As The Time Draws Nigh
as the time draws nigh
like how it happens to all of us
thanks it is at different times
otherwise i would have no more friends
to share my poems with
sing my love songs to
as the time draws nigh
i feel each of my verses
a diamond savlaged from
the deepest part of ground
getting scarcer and scarcer
the 640,000 lines i intend to write
through travels, love scores,
meeting with gods and goddesses
a journey to the realms
that give my poem
a special dimension
this heart afflutter
whenever i meet poets of similar sentiments
like whitman
i walk in his shoes
over places i have never been to
through his spirit
i thrive
writing poems
more for myself than anybody else
as the time draws nigh
i feel each of my verses
acquires a shine
a shine reflected from yesteryears
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
A love poem to a poem
for there’s what you planned to write about,
and what you find yourself
writing about; perhaps
find yourself, while writing about..
and there’s the poem itself; did you
consult it about what
its plans were? and when
it’s got itself written,
gone where it wanted to,
said what it wanted to say,
become what it wanted to become,
do you really know
what it’s finally and really about?
is it telling you more about
you than you knew yourself?
is the poem writing you?
did we, as with the unicorn,
feel the unspoken need for it,
and it became?
in some other world,
did two grains of dust change places?
did a new sort of light
shine on a new sort of place
in some new sort of time?
poems are like cats:
we think we own them;
they allow us certain rights,
but they own us.
this is a love poem
to a poem
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet: My Poetry These Days
Till now, I found no soul who said to me,
“Come read your poems and let me opine.”
But still, I’m happy writing poetry!
In any case, it tends to be divine.
Though writing verses is both gift and art,
Appreciation is a tougher thing;
Not all would like to walk, pushing the cart!
Some love to pull others’ legs and to sing.
I write poems for just the fun of it;
I seem to race against the ghost of time;
My sonnets have become almost habit;
When thirst takes on, I squeeze them like a lime!
But blame, I can’t the world for what it is!
But at this rate, many could Heaven miss.
poem by John Celes
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I don't write poems
I don't write poems,
I drink them like wine,
I become tipsy
with each coming line.
I don't write poems,
I breathe them like air,
I become so happy
when each one I share.
I don't write poems,
I live with them;
they prolong my years,
they are as true as I am.
I don't write poems,
I weave into verses
sadness, joy, tears,
prayers, love, curses…
My poems talk and sing,
Sense of living they bring.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
26th of April,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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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 Woman’s Sonnets: IX
The day draws nigh, methinks, when I could stay
Calm in thy presence with no dream of ill,
When, having put all earthliness away,
I could be near thee, touching thee, and still
Feel no mad throbbing at my foolish heart,
No sudden rising of unbidden tears,
Could mark thee come and go, to meet our part,
Without the gladness and without the fears.
Have patience with me then for this short space.
I shall be wise, but may not yet unmoved
See a strange woman put into my place
And happy in thy love, as I was loved:
This were too much. Ah, let me not yet see
The love--light in thine eyes, and not for me.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Not Every Poem Knows How To Say Its Own Name Properly
NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS HOW TO SAY ITS OWN NAME PROPERLY
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly-
There are poems that have no name
And poems that are named by others who have not written them-
There are poems whose names make them what they are
And poems whose names contradict and belie them-
Many poems have their first lines as their names
And these poems often are as memorable as one line only-
Great poems and good poems can be nameless
Or can have unforgettable names.
Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly -
Poems are poems are poems
And names are names are names
And sometimes they meet and are one
And live happily ever after-
But there are times when perhaps
They never should have met each other at all.
Poems have their names
And names have their poems
But sometimes they love each other
And truly are one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Her Beautiful Fragrance
Poems are my life
My feelings are not fake
I swear to god, I have loved her
However, she could never be mine.
Not even poetry can express how deeply I did love her
Still her beautiful complexion
Is everywhere in my poetry
Her beautiful fragrance, still I can breathe
Everywhere, I see her and feel
Never, have I ever been so close to her
Especially now when she is no more mine
I do not know anything
The perfume she applied, I still can feel
Poems are my life
She was a perfect poem and still I am trying to pen her into verses
These are verses of love as well pain
Forever, I will feel her
Even though she can never be mine
My sweet sugar I will describe her to be
Poems are my life and I do not know anything other than her
Her beautiful fragrance, I still breathe.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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As The Time Draws Nigh
AS the time draws nigh, glooming, a cloud,
A dread beyond, of I know not what, darkens me.
I shall go forth,
I shall traverse The States awhile--but I cannot tell whither or how
long;
Perhaps soon, some day or night while I am singing, my voice will
suddenly cease.
O book, O chants! must all then amount to but this?
Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us?... And yet it is
enough, O soul!
O soul! we have positively appear'd--that is enough.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Poetic Unity In Soliloquy
In unison our hearts sing
Like poems on a poetic ring
Beauties lineage, passed to we
Through colossal love
and sonorous glee!
My words thy read
With loves piety
And in sync we feed
Poems of flamboyancy
How is it
that exotic hymns
Turn my heart
to virtue
from mortal sins?
Is it that
we listen to loves reed
That our sins absorb
what they need...
So organic like
our sins
our poems
sing in unity…
what is it
that draws me
from you and
you from me?
Is it poetry?
Is it love?
Is it thee?
Can lovers really fight
In the same poems they write?
One of you,
one of me
On one hand
of hearts harmony,
can we fight for
the love of you
and the love of me?
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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Why Do I Feel Death So Near?
Why do I feel death so near?
Even as I hold my love so dear
I live in a world that’s filled with fear
So do the rest of us as I hear
Why do I feel death so close?
As I live in a state repose
Even when the light shines so gross
There is a shadow moving close
Why do I feel death so nigh?
Even when my heart is so high
With my love in my arms in by and by
A looming death draws by and I sigh
Why do I feel death is imminent?
Even as my love is penultimate
Treating as a constituent
Death do come so relevant
Why do I feel death so bore?
Maybe because it is at my door
poem by Alex Fischer
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The power of words
Sometimes when you had
an idea for a poem
you didn’t jot it down
and let it be
to fade away into the naught
as if it really didn’t matter
or your words had lost their power
or was there a hidden fear,
something that you didn’t
want to talk about
or something that you didn’t
want to appear,
something that you were afraid
would kill your luck
or disturb your thoughts?
When we spoke at times
you would sarcastically say
go and write a poem about it
and I wonder if you really
didn’t care about writing
or just not about me
or was it jealousy?
Sometimes when the words
of a great poem came to me
you would demand that I immediately
do something for you
to proof my love
and not give me the opportunity
to capture the sacred words.
Yet, as time went by
and I had to leave
the words came back to you
and great verses appeared
and you said that I could string out
poems to the nth power
and wanted me
to write great messages as well
and I was afraid that card like lines
would kill the magic of words in me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Very Best Poems
The very best poems
are likely written with love
or inspiration
from far above
Each has something that
draws the reader near-
a catchy line or phrase
lasting year after year
So write your poems
not quite as planned,
but with both heart
and pen in hand.
poem by Randall Barfield
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She, A Romantic Poem
That day, God sent her to me
Just for 30 minutes, it is momentary.
Young, charming and lovely
Sincere, shrew and brainy.
Ow! words fail how I was happy.
Sometimes, for the earth to be peaceful,
For colorful flowers to bloom,
For nutrient plants to grow,
Mankind stares up the sky.
Ow! they wish the clouds for shower mild.
To present a cool rain-drop,
Blue sea must be burnt off.
Where is justice for nature right?
The blood of her heart vaporizes.
Ow! which mindful one does memorize?
Heart absorbs all feelings and suffers
When much, they run over through eyes as tears.
My God! is it real nature?
To own love-blooms in chest deepest,
Ow! it's inner raining running into mad.
'Her eyes are demure diamonds
Below the rainbows of eyebrows'
I compose this sort of verses with rhythm,
And feel it by myself as a gem.
Ow! does she love poems?
Truth and untruth, equity and inequity.
As she crave truth and equity,
I notice that she has fair fancy,
And she is gifted in poetry.
Ow! words fail how I feel ecstasy.
She loves verses, I love verses.
Though we're strangers and have different breaths,
Poems make us two not to mope.
Poems make us two hearts to close.
Ow! how a brave beauty like a rose! ! !
Without appealing, without tempting,
She melts in heart beating.
Arteries and veins allow her in circulating.
Finally, fingers shake and grasp a pen.
Ow! it becomes 'she, a romantic poem'
poem by Aung Si Myanmar
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Verses From God
I’m just the pen; God is the ink, Who fills me as I write and think,
And God’s ink never runs dry, as it flows from His Spirit on high.
Penning verse that never ends, as He talks to a world of friends,
As I go to God in prayer, He pens down each blessing and care.
In a trial God helps me through, He pens verse to share with you,
And the blessing He brings my way, as He helps me, day to day.
As I write every word and line, I do not claim the verses as mine,
For as the pen to page is pressed, it is my heart that is blessed.
Blessing seem to come my way, as He helps me, in what to say,
To illustrate to all those who read, that Jesus is The Lord indeed.
His Words just seem to flow, not knowing where His idea will go,
But His point He makes every time, as God speaks on each line.
He draws from deep inside, my heart, where His Scriptures hide,
Always used at the proper place, to pen down a verse of Grace.
And as the page begins to fill, it is not my poem, but God’s will,
That fills lines with His Word, which some who read, never heard.
It’s God above who fills my pen, with words for the eyes of men,
By means of only poetic verse, to claim victory, over sin’s curse.
The page is filled by God above, with true examples of His Love,
Penning Truth for men to see, He’s a God who loves you and me.
(Copyright ©08/2007)
The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been
THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN
The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Write Poems For Poets
I WRITE POEMS FOR POETS
I write poems for poets
Our situation as poets-
The longings the feelings
We so need to express-
The love of language-
The hunger for recognition-
The frequent rejection-
The kind word of a reader that moves-
Poems for poets
We as we each are
All so different-
And we as we share
Words and worlds
We hope to have read.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Love Poets
The love poets sit and write psalms or
songs with the extension of their palms
they sit and wait untill they catch a glimpse of you
Because girls like you are the inspiration
The poet is dying to find a way to re-create your beauty
but what we create can only do so much as to aleviate
The stress that builds on our chest,
I feel it everytime i sit beside you
I jot down lyrics each time i sight you
and if i could slip you this kiss you
could circle yes, no or maybe, despite who might see
Your the inspiration that keeps me writing without end
You make me wish i had and unlimited amount of ink in this pen
because each time i write a poem, and you that its about
I start describing why i love you, and the ink in my pen just runs out
You could say im a love poet, but what
would these be without you.
Every syllable, line, metaphor is completely about you
Just, dig through the meaning
I hope you start to understand what my feelings are
Because when i write poetry, i feel this bar set by you and i cant reach
I want to incorporate your beauty into my poems, please teach
since this lesson would take much longer than 1 session
I cant wait for you and i to continue this progression
poem by Jason Murak
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I Wrote My Last Romantic Love Poem A Long Time Ago
I wrote my last romantic love poem a long time ago-
Now I write quieter poems
Poems of the pleasure of the old-
A walk in the morning
A sudden turn of sunlight on a cold cold day
A small kindness I may do
Or someone may do for me
Poems of love for my family
And of sadness at the sickness of my friends
Quiet poems
That do not know the wildness of passion
The bitterness of love disappointed
The up and down motions
Of when she does and when she doesn’t
And all her yeses and nos-
I write quiet poems
And I live happily in them
And I sometimes think with sadness
Of the great passion there was once-
But I am old now
And happy and quiet in small things
Grandchildren, among the best of them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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