An Unknown Flows From Poets
An unknown flows from poets.
Stirring to bestow,
An insight from within them that grows.
Imaginations connecting thoughts.
Bringing to behold fresh concepts.
And interpretating simplicity...
With such a wit and depth one sees.
Respecting language and its use.
Seductively introducing minds,
To explore other avenues produced...
A poet finds to induce in time.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Poets Expresion
People are for ever correcting
A poet's right to express
Those of us who use English
As a second language
At times do make mistakes
But a Poets Expression
Stamps a mark on your mind
To imagine and dream
About worlds of the unknown
You delve in their minds
And stir the images of life
And implant them your expressions
Your expressions on life
Poets are many with their
Own impressions on life
Give up to the poet's
And clap them with praise
So from this poet who dreams?
To be just like them
Wise and experienced
In sharing my dreams
Fare thee well good poets
Encore and good night
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Where Do The Poets End And The Would- Be Poets Begin?
Where do the poets end and the would- be- poets begin?
It is with one or two for a generation or even a nation?
Or is it the elite few? Or perhaps the in- circle academic privileged?
Is it only with the anthologized? And those of what are taken to be the ‘best magazines? ’
Or is it at the other end
With anyone who dares to write a line
And hide it for themselves?
Is it with the completely unknown and never to be known
Who finds the words for a depth of feeling that must be said?
Or somewhere in the middle along the way
Where amateur stops and professional pretends to begin?
No one knows for certain
And does it matter anyway?
Write your would – be- poetry
Whoever you are
You are your own poet
Star, or no star.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet Finds....
The poet finds whatever the moon could not see,
The poet finds whatever the earth does not know,
The poet finds whatever the sun could not see,
The poet finds whatever others do not know,
The poet finds whatever the stars could not see,
So why do the heathen rage and the people plot vanity? !
For she who is pregnant is closer to us,
And the hart pants after streams of water.
Your tears have been your food night and day,
And like your inner self in the lan dof your muse;
But the poet finds whatever the sun could not see.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Insight Recognized
I wish I knew you.
Even though I feel I do.
There is something between us,
Greater than we know.
Something in our words that flow...
That shows we have both been bestowed,
An insight recognized.
How could that be?
Without us seeing who we are,
With our eyes.
And insight that grows.
Could it be our minds are combining?
Merging and beginning to expose?
Is this a dimension we share?
And within it we are being enclosed?
A consciousness only we are aware,
And 'It' has chosen us to enfold!
To leave us grateful we have to behold.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Am Here To Represent My Mind
Im here to represent my mind
Why do we live inside our mind?
Never wish for the wrong
You could've had it for long
Already things happen aside
Put you off place- rocksteady decide
Long stride to get whats in need
Only chance there is to succeed
I reason with the morals of ghosts
Use my knowledge as a tool
Plauged by many worthy hosts
Anti-segregational rule
His face is shadowed
He lurches his steps
An existance perceived to the greatest of depths
Materializing thoughts
The tangible crusade
Generations develop, change and then fade
Concepts in concepts- beautiful concepts
Concepts in concepts- dutiful concepts
Uprooting concepts, relating to indepth
Making you a metaphor, exposing the real depth
poem by Bradley Downs
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Complementary viewpoints for friend Chandra
Philosophy and poetry
are not completely different.
Each represents a way to see
What is not always evident.
Philosophers and poets try
to understand the universe.
The answers which they can supply.
Expressed in turgid prose or verse.
Philosophers can be abstruse
and difficult to understand
Because of how they phrase their views.
I don’t dismiss them out of hand.
I much prefer the poets verse
To endless reams of complex prose.
I do not think I am perverse
Simplicity I must suppose.
Is really what appeals to me.
the poets seek to entertain
and yet express with clarity.
Philosophers try to explain.
Their reasoning in great detail.
They just succeed in boring me
Their efforts are to no avail
I will admit quite openly
I simply cannot spare the time
To plough through densely written prose.
But I find poetry sublime
I like the way it ebbs and flows.
The insight that a poet shows
can entertain and educate.
Philosophers try to impose
their views, discouraging debate.
Which does not sit too well with me.
Folks can’t stand being patronised
and will rebel instinctively.
A fact that poets recognise.
They are content to share their thoughts.
With anyone who chooses to
read the verses they have wrought.
Which may express a different view
To that of the philosophers.
You draw your own conclusions
and choose which version you prefer.
Perhaps your own opinions.
Philosophy and poetry
Are both legitimate attempts
To explain some mystery
By folks of different temperaments.
22/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Who to blame for writers block?
Risen up from his cold dark tomb
the malevolent poet is alive again
his evil master has given him power
to confuse poets and bring them pain.
He's invisible to the poets eye
and he doesn't make a sound
his mission is to bring writers block
to all poets everywhere around.
The unaware poet stares at a blank screen
unable to create one single verse
the satanic force takes over his mind
his thoughts go from bad to worse.
The romantic poet thinks about death
his thoughts no longer on love and light
he wants to write about misery and war
and things that go bump in the night.
So the next time you can't write a poem
and your sitting there full of despair
you now know it's not you who's at fault
but it's the evil poet and he's over there!
poem by Kevin Halls
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Dawn Of Reasoning Interconnected Mind
At the traditional age of consent,
I found a great undeniable love
for poetry as I strove to make sense
of this world with its nightmare,
of ignored unresolved problems.
I never had the chance to write,
most of my thoughts, down in
poetry. To reflect my reactions
to the events of my era. Life did
not allow time for contemplation.
It is my ardent hope that economic
circumstances or perhaps a more
focused determination; will allow
you to succeed in writing out more
poems of vital importance than I did.
I wrote when time allowed maybe
one in ten of my poems and often
the easiest. While years passed by
sometimes with nothing but work.
The gap in thought record haunts.
Ignore constant discouraging critic.
Your success now is mine your failure
mine. Therefore keep focused and let
at least some of your poetry, address
real issues. And write write write now!
You are in a time and place that requires
strong young poets from within. Past great
American poets would be devastating with
words writ in this era. I am not American,
you must be our voice from within, voice
proclaim and publish your insight! Pray or
meditate as you will and write that which
I lacking your knowledge cannot. The words
will come because the age topics demands it.
We are united in poetry and desire to express
difficult thoughts and concepts, hopefully to
be a voice of positive change! Tools are at
your finger tips, I never had contact with other
poets, in an electronic interconnected web of
minds, at the dawn of righteous determination.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Multiplicity Within Society Changes Shared World
some poets
writers prefer to write
shadows echoes
imitations of thoughts
writers they esteem
have written which captures
their imagination expresses
ideas concepts which intrigue
imitations can be interesting variants
tributes to originals
or ideas a poet or writer feels
compelled to express
however complete thoughts
theories are within hearts minds
prepared to be still prepared
to wait meditate focus
thoughts into a complete whole
originality lurks within minds
of curiosity perception
should challenge individuals
to think reason upon values
cause and effect consequences
creating multiplicity within society
changes within our shared world
on a global scale
that which we must
value and affirm
transcends into an essential
part of all we can become
throughout a lifetime of choices
sacrifices attitudes
we will live as life codes
defining the character
of our personality
within
collective humanity
poem by Terence George Craddock
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We As Poets
We as poets must command a sacred accent over a language of our choice,
We as poets must gift the minds of a failing generation,
We as poets must demand a clear explanation and a fair occupation,
We as poets must dissolve into particles and dust if we have not known enough,
We as poets must destroy the living standards of low quality,
We are to be the poetry of utmost perception and suffering.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Discipline Fresh Minds
submit not to mindless
religious chants
discipline fresh minds
with mysteries
of universal constants
explore thoughts
rational observances
expose rash errors
embrace discoveries
free entombed minds
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A language least spoken...
Its not just a cast of words,
a play of rhymes,
an irony of thoughts,
dreamed up hyperboles,
or a medley of figures of speech.
Its a poet's heart,
his only companion,
his muses, his love,
grave pain, agony,
a written laughter.
Its a poets mirror,
in which he shows himself,
his vision,
a sight for the blind,
his thoughts,
touching your lives.
Poetry:
Its though a cast of words,
but uncannily placed in a language,
a language with the same grammar,
but still; least spoken.
poem by Chaitanya Dorwat
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Too Off Track to Laugh
The moment you allowed my pain...
Believing that will promote your gain,
Was the beginning of your unraveling.
You used all of your institutions...
To introduce my mental execution!
To degrade my way of life,
To enhance a current strife you now fight!
I could delight!
But your decadent way of interpretating might...
Is too off track to laugh!
What you have done is tragic and sad!
Especially what you have done to those...
Who chose to colorize their fears.
What will they do when it is realized...
The terrorists you criticized,
Were of their own kind!
Doing anything to induce havoc.
And bringing down their treasured structures...
Right before their eyes!
What will they do when it is realized...
You allowed my pain...
Believing that will promote your gain!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fresh Blood
All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
He gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
And I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fresh blood (Lyrics)
All the neighbours never see me
But they wonder why I walk around at night
he gets hungry - I go hunting
In the moonlit streets
For somebody that's right
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Showgirls, businessmen in suits in the midnight rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
In the paper, seems a florist
Found in Lincoln Park, died of some anemia
No one raped her, poor Doloris,
Just detained her and drained her on the spot
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast
Is all he's living for
And he craves it more and more
Old men, ladies of the night walking in the rain
If they walk alone are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
No one calls and no one visits
We're like a couplet out of Desolation Row
We don't want them to want to know us
'Cause when they do, they get a little bit too close
Fresh blood, a sanguinary feast is all I'm living for
and I crave it more and more
Bad girls, cops on the beat in the midnight rain
If they're out alone, are never seen again
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
Fresh blood it goes through me, flows through me
Fresh blood inside of me, cry to me, cry to me
poem by Satan's Sibling
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Emotion's Oceans - 1780
Mermaid cavern 'neath the swirling sea
Asphixiates or offers oxygen,
Uses air or brings it back again
Depending on soul's authenticity.
Echoed heart fresh start may chart, feel free
Creating through new insight 'yond the ken
Most can key into state where paper pen
And thoughts unite as reciprocity
Unbiased flows to serendipity.
Depth shatters superficial brakes 'why' 'when'
Eden rediscovers, sings amen.
Come heed Pope - Alexander - quoted, he
Marks 'little learning may intoxicate, '
Complete immersion serves to liberate.
(1 July 2008)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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There Comes A Time
There comes a time,
When something believed cute done...
Loses its cuteness and begins to irritate.
There comes a time,
When expectations rise above mediocrity.
And the acceptance of those who choose to do,
Mediocre things on a continuous basis...
With a losing of mediocrity as something 'cool'.
And from it there is a backing off,
With a recognition of it too!
There comes a time,
When a rudeness to another done...
Has to be confronted,
By the one who no longer finds this cute!
And a introducing to maturity,
From someone who knows it for what it is...
Does not hesitate to keep it patiently,
In a safe place without it being shown fact to face.
There comes a time,
When one who finds being mature...
Has to offend those who find immaturity,
Difficult for them to escape.
And...
There comes a time,
When those who have lost themselves...
Reciting nursery rhymes with comfort,
With a whining done from their limited minds...
Must be left behind.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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As I have practiced it, photography produces pleasure by simplicity. I see something special and show it to the camera. A picture is produced. The moment is held until someone sees it. Then it is theirs.
Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists; though their field-work among primitive peoples has often made them forget the language of science.
quote by Robert Graves
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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