Poem for Danny and a cliché for JC
The poet sat by the babbling brook
whence all but he had fled;
the poet babbled on; the brook,
dried up and long since dead.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Nature And Poet
Nature is the diet of a poet,
from natural beauty
poet derives immense pleasure,
drinks the nectar from the flowing down
Himalayan hilly stream, fulfils the long cherished
desire, translates into reality
the sweet lovely dream;
The tiny brook dazzles with the morn’s Sun beam.
Oh Lord Siva! Ye reside on ‘Kailash Mountain’;
Beside Ye flows down the magnificent
alluring mysterious
transparent water of the fountain.
Devotees pray thee for a bliss;
from the ‘Abode of peace’
Ye fulfil their desire and wish;
they sleep in the lap of Nature,
receive Nature’s kiss.
Poet is a worshipper, preacher
in the temple of Nature;
With indomitable enthusiasm
pens verses with tranquillity,
serenity, sanctity, being pure.
Man comes and goes;
poet’s verses remain for ever;
As a brook flows down eternally
in the lap of Nature.
Poet’s poem dazzles in golden letters
on the pages of history;
Depicts the Eternal Truth of Earth,
the beauty of Nature,
and the mystery.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Silence Vavroovahana Patra
Silence provides peace;
Poet desires Divine Bliss.
In deep silence prays mother;
Surrenders in the lap of Nature.
Mother attracts, adorned with flowers;
In the lap of Nature provides pleasure.
Blesses poet affectionatinely;
Derives peace divinely.
Profound silence takes mind to Divinity;
At night through silence mind enchants with gaiety.
Poet beholds mother reverentially;
Mind remains in the world of peace delightfully.
Mother Vinapanee blesses poet with affection;
He enjoys the beauty of creation.
Her blessings tranquilises mind daily;
Singing her songs mind derives peace gaily.
The shrine in the dense forest allures the poet;
Mind enchants with delight.
The serene shrine is a Brook of Delight;
Poet drinks the nectar from the Brook of Gaiety.
Silence of the shrine provides profound peace;
Poet surrender on the rosy cosy feet for Divine Bliss.
Hymns breaks the silence of environment;
Poet chants hymns with merriment.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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By a Babbling Brook
This dismal scene inspires me none
Me thinks to sleep for forty winks,
An’ let the brook babble on.
I will close my eyes and
Try to unravel the babble of
A babbling brook.
Maybe it’s a soothing song,
Maybe I’m wrong, but listen
Oh my yes it is indeed it is,
With its dribble and drabble
An’ swirly gurgles
Gurgling and swirling along,
The ducks are quacking
Their peace the frogs are lacking,
An’ by golly I’m singing a babbling song.
Well now me thinks
I’ll have that forty winks.
poem by Ken e Hall
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The brook
I looked in the brook and saw a face -
Heigh-ho, but a child was I!
There were rushes and willows in that place,
And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by;
And the brook it ran its own sweet way,
As a child doth run in heedless play,
And as it ran I heard it say:
"Hasten with me
To the roistering sea
That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!"
I look in the brook and see a face -
Heigh-ho, but the years go by!
The rushes are dead in the old-time place,
And the willows I knew when a child was I.
And the brook it seemeth to me to say,
As ever it stealeth on its way -
Solemnly now, and not in play:
"Oh, come with me
To the slumbrous sea
That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!"
Heigh-ho, but the years go by -
I would to God that a child were I!
poem by Eugene Field
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Fragrance Jasmine ` Vavroovahana Patra
Beautiful silvery woman endowed with a garland of jasmines passes on the way;
The peerless heavenly beauty of the fairy, the fragrance of jasmines brings gay.
Wavy curly crisp hair pervades waves of enchantment;
In poet’s mind plays waves of merriment.
The beauty allures, enthuses the poet with profound pleasure;
Poet’s mind concentrates on the beauty, thinks a beautiful creation is joy for ever.
The Beauty entices with the twinkling of eye;
Poet derives profound pleasure, love affection, gay.
The Beauty is a Deity on Earth;
Is a melodious brook of mirth.
Evaporates the worries, anxieties pervading the fragrance of jasmines with loving conversation for ever;
Beautiful is the creation and unknown creator.
The Beauty of Beauties is the unknown Deity;
Is the Delight of Delights.
God’s omnipresence reveals, pervades through Beauty;
She is a sweet lovely melodious Brook of Delight.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Mindless Murmur Of A Babbling Brook
The mindless murmur of a babbling brook
Is the telling of it’s story
A story that has no beginning
And flows on without end
It dances…It sparkles
All the while telling it’s tale
E’en when there’s no one to listen
Not family…nor friend
Dabbling and babbling in sprinkles and splashes
Chortling away in mad mischievous delight
Then off to the sea it disdainfully dashes
Spreading rumors and humors into day and night
It gathers in pools, settles in sinks
Yet meanders off distractedly, to left and right
It swells fat and sassy, then as capriciously shrinks
Tinkling musically away into darkness and light
It’s said “there’s method in madness”
The brook knows not…of either one
Not method…not madness…nor glee or sadness
Only capricious, communion with moon and sun
Does the constant, mindless babble
Of it’s unceasing, senseless rant
Give substance to…that it is able
To form cogent thought…or that it can’t?
Could it be that it’s saying, in a moss moistened drawl
In watery discourse, all the while liquid and lazy
“Tis not this brook that is mindless at all
Tis Humanity that’s truly crazy! ! ”
poem by David Whalen
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Innocent Face Vavroovahana Patra
The innocent face allures the poet in the morn;
The Beauty magnifies the beauty of the dawn.
Mind derives peace;
Poet lives with Divine Bliss.
Poet is a lover of Beauty;
Beautiful things enchant the poet with gaiety.
Loves Silvery face delightfully;
Loves innocent hearts silently.
Vernal chilly Breeze kisses the crisp hair delightfully;
Fragrance of Beauty bathes poet's body with gaiety.
Poet is inspired to remain in a world of peace;
Praying in the lap of Nature derives Divine Bliss.
Innocent rural Beauty proceeds silently;
Poet, a lover of Beauty, beholds enthusiastically.
Innocence provides delight;
Inspiration is a Brook of Delight.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Emma's Dell
A poet roamed by rushing brook
Early springtime morning. The sound
Seemed softer than it should,
Tempered by, tempering,
Eager buds, new greens all around.
Still bare trees, they tempered too.
Contrast breeds content.
Then round a turn mad rushing brook
Maddened beast and bird.
Sound seemed of the air-
Like air, would never cease.
Green seemed of the rocks.
Content is content.
A cottage overlooked the brook.
'My thoughts at least are mine.
I've told them to the shepherds.
How contrast can contain content.
How content is content.
Pondering perhaps my words
Years after we are spent
They'll call the dell not what I call it,
They'll call it WILL'S DELL EMMA.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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The Poet
The poet can only utter the word fine
The poet has to bear the sorrow and the sin.
The poet can only say I am happy
The poet can only say I feel no aches no pain
The poet can only say I am not in loss
The poet can only say I am in the side of only gain.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Brook of the Sahara
Through the Sahara a babbling brook flows,
With its announcing sound heard firsthand.
Its inquiring voice the receptive ear knows,
Whether in the days past since God created man,
Has ever such a flourishing sight arose?
This is the renewing of the face of the land,
By which the spirit of man lifts and grows.
Our God has created this by His divine trade,
A master expertise only He can possess.
No other substance existed until this God made,
A creation out of His substance and uniqueness.
This flowing brook can no longer be delayed,
Moving from the east of heaven to the west,
It feeds tree growth giving soothing shade.
Under the trees the smith blows on red hot coals.
He forms an instrument and cools it for human doer,
And heavenward the immediate puff of steam rolls.
And on from man the brook moves for the frontier,
Perfecting in its way the life God so nobly molds.
Continuing on inquiring of every receptive ear,
Has ever been seen this sight man now beholds?
May righteousness dropp down from the sky,
To renew God's divine creation He designed
From His holy throne in heaven on high.
Let this flourishing marvelous sight be refined,
As this babbling brook goes rushing by.
Continuing to inquire of every perceptive mind,
Has ever such a flourishing sight appealed an eye.
poem by Albert Price
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Have you got a Brook in your little heart
136
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—
And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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I Am More A Poet
I AM MORE A POET THAN ANY OTHER KIND OF WRITER
I am more a poet than any other kind of writer-
But I am not a pure poet -
And not the best of what a poet could be-
I 'think' in my poetry
And it tells me what I dream and feel-
It is my soul-
God made me a poet
Perhaps not a good one as I would have liked to be-
It is so wonderful to be able to write these lines now
After long long hours of difficult silence.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Morning Sunshine
This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see
The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet
Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?
This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me
I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry
poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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Goodbye Poet! ! ! !
Very sad when a Poet close your book
leave his pen and left us
So we say: There goes, Aphrodite, Apollo, Hades
find your ethereal Muse and make peaces with God
Because
The Poet goes different
He goes taking all of us with him
He goes but leaving your scrolls, hymns
His Ilíadas, Odisseias
For ever and Never
Because
The Poet let us different
He dare to be absent without a motive
confront dead and write the more beautiful Poem
Poet's heart now beats alone!
So go Poet
Go, because you are different
poem by Mirna Morgan
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Who No Longer Believes In Himself
THE POET WHO NO LONGER BELIEVES IN HIMSELF
The poet who no longer believes in himself
And writes on anyway-
The poet who is too weak to stop writing-
The poet who has died as a poet,
Before he has as a person-
The poet who may never have lived as a poet-
The old old old schnook,
Still trying to write a poem
And believing he has done it once again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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