0184 Poetry's Triumph
When that strange stirring to a poem comes -
half-heard, half-formed, some seed deep in the mind -
the heart lights up, so eager to explore
the unknown path that listening may find:
obedience, awe, devotion, humbleness
all rise to meet the offering of the word,
and gently, like new father with his child,
tend precious stranger granted to their care.
Then silence turns to music in the mind
and all too solid words form, black and white;
behind the magic of the manifest
remains - less noonday, than unbroken night...
The poet's failure? No, his Muse's power -
if readers hear that seed which spoke the flower.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Half The World
Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
Half the world hates
What half the world does every day
Half the world waits
While half gets on with it anyway
Half the world lives
Half the world makes
Half the world gives
While the other half takes
Half the world is
Half the world was
Half the world thinks
While the other half does
Half the world talks
With half a mind on what they say
Half the world walks
With half a mind to run away
Half the world lies
Half the world learns
Half the world flies
As half the world turns
Half the world cries
Half the world laughs
Half the world tries
To be the other half
Half of us divided like a torn-up photograph half of us are
Trying to reach the other half
Half the world cares
While half the world is wasting the day
Half the world shares
While half the world is stealing away
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Rumi's silence
Rumi wrote much about silence.
Does that seem strange?
Poets live with silence:
the silence before the poem;
the silence whence the poem comes; .
the silence in between the words, as you
drink the words, watch them glide through your mind,
feel them slide down your throat
towards your heart;
the silence which you share with the poet
when the poem ends, sitting side by side,
feeling one another being one heart;
the silence after the poem,
when you are a different person
from the person who started reading the poem,
think differently, move differently,
act differently; know Rumi a little better
as a friend; know yourself a little more
as a friend.
Rumi was asked, why do you
talk, talk, talk, so much
about silence?
He said, the radiant one inside me
has said nothing.
And that’s the silence which we listen to
and hear in Rumi’s heart,
here, sitting in the cool shade
which the scent of roses seems to love,
while the fountain gently plays like a poet
with sound and silence.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Poem Whose Meaning The Poet Does Not Know
A POEM WHOSE MEANING THE POET DOES NOT KNOW
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Is a question only its readers can answer.
But if in the silence of endless absence
There are no readers
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Becomes a poem which does not exist.
And a poem which does not exist
Is not the poem the poet dreamed
When he heard in the night or the early morning
That rush of music that sequence of sounds
Which seemed to say more than he would ever understand
As he wrote it down in haste
For fear it somehow would be lost.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Place Between
Where and how to find immortal soul;
or self; eternal witness; eye of God;
or place, or space, within the eager heart
where All, or One, may hide – or may await?
So where to find first clue; or some frayed end
of golden thread that leads to golden light?
Not in the wrinkled brow… but in the simplest things
the greatest secrets wait, as we are told;
in the magic land that’s called Between:
Between the end of one thought, and the next,
as it is formed within the mind – the briefest space
where nothing but the witness of our self
rests, perfect, pure, complete, within itself;
inviting us to join that rest for just as long
as we enjoy this satisfaction
of the presence of ourself;
And if that taste of presence pleases -
then, between each word we hear or speak,
we’ll find the silence of ourself; and find
how each word comes from silence, and returns;
and as we relish and besport in that great space,
from greater silence, greater words may come..
There is no limit to that world, Between:
we’ll find it more and more, within all things,
beyond all things; it is the music of our life
which sings its song through thought and speech and act;
a music in a boundless space, so vast
that we may meet our greater self – at last!
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Girl Who Tamed A Poets Heart
Those words which screamed out
From a heart into a silent world
Those passionate dreams once known
Of a love which seem to be a stranger
The lyrics and the verse which sang
To love, to a love they longed to find
All fell silent, all slept sound
She came from such silence
Full beauty body, heart and mind
Her words touched and soothed
The mind of a poet like never before
The wild tempest which once reigned
The heart and the imagination
Each word which built their world
Now spoke softly to a love they knew
Now whispered gently her name
She came as though called
To answer each prayer and wish
She took the heart in her hands
And cradled it in a kiss
She tamed its wild passion
And heard it sing anew
To the girl who tamed a poets heart
I shall forever love you
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Interactive
I write some lines and you read each word
A word excites you and you take it up to
Seed your fields where you grow your own
Shrubbery of words with tendrils climbing
I look at your garden of words and there is
This word growing into a flower attracting
Me I pick it up this sensual flower and I
Seed it in the lines of my mind now another
Bunch of words like ripe grapes I take one
Swallow it and savor the taste of its sweetness
More lines of words in my throat sliding
Through the lining of my esophagus so smooth
Going straight inside the veins leading to my heart
Sweet, so sweet I could have written the usual
Lines of “ I love you, I miss you” but I couldn’t
There is this roadblock, this writer’s block
The lines stopped, the words are stunted
I stutter, I retreat to my eyes, to see
The face of this woman I love, her eyes
Are gentle, she smiles at me, and waits
For this beautiful silence that gives her life
You stand there, looking for a hint, another
Word to seed the lines waiting to be written.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If I Were A Poem
If I were a poem
And you were a book
Would you ever read me
Could you take a look
Would you be my rhythm
While I would be a rhyme
Would you even know me
By feeling inside my mind.
And if I were a poem
And you were a book
Would you understand me
With the feelings I have shook
Would you be my reader
With words I have spoke
Then I would believe her
With feelings I have wrote.
If I were a Poet
And you were an Author
Would you ever know it
That I too was a scholar
Would you be my leaf
If I were the tree
Would you feel a need
Could you feel a belief.
If I had the power
And you were the seed
I would be a flower
And you would be like me.
But I am just a pen
And you are my thoughts
You are my poems
And I am what I sought.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Am He
I am he,
Spoke the acorn to the tree
Said the flower to the seed
Replied the wind to the breeze
And standing up in awe
Stood an oak tree standing tall
And below his roots did lie
The acorn who did cry
That I am he.
Like the wind who fathers the breeze
Or the flower, who nourishes the seed
To grow up and be like he
I am he.
I am he said the father to the sky
And the stars in the night
To his son that he held
To become like himself
And I am he.
I am he
Said the raven to its young
And the bear to its cub
And the wind to the breeze
That I am he.
And looking up in belief
Lied an acorn from a tree
From which that it had fallen
Knowing he had been calling’
To be like he.
So, I am he
Like the father is the child
And the flower is the seed
The raindropp to the sea
I am he!
And he is me
Replied the oak tree to the seed.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When That Flower Wilted
on the path
one late afternoon
that wild flower wilted
its life was too short
yet it bloomed in full beauty
that noonday
no one noticed it
except the sunset
fading in pastel orange
then the world turns
into a black sky
that flower remains so true
inside my mind
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mother Nature Is Crying 'Why
WIND- why do you howl so?
is it because you want to be heard
of all the pain you feel.
or is it that you must have the last word.
TREE-why do they call you the weeping willow?
is it because you are tired of crying
for all of humanitys errors.
and need to rest your head 'on a soft pillow'.
RAIN- why do you not cry as often as you used to.
you leave the land parched and dry
and the human heart, with a heavy sigh.
RIVER- why does your mind not flow
as clear and clean as the white snow
which falls from the skies.
is it because you're tired of the lies.
ICE GLAZIERS- why does your heart melt so.
is it because mankind is moving so slow.
OCEANS- why is your heart so deep with pain
that you reject the wind and the rain.
MOTHER NATURE- is crying and we do
not see or hear,
and she is in constant fear.
fear that we are destroying her children
and all that they have to give.
she is like any mother crying
'let my children live'.
my children are here to give you all that you need
if you just plant the seed.
the seed of love and devotion
is the only magic potion.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Some Silence, Some Words
Today somewhere a mirror broke
And a music of end splashed in the pages of time,
Someone lost his meanings in the broken mirror..
And an unending silence flowed
Many things happen silently, , ,
How the silent weeping of the lost meaning wander in the depth of the night, , ,
I unveil the sea of darkness...i find only silence
And the music of the end keeps on splashing around
Life is all about some silence and some words…
Far away a poet was looking for words, .
And a poem was seeking for its understanding, ,
for the heart where words dwell with meanings, ,
As long as they both were away everything was all right...
And when they met, , ,
the poet lamented on the end of words of the poem, , ,
and the poem on the unending silence of the poet, , , , ,
poems are not about understanding....
poet is not about words, , , ,
A seed of love
I stand here with a dying
flower in my hand
It's our love
It's petals lie at my feet
along with the pieces of my heart
All twisted and black
But deep in the dark corner
of your heart
Theres a seed
a seed of love
Being kept from the light
I know cause i planted it there
And when your mind feels free
to let the light in and let it grow
It will overcome you and burst into flower
I will be there to hold that flower
And we together will nurture
that flower
And from it make a garden of love
to live in forever
poem by Paul Larmour
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Seed And The Tree
Who can say for sure as to what came first: the seed or the tree?
If the seed came first where did it come from if not from the tree?
But then if the tree came first where did it come from except from a seed!
So then you'll have to re-ask again that question of the origin of the seed.
An endless circle with no logical conclusion soon appears
until one looks beyond the seed and the tree that it bears.
Although the seed comes from the tree and the tree from the seed
each one grows in the ground of mother Earth which both does feed.
The Earth is the womb of everything living and supports all we know
and then becomes the tomb back into which all forms one day must go.
The underlying essence of all nature is of consciousness-energy-intelligence
that includes and sustains all things despite our ever incessant belligerence.
Has anyone ever heard it said that God is in the form of the world
and so all within it carries a divine spark from which it has swirled.
God is the infinite eternal seed of all existence and can be experienced like this:
usually as an overwhelming love within us and as all power, knowledge and bliss.
So the seed and tree came from the Earth which itself has come from and exists in God
and to enquire where God has come from is useless if we haven't transcended this sod.
The limited mind of man has to merge into that unlimited universal mind of the Creator
only then can we know the original cause or final end of everything and of their Maker.
---------------------
Note:
This should remind one of the other similar paradox being that of 'the chicken and the egg'.
poem by George Krokos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Beautiful Flower
I have a flower, Yes I have picked a beautiful flower,
One with greatest strength like a tree with mightiness and power,
Power of faith beyond any measure,
Yet precious and few like a beautiful treasure.
How precious its love it shares,
How very precious sweet and rare.
Easily lost as colors are tossed on the tides,
For those who tend to set it aside.
Beauty beyond their eye’s is what I have gained as a prize,
And keeping it, is what makes my heart so wise.
It may seem like neglect on their part,
But neglect has not been the wish of their heart.
Why so often many are in a rush,
The beauty of this flower is often a hush.
I praise my flower for its humbleness,
Staying that way always brings forth its beautifulness.
Yes my flower that I have I would gladly share,
To those who appreciate my gift that is rare.
This flower is a gift and I will tell you why,
Because its known for its beauty that will never die.
For if my flower and me ever depart,
The beauty of it will always be found in my heart.
Yes I have a flower, a beautiful flower to name,
It would have to be beautiful,
it would have to meet its beauty inside and out the same.
For that isn’t hard to do, Why you don’t even need a clue,
For I could have never have picked a better you,
My Dear Friend (put name here)….. Its true.
A name, that’s beautiful as you.
poem by Esther Ayala
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Seeds and Husks
Look, he said, at the gray squirrel
perched on top the wooden fence
that borders the garden out back.
Study it well before it takes offense
and departs without a by your leave,
scattering hull and seed in its track -
Like a poet with half-formed idea,
who discards reams of dry husks,
seeking the seed within each morsel;
who digests the meat of metaphor
and simile, set in rhythm and rhyme
in lines that defy inexorable time,
leaving images that remain behind
imprinted alive on a reader's mind.
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet XXXII. To Melancholy
Written on the banks of the Arun, Oct. 1785.
WHEN latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Through the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:
For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale,
Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes;
Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night wanderers, who their woes bewail
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet,
And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind!
O Melancholy!--such thy magic power,
That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
And sooth the pensive visionary mind!
poem by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
As 42 Is the Answer to Everything (revised)
Might I interest you
in a poem of 42
where the answer to everything may be found
There color can be heard
And number is the word
exceeding every expectation ere earthbound
Might I share with you
a secret you once knew
though you left it in the backyard of your youth
when regrets arrived there never
and tomorrows stretched on forever
where only hopes and wishes spoke the truth
Should this proposal you avow
your mind may then allow
suspending laws of both time and space
Beyond boundaries of science
perhaps you’ll learn reliance
on a power that proceeds from inner place
Should 42 appear deficient
perhaps your imagination’s insufficient
to step beyond the box like trappings of your mind
Please believe me when I say
you can go everywhere today
for there is no end to the universe you’ll find
Dreams never secede
Or imagination exceed
Should you but loosen grasp on the limited material
Greater riches you would find
In the bright light of the mind
No earthly treasures can meet measure the ethereal
Having been there myself before
I often return to explore
lately considering it as a permanent address
Spirit houses I do find
to be simply quite sublime
Though where to place the mailbox I can’t guess
Might I take you with me
through visions we can see
when we have learned to look without our human eyes
There 42 makes perfect sense
the finest truth one can dispense
For it's only the word ‘IMPOSSIBLE’ that lies.
Readers note: For some insight into the inspiration for this poem
you might wish to Google: ‘42’ or alternately search ‘the answer to everything’
poem by Mary Havran
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Process in the Weather of the Heart
A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down,
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pulls down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
poem by Dylan Thomas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Silence of Rumi
I read Rumi several times
And every time I went through
the same sincere silence
That unites the human with the divine
Silence of Rumi as though
Is the silence Sublime—
The heart of all sounds!
I dove deep down that silence,
A child’s wonder of sort
Why do I start my poems with words?
When they end only with silence!
His silence is deep
Deep as the existence at the bottom of the ocean
Deep as the calmness of a wise man
And yet he is in conversation
With the silence
And through it, time and again
His silence is the silence of a flute
Empty, easy and melodious
It turns separation into liberation
Oh what a joy—Rumi’s silence!
His silence is an invitation
To join the journey of the soul
A sweet beacon to lose yourself
In the Self of existence
And yet it is conversational
You can toy with it safely
Who can turn his back
Having heard Rumi’s silence
In its sincerity
In its entirety
Who can escape from Rumi’s silence
Having been there for a moment
Who can not hear his silence
Having heard it with the thumps of his heart
Oh love! Go and meet this evening
Silence of Rumi in its serenity
Of heavens
This must be the highest
Of souls
This is the highest!
poem by Bhaswat Chakraborty
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!