En.Citatepedia^®.ro

0233 The Blest

The authority on poetry pauses;
the world holds its breath. This head – greybeard,
skinhead – forehead already lined
with self-imposed responsibility for
the continuance of the known world,
applies itself. The word is,
discrimination. The fingers curl
like scalpel? like talons? around
the ballpoint of the turning world,
the keys that tap the dew of mercy
or beat the bitter rain of judgment on the poet’s brain

somewhere in the world
a childish head bent
over a desk clutching
awkwardly a chewed ballpoint
with total absorption
summons the unwieldy letters
that one day will greet each other in
the boundless heart
and write the first great poem
of a new age beyond all
imagining save his or hers

nestled in her favourite secret place -
look, there she is, where
the sunlight catches the leaves at
the end of the garden, by the woods –
a girl, her head caught in a golden halo
of magic, reads a book in a land where
time and place have paused
to read with her

blest are they that give.
blest are they that receive.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A sensual scribble

I was the scribe who woke up at dawn
Finding a clean sheet of paper
And this glossy sort of ballpoint pen
Having the urge to write
Something sensual
My fingers spread the paper
On this table
Where there is so much disorder
Some paper clips and
Floppy discs scattered
Scotch tapes and mail openers
And some still unopened mails
That I did not mind
Not my priority

I was into something sensual
On this clean sheet of paper
On an urge to write
Grabbed this glossy sort of ballpoint pen
And start scribbling
Some lovely head notes
“My dear darling”
Careful strokes in curves
Sliding on paper
My fingers are wildly
Caressing to the shapes of
Sensual letters and words
And breathtaking sentences

“You know that you make me
Hot and you make me wild
And I always remember you”

And I am at the middle
Of so much longing
Using such letters

U and I
And w and e

Lots of ohs and ahs

And s and e and x
L and o and v and e

To make sense
Without pretense

Some exclamations
And pauses of commas and
Semicolons spread on some
Corners of this paper
With so much
Unstoppable anticipation

Somewhere in the center
I pierced this paper
With this glossy ballpoint pen
Writing something
Emphatic
Clinching
And I was at the height
Of my desiring and
So much liking
Something ecstatic
And calming
At the end

It was a beautiful piece
Of a scribble
Written at dawn

And I wrote at the end part there
“With all my love I remain
Your faithful slave”

And a postscript at the tip
Of my tongue
Written with a nip

“When will I see you again? ”

The letter shall be mailed at once
She will understand that pierce
Somewhere at the center something
That was ecstatic and she will remember
Every letter every word was an ember embedded.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Egoism of Poets

We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.

We should be ashamed.

poem by Nadim Lost Soul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Search Of Metaphors And Images To Express Yourself In A Poem

it is the expression that matters most.

it is the relational flow from the writer to the reader
the bond that is created anew, just like an ordinary conversation
one fine day.

why can't poetry be simple and direct? that is the question that poetry
asks

to itself, in itself.

the poet in us can be lost because of so much demands for the absurd,
this metaphor fits, this imagery is perfect, what is it?

you do not accept the sun and the moon and the stars.
cliches of their poetry. You do not show compassion for his feelings
of being abandoned

simply because there are no images that tickle your senses.

even if he jumps with joy, you do not relate to his joys
simply because the images are bland like
burger without the black pepper.

it is enough that one bleeds, one wants a listener, one wants to open
up to the world
Like a bud turning into a flower

(oh forgive this lousy metaphor
i am not a good poet somehow at imaging
at imagining.
Am not a camera.
My eyes are clumsy at details.
And my ears are not sensitive to sound of
beautiful words. They even hide behind my head under my hair.
And there is no compulsion for high highfalutin
Ivory towers of similes from the gods and goddesses of
Literature)

Why can't poetry be just an expression? Just that. A dialogue.
This one, this monologue.

It is enough that you write from the heart.
It is enough that you are true

(oh forgive me, can i be really
true to you? Do i have to be naked and tell you that i am beautiful?
Do i have to master the art of metaphorisms
to be your poet
for the night?)

Or is it that poetry is simply our hiding place
From this world of pain?

Or our chapel for our prayers
Or our playground where we can be children again?

I am tired of squeezing my brain in the quest of the perfect metaphor.
I have read what they have written.
I pretend i like them. They sound so well.
They must be poetry. Real poetry
Those that garner plaques.
Prizes from the jury.

Honestly, I do not understand a thing. Those poems of my idols.
But I read them just the same.
Hoping that I am in and be counted as one of the stars in those
Metaphoric Heavens.I watch every meteor that drops
to the ground. Their tails.

I am not a star. I am just a pebble.
And it is enough for me.

The poem says, just write me.

Don't squeeze your brain to have metaphors
To draw the images.

Just be yourself, and for God's sake if you have something to say
Just say it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cant Get It Out Of My Head

By elo, as performed by fountains of wayne
Midnight, on the water
I saw the oceans daughter
Walking on a wave she came
Staring as she called my name.
And I cant get it out of my head
No, I cant get it out of my head
Now my whole world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head.
Breakdown, on the shoreline
Cant move, its an ebb tide
Morning dont get here tonight
Searching for her silver light.
And I cant get it out of my head
No, I cant get it out of my head
Now my whole world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head, oh no
Day job, in the city
Robin hood & william tell & ivanhoe & lancelot
They dont envy me
Sitting as the sun goes down
In dreams the world keeps spinning round & around
And I cant get it out of my head
No, I cant get it out of my head
Now my whole world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head.
No, I cant get it out of my head
No, I cant get it out of my head
Now my whole world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head, oh no

song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the steps of Rumi 88: Metaphor

Simile – what looks like something else –
that’s a fun game for the senses,
for the mind: oh look Dad,
there’s a scarecrow in that field
that looks just like a man, does it
really scare crows?

Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the street
who looks just like a scarecrow,
I wonder if the same crows
see him too?

But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:
explanations don’t quite explain it:
you see something; it brings to mind
something very different; maybe
you just forget it, pass on; maybe
you’re a poet, and you think,
that other thing casts a subtle light
on this first thing, I’ll see if others
find the same.. and, sometimes they do,
sometimes they don’t…

Metaphor brings the whole universe,
world upon world, to the mind:
you could write a poem full of metaphor
as long as the circumference of the world,
and when you’d written it out, you’d find yourself
right here again just where you were.. but
what a lot you’d seen on the way…

We’re so used to some metaphors
because by now, they’re shared,
written into language (lucky the people
who inherit languages such as these,
they’re born into poetry…) :

take ‘bread’: you walk past the baker’s shop
in the early morning when the air is clear –
or better, go in to buy your breakfast rolls:
the smell couldn’t be more wonderful,
more promising.. the bread’s so delicious,
and best eaten today..

ah yes, ‘daily bread’ – that becomes a metaphor
for all that each and every day brings –
waking up, new thoughts, new experiences,
all that brings life to life…
that covers so many subtle things…
where does it all come from?
that’s for you to say…

Sometimes it seems that the whole world
is a metaphor for something…
for what? For its own unity,
for its very creation,
for that which we call God,
for our very self?
that’s for you to say…

Metaphor. When you meet it,
does it make you think of
English class, another boring
poem, another boring question
to answer as you chew your pen –
‘What does the poet mean when
he speaks of, lies like oyster shells
to be penknifed for their pearls? ’…

or - does it fill your heart with joy
as if someone had given you
a golden key to a secret garden
which is all you ever hoped for;
more than you could ever imagine…
and yet you recognise
it’s all really just yourself? …

In the corner of your room
there's a little girl curled up
in a large armchair, reading a book.
Don't disturb her.
The book she reads with all her self today,
may never read again, doesn't need to -
is a metaphor for
all she needs to know today
about the world, about herself;

she finishes the book,
closes it thoughtfully,
looks up at you;
she knows herself
a little more today.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Letter To A Young Poet Revised

Letter to a young Poet

Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.

So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Cant Get It Out Of My Head

Midnight on the water.
I saw the oceans daughter.
Walking on a waves chicane,
Staring as she called my name.
And I cant get it out of my head,
No, I cant get it out of my head.
Now my old world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head.
Breakdown on the shoreline,
Cant move, its an ebbtide.
Morning dont get here till night,
Searching for her silver light.
And I cant get it out of my head,
No, I cant get it out of my head.
Now my old world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head, no no.
Bank job in the city.
Robin hood and william tell and ivanhoe and lancelot, they dont envy me.
Sitting till the sun goes down,
In dreams the world keep going round and round.
And I cant get it out of my head,
No, I cant get it out of my head.
Now my old world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head, no no.
No, I cant get it out of my head,
No, I cant get it out of my head.
Now my old world is gone for dead
cos I cant get it out of my head, no no no no.

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I met the girl with the world inside her head

I met the girl with the world inside her head
She said “ it will be safe there”
And I just knew that I could trust her

I met the father of the girl with the world inside her head
He said “I gave her the world because I made her a promise”
And I just had to look up to him

I met the mother of the girl with the world inside her head
She told me that she had married the right man
And it sounded like she always knew she would

I took the girl with the world inside her head to the next town
She told me “ I feel I must close me eyes and I must not listen”
And we sat in silence

I married the girl with the world inside her head
We lived a perfect life
And I just knew it would turn out that way

I fathered the child of the girl with the world inside her head
I am reassured that our child will be safe with us
And I never really imagined anything different

I looked upon the mother who gave everything to the child
Until the day she died
Until the day the child asked for the world
In grief I looked upon the world and cursed it

poem by Lindsay Crosby
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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World, Wise head & Football

World on leg, world by leg, world in leg not hand

Shooting, moving, going

From to from, from to from, from to from

World on head, world by head, world in head not hand

Only two-operator touch world by their all

Heading, shooting or kicking moving, going from to from

We feel exciting with love or loveless

We total world exclaim goal, goal and goal

I believe immensely

Football is world

Head of wise man

No doubt consequence

Enough similarity has between wise man & football

Player's are playing football by leg or head

Exactly society is a stadium

Where people are playing or acting game

By adoration or abhor like by head or foot to wise man

And seer next & next generation

Wise man get adoration or abhor from society.

Shooting, moving, going

From to from, from to from, from to from

When he will go to eternal from this cosmic

Then we will shout that he was a good man.

World on leg, world by leg, world in leg not hand

Shooting or kicking, moving, going

From to from, from to from, from to from

We total world exclaim

Goal, goal, goal.

poem by Mashiur Rahman
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Colossal Youth

If you think the world is
A machine with one cog
And that cog is you,
Or the things that you do
Then you are not in this world
The world is not you
If you think the world
Is a balloon in your head
When it goes bang only
You will be dead
cos you are not in this world
The world is not you
If you think the world lies
At the top of your legs
And you only live when you are in bed
Then you are not in this world
The world is your head
If you think the world is
A clutter of existence
Falling through the air
With minimal resistance
You could be right, how would I know?
Colossal youth is showing the way to go

song performed by by Young Marble Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Letter To A Young Poet

Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent’ it never starts a war
nor finished it. Should a poet write something that resonance with,
the sentiment of a nation, you can be sure it will be used by politicians
and interpreted for their dubious plans.

So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the people a poet is regarded as a figure of fun
who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make sense
of a world they don’t understand. As my father said when I published
my first poem: “How much did they pay you? ” So if my words have not
scared you off you’re a poet. All you need is intellectual honesty.

poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rock This World

Everybody wants somethin'
That seems too hard to get
So I sit here on a street in Venice
Waitin' for the sun to set
Watching people live their lives
Wonderin' what it means?
Sometimes getting what you want
Is easier than it seems
I don't wanna save the day
I just want to get my way
[chorus]
And rock this world
Read my lips and watch 'em curl
Rock this world
It don't take much to please this girl
I don't need the glitter
Don't believe the hype
You might say I'm the simple type
Just like any other girl
Who wants to rock this world
Everybody's goin' somewhere
So why not you and I?
We're all part of the same parade
Just people passin' by
And anything can happen
When the sun goes down like this
Maybe it's just a miracle
When you find some happiness
I don't wanna save the day
I just wanna get my way
[chorus]
And rock this world
Read my lips and watch 'em curl
Rock this world
It don't take much to please this girl
I don't need the glitter
Don't believe the hype
You might say I'm the simple type
Just like any other girl
Who wants to rock this world
Hey you can hear me?
I want you to come near me
Can you feel the pull?
It can be so beautiful
[chorus]
And rock this world
Read my lips and watch 'em curl
Rock this world
It don't take much to please this girl
I don't need the glitter
Don't believe the hype
You might say I'm the simple type
Just like any other girl
Who wants to rock this world

song performed by by Hilary Duff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet as a Feeler of Pain

What makes a poet?

Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like a conduit,
a plainspokenness to grief,
the hairs of the head
dancing on end,
the blood swarming
with the voices
of all those who have died,
will die,
& will also be born?

Is it a catch
in the throat
that awakens the eyes,
is it in the eyes themselves
or is it something
in the heart?

I think it is pain-
an openness to pain,
so that the least leaf
cuts the hand
& the smallest tear
cuts the cheek
like jagged crystal,

so that the world
is a sick infant
& the poet its mother,
praying, crooning, promising
to be good
if only the cure
takes.

There is, of course,
no cure.

Poetry does not cure
the poet
& the poet
does not cure the world.

Usually he catches
the world's diseases
& dies
even before his time.

But against all odds
& all indifference,
another one is born.
The world must have
someone to feel its pain
& speak of it.

The poet is that mouth.

poem by Erica Jong
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THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!

THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!

THOSE who misspell
And those who are still coping up
With their metaphors
The techniques
Of rhyme & beat
Those who think
They do not
Know how to
Write poetry
And those
Who fear
What to say
What to write
What the others say
About their poetry
And those that doubt
Their writing
Abilities
Their thoughts

Their feelings
Their feelings
Their feelings
Yes
Yes
Their feelings

Or those who simply
Fear that they may only
Be displeasing
And disappointing

And those whose
Sense of confidence
About this thing
This poetry
This poem thing
Those that still
Hide what they
Feel to what they
Think

Is prose

Those who think that
Their life
Is not worth
Sharing in the
The beat and
Rhyme of poetry

Behold
The mere thought
About life
About a beating heart
The pulse
The eyes that blink
The fingers fidgety
That type the words

Of feelings
Of feelings
Yes
Yes
About feelings
It is all about feelings

The genuine feelings
Of your life
You type them
Each word
To another word
A chain of words
A long chain of words

Like playing the music
To the piano keys
Like strumming
The strings of a
Flamenco guitar

A certain music
A certain beat
To the sound
Of your computer keys
Hear the beat
And the rhyme
Of your computer keys
Each word
To another word
To a chain of words
To a longer chain of words
You are running a chain of feelings
You are chasing a chain of feelings long chained in your hearts wanting to be free

To be free
To be free
Yes
Yes
You, feeling to be free to run free to be all free

Like you were scattering red rose petals to this pedestal
Like you were sprinkling waters to this garden
Like you were splashing waters in the sea
Like you were bathing playing dancing in the rain
Like you were humming a tune to a trek on a hill
Like you were making love with your beloved the whole night

Behold
A poet in you is born

Behold
You are typing
A poem

You are
Feeling

And you are
By all means

Now a poet

I hereby baptize you
With that name.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Cherokee Prayer

I pray to the great spirit
guide me through this pain
this world conflicts
show me a world that holds no lies
that treats us like convicts
abandoned by society
in a world we once walked so free

Show me a setting sun
where blood never flows
like rivers turned red
where another one dies
underneath these blood red skies

Guide me through this land so dead
where visions stay in my head
teach me things nobody knows
when this day is gone
and all has come undone

Give me the strength I need
to make this a better place
when my people bleed
from this world falling from grace
(1998)

poem by Spiritwind Wood
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From The Garden of Heaven

FROM the garden of Heaven a western breeze
Blows through the leaves of my garden of earth;
With a love like a huri I'ld take mine ease,
And wine! bring me wine, the giver of mirth!
To-day the beggar may boast him a king,
His banqueting-hall is the ripening field,
And his tent the shadow that soft clouds fling.

A tale of April the meadows unfold--
Ah, foolish for future credit to slave,
And to leave the cash of the present untold!
Build a fort with wine where thy heart may brave
The assault of the world; when thy fortress falls,
The relentless victor shall knead from thy dust
The bricks that repair its crumbling walls.

Trust not the word of that foe in the fight!
Shall the lamp of the synagogue lend its flame
To set thy monastic torches alight?
Drunken am I, yet place not my name
In the Book of Doom, nor pass judgment on it;
Who knows what the secret finger of Fate
Upon his own white forehead has writ!

And when the spirit of Hafiz has fled,
Follow his bier with a tribute of sighs;
Though the ocean of sin has closed o'er his head,
He may find a place in God's Paradise.

poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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Sometimes I Read Or Hear A Poem

SOMETIMES I READ OR HEAR A POEM

Sometimes I read or hear a poem
And know there is real Poetry in the world-
Poetry that takes me beyond anything I myself could know or write-
Poetry of a different kind of Beauty -
A language I never thought to hear
But once heard charms and delights me
As never before.

There is Poetry-
And there are real Poets-
And there are yet Dreams to be written-

So write on Stranger
Maybe you are the next one
A real poet
A voice the world truly needs and wants and loves to hear
Beyond any ever heard before.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Radio Head

Baby your mind is a radio
Got a reciever inside my head
Baby Im tuned to your wavelength
Lemme tell you what it says:
Transmitter!
Oh! picking up something good
Hey, radio head!
The sound...of a brand-new world.
So look at my fingers vibrate
From their tip down down to my toes
Now Im recieving your signal
Were gonna leave the land of noise
Transmitter!
Oh! picking up something good
Hey, radio head!
The sound...of a brand-new world.
Transmitter!
Oh! picking up something good
Hey, radio head!
The sound...of a brand-new world.
Now you and I have no secrets
Now baby, lemme read your mind
I hear evrything youre thinking
You cant help the way you sound
Transmitter!
Picking up something good.
Hey! radio head!
The sound...of a brand-new world
Oh! radio head
Radio head
Radio head
Radio head

song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Wrote This Poem And That Poem And Another Poem Again

I WROTE THIS POEM AND THAT POEM AND ANOTHER POEM AGAIN

I wrote this poem and that poem and another poem again
The world of poetry was open to me
And I could go on and on in it
It was a dream come true
A world which opened when I moved through it
A place I wanted to be
A place of beauty and peace and spirit and imagination
A good good place
The world of poetry was open to me
And as I wrote my way through it
I felt God had given me a gift of life
And I should at least know enough to be grateful for it-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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There is a girl

There is a girl
~
There is a girl
I shall not name today
Who holds a place special
In my every hearts affections
I like to think of such thoughts
As my closely guarded secret
That none know who she is
Although I have come to suspect
That many may know the truth
Or perhaps they have a strong idea
Just who this girl really is
I am undone by her in every way
That my heart is all at a loss
I picture her face, her smile
The way the light catches her eyes
How I think the world of her
My hearts little secret desire
Her name I shall not reveal
Perhaps it needs never to be said
That she and many others
Already know how I feel
Perhaps its no more a secret
Than something best left unsaid
There is a girl I shall not name
Who I love anyway

poem by Matthew Holloway
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