0026 Listening to a reading by Robert Hass
There are so many different postures
that may be adopted while listening
to a poetry reading especially
one that’s being filmed -
different tilts of neck and head,
some natural, some chosen
to suit the occasion;
it’s the panelled reading-room of Berkeley –
lecture desk, a couple of sofas,
inappropriately satin-striped for library use;
various chairs; November mid-day Bay Area sunlight
filters through the high windows,
the room’s comfortably full, a number
at the poet’s feet, mostly younger girls
and a boy whose clothes say poet;
but just outside the door, pressing in
like the background crowd in an 'important'
Renaissance painting, a horde it seems;
some fire or other precautions have
kept them out, as would
the prissy warnings that precede the video,
that adult themes and language
will be used, and
‘viewer discretion is advised’…
Zack Rogow who has introduced the poet
sits back relaxed – he's done a good and generous job;
some sit as if they’re on screen all the time - which they are;
some sit as if ‘I’m just here with him…’;
the girl on the floor looks at her companion
after each poem as if for validation
of some frail cultural bond or fragile claim;
some look as if they’re older faculty wives
attending more a social occasion, except that
the one who doesn't like a poet - is a poet;
one girl's got a note-book and a dreamy look -
she's gleaning seeds for her own poems;
that girl with the perfectly chosen spectacle frames
assesses the speaker 'coolly';
a girl at the back tilts her head
as if already practising for the time
in forty years when she’ll be a wealthy patron of the arts
who can afford to be close to culture
yet detached – she paid for it…
and the man who’s reading to us with a smile
twisted with humour and affection and humanity
in a face lined with the challenge of the inexpressible
is radiantly, the happiest human being in the room
and - his eyes say too - loves them all and individually,
just above, or just below, his love of words and speech.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
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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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 Poets
an old woman poet,
stood behind the table,
doling out plate after plate,
to the line of faces...
taking the time...
to ask each their name.
a young student poet,
jerked from the picket line,
beaten, and arrested...
now sits in jail.
the young man poet,
just home after a 12 hour shift,
went next door and mowed
his elderly neighbor's grass.
a young girl poet,
took in the stray cat,
fed it, and held it...
and rocked it to sleep.
the poor poet,
makes a pallot on the floor
of his empty room,
for the homeless to sleep on.
the old man poet,
goes to work again,
minimum wage with a smile,
to feed his sick wife...
the common poet,
build houses, works on machines,
tills gardens, works on cars...
treats everyone the same...
and no one knows his name!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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Poet Is A Poet/Wherever He Goes
A POET IS A POET/ WHEREVER HE GOES
A poet is a poet
Wherever he goes
He can stop and sit on a bench anywhere
And write a poem
The poems come from without often
But what is within is the poetry-
Like a dream like a fire like a small light
That never goes out
A poet sits anywhere and writes his dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Reading the poems of Billy Collins
When did you last turn the pages
of a book of poems as if it were a novel?
and how could a Poet Laureate ‘rejoice’-
as they say in flowery poetic language
in the name of Billy?
and it’s not so much reading
as being with: as if you’re in the same
room with him: he’s over there in the recliner,
self-contained but friendly; he may
say nothing; or make an inconsequent remark;
or launch into a fantasy; or say
something unpretentiously profound..
it doesn’t matter now. You’re in the same room
with him, just being.. he’s not making a poem
like you hold a glass up to the light
and polish it; he’s not even selling ‘being’
like some New Age guru; he’s not asking
anything of you.
And thousands who view poetry with suspicion
sigh with relief; take up his latest book
and glance at him there across the room
with a half-smile that somehow reflects his
just being Billy Collins. No, not even that;
just being.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Poet Became His Own Poetry
A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY
A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.
A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When A Girl
When a girl bumps into him arms
while walking she wants
him to hold her hand
When she wants a hug
she will just stand there
When boy break a girls heart,
she still feels it when
he is run into each other 3 years later
When a girl is quiet,
millions of things are running through her
mind.
When a girl is not arguing,
she is thinking deeply.
When a girl looks at him with eyes full of
questions,
she is wondering how long you will be
around.
When a girl answers, 'I'm fine, ' after a
few seconds,
she is not at all fine.
When a girl stares him,
she is wondering why They are so
wonderful.
When a girl lays her head on Their chest,
she is wishing for you to be hers forever.
When a girl says that she can't live
without u,
she has made up her mind that you are
her future.
When a girl says, 'I miss you, '
no one in this world can miss him more
than that
When a girl is mean to him after a breakup
she wants you back, but she's
scared she'll get hurt and knows
poem by Abhishek Poet
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Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
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Being A Poet
being a poet
is not an ambition
it is ironic
that i do poetry and
yet i do not want
to be called a poet
nor be identified with
any movement in poetry
nor take the challenge and opportunity
of being crowned by laurel leaves
and be dragged on the stage of
an island of light focusing my head and body
and they shall all clap and say
this is the poet, this is our poet
not in the figment of my imagination
not an ambition not a profession not a career in the field of literature
to be a poet on a certain degree
you see, i live in a crowded universe
i am a fish in the sea of people
and i, never imagine once in my whole life
that i will be swimming so meaninglessly in the corridors
of this vast ocean of men and mice and snakes
and goats and pigs and eagles
poetry is what i do but i am not a poet
this poet, that poet
their poet
the reason is here inside my heart
this is my place &
this is my only chance to be alone
to be myself to be human again for out there
i, we, you have become pillars
and dams.and walls and continental shelves
it is only here in this spot
that i become my island
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Personal Journey
If someone had told me years ago,
poetry would make my name.
I would have politely smiled
and nodded yes,
and not believed a word of it.
I remember once
attending a poetry reading
and calmly getting up
and declaring I was not a poet,
and then wondered why everyone laughed.
They must have realised something
I did not know
that in fact, I was a poet,
of course, that was a long time ago,
and much waters
have crossed under the bridge of my life.
The doodles I once called poems
were in fact poems after all.
Some were much better
than I could ever dream of.
It took me a long time
and the internet to realise that fact.
Now I have started a new dawn
within my writing career,
taken steps down roads
I never thought I would go.
The journey has not been unmarked,
as I have gained so much more
than just becoming recognised as a writer.
I have gained so many friends across the world.
Something I could have only dreamed about
in my younger years.
17 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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The Poet And The Lonely Lady
one summer a poet writes about
true love
and happiness
and this lonely lady
chances upon the lines of this poet
and she has tasted the sweetness
of happiness that love can bring
she loves every word in the poem
feels the ecstasy of every line
and every night
she says she cannot sleep
thinking, feeling,
wanting to be lost and be held in
his arms
she decides to love
the poet
ultimately
she travels to the place stated in his address
hoping to see him
so she will finally know
his love that touches her
in the bottom
of her heart
only to find out
it is sad
that the address does not exist
and the poet does not live there
and does not even
exist
perhaps only in the imagination
of those who want to love
and be loved
she is so sad she jumps into
a conclusion that love is a
lie
that the poet is a
liar
since then, she stops reading the poems
of that poet
(or any other poet)
who never dies
because he for once never ever lived
in the first place
except the poem
perhaps
which to date still convinces lonely ladies to live and believe
to love and be loved
that which defines
what love is
where love is found
and find it somehow in the arms of one
who is real, like it is alive, like it is true
to the one beside her
who touches her
with his
warm hands
who melts
her in his eyes
because
even unwritten by any poet
this love is still so beautiful....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Journey Of A Poet
A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.
Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions
A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind
With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry
Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words
A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.
A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection
A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Marie (unattainable love)
When I wake up in the morning my first thought is of Marie,
She’s the girl I think of all the time, she’s the girl I want for me.
Her smile is so inviting, her eyes of full of glee,
She’s the girl I think of all the time, she’s the girl I want for me.
Because she is so beautiful, I love her tenderly,
She’s the girl I think of all the time, she’s the girl I want for me.
Though she is so far from me, so far across the sea,
She’s the girl I think of all the time, she’s the girl I want for me.
At times I raise my head in prayer, Oh Lord please hear my plea,
She’s the girl I want to be with, she’s the girl I want for me.
My heart’s in Indiana, where the rest of me should be,
With the girl I think of all the time, with the girl I want for me.
And though I’ve never met her, to my heart she has the key,
She’s the girl I think of all the time, she’s the girl I want for me.
And in my dreams she whispers that she’ll never set me free,
But she’s the girl I think of all the time, she’s the girl I want for me.
It really breaks my heart in two that my dream may never be,
With the girl I think of all the time, with the girl I want for me.
And when I close my eyes at night, my last thought is of Marie,
Of the girl I think of all the time, of the girl I want for me
poem by Stuart Rae
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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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Portraits after death; rhyme after time
and a poet I was reading yesterday
said, have you noticed
that portraits of people change
after they die?
and I’ve noticed that portraits
of Princess Diana
now look to me as if
she’s a sad schemer
I don’t like this at all.
I feel dirty, as if
I’d been manipulated
when all I want to do
is, to see the goodness and the beauty in her
It’s the same with rhyme:
when I see rhyme
(hearing it doesn’t worry me so much,
as if the time of reading it
heals it in some way) -
it seems like sad scheming
as when Robert Frost
has to take the road pre-planned
by language and the rhyming dictionary
and very obviously rhymes
future with suture
I don’t like this at all, either:
It never used to worry me; now
I start to look cynically
at every poem that rhymes
in the convention of its times
(that rhyme was not planned
deliberately..) –
look cynically, to see
which was the chosen word,
the direction of the poet’s thought;
and which the ‘fill-in’, like
some silly puzzle; even if
it stimulates the poet’s imagination
perhaps
I don’t like either of these phenomena
in actuality, or worse, in myself;
both these dirty me to myself.
This looks like being hard work
for the insulted mind
insulted, like some robot, by itself.
Diana, Robert, I am deeply, deeply regretful.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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No One Else In The Room (feat. Maxwell)
[Maxwell]
Oooooooooooh!
[Nas]
Maxwell go and sing
[Maxwell]
Ooohh, this for the ladies
[Nas]
M-A-X
[Maxwell]
Doin' it
[Nas]
N-A-S
[Maxwell]
I'm back again (who's back)
Again, again, I'm back again (who's back)
Ooh, tell me (who's back)
I'm back again (who's back)
Again, again, I'm back again
[Nas]
Uh, yeah the booty is the bass
The highs, the beauty in ya eyes
First glance I became alive
She went through a lot of dangerous guys, surprise
Now she went to side on Nas
Cause I ain't choose her, she chose me
In the party, it was a early day a March
When I first had ya legs arched
In the park, wasn't even dark
We was in the zone, we ain't care who watch
Baby was ??? though the trees was sparked
She said till you get enough, please don't stop
So I played wit it, got the moist spot hot
If I ain't hittin' the bottom, I'm getting some top
My hair cut look air brushed
Whatever I wear is straight plush from the ears to chucks
As we ??? across the dance floor
Just, me and you no one else but us to
[Maxwell]
No other girl in the room
No other girl in the room but you
(There's no other girl lookin' as good as you)
There's nobody but you
(They can try, they can try)
No other girl in the room
(But you know, you know, you know)
No other girl in the room
(Oh, oh, ooo ooo)
No other girl in the room but you
(There's no other girl, no)
There's nobody but you
(They try)
No other girl in the room
(There's nobody to,)
[Nas]
In the early eighties, shorty had me off the wall
A super freak as my thoughts revolved
It's like a menage Winona Gaye and Leila Hathaway
Both they fathers a tell me to play, sip ???
On our honeymoon everyday
We dance to the same tune everyday
Beauty and the goon they would say
You promise, savage beast
You a sexy freak
Your moist lips negates the ecstacy
Number one in my book, no discrepancy
When you walk on the earth, you be reppin' me
I'm obsessed with thee, cherish every breath you breathe
No matter what's going on around us
All I could hear was the sound of (her)
Twirlin' her around just (her)
See nobody in the crowd just (her)
[Maxwell]
(No other)
No other girl in the room
(No one)
No other girl in the room but you
(There's no other girl)
There's nobody but you
(Thinkin' about you baby, baby)
No other girl in the room
(Never ever, ever, ever, see you)
No other girl in the room
(Oh)
No other girl in the room but you
(No other girl has, they're not you)
There's nobody but you
(Oooh baby yeah)
No other girl in the room
[Nas]
Uh, horns!
Clap
Everybody clap
C'mon, clap
Max mellow I'm out
[Maxwell]
Oh it's just my, it's just my, it's just my girl
Oh, it's just, just my, just my baby, you
Just you, just me, no one else but you
No one, no one, just me and you, oh babe
[Nas]
Clap!Break it down
[Olu Dara]
You know it all comes from Africa
But my version is the blues
song performed by by Nas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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