Not a Publisher or Critic
When I am writing,
That is what I do.
I am not reading.
And those few times I read...
I read what I choose and like!
That's just a fact of my life!
Call it what you will.
But that it is the deal!
I am not a publisher or critic.
Or a teacher with a mind,
That is scientific.
If that's not accepted...
Fine!
Neither one of us,
Have to live with it.
I know I don't.
And I won't discuss,
How I spend my time.
Especially when I have the mind,
To write!
And I have obligated myself to do that,
When the time finds me constantly...
Making that obsession I have to do it right.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Related quotes
This is mainly because I spend a lot of time writing and so don't have much time to read; I hate to waste that time reading what may turn out to be junk food for the mind, when there's so much real writing to be read.
quote by John Sladek
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm Not Like You
I sit here now,
Writing this poem.
You read it now,
No matter what’s goin.
Sometimes it’s rainy,
Sometimes it’s not.
You read this poem now,
Go do you the homework you forgot.
Life can be simple,
It can also be complicated.
Be when read this now,
Please don’t get frustrated.
Thanks for reading this,
You’re a cool person that much is true.
But to spend the time and read,
I’m probably not much like you.
Dear Friend
i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,
i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests
and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence
as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)
there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,
please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:
write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Box Full Of Letters
Got a box full of letters,
Think you might like to read
Some things that you might like to see,
But they're all addressed to me
Wish I had a lotta answers,
'Cause that's the way it should be
For all these questions,
Being directed at me
I just can't find the time
To write my mind
The way I want it to read
You'll come back again
And I'll still be your friend
I got a lot of your records,
In a separate stack
Some things that I might like to hear,
But I guess I'll give 'em back
I wish I had a lotta answers,
'Cause that's the way it should be
All these questions
Being directed at me
Just can't find the time
To write my mind
The way I want it to read
You'll come back again,
And I'll still be your friend
I can't find the time
To write my mind
The way I want it to read
Just can't find the time
To write my mind
The way I want it to read
song performed by by Wilco
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With All The Reading and Writing I Do
With all the reading and writing I do
With all the work of the mind and heart
There comes a time
It can be any time
There comes a time
When the Poem must enter-
The Poem?
The deeper feeling-
The Music of the soul-
What I most need to say inside
The Writing which somehow surpasses all the other
In its inner intensity in its deepest feeling –
I write a poem now
All my heart mind soul
Go into every word and phrase.
The Poem? The Poem?
For which I write to live
And which through writing
I most live in Writing-
The Poem that this is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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Scribbles Transcribed
Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.
I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.
I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.
What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme
I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.
My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.
My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.
Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.
To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.
I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.
I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.
But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.
Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.
The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.
My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..
(18-Jun-07)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Love To Read
Is it a misconception,
That writers read...
Other writers' works?
Or reads extensively at all?
Afterall...
When would a true writer,
Find time to get that done...
If one has a love to read?
And...
I am not that one to say,
A reading AND a writing done...
Is an impossibility.
Because I read what I write often.
Regularly and on a daily basis.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Drunk On Poetry
Poetry surges steadily
Through my veins
I grant it to stream through them
Day in and day out
Sleep and awake
I believe it's a healthy obsession
I get drunk on it
The more I inject in me
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become addicted
Sometimes I absorb too much poetry
Reading, writing and listening
I become drunk sometimes
Poetry spills from my pen
Inking a piece of paper
And unto another and another
Constantly on every thought
Humorous, emotionally, romantic, tragic
Experiencing in life
Opinionated, factual, abstract
Political, any subject that's on my thoughts
Sometimes I become drunk
The more i inject into me
Poetry I live for
Eat, drink, sleep
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
I loose myself sometimes
When I digest too much
Poems that I write
I write for me
I share them with the world
I can't resist this urge
Poetry is what I crave
It happens to be my mistress
I become drunk
The more I inject
My mind thrives on poetry
My soul thrives on poetry
I become so addicted
Breathing in too much poetry
Reading, writing, listening
I'm drunk sometimes
Poetry I write
Write from experience
What I've done
What I've heard
What I've seen
What I've felt
What I've known
Poetry I live for
Eating, drinking, sleeping
Racing through my spirit
Poetry, poetry, poetry
On my thoughts poetry
Loosing myself sometimes
When I inject enough
This is what I've become
A drunken poet
poem by R.K. Cowles
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Early Works - Tooter
For Maurice Callard
The Great Gatsby in his forte
from the old man’s tears
to a group twinkling in the garden.
Alas, this is not my exercise,
I am supposing to big head the tooter.
I am supposing to what?
Oh yes, what he represents to me.
Well, let me see
a fellow author, a good-looking fellow.
Yes, I would agree with these.
Now what about his bad points?
You say he hasn’t any.
Well just one or two.
What are they you ask?
You cannot think of any at the moment.
Well, never mind we’ll discuss the good points in some depth.
A fellow author.
Well, yes, he is good in fact,
some might even say quite brilliant.
A good-looking fellow.
Well, with the romantic look of Robert Redford
and ruggedness of Clint Eastwood
need I say anymore?
A good teacher,
I don’t think there are any complaints.
Look, I’ve been going for five years,
but maybe I’m a slow learner!
A very helpful fellow.
Yes, I would agree with this.
I agree with anything,
but above all my comedy
and jest my work purposes.
I find him a good friend and honest critic
no author could ask for more.
25 March 1981
Authors Note:
This was written tongue-in-cheek about my good friend for nearly twenty years. When I read this out at one of his classes, everyone had a good laugh including Maurice himself. To me he was not only a teacher, friend but at times a surrogate father as my own father had no time for my writing. Although he is no longer with us all who knew him, miss him.
poem by David Harris
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In Between Breaths I Take
You are not specifically on my mind,
When I write.
Nor are you far away,
From impressions that seem to linger.
You have been a part of my life for too long.
And you sit among my favorite experiences.
With the image of your face...
Clinging as a craving,
I could not or would not ever replace.
But you are not specifically on my mind,
When I write.
And I do make attempts,
To do that 'all' the time!
Convinced the act of it,
Keeps me disciplined...
And making good use,
Of that time!
Nor are you far away,
From impressions that seem to linger.
Your eyes.
Your voice.
And the soothness of it,
That haunts the emptiness of my heart.
The only time you seem to be there constantly...
Is when I am not writing at all.
Or sleeping!
Or eating!
Or in between breaths I take!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Woman And Poetry
writing poems together
with that woman is so much fun
i write mine, (i am much better than that woman)
i ask her to read my poems she obliges with her spectacles
as she opens her mouth to syllabicate
i gulp some saliva to my mouth
this woman is terrible
she makes me giggle
i have her word for word i have her metaphor per metaphor
there is no time to discuss
i like her to undress this time
i'll take the magic of her word
this time i will open my mouth
this time i will read all of her
i will not discuss i will not understand
i will just feel these metaphors
this mouth this tongue this body
this most important poetry
this love this lust this moment
after we have written
our poems together.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rest To Read
Read any...
Any thing read...
Read...
Day with night...
Read...
Reading is
Happy...
Reading
Is boor...
Reading
Is Knolage...
Read...
Reading is
One of body
Rest...
Rest is
One of the reading
Time...
Read daily
Take rest daily
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Dreaded Requests
I am not a rude or ignorant man,
but there are some things,
that I will not do.
Unfortunately, I do not like
to read a lot of what
I am politely requested to read.
I am often bombarded by people
asking me to read
and comment on their work.
I do not like to be rude
and ignore their pleas,
but I just read what I like,
not what I am asked to read.
I choose whom I like,
if I see a title I find interesting
I will take the time to read it
and make a mental note of the author.
If I like what I read,
I will dip into that author’s work
time and time again.
I do not care if they read my work or not
that is their choice and I have mine.
All I ask is let me make up my own mind.
Do not bombard me with notes
requesting that I read your work,
as I am likely to ignore them.
I am not being rude or ignorant
it is I just do not do requests.
poem by David Harris
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I Need to Write
I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,
First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;
Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,
All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.
Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,
No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;
Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,
Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.
I know what sort of holiday would people like,
And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;
Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,
And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.
It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,
It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;
It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,
Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.
So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,
Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;
Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,
Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.
Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,
You might even end up, turning it into a song;
Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,
And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.
poem by Margaret Haig
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On Books
Books are my first love, I’m so proud to read;
They give me knowledge and help life to lead;
Hours, days just pass by, by reading life-time;
Life would not be worth, if not for my rhyme.
Great are those people who write books all life;
Burning just candles, with Goose-quills in strife;
Tired of writing though day-long or night,
They keep on writing in such a bad light.
Books serve a great cause; their value can’t cease;
It takes years to write but reading is ease;
Book-makers struggle to print a few books;
And keep spending time to, improve their looks.
Some find their way to libraries in town;
Some remain untouched and nev’r taken down;
Silver-fish, Moths eat the books that are old;
Some are gone obsolete, some sold like gold.
Some are in tatters and must be rebound;
Books are Man’s best friends where solace is found;
Reading for long hours, does help you to learn;
Books give much knowledge and wisdom to men.
Read books with great care whose weight is in gold;
Serve generations though they may be old;
Source of much Info, deserving respect;
Books are life-partners whom you ne’er reject!
poem by John Celes
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Sweet And Sour
but some mornings
while of course you’d like to write
a poem, there’s nothing there;
so you read a poem that ‘someone else’ wrote
though of course it’s your mind reading it
and after you/I read it,
there drifted into the mind the phrase
‘the sweetness of life’…
a phrase more common,
even more evocative -
‘douceur de vie’
(or even plural.. ‘petit douceurs’…))
in French writings..
how wonderful the workings
of the mind: that first, tiny
explosion of consciousness in the mind
instantly offers in language
duality; and opposites;
take your choice,
and be bound by it…
so, there was sweetness: which this morning
seemed a mile away;
and… sourness! Yes, of course!
life has been… just a little sour… these last few weeks
for no apparent reason – though of course
I could offer reasons flattering to me…
Yet also, heavenly grace, as it may be,
presenting duality, allows
the glory of a unity to be seen:
this morning, knowing life as both sweet and sour,
both and neither,
I’ll choose what’s been lacking
(which is the definition of pure desire…) and
without even the wish to elaborate –
just to name it, in its beauty to the mind,
the sweetness of life;
it’s like a poem in itself.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A poem with the perfect rhyme
If a poem could cost a dime
I will spend my ink and spend my time
Making the perfect rhyme
More than a million people may read it
Even if I have to sell it on credit
I will be the businesswoman with wit
Sit down! Think about it!
A penny for the perfect sentence
A penny for a poem glaring with essence
A penny for writing about the present and past tense
A penny for describing a situation that is intense
A penny if I write truthfully without pretence
As I turn away from crime
Making the perfect rhyme
If a poem could cost a pound
I will turn my life around
As I compose the perfect poetic sound
That rhymes against any background
My words will be sublime
Not just the perfect rhyme
They will be read both at teatime and during bedtime
My sentences will mature in their prime with time
As I turn away from crime
Making the perfect rhyme
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
www.sylviachidi.co.uk
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Poems I've Considered Writing..All Thanks to You..
It seems I'm writing more
Than I have for quite some time..
It's not always good writing
Sometimes It's just a matter of getting out my emotions on paper
Though they say you shouldn't put everything on paper
But,
That wouldn't make me much of a writer then, would it..
I don't do it on purpose..
To be honest,
I can't really help it..
And,
When I contemplate some of the poems I've thought of writing
Since our acquaintance
Well,
Some of the following titles spring to mind..
'This should be interesting'
'I wonder how I'll ever get on in this place'
'I hope I make a good enough impression'
But, then, that's not specific to you, is it..
I'm always worried about making a good impression, doing a good job, working on bettering me...worried about what others may or may not think
I'm not in competition with anyone but myself and sometimes I think that's
Tougher than competing with someone else..
'Ummmm...I don't know what to think'
'Someone thinks highly of themselves'
This would have been about you by the way..
I guess first impressions aren't always accurate
'I think I can trust you'
'Maybe I've made a friend'
'Why did that feel like a date'
'What's wrong with me'
'Something to look forward to'
'Saying Goodbye'
'Hello Again'
'I like having you as my friend'
'Someone to talk to'
'That's...Not..What..! ! ! '
Because sometimes I feel like I can read your mind..
And,
It's not always on it's best behavior, is it..
I hope that doesn't change... it makes me smile.
'I Have to Admit, You're Kind-a Sweet'
'Nooooo! ! ! '
This would have been a funny poem..As would,
'Do you mean what you say, when you say what you say'
But, then.. I think..
'Maybe it's all in my head'
Let's face it.. I am known to think too much, too often, all the time...
It's a minor glitch with my mind...
Then, there was the minor incident where..
'Being Forced to Face That I'm Feeling....Something'
But, that's just hard for me to do..so,
'Bury it, Pretend it Doesn't Exist'
Or
'We Aren't Going to Talk About the Elephant in the Room'
Were poems that were quite appropriate to write..
I didn't write them..
Well, not quite that way..
Some others would have been,
'Uneasy with My Feelings'
'I Wonder What You Really Think of Me'
'Too Bad I Can't Read Minds'
'I'd love to know what your first impression of me was...does it still hold true'
I don't know if you have read my work..
I sometimes think it's you..
But, I figure there's no way for me to know
Unless you give me a clue..
And, maybe you have
But, subtleties are lost on me
Especially when it comes to you..
So I write..
Or contemplate writing poems..
With funny titles
Titles that don't always mean what they say
Or say how I feel
Or are specific to you...
Because writers write..
It's what they do
But, sometimes
My Poems
Might be
Just for you...
poem by Rabia Minhas
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Poem and The Thesis
While reading and thinking
From somewhere else
Disturbs me
You come to me
Behind words
Between spaces of sentences
Blossoming up and erases the read paragraph
You insist me to open a blank page
I forget all
I sleep with you
Whole the day in happy
Write not what I want
Write what I like
Line by line fill up flowing like a stream
Finding an undreamed end
Body and mind bathe and lighten
Like a pregnant mother delivered
Reading from up to down
To name laughing and crying baby
In the sleeping time
When I start to read and think
To go to the aim
To cure my headache
Again it slowly wakes up
Through the lines of spaces
It is an irresistible rise
But aim is also unavoidable
When find a sleeping time
Extra things to be done
poem by Udaya R. Tennakoon
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