Lawstudent And Coach
Each day I sit in an ill-lighted room
To teach a boy;
For one hour by the clock great words and dreams
Are our employ.
We read St Agnes' Eve and that more fair
Eve of St Mark
At a small table up against the wall
In the half-dark.
I tell him all the wise things I have read
Concerning Keats.
'His earlier work is overfull of sense
And sensual sweets.'
I tell him all that comes into my mind
From God-knows-where,
Remark, 'In English poets Bertha's type
Is jolly rare.
She's a real girl that strains her eyes to read
And cricks her neck.
Now Madeline could pray all night nor feel
Her body's check.
And Bertha reads, p'rhaps the first reading girl
In English rhyme.'
It's maddening work to say what Keats has said
A second time.
The boy sits sideways with averted head.
His brown cheek glows.
I like his black eyes and his sprawling limbs
And his short nose.
He, feeling, dreads the splendour of the verse,
But he must learn
To write about it neatly and to quote
These lines that burn.
He drapes his soul in my obscuring words,
Makes himself fit
To go into a sunny world and take
His part in it.
'Examiners' point of view, you know,' say I,
'Is commonsense.
You must sift poetry before you can
Sift Evidence.'
poem by Lesbia Harford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Here now John Keats, I salute you
Some of your poems
were met with contempt
and yet above most
English poets your work rise.
Your words are deep and wise
and sweep past time
in eloquence,
breaking right through history
with magic and imagery
and only after death
your true honour comes.
Now famous are your name
and on first reading
“Chapman’s Homer”
I was convinced
to read Homer’s Iliad and the Odyssey.
Your “La Belle Dame sans Merci”
and “Lamia” are reflected
in my own verse
and here now
John Keats, I salute you
while your words
are immortal to me.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
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The New York Times
Oh,
It makes no sense to me
Yeah, I was living in a different world when I heard the news
I keep having the same bad dream
And it makes me want to hurt all the people who have done this thing to you
When I see your face, I can see you smile
Read all about you in the new york times
When I see your eyes, I can see your light
When I think about what happened
It makes me crazy
It makes no sense to me,
This eye for an eye thing,
It has gone too far
I dont know anyone who doesnt hurt inside
I would like to believe we could learn from this
And maybe some day we can make things right
I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When you read between the lines
When I see your face, I can see you smile
Read all about you in my new york times
When I see your eyes, I can see your light
When I read about the world
It makes me crazy
I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When you read between the lines
Gotta read between the lines
Whoa, gotta read between the lines
I really want to believe I can make things right
I want to believe I can learn to feel alright inside
I want to believe I can learn to make things right
Oh, I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When I read the new york times
I see your face, I see your smile
Read all about you in the new york times
I can see your eyes, I can see your light
When I think about what happened
It just makes me crazy
When I close my eyes
You seem so alive
I really think about you
I want to believe we can make things right
I want to believe
I want to believe
I want to believe
I want to believe
Oh, I want to believe in this world
I want to believe in this life
I want to believe in a world that does not seem real
When I read the new york times
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New York Times
Ohhhhh
It makes no sense to me Yeah
I was living in a different world when I heard the news,
I keep on having the same bad dream
And it makes me wanna hurt all the people who have done this thing to you
When I see youre face I can see you smile
Read all about you in the New York Times
When I see youre eyes I can see youre lie
When I think about what happened, it just makes me crazy
This makes no sense to me, yeah
This out for nothing it has gone too far
I dont know anyone who does not hurt inside
Id like to believe if you learn from this
Then maybe someday we can make things right
I wanna believe in this world,
I wanna believe in this life
I wanna believe in a world that does not seem real when you read between the
lines
When I see youre face I can see you smile
Read all about you in my New York Times
When I see youre eyes I can see youre lie
When I read the words about you it just makes me crazy
I wanna believe in this world
I wanna believe in this life
I wanna believe in the world that does not seem real when you read between the
lines
Ohhh... I gotta read between the lines..
Wooaoh you gotta read between the lines
Wohhh yeah I really wanna believe I can make things right
I wanna believe I can learn how to feel alright inside
I wanna believe I can learn how to make things right
Ohh I wanna believe in this world
I wanna believe in this life
I wanna believe in a world that does not seem real when I read the New York
Times
I see youre face, I see you smile
Read all about you in the New York Times
I can see youre eyes, I can see youre lie
When I think about what happened, it just makes me crazy
When I close my eyes you seem so alive
When I think about you I wanna believe you can make things right
I wanna believe
I wanna believe
I wanna believe
I wanna believe
I wanna believe in this world
I wanna believe in this life
I wanna believe
Ohh I wanna believe in this world
I wanna believe in this life
I wanna believe in a world that does not seem real when I read the New York
Times
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Moderns
To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cemetery Gates
A dreaded sunny day
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
while Wilde is on mine
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
all those people all those lives
where are they now ?
with loves, and hates
and passions just like mine
they were born
and then they lived and then they died
which seems so unfair
and I wantr to crv
You say: "ere thrice the sun hath done salutation to the dawn"
and you claim these words as your own
but Im well-read, have heard them said
a hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
if you must write prose/poems
the words you use should be your own
dont plagiarise or take "on loans"
there's alweays someone, somewhere
with a big nose, who knows
and who trips you up and laughs
when you fall
You say: "ere long done do does did "
words which could only be your own
you then produce the text
from whence was ripped
(some dizzy whore, 1804)
A dreaded sunny day
so let's go where we're happy
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
so let's go where we're wanted
so I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and Yeats are on your side
but you lose
because Wilde is on mine
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'm the type of girl
Im the type of girl that will hang on.
And never let go.
I'm the type of girl whose always hyper.
The one you wanna know.
Im the type of girl you wont wanna date.
But would love to be just friends.
I'm the type of girl who knows the killer.
Long before it ends.
I'm the type of girl whose rooms a mess.
But whose desk is always neat.
I'm the type of girl who is slightly weird.
But you really wanna meet.
I'm the type of girl that holds her tounge.
But never says whats right.
I'm the type of girl who loves to sleep.
But reads all through the night.
I'm the type of girls who fails at sports.
But wins at every game.
I'm the type of girl that always cries.
But covers all the pain.
I'm the type of girl that falls inlove.
With all the wrong guys.
I'm the type of girl thats ready to believe.
In all your pathetic lies.
I'm the type of girl that hates Taylor Lautner.
And all those other teens.
I'm the type of girl who sits alone.
But chases every dream.
I'm the type of girl you can't forget.
Or get out of your head.
I'm the type of girl who'll stick by your side.
Even when your dead.
I'm the type of girl who says what she feels.
And means every single words.
I'm the type of girl that falls up stairs.
And sings songs you've never heard.
I'm the type of girl who spends her life.
Writing depressing poems.
I'm the type of girl who loves to walk.
'Cause she likes to be alone.
I'm the type of girl that begs for love.
But is too afraid to fall.
I'm the type of girl who feels so short.
Even though shes tall.
I'm the type of girl that's to unique to fit in.
But doesn't mind either way.
I'm the type of girl that will love her ex.
Until the feelings fade.
I'm the type of girl you'll never know.
But would have to just meet.
I'm the type of girl who can never decide.
On what she wants to eat.
I'm the type of girl who can rhyme in a second.
But is always slow to catch on.
I'm the type of girl whose had her heart broken.
And wonders what went wrong?
I'm the type of girl you can't understand.
For I'm a type too rare to know.
I'm the type of girl who keeps hanging on.
Long after you've letten go.
I'm the type of girl who writes for hours.
And dreams of what she'll never be.
I'm the type of girl who can only be defined.
As different, complicated, and unique.
poem by Silence Dogood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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English Eyes
What youre sayin it never really crossed my mind
I hear playin and everybodys keepin time
Im recallin that girl I met in london town
She was strange, young and tender and narrowed all my choices down
Chorus:
We ran away into the night hypnotized
You carved your name right next to mine, english eyes
I was tryin to read her lips and knew the time was drawing near
I forgot what she said but I remember how she whispered in my ear
I can hear laughter coming from the places we once knew
There were stories from a stranger out of nowhere but they seemed so true
Chorus
English eyes, english eyes
(instrumental break)
English eyes
Red sky warning, girl you really put a spell on me
Never told me bout the daddy you refused to please
You took the bishop when the king was standing right in front of you
Theres nothing in it if I cant have a girl with eyes like you
Chorus repeats 2x
English eyes, yeah, english eyes, english eyes
song performed by by Toto
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cemetry Gates
A dreaded sunny day
I meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So i meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
While wilde is on mine
So we go inside and we gravely read the stones
All those people all those lives
Where are they now ?
With loves, with hates
With passions just like mine
They were born
And then they lived
And then they died
It seems so unfair
Oh, i want to cry
You say : "'ere thrice the sun done salutation to the dawn"
And you claim these words as your own
But i've read well, and i've heard them said
A hundred times (maybe less, maybe more)
If you must write prose and poems
The word you use should be your own
Don't plagiarise or take "on loan"
There's always someone, somewhere
With a big nose, who knows
And trips you up and laughs
When you fall
Who'll trip you up and laugh
When you fall
You say : "long done do does did"
Words which could only be your own
And then produce the text
From whence was ripped
(some dizzy whore, 1804)
A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're happy
And i meet you at the cemetry gates
Oh, keats and yeats are on your side
A dreaded sunny day
So let's go where we're wanted
And i meet you at the cemetry gates
Keats and yeats are on your side
But you lose
'cause weird lover wilde is on mine
Sure !
song performed by by Smiths
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Write Poetry
I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,
I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,
I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,
I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,
poem by Saranyan Bee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Oh! Lisa With These Lovely Eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
So please tell my soul to sympathize,
We shall cry forever in overcast skies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes,
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Heartbroken heart spoken, not taken back
To change a mind so is lifes dream
Lisa with the dark brown eyed
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
That blends your butter scotch face insight
Smiles which brings sparkles to my mind
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Many pre thoughts of your strays hypnotize
French, African, English culture dies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
She dabbles her life in fiction trash
her soul with curious follies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Loneliness, has come far a sad. sad day
Emptiness in your mind and heart pay
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
You walk the world in beauty forgotten
They speak about you something forbidden
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Your body your mind so whole same so
Your gave birth and I wish I could understand, understand
Lisa with the dark dark raven eyes
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes
Curiosity is so special time flies, my sighs
Persuaded a fool to be wise, so wise how wise
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes.
poem by Klayne Mario Burton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Between The Lines
Verse 1:
Ive been searching
Ive been thinking
Ive been searching so long
What I am looking for
Ive been hearing love will hit you
But everybodys wrong
Cause I just happen to notice
That certain look in your eye
Chorus:
Im reading between the lines
I didnt need no neon signs
To notice baby
I never before had you on my mind
But now I really do
Verse 2:
Nothing major ever happened
But its the greatest feeling Ive ever had
Strong emotions all have left me
Just a tenderness inside my heart
Just happened to notice a knowing smile
Chorus
(now I really do)
Just happened, I noticed
That certain look in your eyes
Im reading between the lines
I didnt need no neon signs
To notice baby
I never before had you on my mind
Im reading between the lines
I didnt need, didnt need no neon
To notice baby
I never before, never before
I knew it, I knew it
Bridge:
Started dreamin about you baby
Now I know just what Im feeling
Can it be you are my baby?
Never gonna let you go
Oh it took so long to feel it
(so very long to feel it)
But it was worth the waiting baby
Never gonna-never gonna let you go
(read between, read between the lines)
Didnt need no neon signs
Oh it took so long to feel it
(so very long to feel it)
But it was worth the waiting baby
(read between, read between the lines)
Didnt need, didnt need, didnt need no neon
(notice baby)
(read between, read between the lines)
I didnt need no neon signs
I knew it, I knew it
(read between, read between the lines)
Between the lines
(read between, read between the lines)
Im reading between the lines....
song performed by by Debbie Gibson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Read and Reread/ The Poets I Love
I READ AND REREAD/ THE POETS I LOVE
I read and reread
The poets I love-
I seek new poets
To love poetry more with-
I write my own small poems
And read them again occasionally-
Sometimes I find in them lines
I want to return to
And remember.
If only I could be such a stranger to myself
That I in reading a poem of my own
Would know it belongs to Literature.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Remedy
Remedy
Je yall
Yall know what it is
This that
Jagged lil thrill
Right here
Check this out
V1:
Did you think about it while you working
While youre working baby
Feeling like is it something
Is there something
More than this
Girl if you need somebody
Imma bring the don
So we can get out bubbles on
To a bottle of perion
If you feel
If you feel
If you feel
Like youre hungry
Hey baby I can cook your meal
Pick you up
In a lacdeville
Cant believe
That Im so real
Girl its you I wanted
And its you I needed
Girl I got the remedy
Hook
If you feel it
Girl I got the key remedy
To your body
You know like when youre weak in your knees
Girl its me that makes you rush
Right home after work
Cause you feel it
I got it
The remedy
The remedy
If you feel it girl
I got the key remedy
To your body
You know like when ya weak in your knees
Girl its me that
Makes you rush right home after work
Cause you feel it
I got it
The remedy
The remedy
Verse 2
In the morning
When we wake at sunrise
Yeah
Relaxation over your body
You cant deni
When I leave
Imma kiss you bye
I know last night
Did you right
Im just trying to be the man you like girl
Baby got a feeling
You be feeling me
When youre at work to me
Cause you know
I did my thang
And whenever you
Need a cure
Just call me
Ill be your anytime
You need a remedy
Hook
If you feel it
Girl I got the key
Remedy to your body
You know like
When youre weak in your knees
Girl its me that
Makes you rush right home
After work
Cause you feel it
I got it
The remedy
The remedy
If you feel it
Girl I got the key remedy
To your body
You know like when youre weak in your knees
Girl its me
That makes you rush right home
After work
Cause you feel it
I got it
The remedy
The remedy
Bridge
Day in
Day out
All I think about
Is the time I spend
Just loving you
My girl
My friend
Anything you need
Got the remedy
Yes I do
Oh, oh, oh
Girl if its love
That you want from me
Then its love
Im gonna provide
Yeah
Said my arms are here
And theyre open wide
Ill be your
Your remedy
Hook 4x
song performed by by Jagged Edge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Undereducated
Just remember I don't come from the best
For what I write is but pure desire and dedication
An obsession in which I will learn my lesson
Being poor doesn't deny me the right
Today or tomorrow night
I draw you in because I write what I would want to read
Not just anything will satisfy
For I am picky only of those of true intellect
Attract my utmost intention
Think of me one who likes to read new inventions
Always original, and always a draw
I read and re read to perfect indeed
But I'm of the undereducated so I'm still flawed
Ten years of constant writing and no schooling has made me the next undereducated bread winner
A defender to those who criticize, by stereo type
But I care not
For I am what I am.
You want to judge, judge by the mistakes, in my grammar I make.
Teach me to appreciate the English language
Be my gauge, tell me what I can do better.
For I read all comments and letters.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0007: 2007 - Year Of Revolting Poets
2007, he said, was a memorable year for poetry.
A world conference of poets held
somewhere NewMex way, came to the view
that the rhyming dictionary put altogether too
great a stricture on the structure
of verse, and worse;
it was time, for rhyme
(which came back into fashion
that year with a passion)
to be more relevant,
less of a white elephant;
so
all poets who
wrote in English
(including Strine)
were asked to define
what words should be allowed appropriately to rhyme.
It took a little time;
since they couldn’t agree about basic words
(some felt that ‘ words’ shouldn’t even rhyme with ‘turds’,
they thought that any such ditty
would be shitty;
some thought that such a possibility of rhyme was crap,
and would lead to poetic mishap)
So, first things first, what would be appropriate
to rhyme with love?
(which of course some pronounced luv,
others, lurve) :
some felt that rhyming it with ‘above’
had just a smidgen
of politically inappropriate reference to religion…
* * *
The whole idea was well meant
but you can see just how it went –
it took until 3006
even just to fix
after long debate upon it,
fourteen rhyming words to cover one suitable sonnet
by which time
those celebrated poets who did or didn’t rhyme,
while English tended to vanish,
were writing in Spanish
or Chinese;
bringing American-language poetry to its knees.
then vowelless txt
became the nxt
style
for a while
(which left poetry weakened,
bcs t cdnt b spknd) …
* * *
But I’ll have to cease this sorry tale;
I’ve a Hallmark card I need to mail.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Love and Poetry; Poetry and Love
and right now, I’m spending most of my time
on the two matters of which I seem to know the least –
love; and poetry.
maybe it’s good I feel like this; after all,
they’re two pretty big things in their way;
and if it’s frustrating that
I don’t seem to get anywhere,
or understand any more,
maybe that’s good too since
it keeps me at it
and out of harm’s way
as they say
let’s take poetry first – that’s
relatively straightforward:
one day I love the freedom
of the current situation – there’s no rules
except, the lines are short –
but even that, you can break
with ‘prose poems’ (and leave it
to others to say when 'prose poems'
become ‘poetic prose’ etc…) :
tell the unvarnished truth,
tell it like it is; offer all your heart
ungiftwrapped;
then next day I miss the music
of a poem that – with some difficulty –
rhymes and dances in its rhythms,
catches you in its woven spell,
reads as if it wrote itself,
sings its own fair song,
even though of course
the rhyme then makes you deviate
from the theme – but that can take you to
more interesting places in the mind —
so - point of this - I’m none the wiser
about what poetry is; though of course
maybe there’s some benefit I just don’t spot
by kinda mixing thisnthat..
so, when I’m not writing this stuff
that I call poetry, if I call it anything,
I’m addressing the question
of love; in the hope
that thinking about it might just be
of some use; influence action; and
make me more loving; or help me
write poetry about it, ha..
well don’t ask me, not just yet..
though, we all know what love is...
when it’s on our side?
one day, I feel good that I’ve spent the day
reading inspiring words, like,
the whole Creation is one single act
of love; that it brought the whole universe
into manifestation; sustains it; merges all things into love;
that love is knowledge; holds all forms
through law, by law; that law and love
are always together; that love’s
the natural state of ourself; that
every creature has pure love within its nature;
that thus, it’s our very nature
to love one another; love
our neighbour as ourself…
even, love ourselves...
then the next day, I can’t bear
to read any more of what’s written
about love; just spend the day in love
with everything and everyone;
being still a little, listening to music a little,
reading inspiring poetry a little,
going out or not going out,
being just myself a lot; seeing things around
inside the house and out
so vividly, it’s like being high
without the before and after, and
I wonder why it isn’t
always just like this..
then the next day again, I’m just too busy
to give thought to thinking about love,
or being loving to those bloody neighbours
then the doorbell rings – and
I greet whoever it is before
I even look at them, as if
they’re the one person out of all the world
I most wanted to see again right now – and
it’s someone to read the meter –'hallo!
what, again so soon? I’ve only just paid
the last bill, and anyway, it always comes
as ‘estimated’, and too high…'
too late – I’ve loved them totally
in that first moment; I'm like
someone else; I find myself
treating them like an honoured guest;
see them out with a friendly comment; feel good;
a sorta indifferent, unthought, unshaped happiness..
maybe there’s something to be discovered
in all this love thing,
whatever it is.. maybe
I’ll go try to write a poem about it,
see where it goes
[This poem is dedicated to the memory of Bukowski, the poet
who taught us to write it like it is - even if his later work...]
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr Paddy's Capers.
Just when she thought
She'd found a place alone
To read her book, Mr Paddy
poked his nose between
Her and the open book, so
That pages are blanked out
By his huge head. Mr Paddy
Go off and annoy another,
She said, but he stood there
Determined to be where he
Was, between her and the
Brown covered book, held
Out in her small hands. Oh
Mr Paddy I cannot see the
Pages. Please go off and run
In the garden or in the kitchen
And steal a bone, she said. But
He wouldn't leave her alone,
He pushed his head against her
Young girl body, his damp nose
Dampening her wrist and her
White dress with blue sash, and
Dribble from his lips was wetting
The pages. Mr Paddy please let
Me be, I'm trying to read can't
You see? Mr Paddy's brown eyes
Scanned the pages, nothing there
But scribbled lines upon white paper,
And still he stood wet mouthed with
Big brown eyes and his silly old caper.
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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