Is Regularity a Gift?
Asking me if I like to write...
Is like inviting someone to define,
The art of excrement done.
It is something one does.
From a 'Divine' assignment given.
Like the naturalness of breathing.
Is that regarded as a talent?
Could one decide upon another hobby?
To choose to hop on one leg?
Finding that walking on two,
Has bored!
Is regularity a gift?
And to sustain it with a prolificness.
Would this still be a question asked?
Would humans become closer...
If we were all praised,
For the passing of gas?
And how long would the praise of that done,
Last?
That's the question I would want answered.
If I was curious enough to ask.
Asking me if I like to write...
Is like inviting someone to define,
The art of excrement done.
Or if I find the craft of it satisfying!
And sometimes I am lost...
For which appropriate words to toss.
IF I am experiencing a constipation of thought.
And 'everyone' has had those 'Why-Me-God' moments.
Is regularity a gift?
Well,
I can only express it like this...
I have yet to be blown away by my own talents.
Sometimes they are there unconsiously.
And at other times I find I am straining,
For an easier release...
That does not arrive with such profound blockage.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Giving Up (The Last Script)
Long ago I wrote a script
About how I hate to write,
It is called A Cursed Gift
You will find it on this site.
About how I hate finding the words
That hurt me deep within my heart,
How I want this skill to end right now
Leave my hand, let us part.
How I hate to write about love
And how the pain follows near,
How I never want to find the words
The painful words I deathly fear.
I really don't want to love again
So I can avoid the following break,
I said I was tired of finding words
'In which I write as I shake.'
Love is cruel with hurtful pains
But writing it is the worst,
I'm giving up on all of it
Love, pain, and gift so cursed.
poem by Adam McKim
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How Do You Write Poetry
There is a question I am often asked,
of which I have no answer for at all.
The question is a simple one,
how do you write poetry?
To be honest I haven’t got a clue.
With me the words just trickle out
one after the other,
if they rhyme that is great
and if they don’t, I just scratch my head.
I cannot tell anyone how to write,
for me it’s just a natural thing.
I write almost everything,
novels, short stories, poems and songs.
I have even written a couple of plays,
but that was a long, long time ago.
However to tell anyone how to write,
I would not know where to begin.
The answer I give to the question is simple;
write whatever you like good or bad.
It’s yours and be proud of it
no matter what anyone else has to say.
The more you write the better you will get.
However, the most important thing
that you should always remember and that is
that you write, write, and write!
9 November 2011
poem by David Harris
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Indefinable?
I can’t define with certainty
what is or is not poetry
There are so many schools of thought
but I recall what I was taught.
When I was young and still at school.
That there was but one basic rule.
Most everything you write is prose
but poetry you must compose.
You choose your words selectively
so that they say efficiently
exactly what you want to say
but in a smooth and flowing way.
In common with all forms of art
sheer inborn talent plays its part.
All artists need to learn the rules
provided by the different schools
of thought which proliferate.
Study past masters of your art
so you learn to appreciate
artists who are worlds apart.
All poets write in their own way.
Free verse, free style or formally.
Some styles will last some fade away.
Why do you write primarily?
What is it that you wish to do?
What is it that you wish to share?
Your feelings or your point of view.
Are you afraid or do you dare.
admit that you don’t know it all.
That other folks know more than you
Pride always goes before fall
I think you’ll find that this is true
You can of course choose to refuse
all helpful offers of advice
and disregard all other peoples views.
Though in the end you pay the price.
I can’t define with certainty
what is or is not poetry.
Though I can say with confidence
that poetry should make good sense.
3-Sep-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Proud
Learn to be proud
Of what is done that you do.
Whether a talent, a skill or a gift
You feed.
Let it from within you,
Nurture and breathe.
Let it live.
Manifesting your being!
Let it free...
To give willfully.
And accept it unconditionally.
Whatever that is that brings with it joy...
Dance with happiness and release it to fly!
And do not question or deny its flight!
Learn to be proud,
Of what is done that you do.
Become enraptured with its essence.
Let it from within you,
Nurture and breathe.
Let it live.
Manifesting your being!
Let it free...
To define a divine presence,
Given.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sticking With It
Sticking with it.
And trying not to be out of it.
Everyday there is a reason I find...
Not to toss in the towel to give up and quit.
And although it is tough staying motivated,
I awaken feeling appreciative.
I can not say I relate to being elated...
But there is so much of life that can be abundantly lived.
Sticking with it.
And trying not to be out of it.
Everyday there is a reason I find...
Not to toss in the towel to give up and quit.
No.
I know what I should and should not resist.
Even forcefully establishing my own initiative,
I seek to give to myself as a gift.
Sticking with it can be sticky sometimes.
But the finding of motivation within one's mind,
To look at each step made as a forward climb...
Will not need anyone to define these times.
Not if one is kept busy living.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If I Had The Gift To Inspire You With Heroic Words
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would tell you that I do not fear death
And that against Time and its ruins
I will stand strong to the end-
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would tell you that at the hardest times the darkest times
One’s inner light must light the way again-
I would tell you that beyond every inhumane cruel challenge
Can come your most saving action-
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would say that we need not ever be afraid of anyone or anything again-
But I do not have the gift and I do not have such courage-
I have only the examples of others more heroic than me
That seem to come from another universe
And have powers I never knew humans could have-
If I had the gift to inspire you with heroic words
I would say ‘Go to Others More Courageous than me
They will lead you to great victories
And with them you can sing to the end of your days
Praise and praise again for what you are'-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Gift Was Given To Me
THE TGIFT WAS GIVEN TO ME
The Gift was given to me
and new worlds within
could be found and made
again and again-
If I wanted the Stars in my words
They would play their Light for me-
If I wanted Darkness
Heavens and Hells have their loss in long songs-
I knew I could write and write
many imaginary and many real things-
But what did it all mean?
I was only one more soul
in a universe where God
has given many many words
amd many many gifts
many clearly greater than mine-
What are all my searchings and singings
for Beauty and Love and Goodness
If God does not need them?
I was given a gift
and it may be I am mocked for my gift-
So I write these words too in fear, in gratitude, in irony.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Letter From A Writer Searching For Her Soul And Wanting To Feel Not With Her Hands
Hello (to whom it may concern) ,
It's been awhile since we exchanged messages. Sorry, I'm not much of an |'onliner' these days. I resigned from my job. I'm, in the process of soul searching. Funny but I don't really know why I'm looking for a soul, my soul, when I cannot even see it. I'm on an unplanned vacation in some quaint town some miles outside the city while writing this email.
I guess I never had the chance to tell you how you took the glint from my eye. To write from the soul and not for the awards. I have overlook that writing is an Art. Thus it is priceless. A gold medal does not define you as an artist. Write until it ceases to become a craft.But more than just stringing words after words, conscious of your weary grammar, punctuations, right words, and subject matter. To write is to turn your heart inside out.
Beyond 'writing' and its technical definitions, it is actually a journey - a self surrender - towards the oblivion you are willing to traverse with your pen. And you find yourself in another state.
To write is to 'see' but not with your eyes. To 'feel' but not with your hands. And at the end of it all, you know that it's there. Writing takes over you. Thus, I often wonder: am i writing with the pen? Or is it the pen using me to write? But I know somewhere deep inside, there is a thing mightier than the pen that prompts me to write. And that is the soul.
I want to find my center. My creative process in writing. Ironic, but to find it, I must loose myself.
hahahahaha. whew. I know i sound stupid. Sorry. Thanks for bearing with me. Hope it's not too late to greet you a Happy New Year! ! ! ! =)
Always,
(name witheld, but this could be you)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As If A Gift.... (Write Not)
write not...
from the need for fame,
or in the hope of success.
write from necessity...
the same necessity
that governs your breathing.
and from the urgency
of the darkest hour just before dawn!
write not for yourself...
for in writing for others
you will find yourself.
and above all, be honest,
always remembering simplicity,
and naked touch!
write as if a gift,
expecting nothing in return!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Self Explanatory
Once a learned young man named John
asked a serious question, an earnest question,
with no attempt at humour, or to string me along.
And the questions were?
‘How do you write like that?
How do you find the titles? ’
The reply. ‘I think like that.’
His reply. ‘No one thinks like that.’
An answer beyond his belief system.
An answer he could not reconcile accept.
Easier to believe own belief systems
than search mind expand limited horizons.
Really was this reply
in truth so hard to accept?
‘If I do not think like that
how could I write like that? ’
Self Explanatory!
No Further Comment Required!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Having Not a Thought to Express
Had someone ever asked you a question?
And you answered with an honest response?
To get into a debate,
Over how your answer was delivered?
Although the content was not the issue,
As much as the way it was done.
And then that person tells another,
What you had said...
That should have been said with more tact!
Then you find yourself,
Wishing to have not responded at all.
And if you had done that...
You would have been accused,
Of being thoughtless.
To leaving your point of view,
Butchered.
And discussed by others,
To dissect and attack.
And at times having not a thought to express...
Can leave you at the mercy,
Of those who will decide for themselves...
What it is you think!
How you think!
And about what!
The beliefs you have,
And your lack of concern!
With advice that spreads to others...
It would be best to ignore you.
Because you 'think' you know too much!
And,
You always have something to say...
To have things done your way.
And,
You take that as a clue...
To do just that,
To keep your peace of mind!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Bored With School
I became extremely bored with school,
At an early age.
I felt I was watched and scrutinized,
Unnecessarily.
AND...
I told my 5th grade teacher this.
AFTER given an assignment,
To write an essay...
Right there in the classroom.
I felt her hawkish eyes on me,
Like I was prey.
And she couldn't wait to see,
What I had written.
'Uh...
Mr. Pertillar?
Why are you looking out the window.
I've given all of you students an assignment.'
~I'm done.~
'That's impossible.'
~You've asked us to write an assignment...
And...
With an 'a' and a 'd' surrounding an 'n'
I said,
I was done! ~
'You are a fresh mouth little boy.
Bring to me your work.'
~And there are no spelling errors.
I check it.~
'Interesting.
Very 'adult' in expression.
But this is a 5th grade assignment.
And YOU are getting a 'C'.'
~A 'C'? ~
'Open your mouth again,
And it will become a 'D'.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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At 4: 19 In The Morning
the mosquitoes are already full
and bound to rest and reproduce their hundred eggs
i wake up. there is something to say.
there are lots of things to do.
i am having a hard time to decide
what 's first, what's next,
then i write this one. this one is different.
it is about a question. it does not demand
an answer though. it is about 'why i am always doing this? '
why i am hooked
to sit down and write again
those that do not really point to a direction
this scatters me like dust
as i try to gather dust again
the fingers run again. some words keep coming.
i wonder. Do these words have meaning at all?
keep going, the words say, keep going.
we will tell you as soon as we arrive there.
it may be about nothing at all. just keep going.
carry us. we will tell you later.that is the catch.
keep going. just keep going. who knows
there may be something out there.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Why Do Poets Write
(just written)
Why do poets write, a question that I wonder.
I’ve asked myself that question over a thousand times.
And I always come up with the same answer
It’s because we are blind.
We accept all that we see constant, as the daily norm.
But I cannot accept it, it’s not where I belong.
There are questions to be answered that we must write about
We’ll climb the highest mountain, and to the world we will shout.
Why is the sky blue? Why is the ocean deep?
Why is the mountain high? Why do we weep?
We have been given everything man could possibly need
This is the reason GOD had planted the seed.
We are the only creatures that have a mind to think
But when we do not use it, we can lose in in a wink.
We as poets see all the beauties that are around
We will write about it, without even making a sound
We will also see the suffering, for not everything in
Life is a bed of flowers, for people are dying
Each and every hour.
There are too many topics for us to write about
War, poverty, hunger, sickness, just to name a few
We can’t write about everything, what are we supposed to do.
So I look around to all that surround me
Then I pick a topic of which I do not foresee.
I put myself in that position of what I am writing about
If it’s about pregnancy, I will feel her aches and pains
And by doing this there is knowledge that I gain.
Life is two sided of that there is no doubt.
Rich, poor, happy, sad, love, hate, boy, girl,
Life, death, all in suits of twos
All this excites me, but which one will I choose?
Why do poets write? now you tell me?
maybe it’s just because we love the poetry.
poem by Louis Rams
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As a Poet
The thing I like best,
About having the freedom to express...
As a poet,
Is this:
I can choose if so desired and wished,
To be objective about it.
Whatever it is I decide to write.
And in other heartfelt touching moments,
I let others find the meaning.
To take as long as time permits,
To uncover something subjective.
With a close inspection,
Of exposed sentiments.
And I don't have to be in their presence,
To agree or disagree.
Or even like it myself.
Since when anthing I have written,
Is explored for left clues and hints...
I have moved on to create,
Other 'works' that may or may not...
Make more or even less sense.
Like this 'one'.
Someone will find worthy of debate.
Or scan through to scathe.
If it is not found to appeal to an appetite liked.
But it will be re-read.
Because poems I write sits in readers' heads.
With an intent intensively.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Enjoy Your Day
You approached me to ask a question.
And taking my time to listen...
With a response I had hoped,
You would comprehend.
Not only did you not do that.
But you edited my answer...
To 'insert' what you thought,
For you did not offend.
Now you accuse me of not being direct.
You say my answer,
For you is not effective.
You inject words connected to my response,
To something you rather accept.
And I hear your attempts,
To try to comvince others...
What it is I really meant!
'Why are you leaving? '
You asked me a question.
I answered it.
Now I take my exit.
To that do you also object?
'But I think your response,
Should be open to debate.'
First of all...
You approached me.
And the time given...
I did not hesitate.
You wanted to hear something you formulate.
Something in your mind you hoped I would find.
And I'm not wasting any more of my time...
To play a game of ping pong,
With someone who has yet to learn...
The reason or the effective use of the paddle.
And besides,
If I did decide to play...
It would be with someone,
Who had something meaningful to say.
And all you wish to do is to occupy space,
In the hopes someone will come forward...
To assist you in the use of it!
'Don't you think your point of view is a bit arrogant? '
That depends!
Is that your second question?
Or should I be seeking your permission to leave?
And neither question,
Do I seek from you an answer.
But I will give you the benefit...
To decide for yourself,
Which one eventually applies!
How is that?
Enjoy your day.
'You will not be asked back here again! '
Was I not already here when you entered?
Again...
Enjoy your day!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Can You Teach Me To Write?
No matter how the question is asked.
Or with words the one asking the question uses.
Whenever I am asked,
'Can you teach me to write?
Like you do? '
This is what I hear...
Not said from lips,
But this is the picture I get:
~Skip all that nonsense about being disciplined.
And please don't mention sacrifice.
To 'that' I wont even listen.
I want to see my name published all over the place.
Tell me how you have done that.
And erase all those trials and tribulations...
With heartache and pain you had to face.
I've got things to say and I know I'm great.
How do I find a publisher? ~
Sure!
I will teach you.
What have you written?
'Oh...
I haven't started yet.
What is it that I need to begin? '
You might want to carry with you a pad and pen.
'Why? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Question Of U
So what is the answer 2 the question of u
What do I look 4, what shall I do?
Which way do I turn when Im feeling lost?
If I sell my soul, now what will it cost?
Must I become naked? no image at all?
Shall I remain upright? or get down and crawl?
All of the questions in my life will be answered
When I decide which road 2 choose
What is the answer 2 the question of u?
U.
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Are Those Who Wait Years To Write A Poem
THERE ARE THOSE WHO WAIT YEARS TO WRITE A POEM
There are those who wait years to write a poem
The fruit slowly ripens inside and then as with Rilke
It suddenly falls -
There are those who write a few lines
And come back time after time
And find the poem after many efforts-
There are those who cannot wait to write a poem
And once conscious of it must write it down as fast as possible
Before it is lost-
And there are those who only in the present writing
Find the poem -
The page suffers many methods and modes
But what truly makes a poem worthy
Is another question.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Who stands with me?
True poets write in meter.
Not because they think it’s neater
but because the flow is sweeter
When their words are read aloud
as they perform before the crowd.
Their poems pass the acid test.
Prose writers do not choose to rhyme.
They see it as a waste of time.
Although their word choice is sublime.
Without meter it is prose,
not poetry as they suppose.
Their definition I contest.
Poetic prose it’s plain to see.
Can not be classed as poetry.
I can accept you disagree.
I know I have a biased view
I think I am entitled to
Decide which one I like the best.
I choose meter every time
Preferably with lines that rhyme.
I find such poetry sublime.
Though I enjoy well written prose.
Each to his own I must suppose
So write the way that suits you best.
I am old fashioned I admit
and not one whit ashamed of it.
I do not find rules inhibit.
Free expression of my views
They merely mean I have to choose
the words that will express them best
Free form, free verse, poetic prose.
Are methods other writers chose
as being fit for their purpose.
To rebel against fixed form.
Which was regarded as the norm.
Just to be different from the rest.
But fashions change and now free form
Must be regarded as the norm.
I see no reason to conform.
I choose to write my poetry
In the old way that pleases me.
A lonely voice raised in protest.
The wheel of fate will slowly turn
Metered poetry will return
and well deserved plaudits earn.
I hope I live to see the day.
when classic poets can display.
That fixed forms can outshine the rest.
Monday,06 December 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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