O! Poets And Men Of Letters Awake
The world is in the shadow of nuclear war
Our own neighbor chatters to use the nuclear devices
As if a thing common or a child’s play.
O! Poets and Men of Letters awake
Only and you can save the earth from the imminent doom.
The weapons are with the so-called civilized nations,
As if the guns are in the hands of monkeys,
We too have processed uranium
Enough to combat the challengers many times,
But we possess patient hearts in the chests
And minds discreet, prudent and judicious in the heads.
O! Poets and Men of Letters awake
From the slumber deep for it is a time to weep,
Use your pen and paper and moments of nights and days,
Your talents, the power of your embellished words,
Weave the stories of novels dramas, and lines of poesy
To shake the inner most part of the souls
Of the leading heads of humanity who make a trade
On human blood: the most precious gist of the universe.
O! Poets and Men of Letters awake
Infuse into them astuteness to discern the difference
Between just and unjust, between right and wrong,
Instead of making tiresome efforts to please the kings
And approving their all actions though immoral,
Write not panegyrics lest you should become accomplices
Against the crime of trampling sanctity,
And deforming magnificence of the Mother Earth.
O! Poets and Men of Letters awake
Impede the itchy fingers of the leprous hands
Lest they should press the buttons in their own craze,
If once they push the buttons, there will be a chain in reaction,
And then holocaust, extinction of biological life,
The cities, the towns, and the villages big or small,
The parks and streets, the houses and huts will become silent.
The earth will move dull drab, into spaces around the sun,
With a load of skeletons, skulls and bones,
But all purposeless like an astray stallion whose veteran
Is killed in the battle and it runs away unrestrained.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Poets, Oh! Poets awake awake and face the world!
Life is bright and a pleasure to enjoy!
And above how nice to see the moon light!
Love is without blemishes and bliss in life!
Poets lie; lie more as much as you can!
Always write the positive traits
And suppress the negative, is it your habit
Or consciously do you do, to flinch the reality?
How do you get pleasure living in falsehood?
Life may be bright and but it has darkness inside
Which can't be overlooked, the moon has a spot
Love is a lust tick which sucks blood.
Poets play happy, happy game as much as you can!
But reality is truth, truth is the more reality
Make believe is a fairy tale lies only in the dream
When you awake it breaks in thousand pieces
Poets, oh! Poets awake, awake and face the world,
As it is! It is more beautiful and more truth in it.
poem by Abdul Wahab
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Red Letters
Red letters
Cut deep
Soothe the pain inside.
Red letters
Bold and loud
Scream silently.
Red letters
Secret and hidden
But a cry for help.
Red letters -
A way to deal with this pain.
As I cut these words into my skin
I remember seeing red words somewhere before
Then it hits me like a lightning bolt -
Words of Jesus are printed in red. Words of Christ in red.
Red letters
Real truth, piercing deep
Soothes my pain inside.
Red letters
Your passion, Your blood
Covers me.
Red letters
Hope and life
I cry, 'Fill me! '
Red letters -
You were pierced and bloody
So I wouldn't have to be.
'What can wash away my sin?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
What can make me whole again?
Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
Oh! precious is the flow that makes me white as snow!
No other fount I know -
Nothing but the blood of Jesus! '
Red letters... Nothing but the blood -
Red letters... Nothing but the blood of Jesus!
poem by Zoe MacRae
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems from heaven
poems from heaven come to me in my sleep
i awake in the morning and i start to weep.
for in my dreams i see the loved ones who had past
they give me these words which will forever last
you are my child which i gave to the world at birth
i did not know at the time- if and what
your life would be worth.
but i knew in my heart that there was a purpose in your life
now i am in a better existence looking down upon you
and the lord has shown me what you have to do..
you are here to spread the word to all the other poets.
that they could reach more people than they
could ever dare to imagine.
open up your hearts and minds, and let
your loved ones souls with yours entwine.
listen to what they have to say
for with their words, this world
will be a better place.
.these are the poems from heaven of which
i talk about.
and of this i have no doubt.
to all the poets of the world, continue
to spread the words that come into your hearts and minds
for they will be here way beyond our time.
.
.
poem by Louis Rams
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Letters From Earth
Well its a cold world
And Im in the middle
Caught in the in-between
I dont belong here
So Im writing to you
Its wrong here
Where Im sending you some
Chorus:
Letters from earth, yeah
Well its a new world
And now Im a stranger
Stranger than you know
I dont belong here
And Im writing to you
With blood on my hands
What if I send you madness
What if I send you pain
And letters from earth, ooh
All right
Come on its another game
But you gotta play on
Cause they say its just pretend
Ask them why they say youll never, never die
Come on - the game is called the end
Well its a cold world
And Im in the middle
Caught in the in-between
I dont belong here
So Im writing to you
Hey let me explain
What if I send you confusion
What is the time and the pain worth
Oh no no
Im only sending -
Letters from the earth
Letters from earth, ...
song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Catastrophic End
Humanity can not help making
The devilish weapons,
Each nation is running the race
Of inventing the fatal devices
For the catastrophic end,
Conventional, nuclear and chemical,
Some have attained the skill to devise
The antimatter bomb.
I know on a certain day
Some crazy so-called pioneer
Of peace will push the button
With a leprous hand,
A hail of missiles will pour down,
The earth will sustain the wounds
Of enormous, massive craters,
Smoke will engulf the planet,
Biological life will be at the verge
Of extinction, a few furious rivals
Will survive, but they will incessantly fight,
With stones, clubs, teeth and nails.
A time will encroach when two rival combatants
Will remain behind,
They will wrangle with each other,
One will be killed and the other left behind,
He will regard himself in arrogance,
The great warrior, the hero, the triumphant,
And move unaccompanied all alone,
Prolonged solitude will make him brute,
And he like a lunatic bull will smash
His head against a rock by ending himself,
No animal, no scavenger bird will be to dispose
The bodies on the lifeless face of the Earth.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Night Poets
we night poets
are not supposed to stay
in the room and write poets
at night
we are meant to be
fliers, bats, and God forbid
vampires
in deeds, hidden in thoughts
least in words
we are werewolves
howling in the deepest
silence of our souls
to those who are still awake
we must be pungent
like musk, restless, unloved.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Don't Know What Happens!
I see perfect rhymes
faultless verses
the sleeping beauty
Words where no one has
Poets saying like no one can say
rhythms, sounds, letters
harmony, balance and
for all this phenomenal poets
for all this talent be humble and
Please, say a hello to them! ! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Autumn Letter
I want to write a letter to someone in the autumn
In the Autumn, I see lonely fountain streamed from a deep valley
And want to wet the lonely heart
I write a letter in the autumn night but knowing that cannot be sent in the morning
Now there is a postman who delivers letters in the air in the days and nights
So I am sending letters
I regret but the unsent letters always cry
I send the thread tied letters in the air without stamps
The letters of the poet opens its eyes with holding their breaths
poem by Kyungdae Min
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Oh, Poet
Every word
Is a miracle
Every yarn
A syllable.
Oh,
So,
A poet
Is born
Out
Of letters.
For,
If poetry
Is
What poets
Do
Then poets
Are created
By poems.
poem by Paul Hartal
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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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Lie Awake
Let’s lie awake together
I’m not sleepy yet
Let’s play a few games
And give each other pet names.
Let’s lie awake together
It’s just us in this empty park
Hand me that sandwich
I’m getting hungry.
Let’s lie awake together
The grass is getting a little itchy
Hand me your jacket
I’ll keep you warm instead.
Let’s lie awake together
No, I saw that plane first
Oh wait it’s not a plane
Was that a shooting star?
Let’s lie awake together
Think of as many rhymes
Poetry is beautiful
But so are you.
Let’s lie awake together
What’s that light I see?
Oh no it’s the police
We need to run!
I know what I want to do
Let’s lie awake together
I’m sure tomorrow will be great
Seeing the sun rise next to you.
poem by Janine Alyssa Navarro
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Let It Slide
Dreary Memphis city night,
Dark like a Kennedy's veil,
Shaky like them motorcycle lights,
Leading all them angels at hell,
I gave out my very last dime,
Laid out the bartenders all in a line,
We weren't fighting, we just drank 'em out of time,
Down at Printer's Alley,
[Chorus]
So let the poets be poets and the cops just give us a ride,
We ain't worried about your hands of time,
Just let it slide,
And let it slide,
You know Elvis said only two things were certain Hookers and Coupe Devilles,
Messing with that old boy down at the pool hall surely get your young ass killed,
I'm too tired for fighting,
I'd rather wear myself out with a smile,
We'll stay up with some good bar stores,
Beat up time for a while,
[Chorus]
So let the poets be poets and the cops just give us a ride,
We ain't worried about your hands of time,
Just let it slide,
And let it slide,
Oh you know it's nights like these,
I get down on my knees,
And pray the Lord the sun won't shine,
'Till I'm done having my big time,
[Chorus]
So let the poets be poets and the cops just give us a ride,
We ain't worried about your hands of time,
Just let it slide,
And let it slide.
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Hand On the Nuclear Button
The hand on the nuclear button
Is held by a mind that is sick
The eyes that keep it focused
Is blurring and quite myopic.
What danger lurks ahead
If suddenly the brain has seizures!
Will the hand move past the head
And press on the nuclear fixtures?
Will that hand lose all control
And release the demise of earth
Blow us up, one and all
And burn even all the dirt?
The hands on their nuclear buttons
Have so turned a push to shove,
Their tempers have been turned on
Start praying to God above.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem Written By A Confessed Bipolar (her Name To Be Revealed Upon Her Permission)
I write because I can
I write because there are so many things to be written.
I write because I can make a painting without a brush and paints in my hand.
I write because I can capture the moment without having a camera.
I write because letters and words are the only recipe I know how to cook.
I write because I want to read what I’ve written.
I write because I’m used to speak in silence.
I write because I have a story to tell.
I write because I want to strip off my flesh and live as a pure being.
I write because I can record my “voice” without having a recorder.
I write because it’s like a cup of coffee, it keeps me awake
I write because I want to live even when I do not exist.
I write because this is my throwing stones when I’m frustrated.
6/11/09 at 4: 42 PM
I write because I can flaunt my being when I don’t have clothes to show off.
I write because this is like making an encyclopedia to a coloring book.
I write because it’s more effective than my lithium medication.
I write because I’m tired of carrying these baggages on the road.
I write because I’m tired of talking too much.
I write because it’s a healthier diversion than smoking.
I write because it’s more therapeutic than analyzing my problem.
I write because I want to paint a thousand pictures with words.
I write because I can put colors to the letters and make a rainbow of words.
I write because it’s the key combinations to my hidden vaults.
I write because my ball pen is my best friend in the darkest nights.
I write because it surprises me with what I am capable of thinking&doing. 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because I like that ideas are popping like pop corns.
I write because I can wander in the adventures of my own world.
I write because I have to cleanse my collection of memories of an old home.
I write because like a mirror you need to do a lot of reflections.
I write because I want to fight the battle of life.
I write because I wanted my little voice to be heard.
I write because I want to run from the insanities of the world.
I write because pictures don’t talk.
I write because it helps me connect the dots when I look back in my life.
I write because it brings me back to my crib of silence.
I write because it makes a buzz to other bees in my beehive.
I write because unlike my bike my destination is limitless.
I write because I want to become an inspiration without extinction 6/11/09 at 4: 43 PM
I write because like strumming of the guitar, it vibrates in my soul.
I write because I love to write.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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