En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The poem called

and when the cat had finished drinking
and he had watched that delicate pink tongue
lapping as carefully as any lady
and had wondered whether cats enjoy this patient method
or whether they long to pour it down their throats, carelessly
and savagely, as they live wildly in the nights

then he heard the poem call
faintly, almost indifferently, the sound unmistakeable
yet always different
this time it came from a far distance
beyond the cat, though the cat was somehow part of it,
beyond the yard where he had once and never forgot
put a bullet into the old dog that
could not stop shaking

beyond the barn, beyond the field
where he nuzzled his favourite of the horses
and it allowed this intimacy, patiently;

so far beyond, so faint, the cry that poems make
as they, like cats, like dogs, like horses
who know nature so much more certainly than we
the sound that poems make as they wait patiently
to be found

he walked towards it but many times was lost,
he had to stop, stand still, listen,
and wait to hear that sound
recognisable but different every time

and when he and the poem had found each other
they were for a moment, silent, still,
then both turned to look over his shoulder
to where, yet further still,
the next poem had begun to call to him, faintly, almost indifferently,
the sound familiar, yet never quite the same

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The poem is reading in my head

Silence, except for the poem
The poem is reading in my head
I can make it stop, for a while
Then it starts again

I can jump onto the words
And for a time I ride the line
Then dropping off I stand and watch
as the poem goes rolling by

The poem has broken colours
Bits of sound and not much shape
And suddenly I am in tears
I have to look away and wait

Finally there is silence
Full fat voluptuous silence
Except, except for the poem

poem by Sean Joyce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Full fat voluptuous silence

Silence
Except for the poem
The poem is reading in my head
I can make it stop, for a while
Then it starts again

I can jump onto the words
And for a time I ride the line
Then dropping off I stand and watch
as the poem goes rolling by

The poem has broken colours
Bits of sound and not much shape
And suddenly I am in tears
I have to look away and wait

Finally there is silence
Full fat voluptuous silence
Except
Except for the poem

poem by Sean Joyce
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Story Of A Search For A Poem

A man went in search of a Poem
He searched everywhere he walked
He searched inside himself
He searched inside the poems of others
He searched and searched -

And what came to him were fragments of many poems
And he thought perhaps that they themselves were the poem
But they refused to be satisfied with themselves-

So he searched for a way to put them together-
But in searching came upon more fragments
With each new fragment totally re-ordering those that had gone before-

So he thought ‘I went looking for one poem but found many
Perhaps there are only many poems’

And he began to write them down
And felt at times that he had found many poems
But always too he knew he had not found the one-

So he searched and searched again
And could not find the Poem-

He is still searching
And does not know where the poem is
Sometimes he thinks it is hidden in the many already written
But he does not have the eye to discern it the heart to feel it-

He now is surrounded by poems-
They are everywhere-
But he still cannot find the One Poem which is the Poem for him
The Poem which is his Poem and his Poem alone-

He says he is still searching and will search to the end of his days
But he is old now and soon may be too weak to search
And so the Poem he seeks the one he has longed for all his life
May never be found
Though he goes on searching still.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Can Sense It Coming

I can sense it coming
I hear it from within
The words are here
A poem-

But whether what I feel as a poem
Is a poem
Is another question-

Words come
Perhaps they are only prose -

Not every sound which comes from within is beautiful
And not every word I wait to hear is a poem-

Should I stop here
Or is this already enough for now?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Stature of Truth

Watch them closely.
Your greater life depends on this.
See their bodies, watch their faces,
listen to their sound, which is
now the sound that we all own.

Now see your self, seeing them;
watch your self, watching them;
listen to your self, listening
to yourself. This is the moment
grace graces us. Our grace.

This shelf-stacker with
a battered face; this
village lady with a homely build;
this child, who, simply, sings
as if that could not be more natural:
see them; watch them; listen to the sound.

See them in profile: nobility
now shapes their face;
this is what heroes are,
heroes who await our call.

They have surrendered to their self;
was it we who called them?
Are there times when truth itself
is impatient of release; cannot wait
for us to earn that?

Perhaps just a few bars, as the song
begins to take them over,
sings, them; perhaps the climax of the song,
when all we can do is wildly clap,
applaud ourselves for what they’ve told us
that we always knew: we too, heroes,
heroines, waiting for the call
to be ourselves:

for a few bars, their stature
is beyond measure; remind yourself,
you saw it, watched them, listened:
listened to the sound which says
this, my sound, is the sound
that can do anything. anything:
now I make the world anew.

For a few bars, they tell us
this, this is who we are,
every one of us; this is
what talent’s given for; this,
what we were made for;
this is how great we are.

This is the sound of truth
singing the truth of truth itself;
this is what grace can do.
This is who we are.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Is Always With Me

THE POEM IS ALWAYS WITH ME

The poem is always with me
It waits inside.
And when it wants to be heard
It asks me to write it down.

Sometimes I say it,
Sometimes I hear it within myself silently,
Sometimes it goes away
When I go elsewhere for a while.

The poem is always in me
But sometimes it goes away
And is lost forever.

How many poems have I lost?
And how many poems have I never written down
That I should have?

And how many times have I written down
What is not a poem for anyone,
Except for the one who seems to need
A poem inside
All the time
So much?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For What It's Worth

[Originally by Buffalo Springfield]
There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind
I think it's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, now, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Morning/ I Wait To Hear A Poem In Me

THIS MORNING / I WAIT TO HEAR A POEM IN ME

This morning/
I wait to hear a poem in me
The only sound the sound of the seem
Words and words
Empty and free
Nothing true
Nothing believed.
I wait to hear a poem in me
And whatever I hear
Is only me
And nothing is true
And nothing is real
All I am writing
Only a dream.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Is Just A Poem

a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem

a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about

anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's

poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be

a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice

thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist

on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,

need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem

it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so

this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Is Not The Answer To Everything

A POEM IS NOT THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING

A poem is not the answer to everything-
Perhaps it is not the answer to anything
Though I wouldn't take it that far-
There have been times
When a poem was the answer-
Many times
A poem written by someone else
A poem I tried to write by myself-

Poems can be an answer
Perhaps not for most things
Perhaps not for all the major things
But for moods and pains and feeling
And desire for Beauty
Poems can be answers at time-
A poem is not really the answer to my problem of the moment now
But it is an answer of a kind anyway
Thank God for poems and for this poem also.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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For What It's Worth / Mr. Soul

buffalo springfield
For what it's worth
Stephen stills, 1966
There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me i got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
There's battle lines being drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speaking their minds
Getting so much resistance from behind
I think it's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
What a field-day for the heat
A thousand people in the street
Singing songs and carrying signs
Mostly say, hooray for our side
It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Paranoia strikes deep
Into your life it will creep
It starts when you're always afraid
You step out of line, the man come and take you away
We better stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, hey, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, now, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down

song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To A Friend Who Says That She Does Not Know How To Write A Poem Anymore

it is sad, when you think that you do not know
how to write a poem anymore
a simple poem as simple as you
what does it take for humanity to write one poem?
does it take that much from those who claim they know the way?
shall blood be shed to drive another point?

do not lose hope in the power of our ordinary words,
for as long as we quiver, poems are written
for as long as we lose the consciousness about our beings
the metaphors always come and build upon themselves their own meanings

take your time, breathe the air of poetry, and let the molecules
enter your lungs that long to see the light of the sun,
just be patient, keep on waiting, savor the silence, shower yourself
with the light of the moon, on another lonely night,
sleep soundly, and listen to the sound of your snores,
in your dreams, the poems write themselves.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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Not Every Poem Knows How To Say Its Own Name Properly

NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS HOW TO SAY ITS OWN NAME PROPERLY

Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly-
There are poems that have no name
And poems that are named by others who have not written them-
There are poems whose names make them what they are
And poems whose names contradict and belie them-
Many poems have their first lines as their names
And these poems often are as memorable as one line only-
Great poems and good poems can be nameless
Or can have unforgettable names.

Not every poem knows how to say its own name properly -
Poems are poems are poems
And names are names are names
And sometimes they meet and are one
And live happily ever after-
But there are times when perhaps
They never should have met each other at all.

Poems have their names
And names have their poems
But sometimes they love each other
And truly are one.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Day Went By Without A Poem

The day went by without a poem-
The night was poem-less also
And then a month and then a year
My soul suddenly homeless.

The poems were gone
And I alone
Empty in my soul
I could not write
I could not feel
The universe was cold.

And now I wait
And dream and think
And hope a poem one day
Will come again
As dreams
I know to play..

But perhaps despite these faltering words
The poems
Forever gone
And I must live alone-
A poem-less man
Without a word
Silent as a stone.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Was A Poem Long Ago

THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO

There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems are part of me

Poems are part of me, until
I become part of them.
I have to write, what I hear, see and feel.

When poems are written, the world shall stop
and listen to what was said,
as a poet, I hope it's not a flop.

When ever I die, the poem will live on,
always read, always praised,
long after I'm gone.

poem by Jim Foulk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems Poems

poems poems every where does any one care
poems are your life but do you include them
poems may seem silly but there a great part of life
so say a poem write a poem listen to a poem be the poem

poem by Samantha Thuringer
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An Evening Poem

AN EVENING POEM

An evening poem
Waits for deeper darkness
A night poem knows blackness
As home.
A morning poem is light
An afternoon poem is thick with heat.

All times have a poem
And all seasons poems also
All lives are poems
And all stories also.

We all are and all know poems
Poems pervade us
And the universe.

It is night now
But when the morning comes
Its poem will overshadow now.

What a brave new world it is
With so many poems in it
And what a life-
With such deep sadness
Waiting forever to be unexpressed.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been

THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN

The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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