The Hell
O! The prudent poet,
I admit you know
The mysteries of muse,
The words speak themselves
In front of you,
Your poems and panegyrics,
Song and lyrics,
Similes, images and metaphors:
All versified agents of poesy
Are more precious than the gems
Diamonds, pearls and prizes;
Costly than the ancient costumes,
The strings of beads
Clustered rounds the royal necks;
Antiques of the alien lands,
And treasures of the distant fairy world;
They might have shine of the full moon,
As the words,
Like stars glow in the divine books,
But these crystals of jewels,
In black and white,
Quench not hunger of the Hell:
The cruel, brutal belly.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Roses And Pearls
YOUR spoken words are roses fine and sweet,
The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound.
How lavish nature is about your feet,
To scatter flowers and jewels both around.
Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,
Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.
Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.
Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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This is A Place Where In My Argument I Lose
A writers anger without the vulgarities of the modern time.
How it is so hard not to say curse words where they would fit so well.
To understand as only a poet would with a passion would.
Denied the American vocabulary I know so well I seek out means and words
To bring you down to my hell.
To express the hatred, and meanness that takes over with thunder
It has been taught to me by a society who finds it only offensive in public writings like poems.
In a books one is aloud, to say what ever they want.
I have read entire sex scene's in book and one word of such a nature is wrong in a poem.
Defined by those who believe all poems are met for kids.
Look at some the best lyrics describing anger, the rawness of them it the ability to use vulgarity and speak your mind as you so choose
But again in the poet world this is a place where in my argument I lose.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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An Unfinished Poem
The only song that is attributed to you,
And the words that create your images,
Enchant me.
The only colour,
That you opt to be clad in, on a certain day,
Enthralls me.
Only those scenes,
Which your eyes have cast a gaze upon;
Captivate my eyes.
Only the flowers,
That beam because of you,
And steal scent of your lips,
Fascinate my eyes.
If you smile, smile the ages;
These stars, moon and skies,
Flowers, colours and seasons,
Fragrance, and the throbbing heart,
And all sights sway in rapture,
Because of you.
My words too,
Formed in verses begin to flow,
In numbers, because of you.
Oh! My beloved: my life, my soul,
How long I should praise you,
For I confess, I am too deficient to reckon,
Your sweet dimensions,
In words and in images,
In metaphors and similes.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Promise
It is for you that I arranged the words,
The words that were scattered like pearls,
But contained not pills and piths of meanings,
And I went over treading, trampling them,
Then all of sudden you came across
On the curvaceous serpentine path of life,
And your love imperceptibly began to scamper,
Through the channels of my veins,
In the form of substance like blood,
Making my whole being from top to toe,
Incarnation of love, and now I ascertain
You taught, trained me to garnish in strings,
The dispersed, detached gems,
And speak through the pen my paralysed passions,
Now you pulsate in every line and poetic phrase,
I know I can not go along with you,
On the curvaceous rocky route,
But I renovate my promise to embellish,
A string after a string for you, of metaphors and similes,
To capture all colours of love:
The most beautiful sentiment of the universe,
Complementing my own deranged being.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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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
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I Do Not Wish To Romanticize....
there are some theories
for instance, that we shall only settle on the magical state
of our words, do not philosophize
do not restructure a world that we are in now,
do not disturb the political order
do not preach, papa, do not ever preach
do not be the church of any order
just feel the lyrics of the song
the beat of the agony
my hands rub your hands in my belly, feel that something in me that
is growing and hardening,
let the metaphors do the excitement
of that strong burst of emotions
do not justify,
that is not the intention of our words
there is nothing about repair or
compensation,
just see the stars,
and feel the light of the moon on your cheeks
let someone touch you
do not ever think, but just savor the very moment
of carpe diems
in other words,
romanticize, romanticize, fantasize, nothing about
bread or butter, or wine or dessert
or red meat or corn
or wheat or
bun,
i am sorry,
it is not my cup of
tea to simply romanticize,
i want some reforms, and i want to make a difference.
i want words with weight,
like anchor like anvil like
steel bars, balls or stones,
scales, and stick and swords and
basins,
i want action, punishment and rewards,
and restructuring of buildings
reconnecting bridges or sinking ships
and finding treasures.
i need a map, and i need you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Song
well i hate to sing this song
this song written in black on white
the black words so prominent on the white sheet
in the proclamation of democracy
well, is there at all democracy in Whitman's world or to be exact
white men's world? Whitman's song of a great land and love of comrades how deceptive, unloving
oh what a black discovery to know that poets
too could be blinded to the real state of the world
racism, injustice; the loads of chained souls that arrived to greet
the Statue of Liberty, epitome of world freedom
in actuality always chained, mocked in black and white
oh the repair of the Statue a hundred years later
the main desire to whitewash it, whiten it
the last thing the statue should turn is black
this great land, how i wish the vision of liberty
would be viewed in the the Chinese principle of Ying and Yang
an equilibrium of black and white contributing to
a wholesome mind, body, spirit
in the plain of the wild i i cry out a justice song
day and night, of white light that brightens the dark night
and white stars that coujld only glitter sparkle like diamonds
in the darkness of the night
inspired by
A Song
COME, I will make the continent indissoluble;
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever yet shone upon;
I will make divine magnetic lands,
With the love of comrades,
With the life-long love of comrades.
I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the rivers of
America, and along the shores of the great lakes, and all over
the prairies;
I will make inseparable cities, with their arms about each other's
necks;
By the love of comrades,
By the manly love of comrades.
For you these, from me, O Democracy, to serve you, ma femme! 10
For you! for you, I am trilling these songs,
In the love of comrades,
In the high-towering love of comrades.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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A Fear Through Words
It is through fear I write this
Through fear I dare not speak these words
Or name the muse of who I pen them to
I hold a gentle and honest love to my heart
Such a love as yet untried and unknown
What good are my words when I cannot speak them
To my muse so beautiful so sweet, so divine
I fear I may lose them so completely
That I stay silent, bide my words so well
And watch with abject despair
My muse, object of my whole desire
Grow more distant with each passing day
And I fear I may lose all together
By speaking these words, these cursed words
I asked myself once, what I search for
Is it what I want or what I need in life
And there I saw my muse, a world of beauty
More than I could imagine or ask for
A gentle heart and loving nature
Those warm soothing eyes I look to
Do not see me as I would wish
I fear if they were to, see my innermost soul
My passion and my love for them
They would turn away and be lost completely
Which is why I write with fear
These words I dare not speak
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Let's Leave The 'Poems' Without Metaphors
LET’S LEAVE THE ‘POEMS’ WITHOUT METAPHORS
Let’s leave the ‘poems’ without metaphors
Bare and stark and original
Quiet and sleeping and still
The soothing poems the calming poems
The poems that even in the middle of the night
Let us sleep.
Let’s leave the poems without metaphors
And go back to the simple words
And let them say all they can by themselves
Until they become metaphors too.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Jewels (Love Poem)
Your eyes are like a window to a cave
Containing all the precious jewels in the world
The jewels are the reflection of our life together
Diamonds sparkle in bright light of an ice-cold day
Topazes glow with honeycomb fire in the evening
Rubies lust for love in a dark hour before dawn
Emeralds release a relaxing sleepy smile
Pearls display the heart of our loving.
poem by Ian Beckett
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Who can be She?
She is who toils day and night,
Enkindles lamps spreads light,
In the celestial world of minds,
Gives the blind the gift of sight.
Rills of loyalty in her heart flow,
That water gardens where roses grow,
The lovers of poesy get in hands,
Garlands of poems that ever glow.
I know not why my heart wishes to adore,
Those who dive deep and bring ashore,
Gems, pearls and the beads of thoughts,
And distribute the stones door to door.
Her mind is flamed and blood is hot,
Her efforts will cause a change a lot,
The pride of age, the guiding star,
Who can be she? Melyssa Sprott.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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IMMENSELY DEAR (Revised)
A personal favourite is Symbolism, I prefer
symbolic special objects to the real, love the
purity of crystals with their ethereal power;
yet to convince me thoroughly snowflakes
need only ersatz imitation crystals
Charmed by symbolism of religious books
but dry catechisms are abhorrent – love the
significance of diamonds but do not want the
real thing – only symbols to magnify light,
the diamond itself is much too cold
Preferring as a child to play with boxes
and twigs clad in tinsel representing houses
and magic wands – anything suggesting
what it might be, then becoming whatever
I dream – drawn inexorably,
I love glitter – it says sunlight is creating
pearls and crystals of delicate things like
cobwebs and streams, I love the diamonds
seen on sprigs of grass early in spring but
do not try to entice me with real pearls
Diamonds or precious crystals are real and
cannot morph into other objects, although
I love seeing them behind glass in expensive
shops; but for my satisfaction I want only
symbols of these beloved objects,
I adore small fairies made from artificial
materials, not golden statues of saints and
angels – want to imagine what a thing might
represent – such symbolism is immensely
dear to me…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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The Lovely Bird
I am the lovely bird singing on a tree up high above you!
And like the muse of love in the land of peace;
But my lovely words are full of life,
For you need my works to guide you on.
I am the lovely bird that you need around you,
And like the joy of love in the land of care;
But try to understand my words to muse up with your love,
For my songs are full of parables to entice your mind.
Where is your red wine?
Where is the red sea?
Where is your bed of roses?
Where is the narrow path full of love?
For the days are coming when i will be closer to your window!
Because, i have something to do on this earth;
And like the beautiful beads of love as seen around the necks of my people.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Where the flute lets out its song
a real poet means
even the mistakes
between the verses
will not douse the
eagerness to read you
even when you do not
write out full sentences
and place dashes, moon
and stars between your words
because between the lines
are jewels to dazzle the readers' mind
notches and keyholes the
smart flute lets out its song
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Poems Of The Wild Words And Unexpected Meanings
THE POEMS OF THE WILD WORDS AND UNEXPECTED MEANINGS
The poems of the wild words and the unexpected meanings
Escape me -
The surprises of each new line’s metaphors
Are far from my power-
A plodding literal single- mindedness
Informed by small irony
Is all I have.
Poems distant from mine and greater
Inhabit the dreaming worlds,
And I inferior
With lesser words
Persist in making my Mediocrity up.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When God Comes And Gathers His Jewels
Written and recorded by hank williams sr.
The [g] ceremony was [c] over
A [d7] lad stood alone in [g] tears
For he had just [c] said goodbye
To the [d7] one he had loved thru the [g] years.
He stood all alone with his head bowed down
As though his heart would break
Then the parson came over and took his hand
And to him these words he did say.
Chorus
When [g] god comes and gathers his [c] jewels
All his [d7] treasures of diamonds and [g] gold
You'll meet her up there in [c] heaven so fair
When [d7] god comes and gathers his [g] jewels.
(substitute i'll meet her.....on last chorus)
Each night when the pale moon is shining
You can see this lad all alone
With his eyes lifted to'ard heaven
He's repeating these words he was told.
Chorus
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jewels
A pen that has been dipped in mud
Writes poems that loses meaning
Its message falls into a thud
A sad demise to the art of writing.
Like jewels that are badly stained
Smutty words abort its value,
Whatever beauty has been gained
Dissolves in verses that fall through.
A poem need not have verbal dirt
To catch a few hollow attention
Revealing true poetic worth
Gives it that genuine valuation.
A writer's poems are life jewels
Precious gems in verses of gold,
Of great value when written well-
Such a blessing to behold.
.......... ................................................. ......................
'Every man's work is always a portrait of himself.'
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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I could have done other useful things than writing a poem
Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,
What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips
I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me
Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers
I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers
Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem
This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?
When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem
Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When God Comes & Gathers His Jewels
Written and recorded by hank williams sr.
The [g] ceremony was [c] over
A [d7] lad stood alone in [g] tears
For he had just [c] said goodbye
To the [d7] one he had loved thru the [g] years.
He stood all alone with his head bowed down
As though his heart would break
Then the parson came over and took his hand
And to him these words he did say.
Chorus
When [g] God comes and gathers his [c] jewels
All his [d7] treasures of diamonds and [g] gold
Youll meet her up there in [c] heaven so fair
When [d7] God comes and gathers his [g] jewels.
(substitute Ill meet her.....on last chorus)
Each night when the pale moon is shining
You can see this lad all alone
With his eyes lifted toard heaven
Hes repeating these words he was told.
Chorus
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Spirit Of Poetry!
when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove
When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?
Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself
Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way
When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner
On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications
Future of poetry is in heaven
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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