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On Not Writing a Poem

and sometimes I’m sitting, quiet,
wondering whether a poem somewhere
would like to speak through me
and it doesn’t

but the stillness as I wait -
that’s good.

Then just occasionally, when
I’m not visited by a poem,
I visit – without planning - Poetry.

It’s a place without a name
where many things meet:
there’s space, and hope,
and possibility, and, out of the present,
a future growing..
and something that’s not less, or
not less bright, than gold;

where all the poems that have been written
mix on friendly terms with those
that are yet to come;

with a sense of company, humanity,
very undemanding, and what Pooh Bear
would call, Everybody Listening…

and there’s no claim, no need
to write about I Was There
and Experienced This, and do you wish
you had too, and here’s my name
so modestly after a line space

and it’s very refreshing, even
reassuring in its way. Maybe
if we were back in, oh, Greek times?
I would wash, put on a white robe,
take a sweet cake, some oil, some wine, an olive branch,

walk slowly up to the temple,
tap the road dust off my sandals,
then between the cool pillars,
place the offering at the feet
of the golden goddess; silent
somewhere between thanks
and praise and the place called prayer;

and then I’d return home, peaceful
as if blessed. A more poetic image? Perhaps
it’s the same place: the mind
was there, the body’s here.

It’s good. You were there too.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Pooh Bear learns about Enjambment

Pooh liked Autumn. Autumn means walking with a scarf round your neck and sometimes seeing your breath in the air like a silent conversation, and wet leaves underfoot and twigs going crackle or sometimes crack! which can be scary if you aren't holding CR's hand.

So here they are, walking together paw-in-hand down the path in Hundred-Acre Wood, and Pooh is humming a happy hum with words looking for it, rather like inquisitive flies that don't quite land on you, wondering if they should stay or not, and how the other flies feel if two of them land together...

'CR..' said Pooh, 'What's en-jamb-ment? ' It sounded like what happens when a wasp gets stuck in a honey jar, or perhaps a marmalade jar.

'That's a long word, Pooh...' said CR, wondering how to explain to a Bear Of Little Brain Yet Poetically Gifted, in the easiest way, when you're not too sure yourself...

'Well...' said CR at last, 'you don't really need it, Pooh, because your Hums all finish each line with a rhyme - so everyone knows just where they are....but suppose you get to the end of a line, and the line looks around like Eeyore does after a big mouthful of juicy autumn grass, and it can't see another line that wants to pair with it in a friendly rhyme.... then if you let it just go on being by itself - like Eeyore - and it's happy to be that way, if occasionally grumbly about it - that's called 'free verse'.

'So then you can just go on and on without thinking about when to stop... but then if you write it down so that other people can read it without getting out of breath, what 'free verse poets' do is like turning over the page of a book and wondering what's coming - like, is there a scary illustration on the next page, or a Surprise, or only a few lines and THE END - what these poets do, is to treat the lines the same way as pages, so that at the end of each line, you wonder a little bit more than usual, what's coming in the next line... instead of yawning and wondering if it's time for A Little Something...'

'I see..' said Pooh, in the way you do when you're a Very Polite Bear but don't really see, not yet anyway...

Then he remembered that poem by Rupert Somebody that CR had told him was an Extended Metaphor, which had that memorable line which the Poetic Bear could have written himself: '...and is there hunny still for tea? ...' though of course Pooh was always careful, himself, to have a line of hunnypots up there where you could see that the future was golden and hunny-coloured...

'CR...' said Pooh in that happy feeling when the brain seems to sorting things out for you, '...so if you wrote carefully in a book, '... and is there hunny still for tea? ...' you could write it with the first line

...and is there...

and people would wonder what you were going to ask them... or

...and is there hunny...

and they'd wonder, what you were asking about hunny; or

... and is there hunny still...

and they might be suddenly worried that the hunny had run out; or just

...and is there hunny still for tea?

which tells them exactly what you're thinking without making them think too much? '

'Exactly! ' said CR (though it sounded more 'exackly' because he was happy and excited) ' You really are a Poetic Bear, Pooh! '

And he squeezed Pooh's paw in a Specially Friendly fashion, and a hunny-coloured glow filled Pooh, as one more Useful Thing about Poetry was put into place...

And as they returned home for a Little Something, Pooh was humming a hum with words flying curiously around it, which would be his first Free Verse Hum With Enjambment which grown-up poets would read with that little extra interest, as they came to the end of each line, and know that it was written by W.Edward Bear Esquire, Poet...

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem

THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-

I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-

A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Is Restless In Me

THE POEM IS RESTLESS IN ME

The poem is restless in me-
It waits to be heard-
Now that it comes
It does not feel especially happy about itself.
It knows it is not real-
It is not much-
Just because it is called a poem by me
Does not make it a poem -
The mind has its own place-
My mind also -
I am always thinking poems are with me,
And poems waiting to come-
But who am I and what do I know?
These lines are written in the still of the morning
When the light outside still brings hope
That a new day is possible.
But so many poems have been written in the early morning
And I am so old from hearing them said to me by myself-
And what does it all mean anyway in the end when God is the Only One?
And who am I to know what God is, or invoke the name of God
In such a small thing as my own poetry?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Danger - Keep Away

We too feel alone
That place in my mind
Is that space that you call mine
That place in my mind
Is that space that you call mine
Where have I been all this time
Lost enslaved fatal decline
I've been waiting for this to unfold (Good)
The pieces are only as good as the whole
Severed myself from my own life
Cut off the only thing that was right
What if I never saw you again
I'd die right next to you in the end
That place in my mind
Is that space that you call mine
That place in my mind
Is that space that you call mine
I won't let you walk away
Without hearing what I have to say
Without hearing what I have to say
Without hearing what I have to say

song performed by by Slipknot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the empty studio

The diffused northern sunlight
of this studio at dawn
matches the silence and the stillness

like the speaking silence
of the retrochoir behind the altar
of a simple white Greek island church –

that has no ornament; simply walls
painted in a pale blue wash,
the space, the air itself, as radiant with heaven;

behind the iconostasis – gold and candle and eternal gaze -
where praise is prepared; thought surrendered;
humility the robe; the sacred word awaits
the moment when it’s spoken;

so this studio; and at its centre, calling,
stands an easel with a white canvas on it;
what waits in this empty studio
that’s so full of emptiness that calls?

what challenges? This canvas
waits, as being ever does; full, content,
needing nothing but itself…

the silence will accept our spoken word,
then return to stillness;
the canvas will not be so forgiving;

‘make a mark on me that will not diminish
my completeness…; so let our being
meet, before a mark is made…’

this holy place: only godself may mark
this canvas and yet not detract; from space,
draw space; or may with colour stain transparent
this white white radiance of eternity:

and in the place whence all arises,
Nothing and Everything smile together
in their secret play.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry

Only place where I feel at home is poetry
Everywhere else I am always lost
Nothing seems proper, when verses of English poems are not present
All that I feel like doing is write and write
Sometimes, I do admit that I do get lost
However, I really belong only with poetry
Still, I always feel that nobody ever does understand my feelings
A blank space is always present within my heart
As sometimes I start to feel that things which I express are not good enough
I do not really know why?
This is just how I feel sometimes
Since, often the mode of being depressed comes to my life
Then, I become a depressed poet who has only past memories
Nothing else I have as remaining to love or care
However, still I keep on penning things, only to still remain alive
Otherwise, I would be dead without words
Only place where I belong is poetry and here I feel being at home.

poem by Rohit Sapra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Metaphors, Similes and stuff - Pooh Bear Explains

Christopher Robin and Pooh walked slowly down the path in the woods, treading on the occasional crackly twig.

'CR...' said Pooh, 'What's a Poeh Tree? Is it the same as a Poem, or a hum? '

'Well, Pooh, the very very best Poeh Tree in the world is your own:

'Isn't it funny
how bears like hunny?

It's what I call rum-ti-tum-itry. Everyone likes rum-ti-tum-itry. Even grown-ups. Rum-ti-tum-itry is friendly. Rum-ti-tum-itry is like two friends walking together. Like you and me, Pooh. Which makes you the very best rum-ti-tum-iter in the world...'

'That's tum as in...? ' asked the Very Stout Bear, cautiously.

'As in a Hum' said Christopher Robin. 'But then there's other things in Poetry such as Truth, and Other People Reading It And Nodding. And Similes. And Metaphors. There's a lot in Poetry.'

'What's a Simile, CR? ' asked Pooh. It sounded like what bees said just before they landed on something, like a hunny jar, or Pooh's nose.

'It's when you say something is like something else, to help people imagine it.' said CR.

Pooh had a Think. A Pondery sort of Think.

'Like perhaps - 'happiness is like hunny'? ' asked Pooh tentatively. He suddenly felt very five-to-four-ish at this Thought.

'That's exactly it, Pooh' said Christopher Robin happily. 'Or even sometimes the other way around! '

Pooh felt warm inside - almost like after eating honey - knowing now that a Simile wasn't a threat any more. 'What's a Metaphor, CR? '

'That's rather more difficult, Pooh. It's when you say something is something else, and people know what you mean somehow, and say 'Aha! ' and nod their heads...

Pooh had a longer, Pondery sort of Think.

'Like... teatime means honey? ' he offered hesitantly. Though he knew this was Truth and Other People Nodding, anyway.

'Something like that' said Christopher Robin. 'And then...' he said carefully, in case it was a bit too much for Beloved Bear for one day, but wanting to tell him all the same, 'there's the Extended Metaphor - which I think you might like, Pooh...' (he said hastily In Case) - 'like in a poem by Rupert Brooke, where he says 'Is there hunny still for tea? ' but what he really means is, he's a long way from home and can't get back in time for tea, and feels rather sorry about it...'

'I see...' said Pooh, thoughtfully - like people do who Don't Quite, but like to be polite...

Pooh decided there and then that the Poeh Tree was worth finding, now that he knew three things about it or was it four? It called for an Expedishun.

'Can you talk Poeh Tree, CR? Is it like what we are talking now?

'I think that's called a Prose Poem, Pooh' said Christopher Robin.

It was getting near to what Metaphoric Poets like Edward Bear call Time for a Little Something. Christopher Robin and Pooh turned and walked back slowly, the silence broken now and then by a crackly twig just waiting to be trodden on.

Pooh held Christopher's hand tight, as he was doing a lot of Poetic Thinking. He was wondering how anyone could be so far away from home that they couldn't get back home for tea. And worse, not knowing whether there was hunny in the cupboard or not...

But then he had a little five-to-fourish Hum, when he remembered that there was indeed hunny still for tea...

'Rupert Brooke at ten to three
knew he wouldn't get home for tea;
but now it's nearly five to four;
time for tea and Something More.'

Poetic Bears, you see, know all about Metaphor.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0424 Walking together

When you arrive, ring then knock,
we talk a little and I can feel
you think perhaps you ought to say
how’s the poetry going then

but the silent note’s just a little
out of tune so I say
let’s go for a walk
the park’s quite near

so we walk out, the street is quiet
except for the house
where only last Saturday
the two sons were stabbed many times
hauled out of a white Mercedes van
in a gang related crime unquote

the house guarded by expressionless men on cellphones
born into a cycle of poverty, easy money and revenge, then
on to the park, the walkers, the cyclists,
the football players, the tennis players,
the lake, the dogs, the ducks, the rowers,
the flowers, those who sit and watch

this is in place of my poem
this is my poem this walk
a way of saying I hope
you share all the world with me

and all the emotions, all the thoughts
that arise from it, all we see
every moment whoops careful now as the boy
on the unsteady bicycle nearly hits us both

and back past the house of death
where the men stare at us as if
we are some yet unidentified enemy
in a war they won’t admit to

this is in place of my poem
this is my poem this walk
a way of saying I hope

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wrote This Poem And That Poem And Another Poem Again

I WROTE THIS POEM AND THAT POEM AND ANOTHER POEM AGAIN

I wrote this poem and that poem and another poem again
The world of poetry was open to me
And I could go on and on in it
It was a dream come true
A world which opened when I moved through it
A place I wanted to be
A place of beauty and peace and spirit and imagination
A good good place
The world of poetry was open to me
And as I wrote my way through it
I felt God had given me a gift of life
And I should at least know enough to be grateful for it-

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Home Alone Happy Without Working Computer

Home alone happy without working computer
I take my pen in hand
And slowly write these words –

Let the world click and paste and post
I am out of it for now-

I have before me an evening of any book I like
Of any page I want to write
-
Peace of Mind is one place of attention at a time-

Here weighing each word as I write
I am at home with my inner self-
I hear my own thoughts
I correct them at my own pace.

So many words and so many pages
Have been written in my life-
Now in this one
I am wholly at home
Peaceful, quiet happy
Each word a small blessing
As I write it-

This is the only poem I know
The only page I see
The only place of attention
I give myself and my soul to
At this moment.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Same Place, Same Time

Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time

The coffee’s hot
And the company is good
Conversation flows, as it should
A joke or two
And when all is said and done
We’re right back to where we begun

Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time

These crowded streets
I balance tight roped on the curb
Car screeches past, a scream is heard
De ja vu
Yes I’ve been here before
Time moves slowly as traffic stalls

Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time

Break

It was good
You were sublime
I’m so glad that we spent the time
Time is short
What we have is rare
Love is oxygen with you there

Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time
Same place, same time

poem by Colin Coplin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Not a Poem Poem

I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!

I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!

Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!

Can I write a poem?
NO!

Will I write a poem?
NO!

Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!

poem by Maya Reid
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This poem (says)

This poem
is friendly:
see, it’s wagging its tail,
it will follow you anywhere,
run off and come back,
a perfect companion;

this poem
loves fun:
you want to play dressing up,
it’ll laugh and rush off to the attic,
the basement, the dressing-up basket;

this poem
is serious:
you want to be silent awhile,
rest your head on its shoulder,
it will wait for you in
sympathetic stillness;

this poem
is humble:
turn it over, write
a love poem on
the other side,
it will glow with your love;

this poem
is disposable:
write a few lines, be angry
with yourself, scrumple it up,
throw it on the pavement,
someone may pick it up,
someone may tutt and place it
carefully for recycling;

this poem
is an origami:
you can make any shape you like:
a paper boat on
the waves of destiny;

a ladder to reach to where
you always wanted that fruit;
a crown; a dunce’s hat; a witch’s conic;

this poem
is elastic:
a tablecloth for a picnic,
a sheet to cover two lovers,
a ground plan for a new world;

this poem
knows where
nothing meets something,
nowhere meets everywhere,
no time meets all time,
anyone meets everyone,

this poem
has a bright eye
whether you read it or not;

this poem
likes you though it
hasn’t met you;

this poem
is impervious to scorn;
it knows who it is,
and where things begin and end.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This poem