Sonnet XLII: Some Men There Be
Some men there be which like my method well
And much commend the strangeness of my vein;
Some say I have a passing pleasing strain;
Some say that im my humor I excel;
Some, who not kindly relish my conceit,
They say, as poets do, I use to feign,
And in bare words paint out my passion's pain.
Thus sundry men their sundry words repeat;
I pass not, I, how men affected be,
Nor who commends or discommends my verse;
It pleaseth me, if I my woes rehearse,
And in my lines if she my love may see.
Only my comfort still consists in this,
Writing her praise I cannot write amiss.
poem by Michael Drayton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Naughty Words!
Often words are but tiny turds of humor and of wit,
Flotsam in a poets mind…“Oh my, what junk, what shit! ”
Alas, it’s true at times words can form a perfect line,
“How wonderful, how clever” the words are so sublime
When all is said 'n done, its truth that’s clear 'n real,
By writing what we see 'n hear...especially what we feel
Write on poets!
There be no rules that we must heed or follow
Drink in the gifts of words sweet chums...
But don’t forget to swallow!
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poem 2 From Pierce Penilesse
Perusing yesternight with idle eyes,
The Fairy Singers stately tuned verse:
And viewing after Chap-mens wonted guise,
What strange contents the title did rehearse.
I streight leapt ouer to the latter end,
Where like the queint Comædians of our time,
That when their Play is doone do fal to ryme,
I found short lines, to sundry Nobles pend.
Whom he as speciall Mirrours singled fourth,
To be the Patrons of his Poetry;
I read them all, and reuerenc't their worth,
Yet wondred he left out thy memory.
But therefore gest I he supprest thy name,
Because few words might not co[m]prise thy fame.
poem by Thomas Nashe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To My Love
“PAINT me,” you said, “a poem; give to me
A breathing thought that I may keep to kiss!”
While that low laugh that aye a mandate is
Nestled upon your lips. Call memory
To that fair moment when you heard my plea,
And in the tumult of my arms' warm bliss,
Like a frail floweret that is crushed amiss.
You thrilled to frenzied life exultantly,
And all your body pulsed with love's desire!
Can I in words that perfect hour rehearse,
Or write the vehemence of veins on fire?
My lips would only kiss—and you require
From my heart's royal hoard one pallid verse—
The grey, cold ashes left on passion's pyre!
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Poet Time Travelers
I thought of it all day and well into the night
That for you a poem I would write.
What words can you use to describe a person
You’ve never seen.
Then a realization came into my mind
I’ve been writing them for a very long time.
Every time we write about GOD and his begotten son
The words flow freely and never left undone.
So it matters not if it is sight unseen
We write about everything- it’s a poets dream.
Poets go into worlds never traveled before
Seeking all that GOD has made
And come back with knowledge that they’ve gained.
Into the realms of mystery, love, excitement and fear
So that with you these words they could share.
They see the realities of today
The dreams of yesterdays
The future of tomorrows
And the pains and sorrows.
They are the time travelers of the mind
Their eyes are open - they are not blind.
So when you read what they write
It’s because of this time travelers insight.
So to my time traveling co-poets, this I must say
I am proud to have traveled this road with you
Into the minds of man, and writing
The stories that they all understand.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Thoughts Whirling
The need to write
Get rid of these mixes mass of thought
What to write?
Yes, something is amiss!
Talking is not enough
Yet thoughts whirling in my head
Unaware of revelling in the words
Which flow from this pen
Still no words
Not sure what to write
Yet here it is
A whole massed mess of words
For all to read
Thought this medley of words
Brought some calmness
Shoulders more relaxed
Fragments of each thought
Clear as daylight
This muddled mass of thoughts
A verse created
By, a whirling mind
poem by Persian Khushi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Thoughts Whirling
The need to write
Get rid of these mixes mass of thought
What to write?
Yes, something is amiss!
Talking is not enough
Yet thoughts whirling in my head
Unaware of revelling in the words
Which flow from this pen?
Still no words
Not sure what to write
Yet here it is
A whole massed mess of words
For all to read
Thought this medley of words
Brought some calmness
Shoulders more relaxed
Fragments of each thought
Clear as daylight
This muddled mass of thoughts
A verse created
By, a whirling mind
poem by Persian Khushi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
And So I'm Writing...
I'm hard-pressed for time,
yet I do have the heart
And so I'm writing
Know not what to pen down,
have a paper to write on
And so I'm writing
May be I'll write about 'you and me'
Or may be of 'us and them'
Feel like playing with words
And so I'm writing
May be that starving beggar's hungry looks
Or that homeless Child's beckoning eyes
Are making me scribble these lines to you
And so I'm writing
May be you'll find my words vague
Or you might decipher a meaning
Intend to leave you in the oblivion
And so I'm writing
Whatever might be the impression I create
Wish to see its reflection on your soul
And leave an imprint on your mind
And so I'm writing
May be you and I've become immune
To the pathos of mankind
Or may be there's still
A dropp of humanity flowing deep within us
Wish to arouse 'The Human Being' in you
And so I'm writing...
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Was Lonely Outside The World Of The Anthologized Poets
I WAS LONELY OUTSIDE THE WORLD OF THE ANTHOLOGIZED POETS
I was lonely outside the world of the anthologized poets-
I was lonely in not being good enough -
I was lonely in not being known -
I was lonely in having given a lifetime to never having been heard-
I was lonely in not being among the voices that will endure-
They were there on those heights
And all around them words of praise were being sung-
And I was lonely alone with my own little voice
Crying and crying and crying
Trying to write and afraid-
A lifetime had been given
And they were there on the glad height
And down in the low alone of my own lost words
Writing and writing forever my own lonely life away
I was as much alone as someone who would have been born in poetry and never was.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet On The Sonnets On The Sonnet
Some sonnets upon sonnets poets write
Offering examples of their skill,
Need neither censure nor false praise to fill
New chapter, verse, in ego's copyright.
Encapsulation through a structure tight
Turns a neat phrase avoiding overkill,
Or temperature tests, unbiased will
Nature, Man, describes in terms polite.
Sense and/or sensitivity, insight
Ordered, bordered, mission may fulfill,
New bark on old folds sundry thoughts that spill,
Netting beauty, spelling out delight.
Emotions through control find freedom which
Triumph over prose prosaic [p]itch.
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A literary affair
A literary affair
~
We dance in metaphors
A familiar verse
Seducing through lines
We wrap up high imagery
Pleasing the eye of the mind
We flaunt and tease
Play wicked games with words
We do as we please
Upon the pages of books
Where we throw ourselves
Into a casual comfort
We lie, play pretence
Say words were afraid to
All in a secret place
Found at the end of a pen
There written between each line
We are revealed, lovers
Fully entwined together
In a rich dance of verse
We are guilty of a literary affair
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Being A Poet
I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.
Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.
At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.
If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.
There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.
I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.
Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.
In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.
With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.
Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Dead Poets
I envy the dead poets
Those idols I aspire to
Someday become compared
How beautiful their words
Still speak in the years after
They are revered and admired
Held aloft in such acclaim
And all they know is peace
The silent rest of the grave
Where flowers are laid
They spoke of such love
And passion I felt in me
It was as though they saw me
And decided to paint my dreams
With flowing verse I slept
How maidens so fair danced
And birdsong soared upon high
Ode to the beauty
That they gave to me
They are remembered for love
Romanticism bore their pen
And while they sleep
The words are speaking aloud
Into the world and every soul
How I envy the dead poets
How I wish for me their role
To rest and my poetry read
Be known for beautiful love
And hurt no more
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Giving Up (The Last Script)
Long ago I wrote a script
About how I hate to write,
It is called A Cursed Gift
You will find it on this site.
About how I hate finding the words
That hurt me deep within my heart,
How I want this skill to end right now
Leave my hand, let us part.
How I hate to write about love
And how the pain follows near,
How I never want to find the words
The painful words I deathly fear.
I really don't want to love again
So I can avoid the following break,
I said I was tired of finding words
'In which I write as I shake.'
Love is cruel with hurtful pains
But writing it is the worst,
I'm giving up on all of it
Love, pain, and gift so cursed.
poem by Adam McKim
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Just Passing Time
She was grasping for a way to tell us all
The hurt she felt inside
Were all too happy she says
Lets have a war
And the night digs deeper in
Theyre just some words to pass the time
Some words to pass the time
Now when the silence gets to be too much
I can feel the soul searching
Where do I go when Ive lost my cause
We are the stories
Even the good ones let me down
There all just words to pass the time
I used to be so sincere
And maybe I still am
And all this small talk Ive been reeling off
Is slowly getting out of hand
I mix real feelings
With the ones I wish I had
And I catch the most important ones
In between them all
Sometimes it seems like theyre all just words
To pass the time
And then weve lost our time
And weve wasted out words
And all the strain is gone
Sometimes its too unreal to believe
Just dont give it all away
Get a grip
Causes sometimes there are just words to pass the time
I said Im too high Im too high
And Im scared of falling down
Ive just been grasping for words
To make you want to stay
To make it worthwhile
I dont want spend the rest of my life
Just passing time
I dont want to spend the rest of my life here
Just passing time
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Never Found the Words
When you two asked me to write a poem for you wedding I felt so honored. But now on this your wedding I must apologize for not writing your poem, I never found the words.
I never found the words
that could describe the love you see for one another
when you gaze into each others eyes.
I never found the words
that would truly embraces the warmth you feel
when you’re holding one another in your arms.
I never found the words
that would magnify the passion
of your kisses.
So once again I do apologize.
But you two must understand
when it comes to your love for one another
there is no words, and that is why I
never found the words.
Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Words
I write there, and then you write they’re
I write who, and then you write whom
I misspell my words, too me you then curse
Then you call me a stupid loon.
You call me names, from which I refrain
Then I am off to a different room.
I forget punctuation's, It gives you frustrations
I don't use a contraction, you give me verbal action
Then I misspell a word, you call me absurd
I give you my silence it’s my only reaction.
You call me a name, my innocence I proclaim
My humility is seems, is your only satisfaction.
I sit at my typewriter, I still am a fighter
As I close my eyes, words still materialize
Words are my friends, rhyming is my sin
Maybe someday that, you will realize.
I finish another poem, to the world I show them
I write another verse, it becomes my universe.
You are my inspiration, my poems your creation
You correct what I write, it gives you such delight
You enjoy to respell, at words which you excel
You tell me they are wrong, I know you are right.
But you still are my friend, I hope it will never end
I am the poet, your a wordsmith and you show it.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!