The Written Poems
Ah, which is not poetry
Sun and moon, day and night
Birth and death, merry and sorrow..
Happiness be if idyllic poem
Even sorrow a dolorous poetry..
Yes..lovely poems
But sorrow is not sorrow to swear
Inside the inside, inside it a dream
Rolling is sorrow on uncaged glee
A glee of unfettered wishes and desires
An aesthete of the secret soul..
Yes..a lovely poem
And gaiety too not so to swear
Inside the inside, inside it a guilt
Pricking the soul is the wakeful conscience
Awry-sorry-karma on wrong rungs
A fake upping of the secret soul
Yes..a lovely poem
Ah, just in bliss of ripened years
Connoisseur you rejoice them
Glee and guilt, aesthetes of secret soul
Written poems in every godly creature
Found and read in appreciation to acclaim
Oh..lovely poems
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Related quotes
Seeking Heat!
there is a heat
inside the fire,
friction inside the match.
there are clouds
inside each raindrop,
winter snows inside each bud.
there is a joy
hidden deep in sorrow,
there is touch
inside of the lonely.
there is a need
inside each prayer,
there is a hunger
inside those who take.
there is forgiveness
inside of anger.
there is a freedom
inside each cell.
there is a sameness
inside of difference.
there is a mother
inside each man.
there is a man
inside each body,
a hint of god
inside each soul.
there is a heart
inside of each man...
a heart seeking heat!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Story Of A Search For A Poem
A man went in search of a Poem
He searched everywhere he walked
He searched inside himself
He searched inside the poems of others
He searched and searched -
And what came to him were fragments of many poems
And he thought perhaps that they themselves were the poem
But they refused to be satisfied with themselves-
So he searched for a way to put them together-
But in searching came upon more fragments
With each new fragment totally re-ordering those that had gone before-
So he thought ‘I went looking for one poem but found many
Perhaps there are only many poems’
And he began to write them down
And felt at times that he had found many poems
But always too he knew he had not found the one-
So he searched and searched again
And could not find the Poem-
He is still searching
And does not know where the poem is
Sometimes he thinks it is hidden in the many already written
But he does not have the eye to discern it the heart to feel it-
He now is surrounded by poems-
They are everywhere-
But he still cannot find the One Poem which is the Poem for him
The Poem which is his Poem and his Poem alone-
He says he is still searching and will search to the end of his days
But he is old now and soon may be too weak to search
And so the Poem he seeks the one he has longed for all his life
May never be found
Though he goes on searching still.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Was A Poem Long Ago
THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO
There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Is Always With Me
THE POEM IS ALWAYS WITH ME
The poem is always with me
It waits inside.
And when it wants to be heard
It asks me to write it down.
Sometimes I say it,
Sometimes I hear it within myself silently,
Sometimes it goes away
When I go elsewhere for a while.
The poem is always in me
But sometimes it goes away
And is lost forever.
How many poems have I lost?
And how many poems have I never written down
That I should have?
And how many times have I written down
What is not a poem for anyone,
Except for the one who seems to need
A poem inside
All the time
So much?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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How can I cry if tears kill thee?
How can I cry if tears kill thee?
My love, my only sorrow, my pleasure am guilty
I internalize my sorrow so no one can take
The beauty it is and the love it doth make
To tell one of my pain; is to tell one my soul
My soul for my gain, only I will my soul control
The secret of my life is the secret I keep
Which me cherish and hold in my breast deep
It makes me who I art and what I be
The only thing mine, that none other can see
Secretly I cry in my true life inside
There I live and there my love confide
Forever with my sorrow I shall live
Miserly hoarding all its love it doth give
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Happiness May Come Later....
there is always
a sorrow inside us
do not be shy
say a little
we, men, do not want
to tell about this sorrow
women know that
but just like us they are not saying anything
it is this respect for sorrow
that makes it dignified
well kept,
well minded, but never spoken
when you share it with someone else
what good will it give her?
she has also her own sorrow
inside her
no matter how well dressed
no one wants to take it
it is the dignity of sorrow
to be silent and just be itself
it will always be here
waiting for her sister.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Letter From Sorrow
inside i am ugly
nothing but darkness within
no beauty to behold
only sorrow to be shamefully told
inside theres no such word as god
theres no carefully written x's and o's on the letter of my soul,
but it painfully wrote
My name is Sorrow
my thoughts are morose
i wish to die
or stay silently in a state of comatose
i wish to be numb to the anxiety
i want to get away from the pain
i need a place to bleed
i wont eat
i want to get high
i wish i could sleep
i want to get these scars off of me
i want a door open freely to leave
i need a place,
a place for me
sincerely,
Sorrow
poem by Alisha Gonzales
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Half a Poem
I laughed. The other option was to cry,
But she was looking so I had to laugh
Or show myself as weak - I cried inside,
Where only I could see my many tears
That poured like fountains of my sorrow,
My joy, my pain, my peace, my hate, my love.
I thought she was the pinnacle of love:
A flower that comforts the ones who cry,
A beam of light that ends the worst sorrow,
A joy that causes chuckle then a laugh
That then explodes and ends with lovely tears.
This girl, she made me feel these things inside.
I never told her what I felt inside
My silly dreams of life with her in love
With me, I thought one kiss would seal the tears
Which spread throughout a heart that bled to cry,
Recalling not the day of sharing laugh-
ter: friends became a mist in the sorrow.
And there was my downfall- in my sorrow
Copyright © 2010 Leslie Alexis
poem by Leslie Alexis
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Not Every Poem Knows Its Own Name
NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS ITS OWN NAME
Not every poem knows its own name
Or can have itself be written easily-
Not every poem lives in the light
There are dark poems also.
We, possessed of poetry
Often do not know where we are.
We would like to believe
That the light of our soul
And the light of our words
Are one-
But we know deep down
There is one poem somewhere
And another poem somewhere else
And whoever we truly are
Cannot be wholly found in either.
No poem is us completely
And we are not complete Poetry either.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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These Poems These Songs This Beauty This Life
THESE POEMS THESE SONGS THIS BEAUTY THIS LIFE
These poems these songs this beauty this life-
All that I hear inside me
And have heard from others
Through years of listening-
All that I take with me inside
As if it were forever mine
The songs I have learned and love
The poems I recite in my soul
Without even trying to-
All this like the dust
Like the air
Will vanish when I go
And the song of my soul
Will be
As blank as the silence
Of a page never written on.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Have Written Too Many Poems Of Despair
I HAVE WRITTEN TOO MANY POEMS OF DESPAIR
I have written too many poems of despair-
Too much complaint-
Too much sorrow grief sadness difficulty pain-
I should have written more of hope of youth of love-
I should have sung of happiness
I should have been been a poet
Who helps others love life more
I can try now-
But can words of ‘will’ really be poetry?
It is when the lines come to the mind and heart
On their own
Naturally
That the poem begins to live.
Does this sound like a ‘happy poem’?
Or yet another lament for what I am
And have not been?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Denial
Here I am in a house full of doors but no exits
In a light that is grey like the stain on my windows
All of this is a gift, such a painful companion
Inside of me
Its just something I know, the answers not there
It comes and it goes and it frightens me
Its just something I know, the answers not there
It comes and it goes and it frightens me
This feeling inside me cant confront the decay
To fall down on my knees and resume this charade
Believe me, this distance, its not what I need
Inside of me
Its another story, some of it is blurred
I tried to understand him, I tried so hard
Time worked so well upon us inside of me
Inside my soul, inside my soul
Time worked so well upon us
Inside of me, inside my soul
Inside of me, inside my soul
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eucharist
Inside I was brought to the wide air
Where storm will not shake me
And sorrow will not bother me
Inside I was swayed in calm water
Where my thirst satisfied
And my soul purified again
Inside I came to bright light
Where time is limitless
And only the truth felt
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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289
Read the poems and meet the words
Like they are strangers
They do not know you
And you do not know them
But then you
Get to know each other
With how you feel
And what they feel for you
They flow into your mind
And float there
Then they sink because
You rock them in your
Blood and thirst and
Loneliness, and you ask
If it is you in the poem?
Did I not tell you the magic
Of my poetry? Or of poetry itself?
I will tell you again
You read them and then feel them,
Then they become you
Because now you see yourself
Inside them
And the poems own you
Because now you own them too.
is it you? yes, it is also us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Is it you?
Read the poems and meet the words
Like they are strangers
They do not know you
And you do not know them
But then you
Get to know each other
With how you feel
And what they feel for you
They flow into your mind
And float there
Then they sink because
You rock them in your
Blood and thirst and
Loneliness, and you ask
If it is you in the poem?
Did I not tell you the magic
Of my poetry? Or of poetry itself?
I will tell you again
You read them and then feel them,
Then they become you
Because now you see yourself
Inside them
And the poems own you
Because now you own them too.
is it you? yes, it is also us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Have No Poem Today
I HAVE NO POEM TODAY
I have no poem today
I’ll have no poem tomorrow
The poems have gone away
My life is filled with sorrow.
Will poems come once again?
I cannot really know
Poems may have gone forever
While I remain alone and unknown.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Day Went By Without A Poem
The day went by without a poem-
The night was poem-less also
And then a month and then a year
My soul suddenly homeless.
The poems were gone
And I alone
Empty in my soul
I could not write
I could not feel
The universe was cold.
And now I wait
And dream and think
And hope a poem one day
Will come again
As dreams
I know to play..
But perhaps despite these faltering words
The poems
Forever gone
And I must live alone-
A poem-less man
Without a word
Silent as a stone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Is My Poem
This is my poem of ______. (date)
This is my poem, written by myself.
This is my first poem never written.
This is my last poem now to be written.
This is the poem I would have written
if I had lived yesterday what I lived today.
This is my poem changing white light
into gold-leaf
and blue into violet.
This is my poem like a heaven twisting
and turning inside of me
all night long.
This is my poem of opening a window
to show what was always inside.
This is my poem encompassing everything
hope can bestow or chance agree with.
This is my poem of open-ended freedom.
This is my poem breathing life into motion.
This is my poem written as I wrote it
a living being.
And this is my poem ending;
but only for today..
poem by Patti Masterman
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