En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Prime Necessity

A house without books is a desert place
unfit for human habitation.
Sufficient cause for lamentation
a residence which lacks all claims to grace.

Though circumstances may force me to face
involuntary deprivation
Without the slightest hesitation
I would set to and fill the wasted space.

With simple wooden shelves which would display
My books neatly arranged in ordered rows
Makes them easier to find I suppose
I wonder how long they will stay that way

Verse written by master poets long since gone
Whose words live on as they were meant to do.
A lasting legacy of great value
not just to scholars but to every one.

Literature is not a luxury.
To me it is a prime necessity.

31/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stupidity.

Stupidity.

We celebrate our dead heroes.
Their white headstones arranged in rows.
To mark where soldiers bodies lie.
They are no longer friends and foes

War cemeteries are tended well
in honour of the men who fell
It is the least that we can do
for men who died by shot and shell.

Each single death a tragedy,
each one recorded carefully.
To satisfy the bureaucrats
who collate deaths statistically.

I wonder why we cannot see.
That death alone claims victory.
Each new war adds to the score
of people dying uselessly.

Though we remember them with pride.
The countless men who sadly died.
Each thinking that their cause was just.
Involuntary suicide.

We celebrate our dead heroes
with white headstones arranged in rows.
Yet we still send young men to die
And always will do I suppose.

We do not learn from history
For no good reason I can see.
That wars prove nothing in the end
Except how stupid we can be.

Wednesday,30 December 2009
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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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Absolute Necessity

Absolute necessity

Is poetry a luxury or one of life’s necessities?
I have to read, I have to write poetry a pure delight.
Other poets inspire me.Exploring the variety
of forms and styles that I can find, serves to stimulate my mind.
I do not claim to be the best I am just one amongst the rest
of poets posting on the net. Who you remember or forget.
Is poetry a luxury the answer must be NO from me.
To some it seems a waste of time to other folks it is sublime.
You are quite free to make your choice. But I will always raise my voice.
Applauding poets who can write fine poetry that brings delight,
Uplift the hearts of other men, more power to the poet’s pen.

27/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Such luxury is not for me. for friend Thad

A marble floor that’s silken smooth
and walls of carven cedar wood.
What does such ostentation prove?
I do not know but feel I should.

Such luxury is not for me
I am contented with my lot.

I make no effort to impress
I have sufficient for my needs.
It matters not that I have less
than those who feel they must succeed

Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot

I see no reason to display
I much prefer my privacy.
I live my life in my own way
Accepting life’s reality

Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot

Though I indulge in fantasy
from time to time like everyone
I know it’s not reality
only a dream that’s quickly gone.

Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot.

I earn my living honestly
although I’m just an artisan
Better to live quietly
as befits a simple man.

Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot

A marble floor that’s silken smooth
and walls of carven cedar wood.
What does such ostentation prove?
Something I’ve never understood.

Such luxury is not for me.
I am contented with my lot.

Tuesday,10 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poetpower

Poetpower

Poets are a necessity
as every thinking person knows.
The conscience of society.
Who else but poets dare to pose.
Hard questions to the powers that be
which they could answer if they chose.
Instead of imposed secrecy.
Which gives us reason to suppose.

That they have something to conceal.
So we suspect dishonesty.
Our probing questions will reveal
it’s mainly inefficiency.
Which does not alter how we feel.
If the admitted openly
The problems which they now conceal
We’d listen sympathetically.

Instead of treating us like fools.
Who have no right or need to know
They hide behind their book of rules
try to maintain the status quo
We poets use our words as tools
to prove to them it isn’t so
for public tolerance soon cools.
A truth they do not seem to know.

01/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Life Review. fot J.T, Ellison

When you grow old as you must do
and you look backward to review.
The way that life has treated you
Where you have been, what you’ve achieved.
The blessings given and received.
a great deal more than you believed.
I think you find you are impressed
You know you’ve always done your best
and you have earned the right to rest.
No longer part of the rat race
You live your life at your own pace.
Perhaps you can accept with grace
When you conclude your life review.
You’ve done what you were meant to do.

05/09/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Unwritten for C.P.Sharma

I bought a new anthology
of poems from the First World War.
I offer no apology
The poetry filled me with awe.

To understand that tragedy
could inspire young poets to write.
Poetry of such great beauty.
To read it is a sacred rite.

I have a strange affinity
with young men cut down in their prime
Who made their mark on history
describing hell in metered rhyme.

I am forced to wonder what
they might have written but could not.

18/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Fashions are a passing phase for friend Jon London

I read your words with greatest care
and try to see your point of view
Although sometimes I must declare
I find it difficult to do.

I hesitate to criticise.
Aware the fault may lie with me.
Nor dare I offer you advice.
You might resent it bitterly.

The messages you try to send
to me lack simple clarity
I cannot see what you intend.
It makes no sense at all to me.

Your random thoughts lack coherence
They’re neither poetry nor prose.
An unintended consequence
of fashions changing I suppose.

The way that poetry is taught
in schools and colleges today.
They do not know although they ought.
Anything goes is not the way.

Most modern so called poetry
can only be poetic prose
Although it’s written beautifully
Opinions differ I suppose.

I’ll stick to formal poetry
Perhaps I need the discipline
that rhyme and meter gives to me.
And free form verse I will decline.

2-Feb-09

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hooked.

I’m sure, deprived of poetry
descent into insanity
would follow.Inevitably
It is my prime necessity

Poetry is my drug of choice.
Without it I would have no voice
either to lament or rejoice.

For I depend on poetry
to validate that I am me.

I am addicted hopelessly.

Wednesday,23 December 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Beyond Compare for MY Lady Irene

Thou art my love, as thou hast been.
Since first I set my eyes on thee.
The ruler of my heart, my Queen.
You are my liege I serve gladly.

The slightest wish is my command.
I will fulfil it if I can
Though thou dost clearly understand
I am no hero just a man.

A simple man and ordinary.
Whom thou hath bless’ed with thy trust
For this I serve thee willingly
My heart commands me that I must.

With thee I have found happiness
That I did not think could exist.
For thou and I togetherness.
Decreed by fate we can’t resist.

Thou art my love as I am thine.
Consenting partners equally.
A union born of love divine.
We are as we were meant to be.

Our fate was written long ago.
Our love will last eternally
and that is all we need to know.
What fate decrees must come to be.

27/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Conforming

I cannot unilaterally,
decide to do what pleases me.
How very easy life would be
if that was satisfactory.
Although it makes me furious.
I must confer, debate discuss
until it is unanimous.
I find it rather curious.
It seems your free will is not free.
Although you think it ought to be.
In order to live peacefully
as part of our society.
We have to voluntarily
place limits on our liberty.

05/11/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Hauptstrasse Heidelberg

I seem to see superimposed
upon today’s reality
An older world a fantasy
this high street as it used to be.

Pondering with eyes half closed.
I can imagine easily.
This old streets chequered history.
Today a lasting legacy.

Perhaps in truth I merely dozed
and only dreamt that I could see.
This cobbles street completely free.
From all modern technology.

A great deal different I suppose.
No mobile phones, no cameras
no bicycles, no motor cars.

Then in my mind a question rose.
Was there a possibility
my poet’s sensitivity.
Had actually enabled me.

To slip through times firmly closed door
and see vignettes from history.
A gift that fate had granted me
however undeservedly.

I do not know nor ever will.
It must remain a mystery
Just what I saw or did not see
Is etched deep in my memory.

I am compelled I must compose
A verse or two of poetry
Say how this street affected me
The how and why, eluding me

19/09/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Either Or for Friend Thad

A thought has just occurred to me.
When someone claims a victory
then someone else suffers defeat.
A simple thought that is complete.
You either win or else you lose,
there is no alternative to choose.
Acceptable when it’s a game.
A fleeting bid for some small fame.
Transfer it to the battleground,
this simple thought becomes profound.
You win you live, you lose you die.
That is the harsh reality.
Until we find a better way
then men on other men will prey.

7-Jul-08

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Naani for Subarraman N.V.

War will persist
as long as men exist.
Men have the will and skill to kill.
They always had and always will.

Peace apparently
an impossibility.
Men expect hostility
Universally.

Why should this be?
It seems to me
we were meant to live peacefully.
In perfect amity.

6-May-08

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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Validation for colin j

Sometimes I think we should not try
to make our cherished dreams come true
and be content with fantasy.
We must accept reality
Some cherished dreams are doomed to fail.
Because they are not meant to be.
That does not mean we should not dream
For dreams are a necessity
Though they’re not always as they seem
Dreams can protect our sanity
provide escape from every day
repetitive reality.
Dreams can become reality
Though only if they’re meant to be.

31/05/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Complementary viewpoints for friend Chandra

Philosophy and poetry
are not completely different.
Each represents a way to see
What is not always evident.

Philosophers and poets try
to understand the universe.
The answers which they can supply.
Expressed in turgid prose or verse.

Philosophers can be abstruse
and difficult to understand
Because of how they phrase their views.
I don’t dismiss them out of hand.

I much prefer the poets verse
To endless reams of complex prose.
I do not think I am perverse
Simplicity I must suppose.

Is really what appeals to me.
the poets seek to entertain
and yet express with clarity.
Philosophers try to explain.

Their reasoning in great detail.
They just succeed in boring me
Their efforts are to no avail
I will admit quite openly

I simply cannot spare the time
To plough through densely written prose.
But I find poetry sublime
I like the way it ebbs and flows.

The insight that a poet shows
can entertain and educate.
Philosophers try to impose
their views, discouraging debate.

Which does not sit too well with me.
Folks can’t stand being patronised
and will rebel instinctively.
A fact that poets recognise.

They are content to share their thoughts.
With anyone who chooses to
read the verses they have wrought.
Which may express a different view

To that of the philosophers.
You draw your own conclusions
and choose which version you prefer.
Perhaps your own opinions.

Philosophy and poetry
Are both legitimate attempts
To explain some mystery
By folks of different temperaments.

22/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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100% Fatal

I suffer from a malady.
which is slowly killing me.
There’s no known cause nor any cure.
Its something which I must endure.

A disease universally
accepted reluctantly
As affecting every race
A truth that everyone must face.

We’re born to live a while than die.
Its only when the end draws nigh.
That we review the life we’ve led,
what we could have done instead.

If we had known what we now know.
When we were young so long ago.
Would we have done things differently?
We cannot say with certainty.

Our lives are ruled by circumstance.
We roll the dice and take our chance.
Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose
complaining is of little use.

We can’t opt out refuse to play
the game continues anyway.
Why are we born only to die.
There has to be a reason why.

A part of some great master plan
too complex for the mind of man
to grasp in it’s entirety.
Embracing all impartially.

Wednesday,18 November 2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Smile

regrets are my bedfellows
I'm feeling so alone
I've messed up my life pallette
now it's colored up with woes
just two simple words
have changed me to no end
just two simple words
have changed me to no end
just to simple words
to quote you
only friends
**I miss your smile
when I'm sleeping all alone
I'm in our house
and your not ever home
changed residence
stopped paying out the rent
and girl I miss your smile
When I drive by your house
it makes me want to cry
each time I see your face
it makes me want to die
so why do I sit back
and look at picture books of you
I guess I'm just messed up
and that's all I can do

song performed by by Unsung Zeros
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Here and Now for M 'lady Ernestine

I know a bank beside a stream.
Whereon the shy white violets grow
An Ideal place to sit and dream.

At least I know it used to be
but nothing ever stays the same
The world is changing constantly.

You can’t return to yesterday.
Though if you try then you will find
there is a price which you must pay.

If you are wise just stay away
retain your cherished memories.
It’s very different there today.

I could not even find the stream.
Instead a clutch of bungalows,
A cheap and nasty housing scheme.

I came away without delay.
I left as quickly as I could.
My cherished dreams in disarray.

I was a fool I should have known.
You can’t return to yesterday.
Far better leave the past alone.

Concentrate on the here and now
Where you can wield some influence
if circumstances will allow.

08/08/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Take and be prepared for my friend C.P

The desert plains of ice and snow are not a place I’d choose to go.
Nor sandy wastes under the sun dry deserts don’t suit everyone.
The high plateaus of the Andes; I can assure you will not please.
Perhaps I’m choosy but I find such desert places most unkind.
I much prefer the moors I roam which welcome me. I feel at home.
Although they’re barren, wild and bleak I find the solitude I seek.
Each to his own I must suppose. My own high moors are what I chose.
I listen when they speak to me, I understand them easily.
They can be dangerous it’s true. You can take risks if you choose to.
I don’t take risks I know the rules. The high moors have no time for fools.
I have been sometimes weather bound by sudden mists which cloak the ground.
I have sufficient sense to see my moors are merely testing me.
Mistakes the moors will not forgive, I am prepared so I survive.
A wise man gives the moors respect but fools don not but they expect.
Tolerance for their carelessness their stupid unpreparedness.
The moors are not the enemy they judge all men impartially.
Some learn by hard experience there’s limits to their tolerance.
But others pay the penalty. Killed by their own stupidity.

06/09/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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