Related quotes: The poet

0367 Portrait of the poet as sea-monster

The poet -
by whom I mean
an ordinary human being like you or me
who keeps a diary
of the mind and heart
and then publishes it
with luck
and maybe sells a few -

is a bit like one of those 'exotic' creatures
filmed on the ocean floor,
gracefully waving a hostess welcome
as if used to welcoming photographers
into its lovely home in this week's special issue
and such a delicate shade of pink its designer decor! -
but how to read it visually?

Are those waving fronds all the nerve ends
of this sensitive creature of the depths
of the human heart?
Or are they stinging antennae,
jealously defending its survival,
guarding its creative core
against all comers?
Or simply, like the elephant's trunk,
a means to acquire the food
to digest
with its prodigious memory longer than one man's alone,
into the poetry of the deep?

Beached on the floor of a commuter train
this delicate creature would be trodden under foot
as two-dimensional yuck;
but in its own environment
it secretly upholds humanity,
seeks the true in the unknown,
says new things about old minds,
teaches us to pause and think and see,
sings silly rhymes to enchant children,
shouts boldly or murmurs quietly
about goodness, truth and beauty,
and their opposites,
and deeply, deeply
loves.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes

Waving A Poetry!

Composing a poetry

quite a complex tapestry

its a product of ingenuity

that derive from within me

Don't know to begin

a poem that explain

innate sentiments

of sensitive hues

Just like a waver

who creates with art

through skillfull work

guided by the heart

The beauty in poetry

is not seen by the eyes

but felt by the emotions

that contained in human

Waving is like writing

where a piece of poetry

is instinctively woven right

that interpolates human life

Indeed, waving a poetry

is a masterfull endeavor

that is quite not perfect

but expresses freedom

poem by Marvin Brato Sr
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Talking Hawking meeting Dawkins

Suppose that ‘Evolution’ were throned God,
with all the praise and power accorded That?
Where would that path then lead the human race?
And what new thoughts would fill our mind and heart?
Evolution would then rule three worlds:
As Spirit’s cause, and Mind, and world of Form;
would then be seen in Beauty, Goodness, Truth;
no longer mere Survival’s tooth and claw,
but Lord of evolution of our minds;
of spirit, too, in seeking its true self;
new Age of Reason, calling all our powers
to seek ideals as real; rightfully ours
from genesis to paradise above;
no longer as survival… but… as Love?

poem by Michael Shepherd
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A silente creature

The silent creature
populates the human
minds
A silent creature
is invisible but
reliable and fizzy
This creature is
silent because she
needs to be
understood, refined and
she wants a
lot of aids
A silent creature
is an explosion
of life
To be a
silent creature is
a fresh and
wonderful sensation
A silent creature
is an angelical
messenger
She is a
happy, ancient, colorful
and vital imagine
A silent creature
tells many different
and interesting stories
Sometimes the silent
creature deceives to
defeat the racism
A silent creature
is defenseless from
the not curious
A silent creature
is a desirable
but desperate and
suspicious person
A silent creature
can be an
alter ego
She is a
guide of dignity
and human values

poem by Laura arwen
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Unicorn 4

What is known, is known – known gently,
meekly, mildly, sweetly; that’s the experience
that men bring back who’ve seen that creature plain.
But since the unicorn grazes in all our minds and hearts,
each has his image. Poets love to write of that creature
as they picture it; but what of those who met it plain
in forest glade, upon the hills, or white amidst the waves?

It’s said that, then, some poets put away their pens forever or awhile,
despairing that their word-hoard holds no words
that can describe those things invisible which
that creature brings to the mind, when met;
some can no longer give it even a name
as if that very word can seem to falsify.

They’re asked, was it, just, beautiful? – and hesitate,
because what yesterday, was ‘beautiful’ is a different word
today; that creature shows them that a word
means what it does; today, ‘beauty’ has done more in them;
it speaks a unity which is not static – can do all things
as Helen’s beauty, so we’re told, could make a war from peace;
so beauty can make peace from war – as poets prove.

And so, those who’ve seen it plain but wish
to say no word that might be less than truth
find that its subtle magic guides their pen
so that they may write with that same ease
with which that creature lives,
write of any, and of all things.

And all who’ve seen it – who’ve seen it move
within the utter stillness of itself
as never before have they seen a creature move
and hold that in themselves, wish, wordless, to return
to be again in that creature’s still shared self-presence;
the wisest of them finally to find
that it may graze forever in the poet’s mind.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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There Is God or No God

When it ends,
The poetry and delicate beauty,
The final sunrise in my fading eyes,
I’ll close the book I’ve composed,
A gorgeous failure left behind
For some other manic depressive to find
Who is seeking solace from a sympathetic spirit.

There is God or no God
But currently there are flowers
Waving in a pleasant field,
And one day, I’ll be a flower petal
Waving charmingly to a young girl,
And when she smiles back,
I’ll be happy in eternity.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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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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Moon Vavroovahana Patra

Shining secleing moon in the eastern firmament peeps;
Mirth reigns in human heart evaporates the grief.
Pinle violet color endows the lovely enticing horizon;
Poets, passers-by, peasants behold the beauty, delight with profound passion.

Twinkling little stars magnify the eternal beauty;
Earthy creatures merry make, forget their duty.
Lily sheds tears of joy for the moon;
For the lover in the tiny pond she blooms.

The moon is a Brook of Joy mirroring in the lap of Nature;
Dazzles as a spring of Bliss in the human creature.
The beam is an ocean of peace, Tranquility, coolness;
To her glory, Dignity, Beauty human mind is unable to guess.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The Poetry Student

Wonder
is a philosopher
is a poet
looks with awe
upon all things
sees one in many
praises one,
delights in many
loves
reasons
wonder is a poet

Barely a year ago now
what was he?
an adult student whom I scarcely knew,
self-contained (and what
an epithet that is…) ,
a human being with a warmth,
a keen mind for profounder things, but
not burdened with over-education,
still an innocent guarding wonder with a hidden strength;
who turned up one day
for the occasional poetry session

not much to start with
but he kept at it

and then it seems that the Muse,
so much wiser than poetry teachers,
casting around for messengers
as she must, to tell her glory to the world,
decided that he just might fit the bill

and now he’s hers. Love,
and the knowledge of love
pour unpretentiously from him, with
a depth of insight expressed with simple clarity;
the choice of words seems to come from purest instinct;
beauty, goodness, truth flow through him unimpeded

very soon he’ll wonder just who wrote these poems;
the answer, as the Muse must know
is in the wonder. Yes, she chose right.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Princess Spring Vavroovahana Patra

Beauty Princess spring appears on Earth;
In all creatures plays waves of mirth.
She appears with the fragrance of blossoms;
To adorn her curly crisp hair various beauteous flowers, blossoms bloom.

The princess appears with the vernal breeze;
To derive her love poets become crazy.
Chilly vernal breeze blows from south;
Splendid looks the vast Earth.

Lovely princess is wrapped with a garment of cosy green creepers;
Contents the lovers, poet’s desires.
Sings with the melody of cuckoo on the mango-tree with profound pleasure;
Fulfills earthy innocent creatures desire.

Melody of the brook congratulates the sweet lovely princess with gaiety;
All human creatures enchant with delight.
She is a peerless Beauty;
Beholding, poet enchant with profound delight.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Guava

Behold the beauty of guava tree!
In nature’s garden she is free.
She is the gift of nature;
Born for the worldly creature.
She bears green, yellow, red delicious fruits;
Human beings, parrots, pigeons and bats are her guests.
Fruits are delicate and lovely,
Attract the travellers and birds gaily.
She spreads the brown boughs to the sky,
Above her beautiful black crows fly.
She is the perennial gift of nature,
She contents the hunger of the creature.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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0428 What is a poem?

A wise grandfather, skilled designer,
approached with serious concern -
to ask 'What is a poem? '...
no ready answer - but the question
spoken so touchingly
as if indeed it mattered...

A poem?

Some sounds
from heart to heart
to melt the heart?

To join our inmost thoughts?

To keep in mind, recall
what human kind most values,
needs to value?

To share a laugh
at this extraordinary human comedy
and blow away its illusions?

To reassert our human greatness
and the humanity of humanity?

To preserve the finest sounds
of our beloved language
which hold
all that we love?

To tell a new, entrancing story
which we'll never forget?

Blowing a soap-bubble world
with all the colours of the rainbow
sliding around on its roundness
while we clap our hands
and pop it goes..

Just - serious fun?

In Pooh-Bear language,
simply
People Reading It And Nodding?

Really,
a poem is like
an angel, a dragon, a favourite food, or a Special Friend -
you'll know it when it comes along...

My wise friend
said thank you,
he'd always wondered.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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The Hand That Rocks The Craddle Pink

Pink used to be the preferred color for boys.
Clouds of white for girls.
The cradle... optimistically oufitted in pink,
is the color for boys, that for a girl being true blue.
Blue) a Virgin’s color (
used once for girls and pink for boys tossed out.

Pink, is as a shade of red
was considered masculine it is a “fierce color”
while blue is frilly and decidedly delicate.

Reason goes is that pink being more a decided
and stronger color is more suitable for the boy,
while blue,
which is more delicate and dainty, is a prettier fop
than poor the toiling girl.

Boys in pink.
Blue girls and is quite tamed in us famous,
but she also has a less known work called,
The naughty pink smile.

Children named Charles were not all girls

and where the girls and Elizabeth
are in baby blue while the boys are dressed in red.

poem by Is It Poetry
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Inspiration

Poet provides pleasure of society in various way;
In human beings provides, penetrates rays of gay.
Provides inspiration;
Is an honest creature is God’s creation.

Poet inspires all categories of people in society;
Encourages them earning properly live with delight.
Through poems tries upliftment of society;
People of all religions, castes live with gaiety.

Poet loves minister’s honesty;
Loves employee’s punctuality.
Derives pleasure from the innocence of cultivator;
Loves to remain in the sweet lap of Nature.

Poet is an honest advisor of society;
From good activities of society derives delight.
Loves woman’s devotion;
Loves beauty of creation.

Poet encourages students to a acquire wisdom;
Depicts verses on the truth of creation.
Loves peace, honest administration;
Depicting poems drinks nectar from the brook of creation.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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0257 When the Heart Melts

sometimes,
some wonder times,
I read a poem here and
instantly want, because
of the love of poetry
or goodness, or truth, or beauty, or
whatever, to
live the life
of the poet who
wrote it

though

on reflection
that might not work out
or, I might not know
I'd exchanged lives!
but

at the moment I thought it
the thought was pure because
thanks to poetry
and the very human poet
our hearts were indeed
as one

(for Oscar Mireles)

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Origins

The plaster continues to crumble
It's because of the light!
That blasted light!
I see the floors are sinking in
In the derelict of light.

I am a creature of comfort
Because of the light!
Oh, that blasted light!
Lavish me in the finest of things
Without the curse of the light.

The horror within is now revealed
Why, because of the light.
Oh, that blasted light!
And with the darkness, my beauty is healed.
Because of the light, oh the light.

Do you find I have cause to lie?
Yes, I do.
It's because of the light!
For all that my soul is suffering
And I am a creature of night.

I am a creature of comfort
I am a creature of fright
I'm a creature of sensual pleasure
I'm a creature with just one little bite.

I am a creature of legend
I am a creature of night
I'm a creature that stalks in the shadows
I'm a creature that hides from the light.

I am a creature unwanted
I am a creature with might
I'm a creature seduced by the hunger
I'm a creature of mischief and rife.

I am a creature so sadly
I am a creature, that's right
I'm a creature without soul
As low as it goes
I'm the creature to end your life

poem by Katherine Clark
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