Aspiring to greatness
Some choose to write by candlelight
and some compose straight on the screen.
Whichever way to you seems right,
that is the way it’s always been.
In days of yore you chose your quill,
made sure the ink was close to hand
Before your parchment you could fill,
then sprinkle it with silver sand.
A pencil is my chosen tool
I scribble quickly on my pad
and then transfer it as a rule
to my computer: I am glad
to see it appear on the screen.
Neatly displayed in black and white
the font I use shows crisp and clean
Then I will edit and put right
whatever errors I have made.
Correct the meter and the rhyme.
The final draft is then displayed
. Re editing does not waste time.
It is a task you must not shirk.
Though I’m afraid that many do
and thus do not present their work.
as perfectly as they ought to.
It is entirely up to you
to show that you are willing to
do everything that you can do
to prove you’re fit to join the few.
Whose poetry will still be read.
Like the great poets of the past
In years to come when you are dead.
Whose golden words were meant to last.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
Tried and Tested
My pencil holds a multitude
of varied possiblities.
Which I accept with gratitude
I grasp the opportunities
To write my thoughts in black and white
on any subject that I choose.
Expressing sorrow or delight
enabling me to share my views
With other poets on the net.
Who also share their thoughts with me
although in fact we have not met.
The common bond is poetry.
I am old fashioned proud to use
The simplest of technology.
A pencil is the tool I choose
it helps my thoughts flow easily.
I don’t compose on my P.C.
Though I suppose I should learn to.
I’d rather scribble happily
in pencil as I usually do.
24/06/2009
http: //.blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Who stands with me?
True poets write in meter.
Not because they think it’s neater
but because the flow is sweeter
When their words are read aloud
as they perform before the crowd.
Their poems pass the acid test.
Prose writers do not choose to rhyme.
They see it as a waste of time.
Although their word choice is sublime.
Without meter it is prose,
not poetry as they suppose.
Their definition I contest.
Poetic prose it’s plain to see.
Can not be classed as poetry.
I can accept you disagree.
I know I have a biased view
I think I am entitled to
Decide which one I like the best.
I choose meter every time
Preferably with lines that rhyme.
I find such poetry sublime.
Though I enjoy well written prose.
Each to his own I must suppose
So write the way that suits you best.
I am old fashioned I admit
and not one whit ashamed of it.
I do not find rules inhibit.
Free expression of my views
They merely mean I have to choose
the words that will express them best
Free form, free verse, poetic prose.
Are methods other writers chose
as being fit for their purpose.
To rebel against fixed form.
Which was regarded as the norm.
Just to be different from the rest.
But fashions change and now free form
Must be regarded as the norm.
I see no reason to conform.
I choose to write my poetry
In the old way that pleases me.
A lonely voice raised in protest.
The wheel of fate will slowly turn
Metered poetry will return
and well deserved plaudits earn.
I hope I live to see the day.
when classic poets can display.
That fixed forms can outshine the rest.
Monday,06 December 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Pencil
Red Pencil
R ed pencil with magic flair
E nrichment while in school
D ancing red marks are everywhere
Red pencil; teachers’ tool
Red pencil marks, to make it right
I studied hard with all my might
Red pencil marks
Red pencil marks
I passed the test to my delight
P encil red is the teachers’ tool
E dified magic wand
N ebulous to the Golden Rule
C lassroom and teacher bond
I want to teach, want to be free
L ife as a teacher, that’s for me
I want to teach
I want to teach
Some day I’ll teach, Form Poetry
Red pencil, with magic flair
I studied hard in school
I’m now a teacher; answered prayer
Red pencil is my tool
I’m a teacher, I live my dream
Teaching poetry to the extreme
I’m a teacher
I’m a teacher
And my red pencil is supreme
Author Notes:
Acrostic Trijan Refrain
Trijan Refrain
The Trijan Refrain, created by Jan Turner, consists of three 9-line stanzas, for a total of 27 lines. Line 1 is the same in all three stanzas, although a variation of the form is not to repeat the same line at the beginning of each stanza. In other words, the beginning line of each stanza can be different. The first four syllables of line 5 in each stanza are repeated as the double-refrain for lines 7 and 8. The Trijan Refrain is a rhyming poem with a set meter and rhyme scheme as follows:
Rhyme scheme: a/b/a/b/c/c/d, d refrain of first 4 words of line five /c
Meter: 8/6/8/6/8/8/4,4 refrain/8
source: shadowpoetry.com
poem by Amera Andersen
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Always Moving On
the past
is just a set of some
grammatical errors
which i do not
wish to correct
because they are understood
to mean
what you think
too is right
but is too tired to
comment
or change
one does not have
the time to go
back and
fret and
edit
because there is so much
to write
to put into the concrete pavements
once again
to choose and
discard
to begin again a new
sentence
putting the first word on
paper
bulbs lighting
a new day
sun rising from the
east
and then suddenly
as you look again
on the screen
and look out to the
window
it is another sunset
and it is
too beautiful to speak
or write
there is no jutting down now
it is just plain
gazing
your hands on the table
all pens up
and you surrender to
such ending
it is too beautiful to behold
and then
at night some other dreams
let the letters then
reorganize themselves
let the errors
reorder what should have been
or
ought to be
now i am moving again
into another depth
another milestone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A matter of form for friend leslie
Consistency and symmetry
combined with meter seem to be
Ingredients of good poetry.
Though modernists will disagree.
They take a different point of view.
Convinced that anything will do
That writers need not follow rules
and those who do they see as fools
Consider rhyming is a crime
and meter just a waste of time.
But can this kind of writing last?
like that of poets from the past.
I don’t dispute they have the right
to choose the way in which they write.
Poetic prose can be divine
but not if it lacks discipline.
Your writing must be coherent.
A well established precedent
If what you write does not make sense.
What can be said in its defence?
If readers cannot comprehend
the message which you try to send
Because your meaning is not plain.
Perhaps its time to think again.
And realise there must be rules.
A craftsman has to know his tools.
If he does not then he will fail
his efforts all to no avail.
Some readers will choose poetry
and others prose preferably
It is your reader’s right to choose
to read your writings or refuse.
If you don’t cater to their needs
don’t be surprised if no one reads.
If how you write is too obscure.
Then change your style. The only cure.
30/06/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Machine made Elegance.
My father wrote in copperplate.
His beautiful calligraphy
I daren’t attempt to emulate
A task that’s well beyond me
Each letter was formed perfectly.
His grammar perfect and his prose.
Time was not a luxury.
Which was a factor I suppose..
My handwritings illegible.
To any one, sometimes to me.
I tend to hastily scribble
my thoughts down as they come to me.
But my P.C has changed my style
I can print out with clarity.
My poetry in a short while.
A blessing it has proved to be.
I was never taught to write
At least not write properly.
But I can print to my delight
and that is good enough for me.
The old ways change and we move on.
Although not always for the best.
Perhaps its sad that time has gone.
Now copper plate is by request.
Computers make it easy to
present hand written poetry.
In any font as we all do.
Which certainly impresses me.
15/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poets Dreams
Poets Dreams
Pray dream of wondrous places where inspiration grows on trees
And jangles ever more in a soft warm scented breeze
Where all of us that even once did pause to write
Will find some inspiration comes to us in the night
When dreams portray through swirling mists
The true passion of a lovers kiss
And so can bring some prose to those
Who strain to see on their tip toes
The wonders of a new bloomed rose
That's growing just behind that wall
We couldn't climb when we were small
Sweet dreams I sanction for all who scribe
Those who create must not be denied
A vision from whence they cast new scenes
Painted here in rhyme from those eerie dreams
Take sustenance and candles long
Behold the words that flow upon
The parchment, screen or paper pad
With quill or type or pen we're glad
To find the steady pass of time
Does not our spirits undermine
As long as ever more may we write
Through sunny days and flicker filled nights
(c) Rhumour
February 6th 2009
When Artists Freedom Sing Melody
poets once busy with parchment quill by candlelight
are now busy stroking screen keyboards by electric light
mind thinks in poetic harmony in rhythm pace memory
themes spread ripple out in receptive minds synchronicity
write waking dreams unlock symbolic language in poetic lives
an omnipresent thirst is a golden scarab flying through minds
a light touch of mind illumination transcends purpose causality
all may be well in the world when artists freedom sing melody
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Stanzas In Meditation: Stanza I
I caught a bird which made a ball
And they thought better of it.
But it is all of which they taught
That they were in a hurry yet
In a kind of a way they meant it best
That they should change in and on account
But they must not stare when they manage
Whatever they are occasionally liable to do
It is often easy to pursue them once in a while
And in a way there is no repose
They like it as well as they ever did
But it is very often just by the time
That they are able to separate
In which case in effect they could
Not only be very often present perfectly
In each way whichever they chose.
All of this never matters in authority
But this which they need as they are alike
Or in an especial case they will fulfill
Not only what they have at their instigation
Made for it as a decision in its entirety
Made that they minded as well as blinded
Lengthened for them welcome in repose
But which they open as a chance
But made it be perfectly their allowance
All which they antagonise as once for all
Kindly have it joined as they mind
poem by Gertrude Stein
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Scribbles Transcribed
Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.
I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.
I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.
What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme
I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.
My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.
My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.
Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.
To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.
I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.
I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.
But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.
Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.
The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.
My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..
(18-Jun-07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Consider your verdict for C.P Sharma
.
The countryside shows black and white a winter scene that’s pure delight.
When observed by a poets eyes. The inspiration it supplies.
he will record in metered verse, before impressions can disperse
He always carries pad and pen prepared to write no matter when.
his muse commands that he must write.Imagination in full flight.
as he attempts to share with you, the simple beauty of the view.
The fields of white are broken by bare trees which show against the sky.
He finds himself a sheltered spot, the day is cold but he is not.
He is consumed by his desire to write in burning words of fire
Describe the beauty of the day before the blue sky turns to gray.
Darkness must fall and will erase the beauty lit by the suns ray.
His brain moves faster than his pen, When he gets home he’ll write again.
Re edit it and check it through. When he’s convinced that it will do.
He’ll type it into his P.C, which will present it legibly.
Then post it on the internet, a task that he will not forget.
He’ll sit and wait for the replies.His poem read by other eyes
their honest comments let him know.Has he succeeded; yes or no.
30-Dec-08
http: // blog.my space.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Accidental Insults
Although I write mainly for me.
I choose to share my poetry.
With other poets on the net.
The only thing that I regret.
Sometimes I find I have upset.
Somebody inadvertently.
Albeit unintentionally.
I can only apologise
For bringing teardrops to their eyes.
Though I am taken by surprise.
By what they read into my words.
I often find it quite absurd.
They take offence at what I write.
They see it in a different light.
And choose to take the opposite.
view. Because they fail to understand.
They then dismiss me out of hand.
As they have every right to do.
Because sometimes I've chosen to.
Criticise what they hold true.
I do not mean to cause offence
I offer this in self defence.
The words I write, you filter through
Experiences peculiar to you.
That's why you read them as you do.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Tutorial for David de Santis
I read some poetry today
by long dead poets from the past,
which I enjoyed I have to say.
Their golden words were meant to last
.
Though they long since returned to dust.
The legacy they left behind
for poetry students is a must.
It is as if they were designed.
To act as templates we can use
as we learn to write poetry
It would be foolish to refuse
to benefit from history.
So find a poet you admire
from the past or present day
You might just find his works inspire
you to write a different way.
Experiment with every kind,
free form, free verse, formality
then in due course you’re sure to find
which one of these is your forte
The time you spend to learn the rules
is one investment you must make
Like any trade you need the tools,
Before you can attempt to make
your claim to be a master bard.
The road to fame is long and hard
with very little cash reward.
you have to try, no one is barred.
30-May-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.
It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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Make yourself at home for Friend Thad
I keep stored in my library
a treasury of poetry.
These riches I’m prepared to share
with anyone who visits there.
They’re sure to find something to please
somewhere in my anthologies.
They’ll find great poets from the past.
Whose golden words were writ to last.
Philosophy and high romance
or choose at a random take a chance.
They’ll find more formal verse than free
but I think I can guarantee.
Theres something there to suit your taste
just take your time no need for haste.
If your inspired and wish to write
the desk is placed to catch the light.
The only rule you must obey
is do not take my books away.
Through hard experience I have learned
that borrowed books are not returned.
If you should choose to visit me
you’ll find me in my library.
That’s where I spend most of my time
composing metred verse in rhyme.
22-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Work
When twenty-one I loved to dream,
And was to loafing well inclined;
Somehow I couldn't get up steam
To welcome work of any kind.
While students burned the midnight lamp,
With dour ambition as their goad,
I longed to be a gayful tramp
And greet adventure on the road.
But now that sixty years have sped,
Behold! I toil from morn to night.
The thoughts that teem into my head
I pray: God give me time to write.
With eager and unflagging pen
No drudgery of desk I shirk,
And preach to all retiring men
The gospel of unceasing work.
And yet I do not sadly grieve
Such squandering of golden days;
For from my dreaming I believe
Have stemmed my least unworthy lays.
Aye, toil is best when all is said,
As age has made me understand . . .
So fitly fold, when I am dead,
A pencil in my hand.
poem by Robert William Service
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Indefinable?
I can’t define with certainty
what is or is not poetry
There are so many schools of thought
but I recall what I was taught.
When I was young and still at school.
That there was but one basic rule.
Most everything you write is prose
but poetry you must compose.
You choose your words selectively
so that they say efficiently
exactly what you want to say
but in a smooth and flowing way.
In common with all forms of art
sheer inborn talent plays its part.
All artists need to learn the rules
provided by the different schools
of thought which proliferate.
Study past masters of your art
so you learn to appreciate
artists who are worlds apart.
All poets write in their own way.
Free verse, free style or formally.
Some styles will last some fade away.
Why do you write primarily?
What is it that you wish to do?
What is it that you wish to share?
Your feelings or your point of view.
Are you afraid or do you dare.
admit that you don’t know it all.
That other folks know more than you
Pride always goes before fall
I think you’ll find that this is true
You can of course choose to refuse
all helpful offers of advice
and disregard all other peoples views.
Though in the end you pay the price.
I can’t define with certainty
what is or is not poetry.
Though I can say with confidence
that poetry should make good sense.
3-Sep-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Versatilty
I think that I can claim to be
a poet who is versatile.
I try to write my poetry
in varied form and varied style.
I emulate and imitate
styles of great poets of the past.
To show that I appreciate
poets that time has over cast.
Although long dead their words live on.
A source of inspiration to
poets today.Though they’re long gone
and I give credit where its due.
Although some things I write are new
I cannot trace their origin.
I trust my muse as poets do.
She prods me until I begin.
She tells me there is no such thing
as writers block there cannot be.
A poor excuse for not writing
I’m not allowed to be lazy
That’s something she won’t tolerate
and drags me from my bed to write.
Though I protest the hour is late.
She is insistent that I write.
If she should choose to stay away
I’d seize the opportunity
to simple have a lazy day
Without my conscience pricking me.
11-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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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
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