Many brave men lived before Agamemnon; but all are overwhelmed in eternal night, unwept, unknown, because they lack a sacred poet.
Related quotes
Our World = 2012
Glorious is this world of ours
And the way we feel within
Where sometimes love plants its seed
In the hearts of women and men.
Marvelous is our beautiful world
And all the heavens above.
If we would just do our duty
Our world would be full of love.
Our world resembles a ruthless game
Where all are eager players.
There's smiles of joy, tears, data and woe
With hate, lust, love, worry and prayers.
Our world is cruel to those who feel
And a joke to those who think.
Like the wind blown pages of a book
Our deeds fly by in a blink.
BRAVERY
Many brave souls lived before now
Unwept and unknown by their face.
Lost somewhere in the distant night
Till a data chronicles their grace.
True bravery is shown by performing
Without witness what one might be
Capable of before the world and web
Without any or all to consume, believe and see.
How great the brave who rest in peace
All blessings from heaven to Earth.
They gave our country but their best
Those destined to be brave from birth.
Tom's 481 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
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Sacred And Eternal
I am fortunate to be a poet with words periodical
I am fortunate to write poems sacred and eternal.
I am fortunate to see the world in new look
I am fortunate to be in poetic imagination
With evergreen colors sacred and eternal.
I am fortunate to be a part and parcel of the world
That is yours and only yours
And you are for all sacred and eternal.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet Overwhelmed
THE POET OVERWHELMED
The poet overwhelmed
By the momentary beauty of the world –
Stops -
And writes his little lines
In the Morning Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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True Poet
She asked me if I was a poet?
I said ‘I Am.’
She asked me if I was a true poet?
I said that I was.
She asked me ‘What is a true poet?
I said ‘Someone who lives for poetry.’
Someone who has no choice
but to write evermore eternal poetry.
Someone who turns happiness
into moments of exquisite poetic joy.
Someone who turns tragedy
into intensified heightened transcendent expression.
Someone who watches a leaf fall
from rustic red golden autumn tree;
and has no choice but to fall
gliding, into rhythm of perpetual cyclic life.’
She asked me if you could be a poet
and not write a single poem.
I paused for a moment of contemplation
then Poetry said,
‘Your whole life could be but
a single poem;
the entire course of a whole life lived,
could be but a single impassioned poem.’
She paused overwhelmed then said,
‘You are a true poet.’
I paused to consider throughout
depths of a moment of eternal silence;
then said, ‘It is hard to live suffering,
the consequences, the isolation, of being a poet.’
She said ‘Can you live alone? ’
I said ‘I have lived alone,
sometimes I enjoyed living alone;
but that I enjoyed the companionship of friends.’
She said ‘Only honest people
can live alone.
She said ‘You remind me of Voltaire.’
‘Have you ever read Voltaire? ’
I said ‘No’
She said that I should.
I never did for I was too busy
living a precarious life;
and resolving the tensions, jarring elements,
of the late twentieth century;
with tolerance, amusement, insight,
or subtle or elaborate facets of truth.
Yet the last decade of the twentieth century
turned into frustrated anguish;
as I felt evermore with mounting certainty
the shape of events to come.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
‘Voltaire is the pen name of Francois Marie Arouet (1694-1778) , the greatest of the writers and thinkers (philosophers) who lived in France in the 18th century, during the years leading up to the French evolution (1789-99) . He lived a long life and never stopped writing about the right of a person to be free and to think forhimself. He attacked the government for oppressing people’s lives. He also attacked the (French) Church which, he felt, did not allow freedom of faith. (Voltaire studied England's Constitutional Monarchy and its religious tolerance while in exile in England from 1726 to 1729.) He pointed out the weaknesses of the society in which he lived and helped to prepare the way for the upheaval of the French Revolution.’ Children’s Britannica P.224.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Poet Who No Longer Believes In Himself
THE POET WHO NO LONGER BELIEVES IN HIMSELF
The poet who no longer believes in himself
And writes on anyway-
The poet who is too weak to stop writing-
The poet who has died as a poet,
Before he has as a person-
The poet who may never have lived as a poet-
The old old old schnook,
Still trying to write a poem
And believing he has done it once again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Agamemnon
The telephone, the telephone
I have an idea
Women always have ideas
Hello...
Here is agamemnon
Here is agamemnon
Who? wrong connection
This is...
I am a moralist
An anti-militarist
I am against duels
I cannot stand seeing
A fly in rage
I cannot look at
A uniform or blood
That woman has seduced me
And now I am done for
Darling, where shall i
Hide you in a hurry?
Here is agamemnon
Here is agamemnon
I am coming
Directly from the trenches
And look forward
To a solemn luncheon
Oh, my nerves
Im losing my find
This damned telephone
Spoils my favorite position
And no I can start
Writing poetry again
Gordon gano: vocal, guitar
Brian ritchie: bass guitar, organ, vocal
Guy hoffman: drums, percussion, vocal
Recorded and mixed by david vartanian at dvs perversion room, milwuakee, wi
gorno music reprinted with permission
song performed by by Violent Femmes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sappho
I sigh at day-dawn, and I sigh
When the dull day is passing by.
I sigh at evening, and again
I sigh when night brings sleep to men.
Oh! it were far better to die
Than thus forever mourn and sigh,
And in death's dreamless sleep to be
Unconscious that none weep for me;
Eased from my weight of heaviness,
Forgetful of forgetfulness,
Resting from care and pain and sorrow
Thro' the long night that knows no morrow;
Living unloved, to die unknown,
Unwept, untended, and alone.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Should Be
A poet should be romantic as spring
chocolate and cherry
mellifluous honey
drinking day-lit blossoming
Yet a poet should be
suspicious jaded wary
deepest indigo sour wine poison
ice blister winter night scathing
A poet should be loving
beyond bewildering
passionate so jealously
A poet should be spiteful
boisterous unbecoming
belligerent as unseemly
A poet should ever enjoin
engage the reader
emphatic empathic
paving pathos
ever so eternal
most intimate
enduringly
copyright Randy Resh 2008
Futureale Magazine June 2009
poem by Randy Resh
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Are You A Poet Too?
I AM A POET
I am a Poet
Are you a Poet too?
There’s a million of us-you know,
For every one read -
Two trillion unknown.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I have lived
I have lived through being
Neruda's mermaid, feeling
Every cigarette burn.
I have lived through being
The African Princess,
Where the Prince turned
Back into a Lion.
I have lived through being
A ballerina, dancing gracefully
Upon the stage.
I have lived through trying
To be a poet, but frosted
Out not knowing rules.
I have travelled places
So beautiful, I still go
Back for more, no fool.
But best of all, I can say
I have lived,
Because of you.
poem by Harriet James
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Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Be An Anthology Poet
To be an anthology poet whose work
Children hate to read in school
And re-discover in later life as meaningful and beautiful-
To be an anthology poet
And have generations know one’s poems
As part of the eternal canon-
To be an anthology poet
One of the few names
That has survived
When thousands of one’s contemporaries’ have not-
To be an anthology poet
To have written a few of the great and the memorable poems-
To be an anthology poet
To be what I am not
And most likely never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Who says I'm a poet
Yes I write lines
And rhyme rhymes
I write puns
Simile alliteration
And all figures of speech
But who says I’m a poet
In some cases I write and scratch
Sometimes I think crack
Voice out loud dah
Making speeches like damn
Combining words
Building sentences
But who says I’m a poet
I maybe great and brave
Embracing grave
Like person reading a Braille
Showing how strong I dare
But still at night I stare
Thinking who says I’m a poet
I may speak with sticks
Throwing ink turned into voices
Beat with lips
To defend my choices
That might be pointless, thoughtless
Maybe fair-less
Because no one says I’m a poet
They say;
Self recommendation has no justification
Practice makes perfect
But I say;
If you can’t recommend yourself who will
Why practise if no one is perfect
Because I’M A POET I say
poem by Zama Ashley Helebe
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The Poem Is The Metaphor/ For All The Poet Is Not
The poem is the metaphor
For all the poet is not-
It lives in its own way
Beyond the fine line
Of the poet’s sacred intention.
It knows a holiness of its own,
And perhaps no holiness at all.
It is what it is
As all things are what they are-
And if it means more than first appears,
And if it says endlessly new sounds,
The poet never knew he uttered,
Still somehow deeply it connects
To where he is and what he was and what he will be,
When he is not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Right Mask
One night a poem came up to a poet
From now on, it said, you must wear a mask.
What kind of mask? asked the poet.
A rose mask, said the poem.
I've used it already, said the poet,
I've exhausted it.
Then wear the mask that's made out of
a nightingale's song, use that mask.
Oh, it's an old mask, said the poet,
it's all used up.
Nonsense, said the poem, it's the perfect mask,
still, try on the god mask,
now that mask illuminates heaven.
It's a tight mask, said the poet,
and the stars crawl about in it like ants.
Then try on the troubador's mask, or the singer's mask,
try on all the popular masks.
I have, said the poet, but they fit so easily.
The poem was getting impatient,
it stamped its feet like a child,
it screamed. Then try on your own face,
try the one mask that terrifies,
the mask only you could possibly use,
the mask only you could wear out.
The poet tore at his face til it bled,
this mask? he yelled, this mask?
Yes, said the poem, yes.
But the poet was tired of masks,
he had lived too long with them,
he snatched at the poem and stuck it in his face.
Its screams were muffled, it wept, it tried to be lyrical,
it wriggled into his eyes and mouth.
Next day his friends were afraid of him,
he looked so distorted.
Now it's the right mask, said the poem, the right mask.
It clung to him lovingly and never let go again.
poem by Brian Patten
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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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0397 That, it is
unknown; formless;
eternal; always present
who may think of it?
who may speak of it?
who may not think of it?
who may not speak of it?
where is it?
where is it not?
when is it?
when is it not?
what is it?
what is it not?
who is it?
who is it not?
when other is one
and there is here
and that is this
and then is now
and poets are silent
and silence holds their poetry
and mind and heart
are in love with rest
there in the stillness,
unknown, formless,
eternal,
always present,
here and now
poem by Michael Shepherd
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