Why shouldn't poems...
…be hot out of a
news item – even if
it barely ranks as ‘poetry’ -
if it moves a would-be poet
more than many a poem…?
Here’s the story: Dr Jill Bolte Taylor,
who became a neuro-scientist because
her beloved brother was schizophrenic…
had an exceptional opportunity for research
when one morning a golf-ball-sized haemorrhage
in her left brain, gave her a stroke, which
she was able to observe as it happened…
becoming herself schizophrenic in a fashion,
so that one half of her brain said
this consciousness is boundless…
while the other half said, I’m me…
struggling to support one another as
for forty-five minutes, she tried
to find her office identity
in a blur of pixels that were a number
she must dial…
it took her eight observant years
to recover; now she tells the story,
(always herself, always as boundless
as her story):
some of us smiling through our tears, her tears,
her smiles..
maybe I could turn that into
more of a poem… but why?
Between these lines, between
she and me, I and you,
the boundless, too..
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Every Face Tells A Story
Look at the man in the corner, hes sitting all alone
His blankets are made out of cardboard,
His pillows are made out of stone
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
See the man walking on the water, see the light in his eyes
He came into the world with a message to tell,
He came into the world to die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Youre always telling stories, youre always telling me lies
Youre always telling stories, why?
So think of yourself in the water, seeing your days flashing by
Its too late to see what you wanted to be,
Youve spent all your time, you must die
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Every face tells a story it never tells a lie
Step down
And make it work out right
Im trying to get to you with my warning
Been there
For nearly half the night
Look its nearly four in the morning
song performed by by Cliff Richard
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poem Is The Poet
THE POEM IS THE POET
The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-
The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-
The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-
It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-
When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On My 10thousandth Poem
when i reach that number
it is because of the days that bore
it is because of the pain that does not cease
or he joys that jump
the bliss that soars in the sky
like a bird untiring about the flapping of its wings
that seagull that dives like an odd ball
to the surface of the sea
or that eagle that keeps its sharp gaze
on the tiny prey
i am lost
but i know how to find myself in the words
of the nth poem
it is the flow of the river
which does not just end at the sea
it is the waves that keep on going and reaching
far away
it is the story that meets a story and tells a story
upon another story
it is the desert sand, the Bedouin
and his princess
it is the oasis that source of life
these poems or whatever you call it
when you are angry because
they are not
but whatever that is
i am a consciousness
and also a trance
i am speaking i am listening
i am myself i am not myself
i a confusion and a certainty
now you must understand that there is nothing to understand
there is only the emotion
that goes on and on and one
simply because i remain alive
simply because i decide to keep this life
moving upon itself
not on another man's decision
not mine alone
not mine but upon itself a being on itself...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What Make A Poem A Poem?
What makes a poem a poem
Is it the story it tells
The feeling it sells.
what makes a poem a poem
is it the history it shows
or the letters of word flow
do the lines mater it they rhyme
or not, can it be free verse of
abcabc line schem,
What makes a poem a poem
is it the words i repeat
Or the emotion they cove.
What makes a poem a poem
Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by Aisha Patterson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poem.
I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,
I like the story.
poem by David Carter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rose Across The Sea
For My Good Friend JoAnn McGrath
Not so long ago I was joking
with a young lady across sea.
I told her that I was a vicar,
or at least pretend one.
My name was Dodgy Dave the Vicar.
A little while later
she wrote a poem aptly named,
The Vicar Is Quicker.
Since then she has written
quite a number more.
I tell her a funny story about me.
No sooner do I tell her the story
it appear as a Dodgy Dave Poetry.
In the time I have known her
not once have, I wrote a poem for her,
that rose across the sea.
She thinks of me as her big brother.
I find that as a compliment you see,
as my own real sister
does not want to know me.
Therefore, I have an adopted one
far away from me,
a rose across the sea.
Therefore, Joann
this poem is just for you,
from your friend,
that Dodgy quicker vicar
who rhymes with liquor.
A substance he never touches,
but I will raise my cup of tea
and say again,
this poem is just for you,
my rose across the sea.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death In My Hands
Hellow, i took a pen to write a story,
the story that seemed scary,
but liked by those bully,
Now they want another story,
The story that gave them money,
money that brought them honey,
the honey that made them hurray,
Now am a wanted as i refused,
the story came from my brain,
which accereleted to my hand,
decorated with my pen,
through my fascinating fingers,
poem by Dickson Mseti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Someday I will write a poem of tears for you
Our love story was a little bit tragic
Starting with youthful laughter & joys
Some quarrels and disappointments
For a while
On love that never knew whether it ended
When and where
You ask me if I also shed some tears
I did not answer I was gone for good
I have only tears since then
In my eyes
You had tears for a while but then
You have learned to laugh again
Somewhere
Someday I will write you a poem
Where all the words will all be tears
Where the poet has not known
Laughter, or joy ever again.
Because In truth
My years are counted by drops of tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Brother
Some moments are more momentous
than ever you could believe.
They are so great
that they take your breath away.
It started with a letter from an Aunt
who wrote and said your half brother Bill
would love to hear from you.
I did not have a half brother.
She had that all wrong,
the only Bill I remember
was adopted by my grandparents.
He was her half brother not mine.
However as it turned out
she was right and I was wrong.
For over fifty years,
his existence had been kept from me.
In the proceeding weeks that followed,
I found his address and then his telephone number,
then I phoned him.
For the first time in more than forty years,
I spoke to him.
At first, he could not believe it
and was sad because I never knew about him,
though he did know about me.
He thought I did not want to know him.
I made plans there and then to see him.
In 2001 we had our reunion
and I went back to see him again in 2002.
I could not go back to see him anymore
as my brother Bill passed away in 2003.
They say as one chapter closes another will soon begin.
In 2006, another chapter began,
but that is another story.
13 November 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem The Poem And The Poem Again
THE POEM‘ THE POEM AND THE POEM AGAIN’
‘The poem the poem and the poem again’
Isn’t there any life without poetry?
Why is it always ‘The poem the poem the poem’?
Let it be some other dream
Or some other small facet of our endless realities
Why always ‘The poem the poem the poem? ’
The poet who lives and dies for the poem
Is only one kind of poet
And perhaps not even a good one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poems Became The Story Of My Inner Life
THE POEMS BECAME THE STORY OF MY INNER LIFE
The poems became the story of my inner life-
A series of confessions-
Often simple and direct
They seemed to lose their poetry-
I wrote them and I write them as I need to
I do not know if their rhythm is real
Or only prose-
I write them as poetry
Because this is what I am and have now-
Still the overwhelming anxiety I have now suggests
I always in them tell only a small part of the story
As if the feeling inside
Is always more than any poetry that pretends to express and represent it –
If I doubt the value of this poem and doubt the value of all my poetry and doubt my own value, poetry or not, and doubt and doubt-
Then certainly ‘doubt’ is one keynote of my inner life and story.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Memory Of The Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn
But the essential advantage for a poet is not, to have a beautiful world with which to deal: it is to be able to see beneath both beauty and ugliness; to see the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
T. S. ELIOT
It was his story. It would always be his story.
It followed him; it overtook him finally—
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
Probably at the end he was not yet sorry,
Even as the boots were brutalizing him in the alley.
It was his story. It would always be his story,
Blown on a blue horn, full of sound and fury,
But signifying, O signifying magnificently
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
I picture the snow as falling without hurry
To cover the cobbles and the toppled ashcans completely.
It was his story. It would always be his story.
Lately he had wandered between St. Mark’s Place and the Bowery,
Already half a spirit, mumbling and muttering sadly.
O the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
All done now. But I remember the fiery
Hypnotic eye and the raised voice blazing with poetry.
It was his story and would always be his story—
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
poem by Donald Justice
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Not a Poem Poem
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!
This is a poem....
This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.
poem by Tammie LilAimo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Illusions
Illusions
----
boundless space
what i see
what i cannot see
what i see when
i open my eyes
what i see
when i close my eyes
a morass of black
boundless
inside, outside
between them
this bundle
that summons
all the boundaries,
limitations
real, imagined
the only time
when reason aches
the brain
solutions
names, categories
boundless worlds
worlds within worlds
i see all the animals
creatures,
exhibiting a fragment
of my character
and for a moment
think that they are
human parts
projected onto another plane
that ricochet back to our senses
to awaken us of our baser selves
how faithful the dog is
how intelligent the dolphin
how indolent the sow
how naughty the monkey
there are those who want
to have them all into themselves
animal, animal, animal
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sad Poem 3a (Continuance)
As I drove back from today
from the town I go to
tears trickled from my eyes as I drove.
They were not tears of sorrow,
but tears of relief and joy.
I saw the friend I had been trying to get hold of,
his story is in my Sad Poem 3.
He is still not himself,
which is quite understandable.
However, talking to him
solved a number of mysteries
that had been playing on my mind.
15 March 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The brain is all space
boundless is space
so is this brain
take away its organics
you have a space
as boundless as space
pump in the organics
you get to experience
the power of space
and a transient piano
that affords a transcendental
tune of bewilderment
pain, joy, fun
until the brains trades
space for space
in all the darkness
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In My Bag
In my bag, thirty years
Dispersed
Over depressed tears
And a gloomy tale's slag,
Among these, fickles
Our history,
And a bitter taste trickles,
Deep in my bag;
Our story,
On drafts, lines of poetry,
With smell of burnt success,
And sound, of never mind, kiss
And echoes of something else,
Your broken barrette,
Half of my last cigarette,
Witnessing my dead habit,
With your funny picture,
Pretending to be richer,
Ashen white and black,
With smiles hidden deep
In the dark;
In shades, ready to weep.
Seething with silent passion,
In a bag of an old fashion,
Smothered in tight heaven,
Soothed themselves in haven
In the depth,
Without a breath,
I keep blessing before death.
poem by Jamal Abboud
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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