0397 That, it is
unknown; formless;
eternal; always present
who may think of it?
who may speak of it?
who may not think of it?
who may not speak of it?
where is it?
where is it not?
when is it?
when is it not?
what is it?
what is it not?
who is it?
who is it not?
when other is one
and there is here
and that is this
and then is now
and poets are silent
and silence holds their poetry
and mind and heart
are in love with rest
there in the stillness,
unknown, formless,
eternal,
always present,
here and now
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Related quotes
This one for Hanque with thanks
All around the world,
poems are talking among themselves
when the books are shut,
when the computers are switched off,
when old-fashioned poets put down
chewed pencils, sucked ballpens,
lips a little stained with the flavour
of ink that’s washable or permanent;
poems talking among themselves
in that language that poems understand,
that poets seek to write;
poems murmuring, complaining,
sometimes shouting desperately,
who are these people who
have dared to speak our language? What
is their right and reason? When
did they arise? Where
did they get their ideas? Why
do they even try? How
do they hope to improve on this? What
is a poet, anyway?
The tumult of their languages,
the babel of upraised voices
speaking, though, with that unutterable
beauty of that sound which can really act,
can change the world of change,
can touch the heart for lifetimes,
melts a heart of stone,
brings tears to eyes needful of tears,
opens clouds to blue sky and to sunlight,
watches angels as they ascend and descend,
speaks of, speaks,
the unknown, formless, eternal, ever present –
the tumult dies down; in the
silence and the stillness,
only the pure sound of sound itself; and
in that sound the absolution:
forgive them, O Muse of Poetry:
they know not what they do..
yet in their hearts, they know
what must be said.
The pain, exquisite;
found worthy; loved.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Writing poetry
To make of every poem
a challenge; face with joy an
honourable failure; blaze
with glorious sadness:
laughing at the glory,
smiling at the sadness;
but hearing in the heart
that which cannot be said, but
is to be ever listened to:
unknown, formless, eternal, always present.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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You, to whom I am myself
O You Who Are - the formless, nameless One,
more real than all forms and names can speak:
You for whom we seek to find a name
and yet who has no name, who needs no name;
You for whom we seek to shape a form
and yet who has no form, who needs no form;
Yet whom we name in every name we speak,
and whom we see in every form we seek:
is there some name bestowed for nameless name,
a form imagined for a formless form,
by which all hearts today that seek themselves
may shape their search as if for One unknown?
may kneel in front of their own golden throne?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Hearts,
who’s spoken of in heartfelt praise of glorious human brilliance,
endeavour, art, achievement and discovery;
the Lord who gave us hearts to know we love?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Self,
whom we all know when we relax, become
more our known self, in silence, rest, or company
that sparkles round a table built of happiness?
Should we approach you as the Lord of Consciousness
in whom we live and move, and be; yet never see
for you’re the seeing in ourself; to whom we wake
and know, and stand securely, watching all?
I ask You for the sound of some new yet eternal name;
that sound by which all quickly know themself
and talk once more from hearts forever free,
of what we are, and know, and love to be.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the Spirit of Rumi
I said to My Beloved
I love You
May I know You?
My Beloved said
I am unknown
I said to My Beloved
Still, I love You
May I see You?
My Beloved said
I am formless
I said to My Beloved
Still, I love You
Might I lose You?
My Beloved said
I am eternal
I said to My Beloved
Still, I love You
Might You leave me?
My Beloved said
I am always present
I said to My Beloved
I love You
My Beloved said
I am love itself
I said, O My Beloved
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Discover ‘SILENCE ‘
I discovered a stunning stillness,
‘SILENCE’ a musical wave,
My thoughts dint appear beautiful than this time,
I felt, I regained my inner dead Emotions,
And now ponder more on …Silence’s Beauty...
Silence is a mystery,
And a magical union,
Silence is of soul and heart,
And mind’s internal peace,
Silence unite love with all creations,
And form attachment with all disclosed hearts.
Silence belongs to everyone,
It is beyond word ‘SILENCE’….
It inculcates an extreme essence to fasten together,
And embody a true peace and love within and around.
Silence is present every moment...
And it alerts you to open yourself towards life.
Silence is present every moment...
Within the stillness of nights and peace of early mornings
Silence is present every moment…
To intimate its appearance in all worldly needs.
poem by Richa Dhodi
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For All The Poets
FOR ALL THE POETS
This is a poem for all the poets who have no name,
For all those who have written and failed,
And for those who have not written,
And failed.
This is a poem for all the poets who dreamed themselves poets,
And were never, and will be known as poets
To the world.
This a poem for all those
Who after years of effort
Still live in an oblivion
They will die in.
This is a poem for all those
Who whether they have poetry in them or not,
Will never be heard or read,
For what their hearts must tell
Someone else.
This is a poem for all the silent poets
Those who live in silence
And whose silence is eternal
For all those whose only poetry
is the poem they have lived within themselves.
This is a poem for all those who would- be poets
And a poem for those
Who despite their efforts
Did not make their poem known.
This is a poem which may be for you,
And I know is for me
A confession
To make us less alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Stranger (La Extranjera)
She speaks in her way of her savage seas
With unknown algae and unknown sands;
She prays to a formless, weightless God,
Aged, as if dying.
In our garden now so strange,
She has planted cactus and alien grass.
The desert zephyr fills her with its breath
And she has loved with a fierce, white passion
She never speaks of, for if she were to tell
It would be like the face of unknown stars.
Among us she may live for eighty years,
Yet always as if newly come,
Speaking a tongue that plants and whines
Only by tiny creatures understood.
And she will die here in our midst
One night of utmost suffering,
With only her fate as a pillow,
And death, silent and strang.
poem by Gabriela Mistral
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Monastery
Up the long flight of stairs
every tread echoes from stone walls
as if to comment on how stillness
tells of sound its silent origin.
In the quiet library, the central table
bears a careful written message:
‘Silence is spoken here’..
and that’s truer than
at first it seems to read;
round the walls, shelves of books
as silent as the monks
standing upright in their stalls
witness words that seek to share;
yet ultimately, wave fare well, turn back;
speak of silence sought and silence found;
yet cannot speak of silence;
in the name of silence, take a book,
well-worn, from off the shelf;
meet it in the silence of the room,
read a few words, and lay it down;
glance at the other readers round the room;
fall still.
Here, silence speaks of stillness;
stillness joys in silence.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Upon The Rock
God’s always with me every day, to help with cares along the way,
He’s ever present, this I know, leading me always in the way to go,
The Ever Present Rock to lean on, ever present and always strong,
An Eternal Rock on which to stand, as He helps me to understand.
As the times that I’m in change, God’s eternal plan stays the same,
While the things around me fall, Christ is still the Lord God over all,
And whatever may be my cast lot, He’s the Lord, who changes not,
While upon the Rock I stood before, I shall also stand forevermore.
When changing times befall us, it’s God in Heaven, in who we trust.
Putting our lives into His Hand, as upon the Eternal Rock we stand,
The present time or coming year, as Believers, we need not to fear,
Never affected by falling stock, we’ve invested in The Eternal Rock.
As challenging as times may be, our goal and focus is still eternity,
We are safe from fear and harms, safe within the Everlasting Arms,
Of the Lord God, up above, who saved us through His Son’s Love,
Now seated in a Heavenly Place, and secured forever by His Grace.
Though this world may fall apart, we have His Spirit within our heart,
Pointing Believers to better things, as we live for The King of kings,
All of our times are in His Hands, in the midst of the shifting sands,
Until our feet are on that shore, of God’s Eternal Land, forevermore.
(Copyright ©07/2008)
Perishing But Renewed
Though by illness my life is rent, I am mindful it's only a tent,
I speak of this body of mine, my temporal body for this time,
Though my outward body perish, my life in God I can cherish,
As inward I'm renewed by God, for life above this earthly sod.
My body may fail on the earth, but, my life is in my New Birth,
Now a member of God's Family, I received promises eternally,
Knowing on earth we all may die, real life starts above the sky,
In a place, prepared by Christ, where we begin our Eternal Life.
Our bodies are temporal friend, for this earthly life has its end,
An end indeed we all will see, and then there will be an eternity,
The end won't be the same for all, as we are under Adam's fall,
And some at their last breath, will see not eternal life but death.
However, in Christ I have hope, when in times it's hard to cope,
As this present cancer impedes, my present life with its needs,
My Lord God is always there, helping with each need and care,
Helping me trust in Him not me, as He prepares me for eternity.
For me there's only eternal gain, but my life He too can sustain,
Extending my life, as a mortal man, if that is within God's Plan,
So He would allow my present life, to continue on with my wife,
That we may both depart together, to live with our Lord forever.
(Copyright ©09/2012)
Unknown
This unknown figure...
This unknown place...
Where am I at anyways?
This unknown feeling that I have,
This unknown pain inside;
I can't run away from.
Unknown heart, Unknown soul,
All unknown and all gone.
Sadden by all of this and all that's left..
Is me with no feeling...
I'm gone and lost and can't find a way out!
I'm an unknown person,
And an unknown girl who can't be seen.
I'm invisible, I'm a nobody,
I'm an unknown figure to people.
I'm gone forever and ever...right?
poem by Jessica Lee
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Come and behold
So I speak
Come and listen
Come and behold
Here I am
I am formless
I am norm-less
I am sacrifice
I am ritual
I am clarified butter
I am sacred fire
I am a poet
I am the mirror
I am the carrier
So I speak
I am nor weak
I can measure the world
As you say quick.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The present is a present, so be present
Always, behind the known,
the greater unknown…
behind the tedious Latin translation,
the struggle to find French elegance in French -
the private joys of the translator…
that rare intimacy, as a soul to soul
across the divides of language…
‘Laetus in praesens’ says Marsilio Ficino
in his Renaissance colloquial Latin
written up around the wall
of his Academy, such as it was…
The translator – half mechanical,
half philosopher, scribbles down
‘Rejoice in the present’..
and presently, pauses, contemplates…
Is it, was it, as easy as all that?
Sounds good, but is it practical?
In another age, Eckhart Tolle will expound
The Power Of Now – how joy
will follow presence, as the night the day…
The translator, cautious in his guidelines,
contemplates ‘Be present, rejoicing..’
as a poetic alternative… thus satisfying
philosophy as the study of causes…
checks various manuscripts; ah,
it’s written in one as ‘impraesens’…
almost adjectival; as a necessary state:
‘rejoice, being present’ then, perhaps?
Behind the shoulder of the translator,
stands as always, just as does
the unknown at the shoulder of the known,
(not quite nudging, sometimes, the writing arm)
the author…so close, this present moment,
is his presence…
the translator, gifted with a present by the wise,
the presence of the wise,
is wholly present; and that almost
imperceptible joy – recognised only
by the absence of all other things –
which the wise call bliss,
steals like a blessing
from the eternal, timeless, unblemished,
perfect now.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poetry
To those of you who've never read poems
there is a vacancy in your homes.
For poets dream
and poets scream
words that should be said
and never left dead.
They speak of love in artful wonder
and even love that's torn asunder.
They tell the stories that affect the people.
Their hopes, their fears,
the ageing years
their laughing times,
their weeping tears.
Poetry has its own special flow.
If you've never read it you don't know
its magic with word
not silent but heard.
To evoke in the mind
something you find
with rhythm and cadences
allowing your senses
to come alive.
Alive.
Most poets are quiet except with their pen.
They become quite vociferous especially when
conveying to you what they deem to be true.
For poets are sensitive
to all they see.
They speak from the heart
and hope to be
inspirational, controversial
to awaken in you
a picture or image
for your mind to view.
Poems are music and praise for the soul
that hungers and thirsts
for you to become whole.
All of the poets who've come and gone
have left their thoughts and then moved on,
moved on to pursue loftier goals
accompanied by words to soothe their souls.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Your Silence
I have spoken long enough
I have spoken well enough
Now let me be silent
And see how Silence speaks
Hear the words unspoken
For you could never speak
And whenever I asked you
All I could ever hear, was:
Your Silence…
Yes, that very Silence of yours
Which sucked all my life out
making me feel miserable
day in and day out
Still I kept holding on,
hoping on and hanging on…
If you could ever speak
Yet you never spoke up
Instead, offered me a challenge
A challenge to a broken heart?
A challenge to a defeated soul?
Oh! How Ruthless you could be…
And still you ever want me
To keep hearing your silence
And make some meaning of it all
I told you long before
Silence never works for me
I am a woman of words…
It might work well for you
So be it, my love…
If that is what you call ‘friendship’
Let you be silent
And me be too
And we can still remain ‘friends’
For if you speak
And I speak too
Who knows, One day
We might become foes…
And I would rather die
A Friend of yours
Than choose to be a Foe.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Understand For Sure, You Are Here To Learn What Understanding Is!
Can you see dear,
life itself is the fountain of infinite Self,
That tiny drops of life raise from and fall into same,
Rainbow of enchanting beauty,
That due to light of soul,
showing its enchanting colours.
In every drops, large or tiny alike,
Flora and fauna are those devices of self,
rainbow looks more clear,
When tiny drops are in abundance!
Self manifesting its capabilities,
That all energies and forces too,
Change their form for the play of the formless,
Who is in eternal play appearing in various forms,
Formless showing his ability to assume any form!
Life is a school, with dress code,
Uniform that the kids of self wear,
Show in which class they learn,
Showing level of evolution of mind,
Tuning to the mind of that infinite!
Look at the uniform you and me wearing,
top most class in which we study,
Don't engage in ragging juniors,
Look inside,
Know for sure, you have the source of fountain of life,
That eternal loving Self act through you
Understand you are here to learn,
What understanding means!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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What Silence Can Offer
when everything seems to be crowded
when everyone speaks
in such a chatter
gibberish
and this room becomes
a narrow space
filled with nothing but
noise
i will be silent
this silence that offers me
refuge
a blankness of the mind
where i can rest and start all over
again where i can think
of nothing
but stillness
where i become a closed mouth
a blocked heart
where i clench my fists
and say nothing
then they all look at me
and begin
to open
this silence demands
that it is now my turn
to speak
and they will listen
but it is too late
something has began to tick
and so i must
leave at once
they must know
what suffering
in the noise means
soonest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry That Belongs Only To Poets
POETRY THAT BELONGS ONLY TO POETS
Poetry that belongs only to other poets
Is not the highest poetry-
The highest poetry speaks to all
Who can hear and read it-
Let the specialists play their formal tricks for educated sophistry
The poets who speak to us
Are heard in the most simple heart.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Fate of Top Poems!
Past poets were remarkable by their poems only;
But present poets are made remarkable by others!
Poetry of the past are no doubt top poems ever;
But poetry of the top are not listed in top poems!
Becoming top poets how can theirs have no place
Among the top poems of the poetry list? I wonder!
Touch stone of the top poems depends on merit
But not by the supports of friends for fun ever!
Poems of lasting value only can become classic;
But poems of no merit also have become classic!
Poetry of the past are romantic and also classic
But poetry of the present are neither but modern!
What is the yardstick to select poems as top ones -
Just support of some but not merit and meaning?
poem by Ramesh T A
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