Fresh Air
I
At the Poem Society a black-haired man stands up to say
“You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent!
Haven’t you ever looked out the window at a painting by Matisse,
Or did you always stay in hotels where there were too many spiders crawling on your visages?
Did you ever glance inside a bottle of sparkling pop,
Or see a citizen split in two by the lightning?
I am afraid you have never smiled at the hibernation
Of bear cubs except that you saw in it some deep relation
To human suffering and wishes, oh what a bunch of crackpots!”
The black-haired man sits down, and the others shoot arrows at him.
A blond man stands up and says,
“He is right! Why should we be organized to defend the kingdom
Of dullness? There are so many slimy people connected with poetry,
Too, and people who know nothing about it!
I am not recommending that poets like each other and organize to fight them,
But simply that lightning should strike them.”
Then the assembled mediocrities shot arrows at the blond-haired man.
The chairman stood up on the platform, oh he was physically ugly!
He was small-limbed and –boned and thought he was quite seductive,
But he was bald with certain hideous black hairs,
And his voice had the sound of water leaving a vaseline bathtub,
And he said, “The subject for this evening’s discussion is poetry
On the subject of love between swans.” And everyone threw candy hearts
At the disgusting man, and they stuck to his bib and tucker,
And he danced up and down on the platform in terrific glee
And recited the poetry of his little friends—but the blond man stuck his head
Out of a cloud and recited poems about the east and thunder,
And the black-haired man moved through the stratosphere chanting
Poems of the relationships between terrific prehistoric charcoal whales,
And the slimy man with candy hearts sticking all over him
Wilted away like a cigarette paper on which the bumblebees have urinated,
And all the professors left the room to go back to their duty,
And all that were left in the room were five or six poets
And together they sang the new poem of the twentieth century
Which, though influenced by Mallarmé, Shelley, Byron, and Whitman,
Plus a million other poets, is still entirely original
And is so exciting that it cannot be here repeated.
You must go to the Poem Society and wait for it to happen.
Once you have heard this poem you will not love any other,
Once you have dreamed this dream you will be inconsolable,
Once you have loved this dream you will be as one dead,
Once you have visited the passages of this time’s great art!
2
“Oh to be seventeen years old
Once again,” sang the red-haired man, “and not know that poetry
Is ruled with the sceptre of the dumb, the deaf, and the creepy!”
And the shouting persons battered his immortal body with stones
And threw his primitive comedy into the sea
From which it sang forth poems irrevocably blue.
Who are the great poets of our time, and what are their names?
Yeats of the baleful influence, Auden of the baleful influence, Eliot of the baleful influence
(Is Eliot a great poet? no one knows), Hardy, Stevens, Williams (is Hardy of our time?),
Hopkins (is Hopkins of our time?), Rilke (is Rilke of our time?), Lorca (is Lorca of our time?), who is still of our time?
Mallarmé, Valéry, Apollinaire, Éluard, Reverdy, French poets are still of our time,
Pasternak and Mayakovsky, is Jouve of our time?
Where are young poets in America, they are trembling in publishing houses and universities,
Above all they are trembling in universities, they are bathing the library steps with their spit,
They are gargling out innocuous (to whom?) poems about maple trees and their children,
Sometimes they brave a subject like the Villa d’Este or a lighthouse in Rhode Island,
Oh what worms they are! they wish to perfect their form.
Yet could not these young men, put in another profession,
Succeed admirably, say at sailing a ship? I do not doubt it, Sir, and I wish we could try them.
(A plane flies over the ship holding a bomb but perhaps it will not drop the bomb,
The young poets from the universities are staring anxiously at the skies,
Oh they are remembering their days on the campus when they looked up to watch birds excrete,
They are remembering the days they spent making their elegant poems.)
Is there no voice to cry out from the wind and say what it is like to be the wind,
To be roughed up by the trees and to bring music from the scattered houses
And the stones, and to be in such intimate relationship with the sea
That you cannot understand it? Is there no one who feels like a pair of pants?
3
Summer in the trees! “It is time to strangle several bad poets.”
The yellow hobbyhorse rocks to and fro, and from the chimney
Drops the Strangler! The white and pink roses are slightly agitated by the struggle,
But afterwards beside the dead “poet” they cuddle up comfortingly against their vase. They are safer now, no one will compare them to the sea.
Here on the railroad train, one more time, is the Strangler.
He is going to get that one there, who is on his way to a poetry reading.
Agh! Biff! A body falls to the moving floor.
In the football stadium I also see him,
He leaps through the frosty air at the maker of comparisons
Between football and life and silently, silently strangles him!
Here is the Strangler dressed in a cowboy suit
Leaping from his horse to annihilate the students of myth!
The Strangler’s ear is alert for the names of Orpheus,
Cuchulain, Gawain, and Odysseus,
And for poems addressed to Jane Austen, F. Scott Fitzgerald,
To Ezra Pound, and to personages no longer living
Even in anyone’s thoughts—O Strangler the Strangler!
He lies on his back in the waves of the Pacific Ocean.
4
Supposing that one walks out into the air
On a fresh spring day and has the misfortune
To encounter an article on modern poetry
In New World Writing, or has the misfortune
To see some examples of some of the poetry
Written by the men with their eyes on the myth
And the Missus and the midterms, in the Hudson Review,
Or, if one is abroad, in Botteghe Oscure,
Or indeed in Encounter, what is one to do
With the rest of one’s day that lies blasted to ruins
All bluely about one, what is one to do?
O surely one cannot complain to the President,
Nor even to the deans of Columbia College,
Nor to T. S. Eliot, nor to Ezra Pound,
And supposing one writes to the Princess Caetani,
“Your poets are awful!” what good would it do?
And supposing one goes to the Hudson Review
With a package of matches and sets fire to the building?
One ends up in prison with trial subscriptions
To the Partisan, Sewanee, and Kenyon Review!
5
Sun out! perhaps there is a reason for the lack of poetry
In these ill-contented souls, perhaps they need air!
Blue air, fresh air, come in, I welcome you, you are an art student,
Take off your cap and gown and sit down on the chair.
Together we shall paint the poets—but no, air! perhaps you should go to them, quickly,
Give them a little inspiration, they need it, perhaps they are out of breath,
Give them a little inhuman company before they freeze the English language to death!
(And rust their typewriters a little, be sea air! be noxious! kill them, if you must, but stop their poetry!
I remember I saw you dancing on the surf on the Côte d’Azur,
And I stopped, taking my hat off, but you did not remember me,
Then afterwards you came to my room bearing a handful of orange flowers
And we were together all through the summer night!)
That we might go away together, it is so beautiful on the sea, there are a few white clouds in the sky!
But no, air! you must go . . . Ah, stay!
But she has departed and . . . Ugh! what poisonous fumes and clouds! what a suffocating atmosphere!
Cough! whose are these hideous faces I see, what is this rigor
Infecting the mind? where are the green Azores,
Fond memories of childhood, and the pleasant orange trolleys,
A girl’s face, red-white, and her breasts and calves, blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes, fahrenheit
Temperatures, dandelions, and trains, O blue?!
Wind, wind, what is happening? Wind! I can’t see any bird but the gull, and I feel it should symbolize . . .
Oh, pardon me, there’s a swan, one two three swans, a great white swan, hahaha how pretty they are! Smack!
Oh! stop! help! yes, I see—disrespect for my superiors—forgive me, dear Zeus, nice Zeus, parabolic bird, O feathered excellence! white!
There is Achilles too, and there’s Ulysses, I’ve always wanted to see them,
And there is Helen of Troy, I suppose she is Zeus too, she’s so terribly pretty—hello, Zeus, my you are beautiful, Bang!
One more mistake and I get thrown out of the Modern Poetry Association, help! Why aren’t there any adjectives around?
Oh there are, there’s practically nothing else—look, here’s grey, utter, agonized, total, phenomenal, gracile, invidious, sundered, and fused,
Elegant, absolute, pyramidal, and . . . Scream! but what can I describe with these words? States!
States symbolized and divided by two, complex states, magic states, states of consciousness governed by an aroused sincerity, cockadoodle doo!
Another bird! is it morning? Help! where am I? am I in the barnyard? oink oink, scratch, moo! Splash!
My first lesson. “Look around you. What do you think and feel?” Uhhh . . . “Quickly!” This Connecticut landscape would have pleased Vermeer. Wham! A-Plus. “Congratulations!” I am promoted.
OOOhhhhh I wish I were dead, what a headache! My second lesson: “Rewrite your first lesson line six hundred times. Try to make it into a magnetic field.” I can do it too. But my poor line! What a nightmare! Here comes a tremendous horse,
Trojan, I presume. No, it’s my third lesson. “Look, look! Watch him, see what he’s doing? That’s what we want you to do. Of course it won’t be the same as his at first, but . . .” I demur. Is there no other way to fertilize minds?
Bang! I give in . . . Already I see my name in two or three anthologies, a serving girl comes into the barn bringing me the anthologies,
She is very pretty and I smile at her a little sadly, perhaps it is my last smile! Perhaps she will hit me! But no, she smiles in return, and she takes my hand.
My hand, my hand! what is this strange thing I feel in my hand, on my arm, on my chest, my face—can it be . . . ? it is! AIR!
Air, air, you’ve come back! Did you have any success? “What do you think?” I don’t know, air. You are so strong, air.
And she breaks my chains of straw, and we walk down the road, behind us the hideous fumes!
Soon we reach the seaside, she is a young art student who places her head on my shoulder,
I kiss her warm red lips, and here is the Strangler, reading the Kenyon Review! Good luck to you, Strangler!
Goodbye, Helen! goodbye, fumes! goodbye, abstracted dried-up boys! goodbye, dead trees! goodbye, skunks!
Goodbye, manure! goodbye, critical manicure! goodbye, you big fat men standing on the east coast as well as the west giving poems the test! farewell, Valéry’s stern dictum!
Until tomorrow, then, scum floating on the surface of poetry! goodbye for a moment, refuse that happens to land in poetry’s boundaries! adieu, stale eggs teaching imbeciles poetry to bolster up your egos! adios, boring anomalies of these same stale eggs!
Ah, but the scum is deep! Come, let me help you! and soon we pass into the clear blue water. Oh GOODBYE, castrati of poetry! farewell, stale pale skunky pentameters (the only honest English meter, gloop gloop!) until tomorrow, horrors! oh, farewell!
Hello, sea! good morning, sea! hello, clarity and excitement, you great expanse of green—
O green, beneath which all of them shall drown!
“Fresh Air” from The Collected Poems of Kenneth Koch, published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright © 2006 by Kenneth Koch.
poem by Kenneth Koch
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Related quotes
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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Of Your Knowledge On Poetry
Of your knowledge on poetry you wish me to know
Your three favourites poets Eliot, Whitman and Poe
Though great they may be I regret for to say
That on reading them you won't be laughing all day
It is good of you to honour their renown
But this evening I must say I feel a bit down
And though the poetry of Eliot, Whitman and Poe I even read as a boy
Their meaningful words never filled me with joy
If you wish to talk of poetry talk of something that's happy and light
Like the poems of Pam Ayres they are breezy and bright
Though she is one who is not seen as a poetic great
In her poetry the joy of laughter she create
Why talk to me of serious poets and their poetry today
When the tears from my eyes are not that far away
This evening I do need a good laugh or two
Something I cannot have whilst I'm talking to you.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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A Fate of Top Poems!
Past poets were remarkable by their poems only;
But present poets are made remarkable by others!
Poetry of the past are no doubt top poems ever;
But poetry of the top are not listed in top poems!
Becoming top poets how can theirs have no place
Among the top poems of the poetry list? I wonder!
Touch stone of the top poems depends on merit
But not by the supports of friends for fun ever!
Poems of lasting value only can become classic;
But poems of no merit also have become classic!
Poetry of the past are romantic and also classic
But poetry of the present are neither but modern!
What is the yardstick to select poems as top ones -
Just support of some but not merit and meaning?
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Town Poets
They have the ticket draw for the football club
But never a poets hour at the local pub
'Twould seem that cricket and football are the in thing
And horse racing at the back end of the Spring
But of course the Town poets have their own poetry night
On saturday evenings at the bowling club rooms their poems they recite
The local lovers of poetry their night out enjoy
To watch local favourite poets such as Rina, Kate and Roy
Reciting their poetry and strutting their stuff
It cannot be said of them not quite good enough
Quite talented poets the tops of the Town
Young poets in their thirties who dream of renown
And recite their poems in the rooms of the bowling club
Whilst it's a different scene at the Town's biggest pub.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Deceased Poets Of Nature
Such beautiful poems to Nature they did write
The poetry we love for to read and recite
May they rest in peace now where-ever they lay
The deceased poets of Nature their poems live today
They glorified Nature and her praises they sung
And though they may be long dead their poems remain young
the poets of the land and the poets of the sea
In their beautiful poetry their greatness we do see
Their poems and their songs I loved as a boy
And their poems and their songs I will always enjoy
The beauty of Nature they did celebrate
And beauty in their words they loved to create.
Great insights of Nature from them we did gain
The beauty of their words with us does remain
We loved them for their poems in decades long gone
The deceased poets of Nature their poems living on.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Modern Poets And Modern Poetry
Modern poets and modern poetry seem far too complex to understand
For such as I a common labourer from the boglands of Ireland
Though whether it be good or not so it is not for me to say
As I'm not a poetry critic and so I'll keep my tongue at bay.
Maybe some of these modern poets are special and the poems they write are great
And maybe they are superior thinkers writing from exalted state
Most poetical critics now acclaim them and prefer the modern style
And 'twould seem that modern style poets are now the in thing and their efforts seem worthwhile.
But for me it's old style ballad, give me good old fashioned rhyme
To the modern style of poetry I'd prefer it every time
Like I say I'm just a labourer from the boglands of Ireland
And the complex modern style of poetry is far too hard for me to understand.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tribute To All Poets
Poets in awe
beauty of the sea
swimming the ocean
begging to be free
Poetry in motion
Walking the land
Carving out each word
Deep down in the sand
Poets hungry
Devour each page
reach for each meaning
put on a stage
Poetry screams silence
during blackened night
with the glow of the moon
shining silvery white
Poets asleep
thinking each new rhyme
Waltzing the floor
Running in time
Poetry Forever
neither alive or dead
remembering the words
that get stuck in your head
poem by Linda Racaniello
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On The Goddess Of Poesy
The Goddess of Poesy the Goddess of Song
To the Universal immortals she surely belong
The poets of the World her praises do sing
The gift of poetry to their souls she does bring.
The poets to write poems Goddess Poesy inspire
And of singing her praises they don't seem to tire
The poetry of sorrow the poetry of joy
The poetry of youth of the young girl and boy.
The poetry of youthfulness and of growing old
Of young women in their prime lovely to behold
The beauty of Nature the birds and the bees
The mammals and fishes of land and of seas.
The Goddess of poets of every gender race and creed
For their inspiration to write in her lives her they need
Of love, life and Nature she inspires poets to write
For the lovers of poetry to read and recite.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Den Of Poetry!
Many poets I see on line today!
For fun many are indulging in poetry;
Not only amusement but also truth
Best ones produce in their poems!
Where can we find quality poetry
In the world poetry website as this one?
All are mixed with each other so much
That it is impossible to separate them!
All funny poems have to be skipped
For reading the really worthy ones!
To do so precious time is wasted
Everyday browsing on this website!
Finding the poetry true is finding treasure
In the depths of this deep poetry den!
poem by Ramesh T A
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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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There Are A Few Poets
THERE ARE A FEW POETS
There are a few poets
Beyond the poetry you and I know
And are capable of –
There are a few poets
Who seem to write a poetry
Which is Poetry itself,
A Poetry which is everything Poetry should be-
Those poets are somewhere else
On a level far beyond any we can hope to reach-
They are Poetry –
And we we are the little listeners and readers
Who can in awe and praise worship
What we ourselves will forever be incapable of.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.
It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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The literary life
We went to the house
of Afrikaans poetry together
on weekends and spent hours there
and listened to the master lecture
and met some poet friends
around a table
with a drink or two.
Sometimes the poetry was Afrikaans,
English, Dutch or even German
and we learnt form poets
around the globe.
We discussed what we had
just learned,
asked about his views
of certain things,
or what people in the group think,
discussed poetry, life,
sometimes even politics
and philosophy
as individuals of a group.
We read our poems,
listened to other poets,
reading their own,
analysed every word, every line
comprehending meaning, impact
and sharpened our art.
Your poetry was really great,
from when I read the very first line,
but mine had still to grow
from rhyme into free verse.
At times I hated comments
that forced me to move,
but realized that it was meant
with great goodwill
and even though I was in pain
I sharpened my verse
and free verse brought
a clearer ear, making it
much easier to write
great rhyme.
Now that I had to leave Pretoria,
weekends I really miss
that great writing school,
new poems from great poets,
learning something there,
experiencing poetry at its core,
lectures from that great master
and verses of his own,
but much more
your poems.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Private Poetry
Every poem, Every poetry,
Where are all the poets?
Hiding out, Hiding away.
In the beaches, forests,
In the caves and rooms,
In the islands and temples.
Make their private poetry,
Every now and then,
Here and there,
Over here, Over there.
Somewhere, somewhen,
Someone, somebody,
No one, No body,
Some here, some there.
Somehow, not matter how,
Everywhere, every when,
Every turn, every look,
Every search, every research,
There is a private poet.
Making a private poetry,
Writing private poems,
Writing lovely poems,
Writing profound poetries.
For the world and all
To ponder,
To reflect,
To open our heart,
To hear and listen;
What poets have
To say and write,
In a private poetry,
For the world to read
And treasure.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On A Famed Poet
Forgive me if his greatness I cannot seem to note
His poems never rhyme but he is a famed poet
By literary experts considered to be knowledgeable and wise
And for his poems he has won many a prize.
Though poetry is not very popular today
The poet of the poetry lovers the experts do say
In University literary magazines students his verses read
And they all agree he's a fine poet indeed.
Of poets and poetry I must confess so little I know
My favourites old rhymers from ages ago
On the poetry I do not like most experts agree
That it is well written and quite good poetry.
Forgive me if the worth in his verse I can't see
His non rhyming poetry does nothing for me
Of reading blank verse I do quickly grow tired
My truth is by such stuff I do not feel inspired.
The experts on his poetry great interest show
And his stature as a poet only seems to grow
Of him great things are written and great things we hear
And good luck to him on his literary career.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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