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Written Out [1]

Sing the song of the reckless, who care not what they do;
Sing the song of a sinner and the song of a writer, too—
Down in a pub in the alleys, in a dark and dirty hole,
With every soul a drunkard and the boss with never a soul.

Uncollared, unkempt, unshaven, sat the writer whose fame was fair,
And the girls of the streets were round him, and the bullies and bludgers there;
He was one of themselves and they told him the things that they had to tell—
He was studying human nature with his brothers and sisters in hell.

He was neither poor nor lonely, for a place in the world he’d won,
And up in the heights of the city he’d a thousand friends or none;
But he knew that his chums could wait awhile, that he’d reckon with foes at last,
For he lived far into a future that he knew because of the past.

They remembered the man he had been, they remembered the songs he wrote,
And some of them came to pity and some of them came to gloat:
Some of them shouted exulting—some whispered with bated breath
That down in a den in the alleys he was drinking himself to death.

Thus said the voice of the hypocrites—and the true hearts sighed with pain,
‘Oh! he never will write as he used to write! He never will write again;’
A poet had written his epitaph in numbers of sad regret,
And the passing-notice was pigeon-holed, and the last review was set.

But the strength was in him to rise again to a greater height, he knew,
For the sake of the friends who were true to him and the work that he had to do;
He was sounding the depths that he had to know, he was gathering truths for his craft,
And he heard the chatter of little men—and he turned to his beer and laughed.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Write Me A Song

Kelly is raising a son
His dad left just after the birth
Now she's living on child support checks
I guess that's all that man was worth
She says, "I just need a man who will love me
"But they all just want one night of sin
"I know my life could be better
"I just don't know where I should begin."
She said write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon at the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly
Yeah, they'll fly...
Beth, she sings straight from her heart
She's hidden her tracks very well
But these days she's falling apart
And it makes me feel just like hell
She said, "Boy, you can't imagine my life
"The death and the drugs and the pain
"And though I keep running
"I can't seem to break from these chains."
She said write me a song
And fill it all up with the words
Like "brilliant" and "heavenly"
Make it sound just like me
Just like the first time "I love you" was heard
And now write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon at the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly
We're all feeding our lonely
Like it might go away
The doors of heaven swing wide
If we just find the right words to say
She said write me a song
And fill it all up with the words
Like "brilliant" and "heavenly"
Make it sound just like me
Just like the first time "I love you" was heard
And now write me a song
One that makes all the girls cry
And the old women swoon at the sound of my tune
And the hearts of the lonely will fly
Yeah, they'll fly...
She said write me a song
(Write me a song)
She said write me a song
(Write me a song)
She said write me a song
(Write me a song)
She said write me a song
(Write me a song

song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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And What Have You To Say?

I MIND the days when ladies fair
Helped on my overcoat,
And tucked the silken handkerchief
About my precious throat;
They used to see the poet’s soul
In every song I wrote.

They pleaded hard, but I had work
To do, and could not stay
I used to work the whole night through,
And what have you to say?

’Twas clever, handsome woman then,
And I their rising star;
I could not see they worshipped me,
Because I saw too far.
(’Tis well for one or two, I think,
That things are as they are.)

(I used to write for writing’s sake,
I used to write till day,
I loved my prose and poetry,
And what have you to say?)

I guess if one should meet me now
That she would gasp to think,
She ever knew a thing like me,
As down the street I slink,
And trembling cadge from some old pal
The tray-bit for a drink.

I used to drink with gentlemen
To pass an hour away:
I drink long beers in common bars,
And what have you to say?

But often, in the darkest night
(And ’tis a wondrous thing)—
When others see the devils dance,
I hear the angels sing,
And round the drunkard’s lonely bed
Heaven’s nurses whispering.

I wrote for Truth and Right alone,
I wrote from night till day;
I’ll find a drunken pauper grave,
And what have you to say?
Good night!
Good day!
My noble friends,
And what have you to say?

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song For Mary

Written by: james henman
When I try to find
Words that wish to rhyme
I will never write this song for her tonight
We have stood alone
We have walked alone
Wont you help write this song for her tonight
Help me write this song
Help me write this song
Help me write her song
Tonight
When I try to pray
I cant start to say
All those things I wish to say to her tonight
When she hears her song
She will sing along
She will know the words her heart for me to find
Will you help write this song
Help me write this song
Help me sing her song
Tonight
All these words Ive said
Lyin on my bed
Will they help me sleep alone again tonight
And we have walked alone
We have talked alone
Will you help me sing her song for her tonight
Will you help me sing her song
Help me sing her song
Help me sing her song

song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Passion Grows Here

she had been dead until now
oh, who knew what could grow here
under cement and cold ashes
so thick like snow
oh, who knew what passion could be there
in a heart as cold as stone
who knew what looks of vulnerability lie
behind glassy eyes
behind kind and knotted hands
oh, who knew the song of her heart
everyone knows the song
the song of life
it grows in us
when we are most unaware of it
and springs forth upon us when we don't expect
but when we are ready
and oh, are we ready
look at how many places there are to go
look at all of our brothers and sisters here in this place
write
write
know it
you know it
it cannot be contained
it is life itself
everyone has the song
oh, everyone knows this song

poem by Ms. Queenie
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Victor Daley

I thought that silence would be best,
But I a call have heard,
And, Victor, after all the rest,
I well might say a word:
The day and work is nearly done,
And ours the victory,
And we are resting, one by one,
In graveyards by the sea.

But then you talked of other nights,
When, gay from dusk to dawn,
You wasted hours with other lights
That went where you have gone.
You spoke not of the fair and “fast”,
But of the pure and true—
“Sweet ugly women of the past”
Who stood so well by you.

You made a jest on that last night,
I met it with a laugh:
You wondered which of us should write
The other’s epitaph.
We filled the glasses to the brim—
“The land’s own wine” you know—
And solemnly we drank to him
Who should be first to go.

No ribald jest; we were but two—
The royst’ring days were past—
And in our heart of hearts we knew,
That one was going fast.
We both knew who should win the race—
Were rest or fame the prize—
As with a quaint smile on your face
You looked into my eyes.

You talked about old struggles brave,
But in a saddened tone—
The swindles editors forgave
For laughter’s sake alone.
You talked of humorous distress,
And bailiffs that you knew,
But with a touch of bitterness
I’d never seen in you.

No need for tears or quick-caught breath—
You sleep not in the sand—
No need for ranting song of death,
With the death drink in our hand.
No need for vain invective hurled
At “cruel destiny”,
Though you seem dead to all the world
You are not dead to me.

I see you walk into the room—
We aye remember how—
And, looking back into the gloom,
You’ll smile about it now.
’Twas Victor’s entry, solemn style—
With verse or paragraph:
Though we so often saw your smile
How many heard you laugh?

They dare to write about the man
That they have never seen:
The blustering false Bohemian
That you have never been;
Some with the false note in their voice,
And with the false tear shed,
Who in their secret heart rejoice
For one more rival—dead.

They miss the poems, real and true,
Where your heart’s blood was shed.
And rave of reckless things that you
Threw out for bitter bread.
They “weep” and “worship” while you “rest”,
They drivel and they dote—
But, Victor, we remember best
The things we never wrote.

The things that lie between us two,
The things I’ll never tell.
A fool, I stripped my soul, but you—
You wore your mask too well
(How strangely human all men be,
Though each one plays a part).
You only dropped it once for me,
But then I saw your heart.

A souls’-match, such as one might strike
With or without intent
(How strangely all men are alike—
With masks so different).
No need to drop the mask again,
On that last night, I know—
It chanced when we were sober men,
Some seven years ago.

They slander you, fresh in the sand,
They slander me alive;
But, when their foul souls flee the land,
Our spirits shall arrive.
In slime and envy let them rave,
And let the worst be said:
“A drunkard at a drunkard’s grave,”
“A brilliant drunkard dead.”

Because we would not crawl to them,
Their hands we would not shake,
Because their greed we would condemn,
Their bribes we would not take:
Because unto the fair and true
Our hearts and songs we gave—
But I forgot them when I threw
My white flower on your grave.

So let us turn, and with a smile
Let those poor creatures pass
While we, the few who wait awhile,
Drink to an empty glass.
We’ll live as in the days gone by,
To no god shall we bow—
Though, Victor, there are times when I
Feel jealous of you now.

But I’ll have done with solemn songs,
Save for my country’s sake;
It is not meet, for all the wrongs,
That any heart should break.
So many need to weep and smile,
Though all the rest should frown,
That I’d take your burden up awhile
Where you have laid it down.

poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Knew What Poets Know

If I knew what poets know,
Would I write a rhyme
Of the buds that never blow
In the summer-time?
Would I sing of golden seeds
Springing up in ironweeds?
And of rain-drops turned to snow,
If I knew what poets know?

Did I know what poets do,
Would I sing a song
Sadder than the pigeon's coo
When the days are long?
Where I found a heart in pain,
I would make it glad again;
And the false should be the true,
Did I know what poets do.

If I knew what poets know,
I would find a theme
Sweeter than the placid flow
Of the fairest dream:
I would sing of love that lives
On the errors it forgives;
And the world would better grow
If I knew what poets know.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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