Critics
I dunked my biscuit in my tea
And sat and relaxed on my old settee,
I'd been worrying about my poetry
And what the critics thought of me.
Then all at once a blinding light
Flashed up and gave me an awful fright -
I realised I didn't care,
None of their comments were ever fair,
They'd learnt about poetry in their schools
And the whole damn lot of them were a bunch of fools! !
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Biscuit City
Id like to be in biscuit city
With my banjo in my hand
I dont need no long vacation
In some foreign land
Cause the sound of my own breathing
Has been turning to a sigh
I wish that I could make the time
To be in biscuit city by and by
Oh the water is of emerald
And the beach is white as snow
And everyones got money
And no place to go
In a land of milk and honey
It can really make you smile
And if I had a ticket
I would stay in biscuit city for a while
All the girls are in bikinis
All the boys are in the buff
With the baby in between and
That makes three of us
And the streets are all so quiet
And the walls are squeaky clean
I think you aint been nowhere til
The town of biscuit city you have seen
Id rather be in biscuit city
With my banjo in my hand
Than take a big vacation
In some foreign land
Cause the sound of my own breathing
Has been turning to a sigh
If it were not for misfortune
I would be in biscuit city by and by
If it were not for misfortune
I would stay in biscuit city til I die
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poetry On The Chin
You gouged my mind's eye,
Tantalised all inner thought,
Shocked from unknown angles;
Sold me, told me cold,
Unfolded, moulded;
Shouldered any harbouring
Of empty morals.
You spun me round; undressed -
Pestered me with background riddle -
Piffle came to gleaning meaning.
And you stripped out prejudice - for none
Must exist in poetry,
Lest you close up an open mind
And f**k up as reader;
Lest your heart is not a bleeder -
It has to be - let it flush out
Upon your sleeve.
You lay apart my thinking brain
And let in the literary pickings of a
Great poetic phallus.
Yes, poetry can be callous.
Copyright © Mark Raymond Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Mrs Vandebilt
Down in the jungle living in a tent
You dont use money you dont pay rent
You dont ever know the time
But you dont mind
Ho hey ho...
When your light is on the blink
You never think of worrying
Whats the use of worrying?
When your bus has left the stop
Youd better drop your hurrying
Whats the use of hurrying?
Leave me alone mrs vandebilt
Ive got plenty of time of my own
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of hurrying?
Whats the use of anything?
Ho hey ho...
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of hurrying?
Whats the use of anything?
Ho hey ho...
When your pile is one the wane
You dont complain of robbery
Run away dont bother me
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of anything?
Leave me alone mrs washington
Ive done plenty of time on my own
Whats the use of worrying?
Whats the use of hurrying? (no use!)
Whats the use of anything?
Ho hey ho...
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Poetry Critics
Our poetry critics ageing males on saturday evenings from six to nine
Meet at the literary room of the Lions Club to do what suits them fine
To talk of poetry and poets each to their point of view
Though they agree on one thing that good poets only few.
Well educated gents of course and they could not be rude
But contemporary rhyme poets only poetasters and them they exclude
From their talk of poets and poetry and in their literary knowledge they take pride
And who is or who is not a poet seems their right to decide.
They never talk about bush poets such verse they see as slipshod
And they see them as the children of the lesser poetry god
And for their years in Uni they have their degrees to show
And of poets and of poetry so much they think they know.
To them a poem is not a poem unless it reads like prose
And a ballad different from true verse as a weed is from a rose
And true poets only write for the privileged few that's what they do imply
And never for the ordinary, people like you and I.
Our poetry critics at the Lions they meet on saturday
And who is a good poet and what is a good poem each like to have their say
And if you wish to become a member of their club you must have your Uni Degrees
For if not to them you are not qualified for to talk about poetry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A light in a Dark Night
Light shimmered in dark night,
Light tremors ran through my mind.
Light flickered on the wet path,
Life flashed in a moments time.
Light bounced and rainbow spread,
All memories of different shades.
Light showed a way,
Life gave a hope.
Rays are shining from distant light,
Present is shining from past life.
poem by Aditya Deshpande
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Other Discipline
Poetry is
not a thought
thought is
not a poetry
Poetry has own-ness
Poetry has own self
for thought pl.search other discipline.
poem by Ravindra Nath Srivastava
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A Change Of Time!
A change of time changes everything in life!
Glorious poetry turned into prose for use earlier;
Stories, novels and articles ruled prominent;
With the coming of computer poetry resurrected!
Now everybody enjoys indulging in poetry for fun;
Articles, stories and novels are superseded by poetry!
Many poetry websites entertain new poets daily;
Many enjoy poetry reading and writing at anytime!
Poetry has become cheap product for all to use;
Nobody thought that such a thing could happen!
Nobody buys poetry books but novels and magazines;
Is poetry a use and throw material only in market now?
The things that cannot be expressed in stories, novels
Are done in poetry to satisfy heart, thought and spirit!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Appreciating Free Style Poetry, From The Loose Poet
for EVO e.i.c and his staff
poetic seeds germinate
above the 5 poetical quilts:
mood, imagery, thought
melody, rhythm
regardless of twigs sprouting -
matured poet reaps twists and surprises
immatured one duplicates
poetry is not a sole reflection of man's
damn imagination thru rhyme and metrical phrases
poetry is not a tone of
monotonous lines of ala-classical tounges of greatness
and hackneyed syllables, homonymous end-words
poetry is but a variation of
mute voices from artistic loose mind
puzzling emotions spill out in any wad of papers
in unlyrical odes, or sober sonnets
in rhyme or wild verses
then what makes my poetry
when read
to make my critics weep
they feed to every reader's mind
as they know -
my poetry has magic
most of us keep so well hidden
sometimes narrow
sometimes deep
poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
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Of Poetry
Of poetry, beautiful is the name,
For my heart has manufactured its claim
Of words that adjusted it to flame.
Of poetry, wonderful is the power,
For my heart has blossomed like the light flower
With rosiness it arranges in shower.
Of poetry, tremendous is the peak,
For my heart through and through its beat did speak
Of profoundness that boosted it to tweak.
Of poetry, creative is the work
For my heart, in thought imagery did lurk.
Along inspiration, up it did perk.
Of poetry, heavenly is the joy,
For my heart smelt it like a baby boy
Of whiteness who does with glee to employ.
Of poetry, authentic is the life,
For my heart has acquired truth that is rife,
Decent in harmony to free it from strife.
Of poetry, intimate is the food,
For my heart to be lightened with high mood,
Be nutrified in a circumstance good.
Of poetry, radiant is the light,
For my heart got the view of sunshine bright,
It ascended up to the sky in flight.
Of poetry, elating is the drink,
For my heart towards merriment to link
Ever so aeonian to it to think
Of poetry, delightful is the sound,
For my heart to its music rich, is bound.
Bliss of paradise that soared in is found.
Of poetry, passionate is the love,
For my heart comports mildly like the dove
Shining with a lot of warm light above.
poem by Obinna Kenechukwu Eruchie
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All The Critics Love U In New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U don't have 2 keep the beat
They'll still think it's neat in New York
U can wear what U want 2
It doesn't matter in New York
U could cut off all your hair
I don't think they'd care in New York
All the critics love U in New York
Why U can play what U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
They won't say that U're naive
If U play what U believe in New York
Purple love-amour is all U're in it 4
But don't show it
The reason that U're cool
Is cuz U're from the old school and they know it
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
U can dance if U want 2
All the critics love U in New York
All the critics love U
song performed by by Prince from 1999
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Critics Have Appeared
critics have appeared
in these cyber times
hunting for poems
and passing wise words
on poems they swallow in seconds
and whose comments are like puke;
and whose own gems of poems when you seek
it turns out, they have not published any
at the very poetry portals where they pass such magnificent judgment…
O Ye Critics who hunt for poems
come back another day
when you have poems some of your very own…
poem by Raj Arumugam
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Poetry Is All In One!
Passion for poetry is insatiable!
Poetry gives pleasure nothing can!
Poetry is many subjects under one roof!
Poetry never bores to write and read ever!
Poetry is a compression of many ideas in a nut shell!
Poetry displays power of pen to capture men ever!
Poetry captures as photo castles built in air!
Poetry is spontaneous over flow of ides!
Poetry flows free if extemporary!
Poetry is prolific words sure!
Poetry is a thing of joy!
Poetry is beauty!
Poetry is witty!
Poetry cheers!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Just IS! (for Gina)
Because you are
the way you are
I love you
just the way
you is.
*******
JUST IS
Poetry is shadow
dancing with light.
Poetry is paper
longing to become voice.
Poetry is musical notation
turning into sound.
Poetry is a world
that is flat
becoming round.
Poetry is the longed for kiss
that’s going to happen
but hasn’t happened
just as yet.
Poetry is the kiss
you’d miss
if it wasn’t
there.
Poetry is falling in love
with sound and language
(you can’t have one without the other)
and being happily married
to its sixth sense
Poetry
Poetry
...just is.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old
Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.
poem by Eric Graham
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A Mundane Tale
We know each other the two of us
I was in a hurry in a time of rush
He was happy his eyes joy-lit
"Spare a little time, for one biscuit".
Just then came the red office bus
I was annoyed, I was in a rush
A moment's hesitation and I boarded it
Glanced at him and our eyes did meet.
Something I saw moistened his eyes
A surprise it was he couldn't disguise
He couldn't believe, the thing of the street,
that I would leave him without biscuit.
It found me again back on the street
Someone was needed to buy him a biscuit
Other things could wait, such as office
Not for the world could I give it a miss.
poem by Pradip Chattopadhyay
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Poetry according to a cynic
Poetry is not
Beautiful words strung together to make you light
Poetry is not
Appreciated by anyone but the author
Poetry is not
Structured and redundant
Poetry is not
All about why women leave, taking pieces of your soul
Poetry is
Life, as you see it
poem by Scott Campbell
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I Hear Within Myself The Greater Lines Of Others
I HEAR WITHIN MYSELF THE GREATER LINES OF OTHERS
I hear within myself the greater lines of others-
I began to write ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’
I thought ‘Continuous as the stars that shine and twinkle on the Milky Way’
I felt ‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep’
I thought again ‘Doth God exact day – labor light denied? ”
I felt in my soul ‘Ah love let us be true to one another For the world which lies before us like a land of dreams ‘
Inside me I heard ‘The world is filled with the grandeur of God’
Time after time I repeated ‘O cursed spite that ever I was born to set it right’-
All in me is poetry more than my own
‘Oh to be in England, now that April’s here’
'Oh wild west wind thou breath of autumn's being'
I do not know how to stop the lines -
More in me than myself is the Poetry of others
And where I begin must end a greater Beauty not my own-
Oh Poem Oh Poetry Oh Poets of the Past
Oh Light of the world greater than my own small light-
Oh singing in the wilderness a song not my own
Oh much more than I can ever be
Others’ Poetry.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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