To, for, or against an Irish Poet
When you re-ad alou-d your ow-n po-ems –
(prizewinners, dammit, every one) -
lingering on every no-un, ad-jective and ad-verb
as if they are simultaneously ancient jewels
that you’re touching, showing to us; and yet
new jewels you’re yourself in wonder at…
clothing e-ach w-ord with the sc-ent
of peat fire, soda bread, a glowing hearth;
a child asleep there in the corner;
a woman who’s grown rich, timeless in your love;
outside the cry of curlew, seagull,
the slap of wave on cliff;
but edged, sharp, like the sudden
intake of breath, with centuries on centuries
of uprisings cruelly downtrodden,
famine, allegiances,
leprechauns and muskets and the Armalite…
all these wrapped in baby’s or in widow’s shawl;
the shawl of memory that is a poem..
when you read you-r ow-n ver-se like this –
may-aking a tri-nity of vow-els from each Anglo-Saxon one –
then, I’m emerald green with envy,
reading my own verse in your imitated voice
as if it were those precious ancient new-found jewelled words…
and wishing that all poets – or no poets at all –
were, are, shall be, Irish-born…
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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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I Read and Reread/ The Poets I Love
I READ AND REREAD/ THE POETS I LOVE
I read and reread
The poets I love-
I seek new poets
To love poetry more with-
I write my own small poems
And read them again occasionally-
Sometimes I find in them lines
I want to return to
And remember.
If only I could be such a stranger to myself
That I in reading a poem of my own
Would know it belongs to Literature.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Cry Freedom
I live in a world of mist words
cause beauty music therein lives
in ancient Celtic ancestry of mindsong
history runs within fibre of being
across earth runs folklore of centuries
soul aches for emerald siren shores
ancient calling of Celtic blood origins
Roman legions English arrogance's
could never defeat cry freedom within
tyrant defiant knee bends defeated not
injustice world domination defeats not
centuries enduring is cry freedom within
does not blood of warrior bard echo
haunting down resolute centuries
cry freedom defiant Celtic peoples
freedom is heritage birthright echo
poem by Terence George Craddock
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God's Poets A Good Poem & Love
GOD'S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it's God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent His poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can't help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.
Immortal Lovers
Paltry wind like thyme heroes
Irish poetry lights a fire
Plain stone epithet with a cross
Yeats sleeps with an ire smile
Limestone is working class
Marble for the Greek legends
Poets spin golden words
Mortal yarn rises like smoke
Ancient pyres outside the village
Battles of freedom in the human duel
Spring sires love in Pushkins bosom
Shelley and Keats lay very close
Wordsworth makes us walk green fields
Milton like a statue in a great square
Khalil Gibran a jewel of wise gentleness
Shakespeare is a fire unquenchable
Rimbaud and Verlaine bring an edge
You have your muse and I mine
The ravens of Poe fly the centuries
Warm me with your poetry my dear
The Brownings have such sweet words
Emily makes us all feel our loneliness
E. E. Cummings a bright warm flame
Pablo Neruda can make me cry
Every poet is an immortal lover
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Loyalty
Jewels of meekness
Serenade the lonely heart
Her dignity is a shawl of blue light
Close to faith in her pain
Gentle as a sapphire night
Warm with rubies in mystic fire
I will never be on the outside
I will always read your words
I shall send angel flowers
You have touched me my friend
We are alike
Broken yet resolved to do good
Abstract kisses are still sweet
No poet writes to no one
Universals flow in time
If I go first a tear you will cry
Loyalty sometimes is sublime
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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For Veronica, Instead
For centuries, poets have been getting it wrong.
They bring 'one perfect rose' to show their love
to their lovers, but now I think
they were mistaken.
I saw a rose today growing
behind the fence of someone's backyard.
The bloom was yellow edged with red
with the obligatory dew glistening on the petals,
the bud pouting open high in the green bush,
so I bent the branch down to me.
There I was on the sidewalk, the flower fresh in my hand
but forgive me.
I couldn't bring myself to snap the stem of the rose
so you could watch petals dropp for days
in the slow dying
displayed in a jar on the kitchen table.
Love is nothing like a dead rose anyway.
The florist will never tape this poem to his cash register
to sell flowers now,
since I left the rose among green leaves.
Instead, I bring you these words,
alive,
just like the rose.
poem by Eric Paul Shaffer
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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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Poetry
Reading poetry is my afternoon tea
It's my crossword puzzle when my time is free
It's my game of football, where I scream and shout
Reading, reading, reading; what's it all about
Nothing think I delights me so
A new poetress has a show
Or when a young poet man
In words takes he a stand
It's good to know, as the world's poets go
Tis strong and has force to show
That moments come, and they pass
Poets rise up, assume their tasks
poem by Midnights Voice
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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
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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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Poets Are Holy Hypocrites
poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse.
they sit for as long as it takes
like terriers at a foxhole
or for second-best practice,
at a rabbit-hole,
totally still, alert, all their powers
poured into attention;
what a lesson dogs
are for humans
then – a movement in
their consciousness; it could be
anything creative – a film, a poem;
and with it comes the sense
of wonder; they are as children
living in an eternal present
of the universe as gift;
they take up their pen or keyboard
and, so carefully, as they
would handle a new-born baby,
write down this spell for that it is
for the benefit of others quite unknown
and then like a christening shawl,
white, soft, handmade with love,
offer it to the world.
then some who believe its magic
read the spell, are reborn
or cured, or restored
to good health and humour
or simply have a good day
while those who don’t believe the spell,
well of course the magic doesn’t work for them
so far so very good. But then
those who aren’t into wanting spells
and have opinions about
their opinions, say, that word is wrong,
so it’s not a magic spell. it’s a bad spell,
in fact it’s not a spell at all
and others who also have opinions
about their opinions, say, that word is right,
so it’s a good and magic spell; and there they are,
all crowded round peering through their
dirty glasses, pushing and shoving and shouting
to get nearer the spell and have their say
and oh dear, there's the poet in there too
saying oh do you really think that
I'd better look at it again
and see if you might be right
and sad to say, some poets
begin to worry, about whether
the words of their spell are quite right
not trusting the magic, as if
it came from them and not from itself...
and the magic shrugs its shoulders
and says oh well and goes some place else
where it might be more appreciated
poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse
[with more than a little acknowledgement to the vision of Michael Leunig, cartoonist and Living National Treasure]
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Early Works - Thoughts Of Love
Through the centuries
and years scores, more
scholars and poets
have attained the praise
in line, lyric and verse
of the thoughts of love.
19 July 1995
poem by David Harris
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Philanthropic Acrostic
Love of your fellow Man.
(Acrostic) .
Poets of today, of Christian bent,
Have so many ways to display their skills
I am told not to measure time misspent
Literary culture is only food for Fools.
A Love of Mankind men should not resent.
Nor Women for that matter overrule.
Thrive on Poets past or near present.
Hero’s since the dawn of time to school.
Respect the rhymes of ethereal guidance sent.
Of words, your hoard of very precious jewels.
Poet? Praise of every Peer pursuant.
Indicates you’re not alone to quest.
Cynical? Not to do this for a reason?
Simply just to understand you’re truly blessed!
. -------------------
The Thousandth Man: 27th November 2007
poem by Philip Winchester
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If Bread is All, Baby
If bread is all, baby,
the fat man on the corner
has a ticket to heaven
in his billfold -
If bread is all, baby,
the rich boy with the car
keeps love stashed
in his glovebox -
If bread is all, baby,
the man with the big house
decorates its rooms
with ecstasies -
But if you think so, baby,
why did you read this?
poem by John Libertus
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Rate This Poem
I’d love to be inside the head
of the Phantom Oner as she
strikes again… with one deadly One,
cuts the previous ten right down
to a grovelling 5.5…
‘that’ll teach you, you big-headed smug,
with your groupies and brown-nosers; all your pissy posse…
THIS IS NOT A POEM…’
and with one bound – I’m free!
No longer need I try to write
a poem rich in metaphor like some jewelled scabbard,
declaring sparkling wealth and power;
distracting from the question,
is the sharp sword, of discrimination,
still there, sharp, inside?
or a poem so full of music’s sound,
it sings itself into the mind
like leprechaun with emerald guile,
in the ear of sleeping child…
or, any other sort of poem –
I’m free … now I know I can
please everyone, someone, no-one.. on a scale
from nought to ten or should that be
from ten to nought?
I can now just be; be my one self…
write from the heart;
remembering that all others have a heart…so,
thanks, O noble one…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Remembering the future
The Greeks said, those great Muses
who civilise us, grace our dance of life,
were once, before they were nine,
just three; and before that,
only one was named: and she was, Memory.
Does that make poets just regurgitators
of what’s already been oft said -
and better, too, some would aver…?
No, it’s more subtle than that; ask a poet:
a poem that comes warm, hot, from the human heart
demands a summary birth; won’t hang around
while you go out to buy more toys and frills
to hang around the cot…
it is indeed, more like remembering:
as if you step into a timeless place
where all that’s needful is to remember
what the future poem shall, will, have said..
write it down; and maybe sleep on it;
when you wake, you may remember
two lines somewhere which you’d forgotten,
but know exactly where that is…
That Muse of memory will then decide
whether a poem that has a timeless birth,
may have a timeless life... or not...
How can a poet claim a poem as his, or hers,
when such a Muse? and yet, so close at hand?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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925 Emerald Birthstone Of May
Hexagonal in crystal form
Mined in Zambia and Columbia
Gemstones valued more than diamond
Radiant green their unique colour.
Holy stone of Ancient Incas
Used by Mayans in their worship
Prized as jewels in Pharoah's Egypt
Hexagonal in crystal form.
Emerald - Nature's perfect gemstone
Prized for charm and cut and colour
Emerald jewel to bring fertility
Favourite gemstone of Victorians
Green rapport with life and nature
Linked with Zodiac sign of Taurus
Strengthens spine and eyes and memory
Emerald - Nature's perfect gemstone.
May the month of emerald birthstone
Symbolizing faith and friendship
Queen of gems with unique lustre.
Energy from Planet Mercury
Focussed - all his heat and ardour
Through the facets of your emerald
Giving love and life and leisure
May the month of emerald bitrhstone.
Emeralds - Nature's oldest gemstones
Hexagonal in crystal form
Emerald - Nature's perfect gemstone
May the month of emerald birthstone
Birthstone emerald of month the May
Gemstone perfect - nature's emerald
Form crystal in hexagonal
Gemstones oldest - nature's emeralds.
Dedicated to all the lovely PH Ladies who possess an
emerald and all those who would love to possess one.
(John Knight - Colchester - 22 January 2010)
poem by John Knight
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