En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Gerunds

'We are no fragile poets, ' he said
sipping panaceas;
no,
we bleed in these bloody times.'

Our descriptors screech-
show calluses.

Our gerunds
are heavy-laden,
participled
and unrelieved.

In our time
we've had sex
with the dark and delicious.
Our tiny lusts are autographed
on our eyelids.

We have ridden the night bull
and kissed cold similes
licked razor blades,
cut ourselves.

Our body linings
have slipped to edges-
scabs removed-
our scars exposed.

Our loves have been tattooed
on our foreheads and we consume
what we love best.

We've known villainous reprieves-
raw extremes.

We've seen our low expectations
sucked dry;
our joyless roses decline to bloom;
we have seen steeled excusings,
blatant excrescences
resent me's,
poxed regrets,
vampire ideologies,
deeply cutting debaucheries
and Unspeakeries.

We've had
our wisdom wrung
from emotion's sponge;

our oasises
have been carved from pulp existence-
our meanings extracted
from Carpathian realities.

We are no fragile poets then
opining on slippery metaphysical surfaces.

We are similes' survivors-
denizens of the electron brainscape;
voices winnowing;
down into the strangled world;
our task is, nonetheless
to re-dream all things.
Our callouses grant us the mettle,
our hearts show the way
our determination is un-sunk.

We must be the Rough Poets
eyeball to eye ball
with both Dream and Reality;
we must brandish
the seemly
against the unseemly
and remain true to Poetries.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Smothering of Poets

A love which ends badly-
if we let it-
freezes Time;

and we move on
covering it;

leaving it unchanged and unresolved.

We plant the last Kiss
with a question mark
knotted in the Semi-finish..

We drag our Dead Poet Love
into the future
bound and gagged
in the truck of the car
because all past loves
are Dead Poets;

we ignore the muffled cries
in the rear;

drive toward the future
tamping down the present
with a finger
dipped in
past and jaded memory.

We smother old past poets
put them away in the dark closet
because New Love
most often
doesn't share our love of
Former Poetries.

We reel in the Future now
before it is born;
strangled;

we make Hope for New Love
to lie
down in the cold;

but, our warm coat
is in the closet
which means
at odd times
in the chill
we dream of dead poets,

who sometimes
don't remain
dead still
in the trunk of the car
in the closet
in the category
nil.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Good Poets and Bad Poets

Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.

Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.

Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind

Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.

Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.

Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.

Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.

All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.

Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.

Some poets take criticism and don't mind.

Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.

Some poets write poetry to get love.

Some poets love to write poetry.

Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind

Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind

Some poets live only after they die.

Some poets have much to say but can't articulate

Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand

So which one of these am I?

I guess I am all of these and none of these

and no matter what my description

I intend to keep doing what I do:

Write. Right

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Why People Become Poets Poets Dreams

have you ever wondered why people become poets?
poets have been around since the beginning of time
and they have been mostly men, speaking of their loves, life
and emotions.
famous love stories, plays, movies, all seen thru a poets eyes.
just as the centuries have gone by and everything in life has changed
so have the poets.
there is now as many and if not more female poets
than male poets. why? because they are more sensitive to emotions
and are not afraid to show or speak of it, unlike men who want to
show the 'MACHO MAN IMAGE'
poets see life thru different eyes for different situations
and write about it in so many forms, and see the light and
the darkness in everything, including the good and bad.
it may be just one word, or a line, or verse
that enters their mind to start creating
what will become a poem,
what is the poets dream that you will create?
a love story, a sad story, one of fear or hate, or passion
one of beauty, or war.
so many things to choose from- but it doesn’t matter
what you may choose, you must take the first step.
just as reading this is the first step to start on your way to writing poetry
and opening up your mind and soul.
touching other people and receiving comments
and feedback on your writings will help you to improve
on your weak areas.
some people do it because they are looking for fortune and fame
while others want to communicate with others, and others
just to see their names on something other than
a bill being paid.

poem by Louis Rams
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If I Knew What Poets Know

If I knew what poets know,
Would I write a rhyme
Of the buds that never blow
In the summer-time?
Would I sing of golden seeds
Springing up in ironweeds?
And of rain-drops turned to snow,
If I knew what poets know?

Did I know what poets do,
Would I sing a song
Sadder than the pigeon's coo
When the days are long?
Where I found a heart in pain,
I would make it glad again;
And the false should be the true,
Did I know what poets do.

If I knew what poets know,
I would find a theme
Sweeter than the placid flow
Of the fairest dream:
I would sing of love that lives
On the errors it forgives;
And the world would better grow
If I knew what poets know.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.

quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0005 Totally Boring Poem

I’m totally bored by:

poems that sound like other poems

poems that try to sound unlike any other poems

poets who never take risks

poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets

poems with 'meaning'

poems with no meaning

poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something

poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time

poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring

poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'

poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'

poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex

poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out

poets that tell you they’ve been dumped

poets who've never known love and being dumped

poets who are ambitious

poets who are unambitious

poets who tell you all about higher things

poets who reject higher things

poets who think life’s just a joke

poets who think life’s no joke

poets who sit on the fence

poets who have no sense of balance

poets who despise 'the middle ground'

poets who talk about technique

poets with no technique

poets who just throw down their thoughts

poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish

poets who list what they like (who cares?)

poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)

poets who write about extreme states

poets who think they’re immune to extreme states

poets who tell you why they’re bored

poets who have opinions

poets who seem to have no opinions at all

poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?

poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word

poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems

poets who don't love poetry passionately

poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'

poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,

how about you?

I suppose you have boring opinions too?

another time perhaps

and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored

well I feel better for that.

how about you?

poem by Michael Shepherd
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A poor pen

Pen is

Not great...

On the paper...

poet write at

Moon+ sky...

Stars...

Earth and sea...

All are in poets

Hand only

At poets hand...

Poets is think...

Poets dream...

Thats all

pen is very poor

Noock out...

undrestad to try...

Try too under stand....

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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A Wish

I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
with similes that span the universe,
that sparkle, crackle, dazzle, woo the mind;
and touch the heart with tender, swoony verse...

I'd like to write - like grown-up poets do:
in literature that's all the better for
those soaring, parabolic parables
and paradigms, and rhymes, and metaphor...

I'd like to write - like no-one else has done:
forget the rules and precedents; let fly
to heights undreamt of yet, new mindscape won..

And yet, perhaps, the world's served better by

small lamps of words amidst the cold night winds
of chance and change; cupped in a poet's hands.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poets of The Electron Dream

There is a single factum
for the current century
which has
All Meaning
for Poetry.

The Physicists
have
since the 1920's
told us that electrons
can be in two different places
simultaneously.

The Principle of Uncertainty.

They have finally caught up with
Poets who
have long
argued that
Poetry comes
through
many times
from somewhere else;

other channels
sometimes unknown to
the Poet who
often hurries
to write down
new poems
originating
from venues
which seem to burst through
to consciousness;
Whole Cloth
and fully formed.

Commonplace
yet it has never
been explained:
how this could be?

But now
we all
have to take seriously

that not only electrons
can be here and there
simultaneously,

but perhaps too
so can I and you.

Taking this idea seriously
is to understand
that an Idea
in the human mind
has electrons too
and that any idea
may have in fact
come not only from you
but also from that other you
that is not in the room
that may in fact simultaneously
exist
in parallel
somewhere else
leading a slightly different
life Poetically.

A second point made
in Physics labs
is that electrons
everywhere
pop in and out of existence
instantly;
constantly.
But where do they go when they go
and from where are they coming back from?

Finally, there is physical proof that
Electron A with a positive charge,
if changed to a negative one, will
cause its match
all the way across the universe
to revert its charge to positive.

All matter
therefore is
in constant contact
across all of the Universe
at the same time.

This is the 'Theory of Inflation'

Actually not a theory mind you.
At this point a proven fact.

Poets have long argued
'The Connectedness of All Things'
Now it seems
the Physicists
are agreeing;

boggled minds
in the laboratory
are now
sounding like
Poets of the Electron Dream.

Either Physicists are now Poets
or Poets created Physicists.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The First Poets

The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.

The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.

The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.

The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.

Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.

Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.

The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A poets prayer

A poets prayer
~
To the poets lost
please look upon me
as a kindred spirit
guide my words
that I may write well
watch over me at night
help me dream your dreams
teach me about poetry
~
to the poetic spirit
reveal your love to me
show me the beauty of life
in all its many forms
that I may understand
the ways of this world
and that I may convey them
in a verse to others
~
to the poets lost
and the poetic spirit
I ask of you this favour
to guide me in life
in the poetry I write
I ask of you also
to watch over those I love

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Poets, Oh! Poets awake awake and face the world!

Life is bright and a pleasure to enjoy!
And above how nice to see the moon light!
Love is without blemishes and bliss in life!
Poets lie; lie more as much as you can!
Always write the positive traits
And suppress the negative, is it your habit
Or consciously do you do, to flinch the reality?
How do you get pleasure living in falsehood?
Life may be bright and but it has darkness inside
Which can't be overlooked, the moon has a spot
Love is a lust tick which sucks blood.
Poets play happy, happy game as much as you can!
But reality is truth, truth is the more reality
Make believe is a fairy tale lies only in the dream
When you awake it breaks in thousand pieces
Poets, oh! Poets awake, awake and face the world,
As it is! It is more beautiful and more truth in it.

poem by Abdul Wahab
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Poets Are Liars

Poets are liars. They cannot be tamed.
They live on borrowed dreams, and have the gift
Of casting out a graceful, witty line,
And catching your heart or mind in their snare;
Reeling you in, helpless, with a deft couplet.

Poets are liars. Never believe them.
Don’t even listen to them if you can help.
They have spells in their tongues, and fire in their eyes.
They will give you suns and stars wrapped in words,
And you will follow them, rapt like a child.

Poets are liars. It’s how they survive.
They give you their lies in exchange for your truths,
And fashion a life of their own from the scraps.
They must have an audience; without it,
They fade and pale, and soon cease to exist.

Poets are liars, even in the womb;
They kick at their mothers, curious, restless,
And dream of wonders to fill the world outside:
Soft, formless lies, growing with each cell,
Chronicled in wordless sagas nine months long.

Poets are liars; and of all liars,
They are the most dangerous. They will tell you
Of love that lasts forever, of lives that changed,
Of happy endings and greater meanings.
They make you wish, and hope, and dream, and feel.

poem by Amy Sutton
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Relying on Restrictions

When a slowing of a flow begins to show,
From those known to be poets.
A sign of changing times has come.
Poets are often the sensitive ones.
With ideals flourishing to encourage forethought.
And not be bogged down,
In overwrought sensations.
Fed to a nation grieving the loss of greed.

When a slowing of a flow begins to show,
From those known to be poets.
There is a consciousness overwhelmed.
And too proccupied with limits!
There are restrictions being nourished.
And too many with unhappy lives lived.

When a slowing of a flow begins to show,
From those known to be poets.
A sign of changing times has come.
Poets are often the sensitive ones.
With ideals flourishing to encourage forethought.
And not be bogged down,
In overwrought sensations.
Fed to a nation grieving the loss of greed.
And a selfishness succeeds...
To hush and crush all patience.

When a slowing of a flow begins to show,
From those known to be poets.
The enlightenment of a society diminishes.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Harmony in Life

Nature churns out poems from the heart of poets;
Poets inspire many hearts to live life of freedom;
Free will inspires many to live life of love here;
But is love easy to show or share or air we breathe?

Commercialised world buys anything with money;
Money and strength physical and material rule all;
Dictate the world by military and democratic rule;
So, where is the place for freedom and love for all?

Civilised society is the hypocrisy of modern world;
Education for freedom covering all is what needed
For all humans to live in harmony with Nature
To enjoy real freedom and love poets dream often!

Human spirit with scientific mind people should live
With education that links literature and science then.

poem by Ramesh T A
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In The City Of Poets,12/26/09

in the city
of poets
all men
are equals
and stride about
congratulating
one another
on their genius.

in the city
of poets
the statistics
of attentive readers
exceed
all expectations
and the bookstores
burst
like fat silos
with their harvest
of rhyme.

in the city
of poets
passports
to immortality
are issued
with abandon,
frontiers
evaporate,
and customs gates
are thrown open
by exuberant
and trusting
guards.

The city of poets
is a classless
society
where no one
dares admit
the existence
of aristocrats
or kings
and everyone
shamelessly
lays claim
to successful
expression.

In the city of poets
bad verse
drives out good
or rather
drowns it
in a sea
of mediocrity,
a conspiracy
of equality,
a brotherhood
of banality,
and every man
is his own
best
bard.

poem by Percy Dovetonsils
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The Poet Tree

Rustle, little leaves above, rustle in the breeze...
Rustle, little leaves of love, rustle mid God's peace!
Rustle, every night and day, rustle every hour...
Rustle, rustle, come what may, rustle mid God's power!
Rustle, for then wise words are formed,
Great expectations made!
Through such as these, men's hearts are warmed
And children's prayers are prayed!
Rustle upon the Poet Tree,
Above the poets' ears,
So they may learn each melody,
These God-picked volunteers...
Rustle sweetly, and gently on,
Persist from age to age -
Let all God's poets write upon
Their separate nearby page...
Rustle until all humans die
And no more poets live!
Until no soul would question, 'Why? '
And there's no cause to give!
Rustle until God tells you stop,
'Dear friends, at last, be free...
'Tis time for you to fall, to drop...
Beneath the Poet Tree...
I've loved each poem, every one...
And Jesus loved them, too!
You've blessed the world! Your task is done!
Your rustle days are through...'

poem by Denis Martindale
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For All The Poets

FOR ALL THE POETS

This is a poem for all the poets who have no name,
For all those who have written and failed,
And for those who have not written,
And failed.

This is a poem for all the poets who dreamed themselves poets,
And were never, and will be known as poets
To the world.

This a poem for all those
Who after years of effort
Still live in an oblivion
They will die in.

This is a poem for all those
Who whether they have poetry in them or not,
Will never be heard or read,
For what their hearts must tell
Someone else.

This is a poem for all the silent poets
Those who live in silence
And whose silence is eternal
For all those whose only poetry
is the poem they have lived within themselves.

This is a poem for all those who would- be poets
And a poem for those
Who despite their efforts
Did not make their poem known.

This is a poem which may be for you,
And I know is for me
A confession
To make us less alone.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem about Poetry - I dream to write like black woman poets

i dream to write
like black women poets
free from verbose bondage
strutting away verses
with enviable clarity,
simplicity, agile as
an ambitious lass on
hip hop dance floor

i also know why
the caged bird sings
it's because it wishes
to fly to the affectionate black woman poet
to learn from her how freedom songs should be sung

i dream to write
like black woman poets
verses so eloquently tempoed, neatly executed
they float through my soul the lightness of
butterflies flitting from rose to rose, bloom to bloom
smoke over indian summer ocean

i dream to write
like black woman poets
with no pretensions about the past
calling a spade a spade
yet infectiously bold about the future
taking the world by storm - in storms
- black women poets who could take me through
the thick and thin of their salvation song
with a tenacity court cases are won
gospel songs are sang

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Similes

Similes are employed to show one’s skills
And to treat the readers as ignorant
In knowing without the aid of similes.
Must we write her hair is as black as coal?
24.08.2010

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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