Written
Written
12: 03: am
I begin between these black lines-
white spaces blinking back-
my two hands outstretched
crafting nothing;
I cannot write;
crossed;
blocked, stoppages,
tea cup emptied,
usual tricks limp-
my muse bereft,
I am alone with
the fulsomeness of it.
12: 15: am
My Gods are all adrift.
My well's dig down
out of reach;
my mind's fount's dry-asleep.
Panic now
in this chronicling.
12: 20: am
Poetry's realm from me retreated
a cruel feeling;
that which came so easily before
is now silhouetted dimly.
I cry
a dry uncryable tear.
12: 53: am
I cup
a new cup of cold tea.
1: 03: am
Whatever this is
come to me
gradually curiosity
now feels greater than
my writer's grief.
I want to see
the outlines the specter is
to write nothing when nothing's there
no face
no driven ideas
no words span
no creativity transformed or fixed....
1: 33: am
Hushed
I lie down with it;
exhausted on my bed of paradox-
it's experience embraced.
I am swept to the surrender
of writing about the nothingness
at my pen, now shaking.
2: 53Lam
three drafts;
a small epiphany:
Ample is all experience
no blank lines will ever reach
or witness.
By this
my last lines written
after
2: 53: am
from listlessness and nothing
to expressions of same-
poetically-
minor miracle this.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Related quotes
A Paper Rose
Each time pen and line
brush the page
it is with you in mind;
all these years
you've been
reader to my writer-
you and I
giving life
to what starts as
mere blank pages-
and end as
our shared experience.
I can feel you;
hear you breathing
and lay
down each
night
renewed
for you have
read
between my lines
written and
I
received
your resonances
come back
to my ear-
these reciprocities
tracking
the journey
we each
together
have taken-
our lines entwining.
No greater bond
than the bond
of reader and that written;
no love more timeless
than that shared
in the missive
shaped
by two
interchanging
in this journey
through
life's space.
No gratitude greater
than mine.
Capture here then
to be clear
the
paper rose
this writing
is
because
its lines form
a rose
which will
last
down the years
forever read
forever written.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Interactive
I write some lines and you read each word
A word excites you and you take it up to
Seed your fields where you grow your own
Shrubbery of words with tendrils climbing
I look at your garden of words and there is
This word growing into a flower attracting
Me I pick it up this sensual flower and I
Seed it in the lines of my mind now another
Bunch of words like ripe grapes I take one
Swallow it and savor the taste of its sweetness
More lines of words in my throat sliding
Through the lining of my esophagus so smooth
Going straight inside the veins leading to my heart
Sweet, so sweet I could have written the usual
Lines of “ I love you, I miss you” but I couldn’t
There is this roadblock, this writer’s block
The lines stopped, the words are stunted
I stutter, I retreat to my eyes, to see
The face of this woman I love, her eyes
Are gentle, she smiles at me, and waits
For this beautiful silence that gives her life
You stand there, looking for a hint, another
Word to seed the lines waiting to be written.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem of the Ageing
A simple poem I wanted to write
The words were so clear in my mind
But my fingers were numb and sore
Lift a pencil they can't at all
Before a few lines write I could
With my signpen wrestle I should
I tried to read what I've written
And asked my self how did I fare
The words I saw were all in blur
And were in badly crooked lines
I have but lost my metering
And all my lines did hardly rhyme
My next poems shall not be written
And in my thought will just remain
Be unrecited as they may
Till in my mind they fade away
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When The Need To Write Poetry
When the need to write Poetry
Is greater than the Poetry one has-
When one forces onself to write lines
Though those lines are lesser poetry-
When against one's own inner emptiness
One nonetheless writes the words down-
When the need to write poetry
Is greater than the Poetry one has
There is lesser Poetry
Perhaps no Poetry at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If I Write A Few Lines
IF I WRITE A FEW LINES
If I write a few lines
My mind will open
My heart will take heart
I will begin to believe in myself again.
If I write a few lines
I will say that I still somewhere am alive,
Writing these lines
In such deep deep sadness and trouble,
I try
And word by word
Squeeze out a bit of Hope.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Greater Lines Of Others
THE GREATER LINES OF OTHERS
The greater lines of others
Shadow my own.
I hear them within myself
Making mockery of the lines
I now write down.
The great poets own poetry
And we with the little words
And the big dreams
Might be wiser
To let only our silence
Speak for us.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Ageing Poem
A simple poem I wanted to write
The words were so clear in my mind
But my fingers were numb and sore
Lift a pencil they can't at all
Before a few lines write I could
With my signpen wrestle I should
I tried to read my scribbles
And asked my self how did I fare
The words I saw were all in blur
And were in badly crooked lines
I have but lost my metering
And all my lines did hardly rhyme
My next poems shall not be written
And in my thought will just remain
Be unrecited as they may
Till in my mind they fade away
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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Artistic Consummations Unending
Man when it comes to romance
commitment to long term courtship
speak not of rocking artistic me;
and my constant consistent courtship
with my dated loose laying poetry.
In more than twenty
predominantly neglected years
I’ve never been through them all;
caught up with my neglected years
my dated draft diary entries.
I’ve got so many
loose lines lines lines
hanging heavy in my restless head;
I can never get them lines
all laid down right.
There’s too many
to save, for, a rainy day.
Multiple droplets; in their hundreds trillions;
adorn, all objects; visible on rainy days.
Hang from, transformed, rain dewed trees.
But even when the sun is still shining.
I’m still two timing, multiple poetic pieces.
I’m still too time starved; for catch up poetic binding.
I’m afraid I’m never, going to get written pieces,
through; to that last eternally unwritten line.
Hanging out waiting around for me
in expectation, of artistically, desired pick up.
When will such a courtship; finally end?
When the muse may, no longer, dances up,
her dazzling; or simplistic lines entwining me.
When I’m too tired to write my nights
my days, my artistic life, poetically away.
Then poetry will find; another poet to daze;
for days, for nights; to artistic life write away.
Then poetry will find, another poet, to courtship bard.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Written in July 1999 on the 17.7.99.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Poem about Poetry - Sub Conscious
the most beautiful experience
in writing poetry is when an
over enthusiastic subconscious
takes over the fingers to write
the lines you thought you would
never have written by yourself
and the best part is they help
make up for what the poem
would have lacked, that magic
fluidity of spontaneity and shine
so good that you feel there is
an angel lighting up the words
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Journey Of A Poet
A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.
Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions
A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind
With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry
Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words
A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.
A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection
A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Why Do I Write Poetry?
Why do I write Poetry?
The answer is not plain to see,
As a Legal Cashier I earn my Living,
For me and my family.
Why do I write Poetry?
Thoughts come to me in rhyme and verse,
They have to be worked on continually
To make those lines seem terse.
Why do I write Poetry?
One day HE’ll answer me,
Hopefully while I’m on this Earth,
Before I reach Eternity.
Why do I write Poetry?
Why must my lines scan and rhyme?
Not only on this occasion,
But forever, and all the time.
Why do I write Poetry?
Why put them on your website?
To leave my Thoughts and Visions of Life,
To you all and posterity.
© Jonathan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 9 April 2005
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Feeling Of Poetry Is Lost
THE FEELING OF POETRY IS LOST
The feeling of poetry is lost -
Lines are written,
But they are without poetic feeling.
Dutiful lines which do not inspire.
I try
Line by line
To restore my soul.
I do not feel I am doing this.
Can a poem be written without poetic feeling inside?
Is what I am doing now
A poem?
Or is it simply one more small delusion
Through which a life is gotten through?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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All The Poems Remain Written Where They Once Never Were
ALL THE POEMS REMAIN WRITTEN WHERE THEY ONCE NEVER WERE
All the poems remain written where they once never were
The grass and the skies of Whitman form lines in the mind of Baudelaire
The trees and dark cities of the distance form single sounds in the heart of the poet who cares
Night is more than darkness and day more than an early setting out
Each thing influences the other and calls back its own origins and end
We are going somewhere we will never know whether we write eternal lines or not
Over everywhere can be heard in the morning light the selfsame sound that through the heart of Ruth burned the alien corn
Keats is not dead, and Borges is not dead and Kafka is not dead and Wordsworth and all those who wrote great lines are not dead
Poetry is the last first eternity of the living word
And those who can hear the sounds of others greater than themselves in their own lines know
We are all writing down this last poem for ourselves and no one else
Though as we go to pray each morning the minyan tells us secretly
All our prayers together are more than any single poem can be alone
In the grey long distance where no one hears any poem at all
God writes and rewrites for us all the book of the stars in which dread is no longer a name
And beauty bright bright beauty is heard and reechoed as more than we will ever be
God is the only Poetry in the End
God is the Only One who never will be dead..
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When I Write These Lines
when i write these lines it is as good as
thrown paper, some words are written but
they are meant to be discarded because they have
occupied much of sadness
worn out memories
overused mumblings
they are meant to be crumpled
and thrown away
this one, this one is not meant to be kept
it is written
but meant simply to be deleted
some words are meant to be said
and be forgotten
because of pain and because they do not mean anything anymore.
goodbye lines, goodbye
take your time, there will be a little waiting
until another fool takes you in
another poet in the state of an inevitable
writer's block
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Once more unto the [B]Reach, Dear Friends
Once more extend your reach, fair friend, revise!
None who on laurels stand can raise praised bay,
Charm birds from trees however hard pen tries,
Enraptured, keep time's creeping lines at bay.
Moreover meaning may with each revision
Open more windows, clearer writer link
Reader who shows often indecision,
Ease seeks through white write black and blue true [th]ink.
Unto the breach once more, make mind outreach,
Nuances shading, fading froth away,
Turning potter's wheel words' clay to teach
Oncoming generations of their Way.
THE gem, once polished, one more chance deserves,
REACH out, revise, streamline rhyme's sinews, curves.
[c] Jonathan Robin acrostic sonnet ONCE MORE UNTO THE REACH written 8 June 2008 robi3_1390_robi3_0000 AWX_IXX
poem by Jonathan Robin
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