Lost for Words
LOST FOR WORDS
The art of writing's such a sport
with styles of every kind and sort
that not to try would be a tort.
Synaptic leaps can keep, support,
ideas which interlink, report
mind melodies naught need contort
as eyes observant insight court:
imagination is my forte - right!
As interlocking lines of thought
are threaded neatly, tautly brought
to heel, reined in, discreetly taught
to underscore ideas, here’s sought
communication vectors caught
in lightning thought wave flashes short,
coherent, to the point! ... Now ought
I not recall the subject about which I meant to write?
1st verse written 29 July 2008 second? July 1 2007
robi03_1397_robi03_0000 WXX_IXX
Lost for Words poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Crossed Lines
Here inklings linking lines of thought
are threaded neatly, simply brought
to heel, reined in, discreetly taught
to underscore ideas. Here’s sought
communication vectors caught
in lightning insight flash, both short,
coherent, to the point! ... Now ought
I not recall what I meant to write about?
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Words Woven - Parody Mary BEULEY - Words Woven
Words woven into speech
soon reach
intact thread spirit of each act,
knit warp and weft of wit wish fact,
dreams' tapestry may teach.
Words express essentials,
transmit, unwind
from mind to mind,
address ideas which, blind,
would grope for means to equate
sensations refined,
coarse, sophisticate.
Thus they incarnate
emotion's multi coloured coat, pattern twist
around ideas which form,
unform,
inform or disinform,
or take by storm
precisely or by gist
the geist soul kissed.
Words woven into speech
pen hand,
when scanned
from thoughts’ life blood leach
emotions, sense, dressed to suit
points phallic and points mute,
ideo-grand!
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY 1837_1916 written 12 December 1995 – Words Woven revised 31 July 2008 notably first verse below
Words woven into speech
soon reach
to knit the spirit of each act,
the warp and weft of every fact,
through dreams to teach.
______________
Words Woven
Words woven into rhyme
In time
Become a tapestry of thought
A canvas of experience in which
Our dreams are wrought.
Words are the evidence of what goes on
communicate
Within the mind.
They clothe the invisible
With robes of speech,
Sophisticated as silk,
Homespun as hessian,
And in between
The many-patterned, many-textured range,
Familiar and strange,
Of words -
Woven and dyed and spun
For Fun
Or seriously aware
Of what is there.
Words woven into rhyme
Or prose
Transpose
Giving the tiny embryo of thought
A dress to wear, most delicately wrought,
And caught for ever in a form know
And understand.
Mary BEULEY 1837_1916
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY written 12 December 1995
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At A Loss For Words
Some time had passed since a verse had come to mind
a mental blockage I have had, nothing seemed to rhyme.
No words of creation the supply had gone
no thoughts, or imagination, nothing, not a one.
The source had stopped for some strange reason,
as though there was a break in the poetry season.
I tried and I tried, but nothing would come together,
not even with a change in the weather.
In the early hours I woke up and had to pick up a pen,
for some strange reason I began writing again.
It is quite odd and I’ll never get to know
why periods of poetry come and go.
But I’m thankful when words and lines come to me
it is as though they are sent telepathically.
It doesn’t matter if the poem is incorrect or good
or if it’s taken as silly, or is misunderstood.
As long as it relays that moment’s thought
an instinctive message that cannot be taught.
To me it doesn’t matter if its only two lines long,
or whether it has many verses, or even sounds wrong.
When thoughts of words or sentences come to mind
I have to write them down no matter the place or time.
If I don’t record the thought on paper right away
they become lost forever in the space of night and day.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Love Lost
LOVE LOST
Love lost spreads frost where once was light,
Or rime which rhyme's frieze turns to freeze,
Vista's visa parodies
Enchantment, past of pure delight.
Lovelorn, wings shorn, heart feels bite
Of cold, sold short, caught in unease
Scorning romance's fallacies,
Turning yearning into spite.
Love lost with bitterness agrees,
Or poison for both biter, bite,
Venom self-destructive quite,
Eden expels, discards its keys.
LOst should be found as founding faith
STorm weathering, not wasted wraith...
17 July 2008
robi03_1785_robi03_0000 ASX_LUX
Love Lost poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poem of the Ageing
A simple poem I wanted to write
The words were so clear in my mind
But my fingers were numb and sore
Lift a pencil they can't at all
Before a few lines write I could
With my signpen wrestle I should
I tried to read what I've written
And asked my self how did I fare
The words I saw were all in blur
And were in badly crooked lines
I have but lost my metering
And all my lines did hardly rhyme
My next poems shall not be written
And in my thought will just remain
Be unrecited as they may
Till in my mind they fade away
poem by Pacific Hernandez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tablet
TABLET
Mountain tablet, steep protective sides,
Above savannah security provides,
Green pastures, flora, fauna, stretch below,
Imagination catalyzed may flow
Creatively, seek what horizon hides.
Maybe lost world jurassic here abides.
23 July 2007
robi03_1652_robi03_0000 AXX_NXX
Tablet poem © Jonathan Robin acrostic Magic M
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poetic Instrumentation & Orthographic Aptitudes
Poetry beats time with rhyme in motion.
Pulse vibrates and impulse stimulates
pen which explores, redraws, accentuates,
excites the mind, can catalyze emotion
to seize degrees. Thoughts harmonize at rates
ecstatic as imagination’s ocean
synaptic swirls, and, touching, contemplates,
sees the light, s[w]ings fancy’s flight. Thought’s potion
magic expands bright insight, oscillates,
collides, oh scope, with wave-tune vibe commotion
and thus invents, interprets or translates
transforms, what started as an idle notion
as inner ear hears and reverberates
chromatic context, feelings for[u]mulates.
8 March 2005 revised 17 August 2008
robi03_1073_robi03_0000 SXX_IXX
Poetic Instrumentation Poem © Jonathan Robin
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
ORTHOGRAPHIC APTITUDES
Orthographic aptitudes imply
Reasoned thought, well taught, but this may mean
Too much rigour, narrow mind though clean,
Heavy hand which all loose ends would tie.
Originality is worth a try -
Granting poetic licence in between
Rhyming lines on paper, on the screen,
Answers find with mind both “how” and “why”
Phasing, phrasing, which need nought deny.
Have, therefore, patience for the soul should glean
Inner meanings far from surface sheen
Creating an osmosis by and by.
Communication spelling's rules transcends,
Music tunes [p]runes all true creation t[r]ends...
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wor[l]d Discovery
Welcome is each word, a concept new
Offered to the child as instrument,
Recalled in parrot-fashion first, then bent,
Linking thoughts to actions right on cue.
Daily discovery fashions foresight through
Discernment, understanding of what’s meant
In life to speed the learning element.
Slowly first, then faster, puzzled clue
Cements creative insight to pursue
Open vistas. Patterns form, present
Versions kaleidoscopic, different
Echoes combine to set coherent glue.
Reading, writing, - ideas interlink
Year after year: - ‘I am, therefore I think.’
(20 September 1992/acrostic World Discovery)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Ageing Poem
A simple poem I wanted to write
The words were so clear in my mind
But my fingers were numb and sore
Lift a pencil they can't at all
Before a few lines write I could
With my signpen wrestle I should
I tried to read my scribbles
And asked my self how did I fare
The words I saw were all in blur
And were in badly crooked lines
I have but lost my metering
And all my lines did hardly rhyme
My next poems shall not be written
And in my thought will just remain
Be unrecited as they may
Till in my mind they fade away
poem by Pacific Hernandez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Life Art
Life Art
I want to write you a poem.
One that contains no verses
no words
how long it will be
I cannot tell.
It will be a poem that you can see through
yet it will shade you from the sun
a simple lyric
as complex as a crossword
I want it to be something
that you carry through your day
every day
I don’t know if I can write that poem
Or if indeed that poem can be written at all
So instead I am with you
Of you
And slowly together
we are writing our very own poem
Not on a page
Or in a lost notebook
But in the café
and in the street
At a table
In our bed
Every day we add another line
another image
another verse
and I know that with every word that we write
I want it to be the longest poem
That has ever been written.
poem by Andy Houlihan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lunch With a Poet
I had lunch with a poet, just the other day.
A poet who has written fine and lofty verse,
Conveying his experiences, emotions and his ideas, in
Vivid, imaginative ways, condensed in simple language,
Choosing words for sound and power,
Rather than impressing readers with poetic adulterations.
Almost apologetically, he said he uses 'nickel words'
To write his inner thoughts. It was as if he were at fault,
As though he thought those simple sounds
Had lessened the intent of his poetic worth.
I emphasized how wrong he was, and tried
To make clear, a poet writes in sympathy with his reader,
Overleaping the barriers of understanding by the simplicity
Of his language, and of his words.
To write with words of misty meaning does not make
A mystic.
To write with vulgar words does not lift up the poem
On wings of song, it only floats as high as the poet's
Commonality who, mistaking flatulence for inspiration, becomes
Enmeshed in a literary byproduct of the foulest of excretion and Smells.
My friend failed to intellectually understand,
But spiritually Accepts, as his writings reveal,
That clarity of thought and mind is the poet's
Highest point of the poet's integrity.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
1. One
I am trying to find my poetic rhythm.
Pen my flow of thoughts.
Words running through my mind,
Ideas running through my mind.
Incoherent, Scattered and disjointed
I am trying to make words and ideas one
Create a world of words, in this world of chaos
Words running from one end
Ideas running from one end
On a path of collision
Ideas and words unite, one
One, the beginning
One, the universal beginning
One, the number of the gods
One, my first poem
poem by Anand Dixit
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Written Word Rules!
At the idea of poetry, some people seem to scoff,
As they consider it is an art form only for toffs.
They may think that the concept of poetry is boring,
And that it will leave them fast asleep and snoring.
There are all types of poems: modern and classical.
There’s something for everyone: it’s not boring at all.
The lyrics of songs are poems as such;
They often rhyme together very much.
People like to sing along with their favourite songs,
So why does the concept of poetry feel so wrong?
I’ve only started writing poetry in the last few weeks,
And, I have to admit that I thought it was just for geeks.
But, now I can see, that whoever you are,
Everyone has the potential to go really far.
I have to admit, I much prefer
The written, to the spoken word.
At night, I lay awake tossing and turning in bed,
With random thoughts running through my head.
By my pillow, I keep a pen and note pad,
To jot down any thoughts, which I’ve had.
At the top of the page, my thoughts I jot,
And I always plan out a really rough plot.
I like to include words which have a nice ring.
Words, like these, into my poetry, I like to bring.
I continually go through the alphabet time after time,
Searching for useful words which, pretty much, rhyme.
In simple terms, my ideas, I always like to express;
Complicated and fancy words, my mind doesn’t posses.
I’m sat here, writing this poem, on a speeding train,
As thought after thought, floods into my brain.
I’m writing notes on a mini pocket timetable,
In any tiny blank space which is available.
In my handbag, I’ve got no pad, but I’ve got a pen;
My scribbled notes, I just hope I can comprehend.
I really must start carrying a notepad everywhere;
To forget all these thoughts I’ve had, I couldn’t bear.
When I’m thinking of ideas, I just can’t relax;
My mind seems to buzz to the absolute max.
I’m not far now from my final destination,
And the train is due to pull into the station.
On this subject, there’s not much more to be said,
So, I’m now putting this poem well and truly to bed.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind
I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND
I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”
The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Poem
A poem is a string of words
lovingly threaded through.
Some tell of tragic events,
others tell of love bursting through.
A poem is constructed in our mind
from the wisdom of our thoughts
and delivered with sincerity
on how we observe our lot.
A poem has many styles
each is written to suit our taste.
A poem is all this and more
as it coveys our love for words.
3 June 2009
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
400th Mark
Completion of 400th poem was not great feat or mark
Many new ideas flashed in mind and worked as spark
Raising voice at roof top doesn’t make it worth while
No one will share ideas or walk with you for a mile
Over year and half ago I was virtually nothing
Only vague ideas of verses to translate as something
There was hidden fear that readers may reject
Still presentation of new ideas was only object
Nature was appealing when I went round
Something new was in offing and always found
Bird’s sweet voice and cool breeze were appealing
Mind was set up on it with earnest effort for revealing
It was so difficult to go in for poetic words
Sought the strength and blessings from the lord
World at large seemed so big and enterprising
Nothing could stop me from little writing
“Go to hell” or “never dare to call again”
Funny comments with abusive words main
I detested the weapon with its sharp edge
My be I lacked enough skill or knowledge
Many offered me with their kind comments
Advised to stand fast and not to lament
How can I be ungrateful to their advices?
I had to offer gratitude and only promises
Some one commented I was killing poems
Had no teeth, wisdom and lacked rhythms
I sincerely thanked them to improve upon
To write simple poems and simply carry on
New people, thoughts with old or new readers
They were by no means less than leaders
I was novice and had to act as learners
To gain and part with is the reality for beginners
I have followed simple theme and plot
It may not be up to mark or falling short
I may try to uphold values and ideas defend
Will not stoop so below to alienate or offend
How poetry does impresses up on mind?
What type of lessons or new things we find?
Poetry, I thought is the holiest approach among all
I enjoy its fruit when sit back and recall
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!