Tabula Rasa.
Rondel Prime.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
Although I try my muse insists.
I take my pen and start to write.
I quickly find to my delight
My muse is ready to assist.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
An empty page a welcome sight
To a poetic formalist
Or even to a modernist.
To anyone compelled to write.
A pristine page of purest white.
A challenge that I can't resist.
Sunday,14 October 2012.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
In the Lead
My pencil’s charged with poetry.
It can write verses fluidly
and inscribe them on the sheet
in rhyme and perfect metric feet.
It’s such a simple artefact
but filled with magic that’s a fact.
A pristine page is quite enough
to make my pencil do it’s stuff.
My pad, my pencil and my muse
can’t see a challenge and refuse
A blank page they can’t bear to see.
That why I’m writing poetry
I have a pad I have a pen
which forces me to write again.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Vow 2 (Right Words)
I've always been able to
now I don't even know what to do
it's never been a problem before
I've always been able to write about it
talk about it, now that it hit me
I'm somewhat speechless
I put pad to pen, nothing
an empty space on a white page
shouldn't this just write itself?
not a word or a single letter
I know it hit me, I feel it
it hurts yet I like it,
I smile at the sight of it
I've spent days and still on a blank page
it's stupid to say, but I give up
a pen is in rage to silence
to express this, these feelings
no words could describe
nor will I try
the only thing I can say for certain
that it is real, I Love you
this I vow.
poem by Kelvin Owusu
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The canvas
The canvas
~
This blank canvas before me
Laid out in pristine white
Where only the illusion of lines
Break the unparalleled possibility
Dare I take my pen to it
To scare forever its page
To pen the impossible thought
In verse and breath captivated
That only the mention of a word
Touches the heart and soul of man
Painted into eternity
Upon the canvas stained
No longer innocent, pristine
But touched by the mind
Whose eyes looked upon
A world as they chose to see it
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Purest Feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Well I think Im gonna push it
As far as it will go
Give in to desire
Only you will know
So tell me all your secrets
Ill stick it in your head
I wish I could remember
Everything she said
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Well she could be a saviour
With everything she does
Or some kind of punishment
For people just like us
I dont really believe she understands
Whats happening to me
The sooner that she gets it
The better it will be
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
Purest feeling
I have got to figure it out
I just want to know
I cant live with it
Purest feeling
Written and performed by: trent reznor
song performed by by Nine Inch Nails
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Theme for English B
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
poem by Langston Hughes
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Book Of Days
Your life is as a book
Written on the pages are the weeks
For you would give anything to take just one look
Into the next chapter, the next page
Each page is a new thought, a new dream
Sometimes it takes so long to pass that page
And sometimes nothing is as it seams
For you know you can not go ahead or back
You know you are where you are
You know you can't change that
As you read page to page, so near to fear
You write the chapters as you go, with each turn
Each turn, each move changes what's to come
And you know each moment could be the last
With this in mind you go so mumb
So numb to the touch, to the thought
You turn page after page
until you reach the 'end'
And only then, you are freed from the title
The title that has kept your thoughts bound, and tight
You turn the pages one by one
You take the pain, take the joy
Until you are done
And your story becomes another on the shelf of eternity
(1/24/2008)
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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White as Truth
i am a page of white
a space limited only by
the scope of your thoughts
you can write whatever you wish
onto me - the good, the bad, or the ugly
- provided they are from your heart,
truthful, innocent and pure as a white lily
you dont have to worry about me
let your thoughts flow like the breeze
i have enough space for you
to fill out all your fantasies
i am a page of black
you can write what you want
- the good, the bad, or the ugly -
provided they are really from
your heart, truthful, innocent
and pure as white lily
i have enough space for you to
fill out all your fantasies
just make sure your ink is white
so that it will shine as bright as truth
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Poems Went Away
THE POEMS WENT AWAY
The poems went away.
Nothing inside.
An empty will for poetry
Forcing words on the page,
Words without music
Without resonance
Without great implication
Meaning.
Write, write, write
Lest you die.
And the words themselves
A kind of desperate uphill catching of breath
On the page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Pristine White
I see my Bradford pear trees
with blossoms pristine white.
Each year they become lovlier
to my ageing sight.
They started out small some years ago
and have reached an unbelievable height.
So round and full they stand up tall
and welcome birds by day.
The birds with different colors
create a glorious display.
However a serious flaw to these trees
always makes me pray.
If while in bloom there comes a storm,
they break apart easily.
And all the beauty they've given
can come apart for me.
So while I can, their pristine white
I keep in my memory.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Jesus Wept
Jesus came to me in a vision.
His robes were pristine
purest white.
I felt his goodness fill my heart.
A tear was in his eye:
'After all I am Jewish.'
These were the only words he spoke
and I was overcome with such relief
as if the weight of 2,000 years of suffering
had been lifted from me-
had been lifted from us all.
I lit two candles-
one for the Christians
one for the Jews
and prayed for all the unnecessary martyrs
and Jesus wept.
poem by Gillian Commerford
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What Is These All About?
at 9: 18 p.m.
the head gets the pain
another relief
swallowed
finally you go back
to where you
started
page one
when you said
you do not miss her
page two and three
empty
pages more pages
until you reach
that page where you cried
dried tears at the middle
of the blotted letters
you quickly run your fingers
close the notebook
you stand by the window
at par with the moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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one door springs open,
sun kisses carpet, light sheet
o pens pristine page
haiku by Jonathan Robin (02 November 1990)
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World Peace
This page is tranquil like its white..
On this
When I write to my Mother
About her lotus, her peacock
Her victorious liberty, her astute, salubrious issues
Halcyon breeze trills unfurling a peacock-dance
To the felicitious lotuses in abundance
But in a sudden hush of a spooky heart
My trembling hands admonish Mother
Voicing an alert to terrorism and violence..
Shocked..This page..outraged to bleed tear-flood
Bleeds and bleeds in a nexus to wet red
Other pages and other pages reticular far and wide
Friends, You feel the pain of my heart
In your eyes, in your hands as I do yours
Tell me, what shall we do to write
'WORLD PEACE' to restore this tranquil page
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Help Wanted
I am compelled, perhaps obsessed.
Would be a better choice of word.
My muse allows me little rest.
She is convinced that she know best
No matter how much I protest
She insists she has the right
To make me write by day and night.
I sometimes feel I am possessed
Although the idea seems absurd.
My judgement marred by lack of rest
I find reality is blurred.
I’m sure my muse abuses me
I’m tired of her tyranny.
I really think that it would be
Better if she left. Undeterred
She still insists that she knows best.
And acts as if she hasn’t heard.
That poets can dismiss their muse
When they are guilty of abuse.
I’m sick of being under stress
Although I would have much
preferred not to cause my muse distress
She pretended she misheard.
When I told her we were through
It was the only thing to do.
I did not like her attitude.
But now I am without a muse.
Although I have some aptitude
I must arrange some interviews
I will be careful when I choose
Some muse to fill the vacancy.
A muse that will not bully me.
Monday,17 October 2011
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Golden Days
Another day of toil and strife,
Another page so white,
Within that fateful Log of Life
That I and all must write;
Another page without a stain
To make of as I may,
That done, I shall not see again
Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, could I, could I backward turn
The pages of that Book,
How often would I blench and burn!
How often loathe to look!
What pages would be meanly scrolled;
What smeared as if with mud;
A few, maybe, might gleam like gold,
Some scarlet seem as blood.
O Record grave, God guide my hand
And make me worthy be,
Since what I write to-day shall stand
To all eternity;
Aye, teach me, Lord of Life, I pray,
As I salute the sun,
To bear myself that every day
May be a Golden One.
poem by Robert William Service
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When I write, the first blank page, or any blank page, means nothing to me. What means something is a page that has been filled with words.
quote by Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blank Page
Blank Page
This new blank page, a word processor page, I cannot touch. I ought to leave it this
way, just look at it and dream of what I could have written on it. If I delet the words
I have written now, it will be blank again, no history, no crumbled up sheet of paper
in the wastebasket. For now it is too late but I might erase it when I come to an end.
My wife was in Johannesburg once for surgery, being born in Congo but light skinned
and travelling on a Portuguese passport, she boarded a bus for the blacks.
Great consternation, she was told by police to go on the white only bus since she
was Portuguese. Racism and anti Semitism are so stupid, it makes no sense, one race
thinks it is superior to others. Now it is the Moslems who are feeling the surge
of ignorance. We want them to be more like us and not Insist of doing their own things.
In Israel, for instance the European Jews feel vastly superior to Arab Jews, This in a state
that is an artificial construct. The culture of Europe in the Middle East. We know Israel,
as it exist today must come to an end. So there I said it, this white virtual sheet has been
befouled by an opinion no one wants to know about. So what do I do know? Erase this
page so it is blank again and I can write about the moon?
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Writing Break
I sit and write
Literary expelling my mind
On thoughts and feelings
In words I sometimes reflect
Seeing my every image
My pretence of character
Both good and bad staring back
Between the lines of the page
There in stories made up
In verse I see captured
Broken up pieces of myself
That others may relate to
Its all a humane experience
Literary coming off the page
In poetic dedication
I sit here and I write
Feeding my obsessive addiction
Now back to writing
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Ode to a Blank Page
Ode to a blank page
It’s blue seemingly thin lines flying across the page
Each producing a small space to place your thoughts on
Next lies the taunting red margin
Baring how sparsely you’ve done
You can strike the page with a single blow
Leaving a mark that did no good
Ode to a blank page
Why do you stare?
Taunting and shrieking in my ear
Emptiness fills the page
The blanks intimidate even the strong
How strong it is
To give a cut even to the toughest skin
Ode to a blank page
You know I’m jealous
How I despise all your characteristics
poem by Rachele ...duhh
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