Poet-Me
I sat me down
my Poet Me
for discipline's tight regime,
hollowing out clear intent
for syntax, line breaks and such.
Meter, Rhyme and Rhythm too
joined the group.
We discussed Constructs
and Literati.
'Now, I am in charge here' Poet said.
'everyone of you has a role.
At my pen
you'll line up
while I align your countenances.
Every poem like an orchestra,
needs a conductor,
the welder of Word and Form,
the rest of you are instruments
to play my minor chords'
'Well' said Rhythm, 'nothing fits
without me.
I am the heart-beat,
the sail upon the sea;
I am the up and down
nothing moves without me.'
'No' said Rhyme, 'I am the
music line, the melody sublime.
My efforts elicit;
guide the listener ship.
I am the note's completion.
With my friend Meter
we are the helm of this ship'
The Reader said 'No I am the ultimate.
I'm the Consumer of the Trade.
Who prevails in all of this
is only for me to say.'
'All of you are undisciplined,
are nothing, ' said Cacophony
'I'm the proof of that.'
'Where would you all be
without me? ' Emotion, said
who could barely constrain himself,
'no emotion no feeling, no poetry.
That's my motto.'
'No me, no me, ' rang out
and everyone talked all the same
Me, Poet Me and I,
had lost control
of them.
Til' at the door the familiar knock;
the owner of the house returning.
Figure quite imposing,
came in
sat down
thumping on the table.
'Everyone quiet down and listen up
here is what we are doing.'
In minutes all the quarrelsome brethren
lined up picture perfect.
Each took his place
sang his best
in the final orchestral poem.
Each time it goes this way.
I tend to forget.
Poet Me, I and all the rest
exist only in Imagination's mind
flowing.
in this the best
of all possible
poetically inspired
word, meter, rhythm and
syntax-governed
poetic worlds.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Related quotes
A Poem Does Not Have to Rhyme
There are those who think in order for a poem to have rhythm it must rhyme, but a poem does not have to rhyme to have rhythm.
The rhythm comes for the poet’s soul not the rhyming of words.
The rhythm is in emotions that the poet’s poem evokes.
From a soulful cry to feeling of love and from the passion of hate to the awakening of understanding this is the beat, the rhythm of a poem. Now don’t get me wrong if a poem rhyme and has soul it is cool too, but I just wanted everyone to know that a poem does not have to rhyme.
The Poet Fails
THE POET FAILS
The poet fails.
And cannot write.
Empty inside
His voice lost
No rhythm no tone
He tries to hear his way back.
Line by line
Simple words
Tries to hear his own feeling
The mind moves
But his heart does not.
The poet writes his own process of failure
Is this a poem?
Or is it merely the broken prose meditation
Of an old man who has lost his voice?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The poem that got away
I started a poem with a serious intent…
but who would ever guess the mess, and where that poem went?
I’d barely writ a line so fine, when the poem turned to me,
looked me in the eye and ear, and laughed demonic-lee,
pranced around me, singing, boo! you can’t catch me!
ain’t no rules nor grammar for the boldheart and the free!
race you round the chocabloc, poetic chairbound fatty!
you’re just like every pompous poet, thinking always that he
can control a poem with a life that’s its own!
tries to rhyme each couplet up, as if lines were circus clones…
tries to measure poems by some rules about their feet, or
wants to match my singing lines to some archaic meter…
’cause I’m a poem!
I’ve got my own life!
I want to dance around the streets,
I want to join a band!
I’ve got so much to tell you,
I want to lift your heart…
I want to make you weepy too,
If that’s the way I feel..
I want to talk to children,
or to live in fantasy;
I want to feel much bolder
than this sillybilly world,
quick and slick and fancy-free;
and sail past time and space;
or wonder what it could be like
before the world began…
I want to shuffle words around,
like books upon a shelf;
I want to be all bold and free –
I want to be – myself!
So boo to all your metered rhymes,
you faded, jaded poet…
poems are the masters now…
it’s much more fun,
it’s just begun…and
it’s time for you to know it! …
poem by Michael Shepherd
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They Say
to be a better poet
they say, i must take a cat for a pet
as though the cat
has rhyme and rhythm
just like a beautiful poem
i took the advice of course
and i agree
that with a cat for a pet
i have written about ten poems
with the necessary elements
of rhyme and rhythm
it was smooth and good
until you brought your munchkin in the house
& since then
the war poem started to be composed
there was chaos
& nothing pious.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: What A Good Poem Does?
A good poem exits the poet’s heart,
When inspired enough, flowing with ease,
In a way emotional, right from the start;
When feelings abate, it will tend to cease.
A good poem lifts up the reader’s heart
In the same manner, the poet had felt,
With attributes right that speak of his art;
The reader’s mind, a candle-like does melt.
A good poem’s a musical fine piece,
Rhythmical too, whenever it can be;
And like nectar to honey-making bees,
Giving, feeling of immortality.
Good poems come only once in a while,
When writes the poet, from his heart in style.
poem by John Celes
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The Poet And The Lonely Lady
one summer a poet writes about
true love
and happiness
and this lonely lady
chances upon the lines of this poet
and she has tasted the sweetness
of happiness that love can bring
she loves every word in the poem
feels the ecstasy of every line
and every night
she says she cannot sleep
thinking, feeling,
wanting to be lost and be held in
his arms
she decides to love
the poet
ultimately
she travels to the place stated in his address
hoping to see him
so she will finally know
his love that touches her
in the bottom
of her heart
only to find out
it is sad
that the address does not exist
and the poet does not live there
and does not even
exist
perhaps only in the imagination
of those who want to love
and be loved
she is so sad she jumps into
a conclusion that love is a
lie
that the poet is a
liar
since then, she stops reading the poems
of that poet
(or any other poet)
who never dies
because he for once never ever lived
in the first place
except the poem
perhaps
which to date still convinces lonely ladies to live and believe
to love and be loved
that which defines
what love is
where love is found
and find it somehow in the arms of one
who is real, like it is alive, like it is true
to the one beside her
who touches her
with his
warm hands
who melts
her in his eyes
because
even unwritten by any poet
this love is still so beautiful....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Out Running Time Poets
work published
altered significantly
to fit conventional
poetic rules of time
or published in purity
true feel of poet
an altered reality
verse meter beat?
unique for an era
short cryptic lines
slant rhythm rhyme
unconventional
capitalization
punctuation
themes of death
liberty immortality
two recurring topics
out running time poets
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Marshalline Sonnet
Encased, enlaced, embraced in newness
Enshrined, in time, these are the feelings
So hear a poem that’s filled with trueness
Forget the world and all its’ dealings
We want a feeling that is golden
So hear this form that was imparted
It differs from the forms of olden
And sings to those who are lighthearted
The ending of each line is mellow
The body of this poem's bolder
It puts a smile on every fellow
And girls will lend a softer shoulder
This is the form Mairi created
Just do what she has stipulated
------------
Author's Notes:
Marshalline Sonnet:
The Marshalline Sonnet form is created by: AP poet; Mairi bheag.
This is a wonderful form that allows us to use feminine words for end line rhymes.
9 syllables per line with the following meter:
iamb-iamb-iamb-amphibrach
poem by Amera Andersen
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Alankar(Decor) -94
Rhythm(Enclosed Tercet)
An Enclosed Tercet is a 3 line verse
in which L1 and L3 rhyme, 'enclosing' an unrhymed L2,
rhyme scheme axa bxb etc. The lines may be written in any meter.
Rhythm
What rhythms He plies in His dance-
All of good and healing cosmic
That we presume in our good trance
What rhythms does She cohere fully
In trance to yield in profuse
That we consume haunted thoroughly
Perhaps His malady is Her melody
Sorry, should never talk ill of Them
It is Theirs, Their shared secret psalmody
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Poem Is The Poet
THE POEM IS THE POET
The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-
The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-
The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-
It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-
When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poem Whose Meaning The Poet Does Not Know
A POEM WHOSE MEANING THE POET DOES NOT KNOW
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Is a question only its readers can answer.
But if in the silence of endless absence
There are no readers
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Becomes a poem which does not exist.
And a poem which does not exist
Is not the poem the poet dreamed
When he heard in the night or the early morning
That rush of music that sequence of sounds
Which seemed to say more than he would ever understand
As he wrote it down in haste
For fear it somehow would be lost.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Sing Poetry Sing
Through a heart to hearts is poetry a thing
Its meter, its rhyme, its beautiful scheme
Doth play to each, by our own voices sing
The poetic soul in poetry our art supreme.
Delicate, immense, a poem doth shape
The unknown soul, the unwritten mystery
Which in each sorrow, must so escape
Our morbid pain of human misery.
Sing poetry sing for our own sake
Construct thy rhythm for our own soul
And by poetry with poem insinuate love and make
The seed that grow and thine love that control
Our uncertain fate, our pain that dominate
For by thine heart and truth we can concentrate.
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Poet Became A Prisoner Of His Need For A Poem
THE POET BECAME A PRISONER OF HIS NEED FOR A POEM
The poet became a prisoner of his need for a poem
And so he lost his ability
To make and to know a true poem.
A poem became
A cliché of himself
And every line he wrote said
“You are a poor poet
Stop insulting us all
With your absence of silence.”
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry
A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY
A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.
The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poetry of Baseball
Grip the words firmly in your glove
Feel the stitching with your hand
Now suck in the pitched air
Focus on the space
Between the catcher and the plate
There is a shape of space
You must curve or slide or hurl
Emotion packed pitch of verb
Rhythm and control
Rock back and throw your leg
Feel the muscle of meaning
Unwind
As you trace a line through space
And connect with a place and time
Timing is everything.
Emotion, execution
You bridge the gap
You give the batter heat
With a singing snap
And feel the rightness of the pitch
The batter anticipates
You hear
Mountain ash smacking leather
The sweet spot meeting
And the afternoon has meaning
Hits runs innings outs
mark the passage of time
Walks bunts runs slides
Syntax for reaching home.
Diamonds of green, players and team
Nostalgia for the order of rhyme.
Baseball season, figurative reason
Picture of
Order and control
The legacy, the legends
The practiced ebb and flow
Epic age- old patterns
Every poet yearns to know.
poem by Suxanne Popp
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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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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Critique Of Poetry
A poem is a sorry thing,
Not fit for reading to a king:
It’s often full of silly rhymes
That waste a lot of people’s times.
But modern poets can’t rhyme at all,
Which really is abominable;
Their rhythm quickly gets all out of whack,
Because I guess it just seems like for rhythm and rhyme they don’t have the necessary knack.
Phrases created on demand
Which nobody can understand,
Like wool that's thrown across a fence
And stirred until it is quite dense.
Syntax gets twisted out of shape
Not unlike a grinning ape -
Examples which of, I think cannot,
So, yet to learn have I a lot.
Poems do not make much sense
When talking of abstract sentiments
Or waffle philosophical
On subjects what ain’t topical.
A poem can be so abstruse
It makes you feel you’re quite obtuse;
You scratch your head until it’s sore,
And still can’t follow any more.
So poets often write of love,
Usually rhymed with “heaven above”,
Neither of which they know about -
But mostly they are not found out.
And many a poet is a bore
With simile and metaphor
That fill up many an empty line
With silly thoughts like yours and mine.
A simile is like a ball
(Or maybe not - I can’t recall) ,
Or like a man who runs around
And never seems to touch the ground.
A metaphor’s a stranger’s child,
And so to you it might seem wild;
But just when you think, “This is rum! ”
It up and bites you in the part of the anatomy on which a homo sapiens normally sits.
Now, if you think you’ve got my drift,
Then you have a very special gift,
‘Cause I can’t understand myself -
So, best to leave me on the shelf!
poem by Rory Hudson
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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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