To The Kind Reader
No one talks more than a Poet;
Fain he'd have the people know it.
Praise or blame he ever loves;
None in prose confess an error,
Yet we do so, void of terror,
In the Muses' silent groves.
What I err'd in, what corrected,
What I suffer'd, what effected,
To this wreath as flow'rs belong;
For the aged, and the youthful,
And the vicious, and the truthful,
All are fair when viewed in song.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Related quotes
A Poet Talks To Himself
A poet talks to himself
And hears his own praises
And does not believe them.
A poet talks to himself
And hears a critical word
And knows he is right.
A poet talks to himself
And imagines others are listening
And love his dreams as if they were their own –
A poet talks to himself
And in the talking plays
In many voices -
A poet talks to himself
And in talking to himself
Feels more and more alone -
Where are the holy listeners?
Where is the love which is not absurd?
A poet talks to himself
And prays he is secretly being overheard-
And wonders why God should want words
From a mortal so small.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Sonnet: Poetry versus Prose
Some write their poetry almost like prose;
The two are not diff’rent in any way?
How can a thorn ever become a rose?
The grain is grain; the hay remains but hay!
But some write prose with emotions afilled;
Or add some verses in-between the lines;
One can’t become the other, howev’r skilled;
How can the noon be dawn although sun shines?
The functions poems do, prose can never,
Where right words placed, give music and rhythm;
But of the two, the poet’s cleverer;
His work is shorter, neater, and more trim.
All praise the bard; his glory’s forever!
For prose can’t stand the test of time ever!
6-25-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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In Your Conceit
at the height of your conceit
you even think
that the sun shines only
for you
this morning
well, i cannot blame you
you are the better
poet
in your little corner
and yes, the earth is still the
center of this universe
and all the planets. the moons and that stars
all revolve around
you
mister poet.
i know i miss the sun, and the infinite voiceless void
they too bow before your highness
dear poet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poverty
I hate this grinding poverty—
To toil, and pinch, and borrow,
And be for ever haunted by
The spectre of to-morrow.
It breaks the strong heart of a man,
It crushes out his spirit—
Do what he will, do what he can,
However high his merit!
I hate the praise that Want has got
From preacher and from poet,
The cant of those who know it not
To blind the men who know it.
The greatest curse since man had birth,
An everlasting terror:
The cause of half the crime on earth,
The cause of half the error.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The First Lady
She is
A white pigeon
With brown hair
She loves reading
She loves culture
And cultured people
That's why
All cultured people
Of the world
Love her
More
In Egypt
We love her
More
and more
When she talks
Specially
When she talks
To children
Mother
Of Egyptian children
God bless her....
poem by Eman Elbadawi
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The Poet Who Has No Readers
THE POET WHO HAS NO READERS
The poet who has no readers
Needs the writing of the poetry
Loves the writing of the poetry
More than any recognition or praise
He may receive for it-
The poet who has no readers
Writes nonetheless,
For he needs and loves to write
Though he not be read or listened to at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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D.M.V. - Department of Muddled Verses -or- My Mother Is The Only One Who Will Read It Without Curses
Like a door, I'm poor at metaphor, and very bad with simile.
I'm more than just a little off on my rhymability.
My mother, the existentialist, has never cared for meaning.
So I've been a little short on plot, ever since my weaning.
My poetry would be aetheric,
if the Muses weren't so esoteric.
It's clearly only clear to MY sense;
'cause I poet without a poet's license.
poem by Steven Silent Wolf
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A Matter Of Opinion 2012
I think I have the right to state.
The present poet laureate
Has chosen to ignore the rules
that govern poetry. The tools
which every poet ought to know
To ensure their words will smoothly flow
When they are performed publically.
The must be metered carefully.
In my opinion she writes prose
Though I am certain that she knows.
That prose cannot be poetry
But doesn’t care apparently.
Although she writes poetically.
To me its prose not poetry.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Inspiration
Poet provides pleasure of society in various way;
In human beings provides, penetrates rays of gay.
Provides inspiration;
Is an honest creature is God’s creation.
Poet inspires all categories of people in society;
Encourages them earning properly live with delight.
Through poems tries upliftment of society;
People of all religions, castes live with gaiety.
Poet loves minister’s honesty;
Loves employee’s punctuality.
Derives pleasure from the innocence of cultivator;
Loves to remain in the sweet lap of Nature.
Poet is an honest advisor of society;
From good activities of society derives delight.
Loves woman’s devotion;
Loves beauty of creation.
Poet encourages students to a acquire wisdom;
Depicts verses on the truth of creation.
Loves peace, honest administration;
Depicting poems drinks nectar from the brook of creation.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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A prose writer gets tired of writing prose, and wants to be a poet. So he begins every line with a capital letter, and keeps on writing prose.
quote by Samuel McChord Crothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To Praise You Always
Void,
But i will lift up myself to praise you always;
Because you first loved me,
And i sincerely thank you for everything.
Lame, fame, tame, dame, came, game, blame, name, same;
And lke Armel and Haron in the land of your muse,
But i will lift up myself to praise you always.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Poet Who Has Few Readers
The poet who has few readers
Needs the writing of the poetry
Loves the writing of the poetry
More than any recognition or praise
He may receive for it-
The poet who has few readers
Writes nonetheless,
For he needs and loves to write
Though little read and listened to.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A matter of opinion.
Some people say I am perverse
because I choose to write in verse.
The kind of stories I compose.
They think I ought to write in prose.
They have the right to I suppose.
But I won’t do as they propose.
I much prefer to write in verse
Because I think there’s nothing worse
Than badly written boring prose.
That is the reason why I chose.
To concentrate on rhyming verse.
I see no reason to reverse.
My original decision
to conform to your opinion.
I do not choose to write in prose
I am convinced that I would lose.
My rhyming capability
reducing my ability.
To write my words spontaneously.
I don’t expect you to agree.
Although I am compelled to write.
You’re free to exercise your right
To read or not as you choose to.
Though I confess I hope you do.
I know I can’t please everyone.
That is something that can’t be done
By any writer though they try
A truth no writer can deny.
Your comments are of interest
they spur me on to do my best.
We can agree to disagree
on which is best quite easily.
A poet must choose poetry.
But other writers are quite free.
to share their thoughts written in prose
Because they choose to I suppose.
If you should doubt my competence.
I will not choose to take offence.
You are entitled to your view
Please remember I am too
Sunday,02 May 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Coppers Killed Me
Coppers killed me when we met,
jumping on the tube I sat in;
Magistrate, who loves to get
treats into your list, put that in!
Say I fought the terror fad,
say that “conscience clear” describes me,
say you’re growing old, don’t add, -
Coppers missed me!
Coppers killed me when we met,
hitting on the seat I sat in;
Acting circumstantial bet
eight hits, three misses, put that in!
Say I sought no terror fad,
say that “from bombs free” describes me,
say I’m growing cold, don’t add, -
Coppers killed me!
Error wracks me today,
terror tracks you tomorrow,
let it be as it may,
pain from plain clothes turned grey.
Should tomorrow replay
such a savour of sorrow: -
what for you, safe today, -
is in store for tomorrow?
I could never fire back
like that, without sorrow,
and eight bullets through back
showed after attack
on the Stockwell tube track.
The report on the morrow: -
was on the wrong tack
did from fantasy borrow!
Terror slew me today,
error you risk tomorrow!
Violence came into play
which my life did waylay -
do you share the dismay
at what might come tomorrow?
There’ll be devil to pay
what excuse will YOU borrow?
August 15 2005
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Praise And Blame
When women feel inclined to praise
they praise other women;
inclined to blame,
they blame men.
When men feel inclined to blame
they blame other men;
inclined to praise,
they praise women.
Inclinations that comment richly
on the foundations of both,
parental archetypes
and their respective bargains.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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The job of the poet is to render the world - to see it and report it without loss, without perversion. No poet ever talks about feelings. Only sentimental people do.
quote by Mark Van Doren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stanzas Written By Thomson On The Blank Leaf Of A Copy Of His 'Seasons' Sent By Him To Mr. Lyttleton, Soon After The Death Of His Wife
Go, little book, and find our Friend,
Who Nature and the Muses loves,
Who cares the public virtues blend
With all the softness of the groves.
A fitter time thou canst not choose,
His fostering friendship to repay;
Go then, and try, my rural muse,
To steal his widowed hours away.
poem by James Thomson
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She Loves To Talk
She wakes up in the mornin', puts her face on
grabs a cup o' coffee then she's on that phone..
(Chorus)
That woman loves to Talk (...she loves to talk...talk)
Yeah, she's what I want (she's what I want)
I don't mean to sound complainin'
she's my source of entertainment
That woman loves to talk!
Conversation ain't no trouble...in this family
She keeps me stimulated more than my new TV
(2nd Chorus)
That woman loves to Talk (...she loves to talk...talk)
yeah, she's what I want. (she's what I want)
She shoulda been a politician...
Got more wind than an air condition..
That woman Loves to Talk!
(Bridge)
Well, I know she might be different, that's what I like
She's something else when we turn down the light
It's hard to resist her, it's hard to explain
I love to hear her voice when she calls my name
(3rd chorus)
That woman loves to Talk! (...she loves to talk...talk..)
Yeah, she's what I want (she's what I want)
I wouldn't change a thing about her
wouldn't live this life without her
That woman Loves to Talk!
She could own Southern Bell ..for as much as she talks
She gets her recreation makin' long-distance calls!
(4th Chorus)
That woman Loves to Talk (...she loves to talk...talk..)
Yeah she's what I want (she's what I want)
I don't mean to sound complainin'
She's my source of entertainment
That woman Loves to Talk!
(2nd Bridge)
Yeah, she talks about this
Sometimes she talks about that
Every operator knows her name and address (...she loves to talk...talk..)
Can you hold on, please,
I'll check the line
I hope you got plenty of quarters and
song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ban The Void
Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Grandma stopped baking cakes.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Brought me my first heartbreak.
Tch.
Ban the void.
I told her I couldn't take it.
She 'had' to bake another cake for me!
Tch.
Ban the void.
She said she was going on strike!
Tch.
Ban the void.
And even though I didn't like it!
Tch.
Ban the void.
She's not gonna cook in the kitchen,
She's itching to do something else to please!
Tch
Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
She brought herself a brand new car.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
And drove to wherever she wanted.
Tch.
Ban the void.
She said she had her own special needs.
And will come and go whenever that need pleases!
Tch.
Ban the void.
I got so annoyed...
And I tried to stop that void deep down in me!
Oh...
Ban the void!
I couldn't go to sleep!
I dreamt of grandma's baking,
And it teased me!
I even cried my eyes.
But grandma's sweet potato pie kept creepin'.
Oh...
Ban the void!
Ban the void!
Oh...
Ban the void.
Grandma loved her brand new car.
And never got one ticket,
For her speedin'!
Ban the void.
Tch.
Ban the void.
Tch, tch.
Ban the void.
Oh...
Dedicated To:
In loving memory...
Clara Louise Countryman Pertillar
'Miss you, grandma! '
Love,
Larry
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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