Po-antic Place Arose
PO-ANTIC PLACE AROSE
An anglo-saxon author, artist, ace
Poet prominent proposes prose,
Anthology angelic and, apace,
Posts popular poem, power, poise, pose,
Anthem adds alliteration aggrace.
19 April 2005
robi03_1238_robi03_0000 QXX_IXX
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Be An Anthology Poet
To be an anthology poet whose work
Children hate to read in school
And re-discover in later life as meaningful and beautiful-
To be an anthology poet
And have generations know one’s poems
As part of the eternal canon-
To be an anthology poet
One of the few names
That has survived
When thousands of one’s contemporaries’ have not-
To be an anthology poet
To have written a few of the great and the memorable poems-
To be an anthology poet
To be what I am not
And most likely never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem Versus Prose
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Enough with your predicates
And your subjects
In this poem you will find
No commas and semicolons
This poem
Is armed with rhythms
Stanzas and shifts
This poem has no end
There are no colons
In this poem
Your prose is replete with nuances
This poem echoes
The plight of the oppressed
And dispossessed
In your prose I find parentheses
This poem speaks of life
Your prose can be edited
Cut this poem and it bleeds
You do not like this poem
And I do not like your prose
Prose has pauses and hyphens
Prose comes to a stop
This poem plugs images
Even in your head
Prose deals with fiction
And nonfiction
This poem can be heard
It can be felt
It speaks of hunger
Of hopelessness
Homelessness
It speaks of a bitter reality
You do not like this poem
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Prominent Men
Through all of the highways, the byways Ive travelled
Through all of the sidestreets and alleys of sin
Through all thats been heard nothing sinks quite as low
As the prominent statements of prominent men
Prominent men tell prominent stories
Prominent men tell prominent lies
Prominent men kiss the ass of dame fortune
Prominent men will tear out your eyes
The streets that have life with the cats underbelly
Aligned with their tracks of a thousand good-byes
A poor woman screams with the heat of disaster
As the prominent men sit and strengthen their ties
Oh, the prominent girls of the prominent people
Make prominent dresses and prominent hair
Oh, their prominent wealth and their eyes blazed with shadow
The prominent horrors with the ghost millionaire
The shiny stained window now cracked at sunset
They shiny red dawn of the heart soon must fall
This simply occurred at the seat of the cauldron
Those prominent men hadnt been there at all
Prominent men tell prominent stories
Prominent men tell prominent lies
Prominent men kiss the ass of dame fortune
Prominent men will tear out your eyes
Oh, the prominent child of these prominent people
Seeks prominent schools with the finery of age
With a prominent pink of a tasteless red orchid
The prominent men casts a prominent heir
The child of the agent walks barefoot upon grass
He screams with a power that terrors green eyes
His knife harshly glistening, stabs noways and always
But those prominent men in nowhere in sight
Prominent men tell prominent stories
Prominent men tell prominent lies
Prominent men kiss the ass of dame fortune
Prominent men will tear out your eyes
song performed by by Velvet Underground
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Author's authoritative and artistically able alliteration answer
Author acts appropriately
adjusts apparel appositely,
attempts alliteration ably -
allies amusement, ability.
Aristocratic amourist's angel,
always admired, attracts acclaim,
alliterative, amiable,
admits artistic aim.
Altogether agreeable,
all aver, and, aflame,
assure acceptance affable
affirmative again...
Absent are arrogance, avarice, ambition, -
although allurements attractive appear -
amalgamate are ardour, ability, affection,
attachement ardent and august, all admit, adhere../. ad...
Author notes
Abusive argument? an assumption as absurd as an ass astride an advocate assiduously assembling an ascorbic acid apparatus!
Applause and approbation are altogether apropos.
[C] Jonathan Robin alliteration written 24 April 2008
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Right Mask
One night a poem came up to a poet
From now on, it said, you must wear a mask.
What kind of mask? asked the poet.
A rose mask, said the poem.
I've used it already, said the poet,
I've exhausted it.
Then wear the mask that's made out of
a nightingale's song, use that mask.
Oh, it's an old mask, said the poet,
it's all used up.
Nonsense, said the poem, it's the perfect mask,
still, try on the god mask,
now that mask illuminates heaven.
It's a tight mask, said the poet,
and the stars crawl about in it like ants.
Then try on the troubador's mask, or the singer's mask,
try on all the popular masks.
I have, said the poet, but they fit so easily.
The poem was getting impatient,
it stamped its feet like a child,
it screamed. Then try on your own face,
try the one mask that terrifies,
the mask only you could possibly use,
the mask only you could wear out.
The poet tore at his face til it bled,
this mask? he yelled, this mask?
Yes, said the poem, yes.
But the poet was tired of masks,
he had lived too long with them,
he snatched at the poem and stuck it in his face.
Its screams were muffled, it wept, it tried to be lyrical,
it wriggled into his eyes and mouth.
Next day his friends were afraid of him,
he looked so distorted.
Now it's the right mask, said the poem, the right mask.
It clung to him lovingly and never let go again.
poem by Brian Patten
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An Apple by any other Name...
“The apple, reddish plump,
hanging from rooted branch
beckoning to be taken, tasted
to savor deep, sweet, sweet flesh.”
Now these simple words penned
in poetic form take meaning more
as readers ponder the hidden core.
Surely a metaphor they surmise…
Maybe a lady… virginal and all
waiting to be taken in whatever way
or the sinly sin, snake charming bites.
On the mind goes, pondering poets play.
And timid hands keep downward pose
as the poet posts and waits replies
but one lone soul does venture forth
and braves a response to poet’s prose
“I think it is about eating an apple! ”
Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
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Life - 1240 - Initial Version
Life comes and goes as fortune flows
It never knows what cause it sows
For cycle slows or speeds, and those
Effects wind blows truth seldom shows.
Like April snows regrets melt: rose
In May soon glows to blossom grows,
Fling sorrow's bows and arrows, woes
End now, and close Time's book, compose
Lines which oppose all sadness owes
In verse or prose no debt - transpose
Free soul which chose as joy arose.
Expose nor woes nor hope foreclose.
LIfe shadows swallows, overthrows,
FEels rose row grows for soul's repose.
(April 19 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Poem The Poem And The Poem Again
THE POEM‘ THE POEM AND THE POEM AGAIN’
‘The poem the poem and the poem again’
Isn’t there any life without poetry?
Why is it always ‘The poem the poem the poem’?
Let it be some other dream
Or some other small facet of our endless realities
Why always ‘The poem the poem the poem? ’
The poet who lives and dies for the poem
Is only one kind of poet
And perhaps not even a good one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Baseball Canto
Watching baseball, sitting in the sun, eating popcorn,
reading Ezra Pound,
and wishing that Juan Marichal would hit a hole right through the
Anglo-Saxon tradition in the first Canto
and demolish the barbarian invaders.
When the San Francisco Giants take the field
and everybody stands up for the National Anthem,
with some Irish tenor's voice piped over the loudspeakers,
with all the players struck dead in their places
and the white umpires like Irish cops in their black suits and little
black caps pressed over their hearts,
Standing straight and still like at some funeral of a blarney bartender,
and all facing east,
as if expecting some Great White Hope or the Founding Fathers to
appear on the horizon like 1066 or 1776.
But Willie Mays appears instead,
in the bottom of the first,
and a roar goes up as he clouts the first one into the sun and takes
off, like a footrunner from Thebes.
The ball is lost in the sun and maidens wail after him
as he keeps running through the Anglo-Saxon epic.
And Tito Fuentes comes up looking like a bullfighter
in his tight pants and small pointy shoes.
And the right field bleechers go made with Chicanos and blacks
and Brooklyn beer-drinkers,
"Tito! Sock it to him, sweet Tito!"
And sweet Tito puts his foot in the bucket
and smacks one that don't come back at all,
and flees around the bases
like he's escaping from the United Fruit Company.
As the gringo dollar beats out the pound.
And sweet Tito beats it out like he's beating out usury,
not to mention fascism and anti-semitism.
And Juan Marichal comes up,
and the Chicano bleechers go loco again,
as Juan belts the first ball out of sight,
and rounds first and keeps going
and rounds second and rounds third,
and keeps going and hits paydirt
to the roars of the grungy populace.
As some nut presses the backstage panic button
for the tape-recorded National Anthem again,
to save the situation.
But it don't stop nobody this time,
in their revolution round the loaded white bases,
in this last of the great Anglo-Saxon epics,
in the territorio libre of Baseball.
poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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Anglo-American Poet
Many great Masters have taken flight
To America, leaving this Island of green...
Satisfying life's ambition to capture
The International scene.
America may offer citizenship
With a place in the main A stream
But after a short while 'home' is calling
When many great men return to the fold
Then referred to as 'Anglo-American'
As was ordained in days of old.
One such poet from an English town
Wystan Hugh Auden,20th Century
Anglo-American Poet of much renown.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Faves And Yuks
and some say
oh that’s my favourite ever poem
my aunt my uncle my teacher read it
to me when I was twelve
and the more I read it
the more true it is and now
I’m older I can say it off by heart
as if the poem knows my heart
and some say
that poem yuk I really really hate it
the more people said to me
that’s a great poem
the more I hated it
now if I see it
in an anthology
I skip the page quickly
I really really hate it
and I wonder if
the more people read a poem
do they take a bit of its power into themselves
so it no longer has quite that surprise it had
or the more people read that poem
the more they add to it
so it has the power
to surprise more people
or do poems
like a rest from time to time
like that old toy in
your grandparents’ attic
which so surprised you
that Jack-in-a-box
with a face like
Pushkin
or Langston Hughes
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Dead To My Poem
DEAD TO MY POEM
Dead to my poem-
Dead to the poems of others-
Dead to poetry
In any way at all-
Into another way of feeling:
Dry- nervous- anxious- fearful.
Prose is my soul
Empty small literal flat prose.
Flat prose
Lines too flat to even need paraphrase
No poem no poetry
Prose.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem About The Poem
The poem about the poem
And what is a poem?
And what is a poet?
And will the poem
Save me?
Help you?
And is writing the poem
The best I can do?
Or is it only words and more words?
Is the poem about the poem
For the poet only?
Or for each one reading and speaking and hearing it?
The poem about the poem
On this sunny spring Jerusalem morning
Peace and happiness in me -
The poem about the poem
For now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Is The Poet
THE POEM IS THE POET
The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-
The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-
The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-
It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-
When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Anglo-Saxon conscience doesn't keep you from doing anything. It just keeps you from enjoying it.
quote by Salvador de Madaringa
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dialogue With A Poet
Are you a poet?
Yes, I am a poet
How do you know that
I have composed a poem
You are a poet
when you compose
But right now?
I shall compose oneday again
You are a poet
the moment you compose
after that?
are you sure that
second one will also
be a poem
If second one is like first one
that is not a poem.
You must know a poem
can be a poem only once
What is a good poem
you never know.
To compose a good poem
you need a situation
or a context
that can not be repeated.
So you are not a poet
You will never be a poet.
poem by Devil Poet
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To Submit
To submit a new poem
I must create a new poem
Everyone tries to be the best
You are the best
It's a poerty forum
Not in jest
But for the flow
My life is full of your prose
The truth that arose in our life
The friends we made in our life
So it was a chosen poem
To break up the strife
Not in jest
But for the flow.
Enlightenment
ENLIGHTENMENT
Wonder revolves word
whirlwind of change resolving
s[tr]a[n]ge conundrums stirred
s[tr]a[n]ge = sang strange sage stage an age range rang
4 April 2005 revised 3 January 2009
robi03_1190_robi03_0000 HXX_EIX
for previous version see below
Enlightenment
Wind whirls wonder word
beyond deaf and resolve, solves
all conundrums stirred...
12 April 2005
Enlightenment poem © Jonathan Robin
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Daniel In The Diner's Den
Across our chasms we met
His arms covered with tattoos
My arms Anglo white - needle untouched,
As we warmed he told of early years in an institution
Where his words had moved all the girls to tears
He said it changed his life -
This realization that words could count.
I presumed to play the mentor.
He accepted the role as student.
'Who do you think is our greatest poet? '
He granted the grace for me to think.
After a while I reminded him Homer was a poet.
Then I sliced this Gordian Knot with the dated name
Of Louis Untermeyer's great anthology fame.
All of this as he played fuhrer to the menu
and jockeyed servings for four.
'Poets stick together! '
Skin and sex and a million other variables
Are best excluded from this formula.
poem by Bill Grace
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