem

It was on this page, then gone
Like feathers blowing in the wind.

Where is the prose I wrote?
Not a letter is in sight.
I am looking with all my might.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?

Today I wrote a new poem,
Was it lost in cyberspace?
I hope not for I might not know it,
Even staring at me in the face.

Give me a break, my memories are at stake.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?

poem by John Shea
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Dear John

(vocals by john prine)
When i woke up this morning
There was a note upon my door
Saying " don't make me no coffee, babe
Cause i won't be back no more"
And that's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
Now jonah got along in the belly of a whale
Daniel in the lion's den
I know a guy that didn't try to get along
And he won't get a chance again
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
She didn't forward no address
No she never said goodbye
All she said was "if you get blue
Just hang your little head and cry"
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
Now my gal's short and stubby
She's mean as she can be
If that little old gal of mine
Ever gets a hold of me
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i fetched your saddle home"
Went down to the bank this morning
The cashier said with a grin
I'm sorry for you little john
But your wife has done been in
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home

song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Book Of Love

Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
Tell me, tell me, tell me
Who wrote the book of love
Well, Ive got to know the answer
Is it someone from above
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
Baby, baby, baby
I love you, yes I do
And it says so in this book of love
That Im the one thats true
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
Chapter one says you love her
You love her with all your heart
Chapter two says youll never
You never, never... never gonna part
Chapter tree, remember
The meaning of romance
In chapter four you break up
Oh, wont you give me just one more chance
Oh, I wonder, wonder who
But who knew who
Who wrote the book of love
I wonder who
Who wrote the book of love

song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wrote The Same Sea not as a political allegory about Israelis and Palestinians. I wrote it about something much more gutsy and immediate. I wrote it as a piece of chamber music.

quote by Amos Oz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My sense of a poem - my notion of how you revise - is: you get yourself into a state where what you are intensely conscious of is not why you wrote it or how you wrote it, but what you wrote.

quote by Philip Levine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I write down everything I want to remember. That way, instead of spending a lot of time trying to remember what it is I wrote down, I spend the time looking for the paper I wrote it down on.

quote by Beryl Pfizer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear John (I Sent Your Saddle Home)

(vocals by john prine)
When I woke up this morning
There was a note upon my door
Saying " dont make me no coffee, babe
Cause I wont be back no more"
And thats all she wrote
"dear john", I sent your saddle home"
Now jonah got along in the belly of a whale
Daniel in the lions den
I know a guy that didnt try to get along
And he wont get a chance again
Thats all she wrote
"dear john", I sent your saddle home"
She didnt forward no address
No she never said goodbye
All she said was "if you get blue
Just hang your little head and cry"
Thats all she wrote
"dear john", I sent your saddle home"
Now my gals short and stubby
Shes mean as she can be
If that little old gal of mine
Ever gets a hold of me
Thats all she wrote
"dear john", I fetched your saddle home"
Went down to the bank this morning
The cashier said with a grin
Im sorry for you little john
But your wife has done been in
Thats all she wrote
"dear john", I sent your saddle home"
Thats all she wrote
"dear john", I sent your saddle home

song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What They Will Say

Some times, I wonder if I write for the future.
That may seem like a strange statement to make.
Forty-three years ago, I wrote a poem
that at the time no one wanted to know.
Now it is my best-loved poem
read by countless people around the world.
Thirty years ago, I wrote two poems
and each one won me an award,
but at the time I wrote them,
no one wanted to know.
All of which makes me wonder
if what I wrote in my yesteryears
that then none wanted to know.
Could they all be popular now?
Today I started collecting and retyping
short stories I wrote twenty years ago.
At the time, publishers and agents
didn’t want to know.
Now twenty year on
I am wondering what they will say.

24 January 2009

poem by David Harris
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An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

poem by Charles Bukowski
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