Clairvoyant landscapes moving yet frozen
Give me a paintbrush to define poetry
All movements of a riverbed reflected
Give me a pen inks flowing subjectively.
I'll show you a spotted salmon swam willingly
To climb out the furthest deepest, falls…
A poets like a woodlouse's gnawing
…Away at life, from inside-out…
What he builds places for the quivering air?
A bridge over the void of space…
Like a spider weaving her web to snare.
Poets tend to live in Blue-John mines
In some mystical crystal hermits cavern
Listening to the lapping of spring waters
They're like remote smokestacks lingering
On clairvoyant landscapes moving yet frozen.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Related quotes
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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There Are A Few Poets
THERE ARE A FEW POETS
There are a few poets
Beyond the poetry you and I know
And are capable of –
There are a few poets
Who seem to write a poetry
Which is Poetry itself,
A Poetry which is everything Poetry should be-
Those poets are somewhere else
On a level far beyond any we can hope to reach-
They are Poetry –
And we we are the little listeners and readers
Who can in awe and praise worship
What we ourselves will forever be incapable of.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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The Spider
Spider, Spider, weaving web-
Fine and silky, that can’t ebb;
What immortal Hand did give,
Engineering feet to live!
Swift legs moving on fine threads:
Insect prey finally dreads;
What finesse involves your act,
Smothering preys with great tact!
Gossamer-mesh baiting prey:
Caught in surprising, a way;
Wound by silken threads, so fast,
Die insects spun, quite aghast!
Thready sensors, zig-zag laid,
Helping hunter and to aid;
Moving majestically,
Howev’r strong the wind, may be.
What a cute beast? What a frame?
What made Adam give this name?
What gentleness? What great speed?
Catching prey with deadly greed!
Victor always in pinning
Lethally prey by spinning;
What superb brain, God-given,
Watching eyes, agile-driven!
Spider, Spider, weaving web-
Fine and silky, that can’t ebb;
What immortal Hand did give,
Engineering feet to live!
Written after William Blake’s, ‘The Tyger’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 4-6-2008
poem by John Celes
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writers and Poets
Here I sit
At a desk dimly lit.
Holding an unsharpened pencil
Over a piece of old, faded paper,
In my mind lingers a vague intention
Within the unformed idea
Of somehow writing something.
With no clear idea, theme or plan.
Only the restless desire to write.
It's raining. Again.
It seems to rain often.
Not the weather.
Life.
Interior drops fall,
Like flower pedals sacrificed.
Beautys death, the ransom price.
My desire lives in poetic rhythms,
Not in serious writers cadences.
I am not a writer.
- I hope to be a poet-
There is a difference? one may ask;
Oh yes, I believe so.
I'll attempt to express why.
In poetry words flow,
Like living waters.
In writing ideas are built within words.
The writer builds something,
Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water,
To cause it to go somewhere precisely.
Writers form canals to move readers
To certain places.
Poets open up the dark clouds over life
Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls;
Thirst quenching beauties that all
-in one way or another-
Are in great need of.
Writers, thankfully, take people
To places where they are able
To realize their own thirst.
Poets give them the drink.
The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings.
Writers and poets together
Make the dark a bit brighter,
The waters a bit more navagatible,
The way a bit clearer,
And the thirst of life
A bit more quenchable.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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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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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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Poets and Poetry
Poets love writing poetry Poetry releases there feelings there are all kinds of poetry, but poetry is in all life nothing can change that. Poets and Poetry is always around us this poetry is about poetry so you decide if you want poetry in your life.
poem by Jeeva Premachandran
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Our Poetry Critics
Our poetry critics ageing males on saturday evenings from six to nine
Meet at the literary room of the Lions Club to do what suits them fine
To talk of poetry and poets each to their point of view
Though they agree on one thing that good poets only few.
Well educated gents of course and they could not be rude
But contemporary rhyme poets only poetasters and them they exclude
From their talk of poets and poetry and in their literary knowledge they take pride
And who is or who is not a poet seems their right to decide.
They never talk about bush poets such verse they see as slipshod
And they see them as the children of the lesser poetry god
And for their years in Uni they have their degrees to show
And of poets and of poetry so much they think they know.
To them a poem is not a poem unless it reads like prose
And a ballad different from true verse as a weed is from a rose
And true poets only write for the privileged few that's what they do imply
And never for the ordinary, people like you and I.
Our poetry critics at the Lions they meet on saturday
And who is a good poet and what is a good poem each like to have their say
And if you wish to become a member of their club you must have your Uni Degrees
For if not to them you are not qualified for to talk about poetry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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We As Poets
We as poets must command a sacred accent over a language of our choice,
We as poets must gift the minds of a failing generation,
We as poets must demand a clear explanation and a fair occupation,
We as poets must dissolve into particles and dust if we have not known enough,
We as poets must destroy the living standards of low quality,
We are to be the poetry of utmost perception and suffering.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Versatilty
I think that I can claim to be
a poet who is versatile.
I try to write my poetry
in varied form and varied style.
I emulate and imitate
styles of great poets of the past.
To show that I appreciate
poets that time has over cast.
Although long dead their words live on.
A source of inspiration to
poets today.Though they’re long gone
and I give credit where its due.
Although some things I write are new
I cannot trace their origin.
I trust my muse as poets do.
She prods me until I begin.
She tells me there is no such thing
as writers block there cannot be.
A poor excuse for not writing
I’m not allowed to be lazy
That’s something she won’t tolerate
and drags me from my bed to write.
Though I protest the hour is late.
She is insistent that I write.
If she should choose to stay away
I’d seize the opportunity
to simple have a lazy day
Without my conscience pricking me.
11-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry That Belongs Only To Poets
POETRY THAT BELONGS ONLY TO POETS
Poetry that belongs only to other poets
Is not the highest poetry-
The highest poetry speaks to all
Who can hear and read it-
Let the specialists play their formal tricks for educated sophistry
The poets who speak to us
Are heard in the most simple heart.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Town Poets
They have the ticket draw for the football club
But never a poets hour at the local pub
'Twould seem that cricket and football are the in thing
And horse racing at the back end of the Spring
But of course the Town poets have their own poetry night
On saturday evenings at the bowling club rooms their poems they recite
The local lovers of poetry their night out enjoy
To watch local favourite poets such as Rina, Kate and Roy
Reciting their poetry and strutting their stuff
It cannot be said of them not quite good enough
Quite talented poets the tops of the Town
Young poets in their thirties who dream of renown
And recite their poems in the rooms of the bowling club
Whilst it's a different scene at the Town's biggest pub.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sonnet: Poetry’s Forever
Earth’s poetry can never die with ease,
As long as sun rises and sets each day;
For it affords music and mental peace,
And born are poets world-o’er in God’s way.
When Mother Nature inspires a heart,
Evoking feelings turned to words by art,
The readers feel the same right from the start;
The magic-beauty of poetry’s part.
And poetry is about many things,
And helps man live exemplary a life;
And immense joy and peace, it also brings,
And helps the human beings combat strife.
So, poetry will live on earth until,
Men climb the earthly-hill by Heaven’s Will!
poem by John Celes
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Permafrost
Permanent isolation,
a permafrost inside my soul.
Depths inside,
I cannot count on
to remind
Give to let go.
24 and ashtray windows,
surrounded by
mirrors of snow.
Lost in tracks,
ripples on pavement
weaving thoughts
the mind will not show.
Permanent isolation,
a permafrost inside my soul.
Depths inside I cannot count on
to remind,
give to let go.
Why do we
plan all our movements?
color schemes
and castles for show.
While sunken eyes
and sullen heart strings
are placed inside,
walls cannot grow
A permafrost,
she gives what I gave her
to remind,
give to let go.
poem by David DeSantis
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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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(V – 2010) The Poet’s Nature
Reflecting Nature’s various hues
Poets write colourfully.
Echoing Nature’s innate songs
Poets write musically.
Learning from Nature’s righteous laws
Poets write more sensibly.
Drawing from Nature’s spotless love
Poets write more humanely.
Living with Nature’s poetic life
Poets write living poetry.
On The Goddess Of Poesy
The Goddess of Poesy the Goddess of Song
To the Universal immortals she surely belong
The poets of the World her praises do sing
The gift of poetry to their souls she does bring.
The poets to write poems Goddess Poesy inspire
And of singing her praises they don't seem to tire
The poetry of sorrow the poetry of joy
The poetry of youth of the young girl and boy.
The poetry of youthfulness and of growing old
Of young women in their prime lovely to behold
The beauty of Nature the birds and the bees
The mammals and fishes of land and of seas.
The Goddess of poets of every gender race and creed
For their inspiration to write in her lives her they need
Of love, life and Nature she inspires poets to write
For the lovers of poetry to read and recite.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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