0012 Poetry Class
Two o’clock on a quiet afternoon,
and the class file in for their poetry ‘hour’,
brief daily slot in the packed week’s course in many things.
We’ve been through ‘the basics’ –
whatever they are these days;
they’ve been told what, at least,
they used to be; I try to keep all options open,
say ‘this is what it used to be’, tell them
it’s a great time for poetry now, no rules,
just sincerity, the open heart, some models
if they need them, so after this week,
just read, write, as much as they can;
and now, forget about achievement,
just feel really good
that you’re doing what you want to do,
being what you want to be - yourself -
saying what you want to say –
feel more like a loving, expressive human being
than you’ve ever felt before..
A few more basics, just as few as may be useful;
then I say, here’s today’s offered theme, stay in the room,
or find a place outside on this fine day,
come back promptly please..
Forty brief minutes later, they return;
would anyone like to read theirs, no compulsion?
None of them want to be the first, in case…
I wonder if they know just how much they’re loved..
I ask one, in the end; then of course
they all want to read, each with
an apologetic preface first..
At the end of the week, the inevitable
request for a presentation; I’ve tried
to shield these innocents from that.
I say, it’s voluntary… they all want to read.
And so they do. We chose ‘Childhood’ as the theme
at 24 hours’ notice and just forty minutes..
perfect choice. The audience love them
for just being themselves, and what they have to say.
The one who pretends to be a mouse
reads hers; her cheeks are pink with mingled
modesty and sincerity. I catch
the light on the corner of my colleague’s eye
where a tear of sheer love is gathering.
Poetry has worked its magic once again.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Poetry, That's What I Write
Parody of the classic song Money, That's What I Want
The best words on the page are here
Teaching you a hell of a lot more about life
Then just the birds and bees
Now you know words of magic
Words of wisdom
Given birth
Right here, right now
Oh, yes
Poetry, that's what I write
My wicked writing should give you such a thrill
So don't be shy
Go ahead and click on this link right here
My poetry won't pay your bills, no
But I can promise to give you some kinky thrills
Now you know
Poetry, that's what I write
Bright and beautiful
Perfect as can be
Poetry, that's what I write
Oh yeah baby
Poetry
Poetry, that's what I write
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I like
Poetry
Oh yes
Poetry, that's what I love
Poetry, that's what I write
Whoa
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Well, now read my poetry
Ooooh, oooh yeah my poetry
Read my
Love my
Poetry, oh yeah that's what I like
What I love
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I write
Yeah
2008 Ramona Thompson
poem by Ramona Thompson
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~ O' Poetry I Read I Write ~
~ O' POETRY I READ I WRITE ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
29 December,2009.
Poetry ~
I read I read I read
Without asking,
Knowing why?
Poetry ~
I write I write I write
Without asking,
Knowing why?
O' Poetry ~
Read n’ write
To share
Dare n’ bare,
Don’t care
Love to dye
By
Hi and fie.
.
O' Poetry ~
Life I buy
Never sell bye bye
All I’ll do until I die
Lo! I’m no hi-fi.
----
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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cn U rd ths? Its nt gd nws...
The National Literacy Trust in Britain
did a survey and
- yes, you guessed -
57% read 'only a bit' or not at all
and 25% of the older ones said
they had no intention to
read any more than this
So what do they read when
they read?
Well, mags,
and websites
and txt msgs of course
and jokes,
and TV books and mags
and e-mails
and eighth on the list comes fiction
that's made-up stories, right?
right
then comix ninth
then newspapers well
they're just for people
who don't have TV and
don't mind waiting 12 hours
to read the news put that tenth
what's that? poetry?
sorry would you spell that
oh poetry nah
girls said, they read
to find out how other people live
and feel and
to help them understand
more about themselves
boys said, they read
because they have to and
because it helps them
get a job so
some old farts might say
put up a sign
civilisation's postponed until further notice
but it may all work out
well it'll have to
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Professional Poet
and of course it was wrong
to label him as that – in just that tone of voice;
a touch of envy there, no doubt
implying a comfortable life,
a smart careerist, older poets youthfully
cultivated, poems in the right magazines,
editors gently kept in touch with;
keeping on the right side of his peers,
'interesting' reviews of their poetry skilfully woven,
professional favours quietly exchanged;
academic posts gracefully filled, and
moved on from; leaving grateful ex-students
recommended for the vacancy;
and an acquired ability
to write just enough, but not less;
so it should be rather, a lifelong devotee of poetry,
and when he started to read to us I felt mean
for assuming him to be some artificial thing
a professional poet;
I wanted to inhabit his poetry, the
house of his poetry; but some doors
to rooms were open, some were shut;
would I give the time to find and love the key?
He read his own poems
as if they were step-children –
proud to show them off, and yet, not really his;
the audience, taken aback by this,
hesitated to applaud.
But when he read the poems of others,
he read them as though they were miracles
to stun and to admire, yet he was, we were, barely worthy of;
dropping as fine mercy, as the gentle dew of heaven; he read like
an amateur would read the great, in awe; as -
a lifelong devotee of poetry. He shone.
In each of us, a poet was born and lived.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Conversation
You write
Mediocre,
He told me
I told him
Go and
Read -
The superb
Writers, don't
Read me ;)
He said:
I was only joking
To rub you the
Wrong way ;)
I love your poetry.
I said:
Let me put it
The right way.
It's not only
My poetry…
You also love me ;)
He blushed and said:
How well you know me!
Yes, I love the perky
Poetess, more than her
Poetry :)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Love and Poetry; Poetry and Love
and right now, I’m spending most of my time
on the two matters of which I seem to know the least –
love; and poetry.
maybe it’s good I feel like this; after all,
they’re two pretty big things in their way;
and if it’s frustrating that
I don’t seem to get anywhere,
or understand any more,
maybe that’s good too since
it keeps me at it
and out of harm’s way
as they say
let’s take poetry first – that’s
relatively straightforward:
one day I love the freedom
of the current situation – there’s no rules
except, the lines are short –
but even that, you can break
with ‘prose poems’ (and leave it
to others to say when 'prose poems'
become ‘poetic prose’ etc…) :
tell the unvarnished truth,
tell it like it is; offer all your heart
ungiftwrapped;
then next day I miss the music
of a poem that – with some difficulty –
rhymes and dances in its rhythms,
catches you in its woven spell,
reads as if it wrote itself,
sings its own fair song,
even though of course
the rhyme then makes you deviate
from the theme – but that can take you to
more interesting places in the mind —
so - point of this - I’m none the wiser
about what poetry is; though of course
maybe there’s some benefit I just don’t spot
by kinda mixing thisnthat..
so, when I’m not writing this stuff
that I call poetry, if I call it anything,
I’m addressing the question
of love; in the hope
that thinking about it might just be
of some use; influence action; and
make me more loving; or help me
write poetry about it, ha..
well don’t ask me, not just yet..
though, we all know what love is...
when it’s on our side?
one day, I feel good that I’ve spent the day
reading inspiring words, like,
the whole Creation is one single act
of love; that it brought the whole universe
into manifestation; sustains it; merges all things into love;
that love is knowledge; holds all forms
through law, by law; that law and love
are always together; that love’s
the natural state of ourself; that
every creature has pure love within its nature;
that thus, it’s our very nature
to love one another; love
our neighbour as ourself…
even, love ourselves...
then the next day, I can’t bear
to read any more of what’s written
about love; just spend the day in love
with everything and everyone;
being still a little, listening to music a little,
reading inspiring poetry a little,
going out or not going out,
being just myself a lot; seeing things around
inside the house and out
so vividly, it’s like being high
without the before and after, and
I wonder why it isn’t
always just like this..
then the next day again, I’m just too busy
to give thought to thinking about love,
or being loving to those bloody neighbours
then the doorbell rings – and
I greet whoever it is before
I even look at them, as if
they’re the one person out of all the world
I most wanted to see again right now – and
it’s someone to read the meter –'hallo!
what, again so soon? I’ve only just paid
the last bill, and anyway, it always comes
as ‘estimated’, and too high…'
too late – I’ve loved them totally
in that first moment; I'm like
someone else; I find myself
treating them like an honoured guest;
see them out with a friendly comment; feel good;
a sorta indifferent, unthought, unshaped happiness..
maybe there’s something to be discovered
in all this love thing,
whatever it is.. maybe
I’ll go try to write a poem about it,
see where it goes
[This poem is dedicated to the memory of Bukowski, the poet
who taught us to write it like it is - even if his later work...]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0317 Fingertip to fingertip, a human net
i think it's really wonderful
that with all the million poems on this net
people find their way to read what each of us has read
or written.
it's like a shining human net around the world -
fingertip to fingertip in space
all connected by the love of poetry
and the poetry of love.
so instead of moping and chewing our pencils,
feeling pathetic and unread
we can dedicate all our poems to all those real people who - yes! -
actually read them
and say
It's you I wrote them for - and you - and you-
and now I know you're there
I'll write some better ones for you in time,
that what it's all about...
and if I'm silent for a time
working on something that's good enough for you,
remember -
love, love, love
poem by Michael Shepherd
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All Poetry... All The Time
All Poetry … All The Time
I Love To Read In Rhythm & Rhyme
I Love To Write Of Wistful Wishes
And Lips Speak Of Love Like Bold Kisses
All Poetry … All The Time
Poetry, Is A Medication For My Mind
Poetry, Has A Power To Overthrow Pain
Poetry, Should Be Spoken, Again and Again
All Poetry … All The Time
I Am Really Thrilled To Find
More Poet Lovers, and Their Word Artistry
All The Time … All Poetry
All Poetry … All The Time
May Each Poetic Puff, Rise & Climb
Into The Clouds, Up To The Stars
(Or Maybe Just Linger, Where You Are) …
All Poetry … For All Of Time
Written & ©: 5/24/10
By: MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Poetry Is All In One!
Passion for poetry is insatiable!
Poetry gives pleasure nothing can!
Poetry is many subjects under one roof!
Poetry never bores to write and read ever!
Poetry is a compression of many ideas in a nut shell!
Poetry displays power of pen to capture men ever!
Poetry captures as photo castles built in air!
Poetry is spontaneous over flow of ides!
Poetry flows free if extemporary!
Poetry is prolific words sure!
Poetry is a thing of joy!
Poetry is beauty!
Poetry is witty!
Poetry cheers!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Your Week End Letter
Lets re-read your week end letter.
Lets spend the afternoon together.
I know that you and I will feel much better
When we can write and talk together.
Here in this week end letter
The outside world has nice weather.
Wish we were together, it would be better
But for now there's no together
So lets re-read your week end letter
Lets spend the afternoon together
poem by Darlene Joy Hilliard
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I Am Not A Poet 2
When I feel I am really a poet
I see my flesh is poetry
My pleasure is poetry
My pains are poetry
My feelings are poetry.
Poetry protects me
Poetry teaches me
How to fight back and win.
Poetry is my freedom
Poetry is my independence
Poetry is my flag
And an anthem
Poetry is my prophet
And a messanger.
But I am not a poet
Do not read me
Burn me into ashes
Let there be a flower
From the ashes.
poem by Devil Poet
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A Letter To All
Today I had a rude awakening
Today I went out to dinner with my boy and wife
One of Alice’s songs began to play in the restaurant
One of them said “Isn’t that your girlfriend singing”
Both my boy and my wife began to laugh out loud
I felt as if I were the butt of some cruel joke
I began to think that I should give up my love of poetry
So I will give everyone my reason for no punctuation
I don’t want my poems to be restrained I want them to be free
And everyone may read it differently each time they read it
Maybe if my poetry receives recognition one day I may return
That is if my family learns that I am a fairly decent poet
And they tell me that I can continue to write poetry
I will miss you Alice more than anything I am sad
To say that it is with a heavy heart I must bid you all adieu
You all Happy Holidays peace
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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Great Poetry?
How could anyone ever truly
Define great poetry?
Factors are so many that contribute
To the way each person does hear-feel-and see.
The season, the day, the very time,
Along with each readers wisdom-knowledge-and mind.
A line read one day
May deeply stir the spirit
While the very next time read
The reader simply just can't 'get-it'.
Besides, who is to judge,
And who is to decide?
Who always speaks truth,
And who pray tell has never lied?
Let the one who has never struggled with emotion and word
Cast the first critical stone,
Let the pure, perfect poet
Read and write completely all alone;
Enshrined by himself
Upon his own empty throne.
After all, it is supposed to be
A bit (or more) of myth and mystery,
A little difficult to decipher, somewhat vague,
Meant to speak, but not brag.
For Goodness sake, it's poetry.
Not prose, not essay, and certainly not the news.
It's forms are many and free,
It's thoughts different and deep,
It's direction everywhere the heart can see,
It's origin, and destination, ineffable...
But to write, one must try, or die... such is the poems strength.
So, let the creator of words create.
With wild and wonderful words to decipher and debate;
And never let the beauty of it all
In trivial criticism suffocate.
What is great poetry though you still inquire?
I should have told you from the start;
(But, then you would not have listened)
Great poetry is always, and only,
Beautiful words written truly
From, and for, the heart.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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289
Read the poems and meet the words
Like they are strangers
They do not know you
And you do not know them
But then you
Get to know each other
With how you feel
And what they feel for you
They flow into your mind
And float there
Then they sink because
You rock them in your
Blood and thirst and
Loneliness, and you ask
If it is you in the poem?
Did I not tell you the magic
Of my poetry? Or of poetry itself?
I will tell you again
You read them and then feel them,
Then they become you
Because now you see yourself
Inside them
And the poems own you
Because now you own them too.
is it you? yes, it is also us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Is it you?
Read the poems and meet the words
Like they are strangers
They do not know you
And you do not know them
But then you
Get to know each other
With how you feel
And what they feel for you
They flow into your mind
And float there
Then they sink because
You rock them in your
Blood and thirst and
Loneliness, and you ask
If it is you in the poem?
Did I not tell you the magic
Of my poetry? Or of poetry itself?
I will tell you again
You read them and then feel them,
Then they become you
Because now you see yourself
Inside them
And the poems own you
Because now you own them too.
is it you? yes, it is also us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Read Today A Hundred Poems
I read today a hundred poems
And cannot find
A single one that moved me -
Perhaps it is not the poems
But my poetic soul
that has no life -
I remember a poem
I read yesterday by Neruda
How beautiful how deep
How filled with passion and longing-
How rich in surprise-
I marvel at the greatness
Of his Poetry of Love-
There is Poetry
One only has to read a true poet
To find it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...
Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.
But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'
Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.
The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.
Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.
I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.
It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?
poem by Maddy Macleod
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Not Just You
i, too, had it, not just once,
but many times, when i
wake up at the wrong hour
and think of you
and then i take my old
favorite pen and
yellow pad paper
and begin to write
a letter for you
you are a ghost now
far away
and i expect you
not to read this
letter that i am
not sending anyway
i will not even
read it
i will just keep it
so when another being
comes whose interest
is poetry and by chance
he digs upon my
poetry books that no one
bothers to read
anymore
at anytime
he may find it there
inserted in one of the
pages between
two chapters
concerning the themes
of love and
death
and perhaps he too
will understand how is to
truly love and be
so unloved because
death has come
to early because
the timing was wrong
because the world
has not understood
because one
sometimes in pain
has no cure
but just the silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Write Poetry
I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,
I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,
I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,
I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,
poem by Saranyan Bee
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