I Clash with Books
I clash with books, with words of enormous depth,
The meaning on the page is that of beauty.
I see fire in the whole of literature, the whole poison,
When information has a path, forming beauty.
My books are written with zeal, full of fervour,
Entirely exact, full of splendour, and rich.
This sea of bringing in has many problems
I need to crash into, into a lovely pudding.
The pudding is perfect as a sight or image,
The picture on the wall of my house.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Ballade Of True Wisdom
While others are asking for beauty or fame,
Or praying to know that for which they should pray,
Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,
Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey,
The sage has found out a more excellent way -
To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,
And his humble petition puts up day by day,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,
And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;
Philosophers kneel to the God without name,
Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;
The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,
The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;
But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame
(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day
With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!
O grant me a house by the beach of a bay,
Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play
With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!
And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
ENVOY.
Gods, grant or withhold it; your 'yea' and your 'nay'
Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:
But life IS worth living, and here we would stay
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
poem by Andrew Lang
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Valentine Chameleon
Who be my
valentine?
Even a friend'd
do, Tina
said- but how
dare i think
valentine
if C
who i thought be
my friend asked
me not to
contact her
furthermore
pudding china
rang in her
voice still yet
cold pudding
it was- imagine
cold pudding!
aye but i
glutton on
cold pudding -
hot pudding
scorches my
lips but hoo
this china
i knew not
self-changed
into chalk
ice plaster
and sour milk
hi what do
you want from
me actually?
wish no more
contact C.-
chameleon
poem by Michael Witkowski
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Pudding Time
You can have a lolly pop
A candy bar a jelly bean.
Ill buy you a rainbow
To hang above your door.
Its pudding time.
Laughter is a sweet
You cant put a price on.
When laughters all gone
Daddy wont buy you more.
Its pudding time.
Its pudding time children.
Money money money
To buy you things.
Daddys gonna buy you a
Diamond ring.
Humpty dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty dumpty had a great fall
All the kings horses and all the kings men
Couldnt put humpty together again.
San francisco bay the
Striped bass are dying.
But youre gonna get
That brand new bike
Oh joy
Its pudding time
Its pudding time children.
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Edge Of Beauty...
wherein lies the edge of beauty?
of true expression?
be there more truth
in a picture of fruit....
or a picture of the eyes
of a starving child?
be there more love
in an ancient picture of Jesus,
or the picture of an addict,
shaking on a stoop?
be there more reality
in numbed words carefully written,
or in the story of the evicted family,
penned in raw blood?
be there more beauty
in a picture of supposed angels,
or in a tasteful nude?
be there more freedom
in a picture of the revolution,
or in a photo of freedom's protesters,
being beaten by cops?
be there more justice
in the books you burned,
or in the ones you actually read?
be there more spirituality
in the religious head turned,
or in the sensual bathed in awe?
be there more god in the silent follower,
or in the one who dares to speak?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Enigma of the closed books [Enigma cărţilor închise]
Immaculate fair pages written by hands on which the humble time has placed
Its everlasting emblems with much haste!
O, thoughts withered in closed books
O, cold deeps opened in paradises with good looks
O, written dreams flowing like brooks!
There are mournful books whose mystic thrills
As light as quills
Garland any dumb disaster
With horizons blue or pale like alabaster,
Inoculating deeply the nightly statues with gestures mirrored
By the lakes full of mystery
And tranquility.
There are books in mourning
Full of tanned longing,
There are books whose chants full of gloom
Wake up and stir the pangs in the royal tomb...
When the doleful rhythm of the ballads without sound
Resurrects, vibrates, contemplates and falls to the ground
Or in the waterfalls around
The pale dreams will retire in nooks.
O, the eerie enigma of the closed books!...
poem by George Topîrceanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Depth Not Volume
In between volume, there is depth,
For quality arises from the heap
Of the many drowning poems that is left -
Like sifting smelly goats from the sheep.
Discretion and taste fill the watchful
The test of the pudding, in the tasting
And a poem is said to be beautiful
If there's meaning and depth in its writing.
For the finest literary art
Is the work of an artist- writer
Skillfully weaving words from his heart
Giving birth to the poem he posts after.
Numbers do not substitute for beauty
Nor will quantity address reader's needs
It may even sacrifice the quality
And bonzai the writer's talent into weeds.
-----
Copyright Cynthia Buhain Baello
February 13,2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Put It On The Shelf
Just take that,
Pudding and put in on the shelf.
Just take that,
Pudding and put in on the shelf.
Just take that,
Pudding and put in on the shelf.
Right now we are tightening up,
Loosen belts!
Just take that,
Out of sight of those uptight.
Just take that,
Perhaps for tomorrow night...
Just take that,
Maybe we will celebrate...
With the eating of icecream,
And with cake!
Just take that,
Pudding and put in on the shelf.
Just take that,
Pudding and put in on the shelf.
Just take that,
Pudding and put in on the shelf.
Right now we are tightening up,
Loosen belts!
Just take that,
With a vision of a peace.
Just take that,
With a vision of a peace.
Just take that,
With a vision of a peace.
A peace that will come and will never leave!
Just take that,
Out of sight of those uptight.
Just take that,
Perhaps for tomorrow night...
Just take that,
Maybe we will celebrate...
With the eating of icecream,
And with cake!
Just take that,
With a vision of a peace.
Just take that,
With a vision of a peace.
Just take that,
With a vision of a peace.
A peace that will come and will never leave!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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If you're an ant, and you're walking along across the top of a cup of pudding, you probably have no idea that the only thing between you and disaster is the strength of that pudding skin.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Today... 'Glory In Midst Of Her
Radiant and splendid in the midst of her
a wall of holy fire so full of grandeur
is the Lord our God the Majestic One
Whose Glory eclipses the bright noonday sun.
Magnificently seated upon the throne.
Such radiance and beauty is His alone.
Brilliantly resplendent enthroned in light.
Jehovah the Lord is a magnificent sight.
(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box)
I do send out information about my books. Very few people buy the books that way, but I always feel that if they want to know more about the process, they can get the information from my books.
quote by Richard Curtis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dad and Me
Inside our house you'll find crannies and nooks.
Crevices and cracks and fissures and books!
Books under the bed and on the floor,
Books around the table and beside the door,
Books on the bookshelf and surrounding it,
Books all over the house, every single bit!
Not a one of these books are non-fiction,
Different worlds are their depiction.
Fictional, sci-fi, dark and fantasy,
Horror and happy, more books for me!
Books belonging to my father,
Or belonging to me as I rather.
My father and I in bookworm heaven,
Until mum cleans up around half past seven.
She throws the books in a huff,
Says it's a mess and to clean it up!
Well dad and I try to clean,
But on the work we quickly wean
And in one of the larger nooks
You'll find dad and me reading our books.
poem by Lenore Lee
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Eve (original beauty)
She stood naked in the garden
With more beauty
Than the first full bloom rose,
The kind and depth of
Beauty
God in Heaven only knows.
The kind of
Beauty that is deep and wild,
The kind of
Beauty lost like the days of a child,
The kind of
Beauty mankind
Has been trying desperately
(without realization)
Forever to find.
The kind of
Beauty
God has put upon
Every souls mind.
The kind of
Beauty
That forever causes God
To call us:
'Mine! '
The kind of original beauty
God understands,
The kind of beauty awaiting
The return of each woman, and man.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Perfect Flower
growing out of the ground
digging deep and far
topped with beauty
emmitting the fragrance of love
brittle through the body
strong in the roots
but thats all that matters
for that keeps them going
shining its beauty
letting everyone see it
all the time
spreading its sweet smell
with everyone that comes in contact
making them happy
sorting through the flowers
searching for the only one
that can fill the hole
that he has dug
he sees it in his sight
the sweet aroma
the loving vibe
the joy it gives his heart
the beauty
the perfect flower
gently grasping it
choosing it for his taking
only a few faults show
but the beauty overshadows the faults
in his eyes nothing's better
noone could ever replace her
with this flower his hole is full
it's the perfect fit
giving this flower
radiating with its majestic beauty
to his one true love
the perfect flower to the perfect love
you're all i want
all I've ever dreamed of
and in this perfect flower
our love will live on
poem by Joshua Norton
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Picture-Books in Winter
Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.
We may see how all things are
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the picture story-books.
How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books?
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Fairest
thou art the fairest of all
thou art my beauty at the mall
thy picture always painted on the wall
thy beauty is always as i might recall
thy beauty shant fade away
all thy sad tears i've swiped away
all thy beauty are not for play
for every beauty is not for waste
thy beautifull smile so heavenly
always every beaty shops landlady
thou art qualified as milady
always fair always thy heart fairy
thou art my favourite episode
your black beauty describes my ode
always lovely when thou art in the mood
thy ancient beauty never growing old
thou art my fairest
thy smell of thy perfume the loveliest.
poem by Umoh Cyril
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Sam's Christmas Pudding
It was Christmas Day in the trenches
In Spain in Penninsular War,
And Sam Small were cleaning his musket
A thing as he'd ne're done before.
They'd had 'em inspected that morning
And Sam had got into disgrace,
For when sergeant had looked down the barrel
A sparrow flew out in his face.
The sergeant reported the matter
To Lieutenant Bird then and there.
Said Lieutenant 'How very disgusting'
The Duke must be told of this 'ere.'
The Duke were upset when he heard
He said, 'I'm astonished, I am.
I must make a most drastic example
There'll be no Christmas pudding for Sam.'
When Sam were informed of his sentence
Surprise, rooted him to the spot.
'Twas much worse than he had expected,
He though as he'd only be shot.
And so he sat cleaning his musket
And polishing barrel and butt.
While the pudding his mother had sent him,
Lay there in the mud at his foot.
Now the centre that Sam's lot were holding
Ran around a place called Badajoz.
Where the Spaniards had put up a bastion
And ooh...! what a bastion it was.
They pounded away all the morning
With canister, grape shot and ball.
But the face of the bastion defied them,
They made no impression at all.
They started again after dinner
Bombarding as hard as they could.
And the Duke brought his own private cannon
But that weren't a ha'pence o' good.
The Duke said, 'Sam, put down thy musket
And help me lay this gun true.'
Sam answered, 'You'd best ask your favours
From them as you give pudding to.'
The Duke looked at Sam so reproachful
'And don't take it that way,' said he.
'Us Generals have got to be ruthless
It hurts me more than it did thee.'
Sam sniffed at these words kind of sceptic,
Then looked down the Duke's private gun.
And said 'We'd best put in two charges,
We'll never bust bastion with one.'
He tipped cannon ball out of muzzle
He took out the wadding and all.
He filled barrel chock full of powder,
Then picked up and replaced the ball.
He took a good aim at the bastion
Then said 'Right-o, Duke, let her fly.'
The cannon nigh jumped off her trunnions,
And up went the bastion, sky high.
The Duke, he weren't 'alf elated
He danced around trench full of glee.
And said, 'Sam, for this gallant action.
You can hot up your pudding for tea.'
Sam looked 'round to pick up his pudding
But it wasn't there, nowhere about.
In the place where he thought he had left it,
Lay the cannon ball he'd just tipped out.
Sam saw in a flash what 'ad happened:
By an unprecedented mishap.
The pudding his mother had sent him,
Had blown Badajoz off map.
That's why fuisilliers wear to this moment
A badge which they think's a grenade.
But they're wrong... it's a brass reproduction,
Of the pudding Sam's mother once made.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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Its Christmas time
Its almost Christmas
People buying plenty of presents
People preparing puddings and pork
The countdown is on
Corks are sealed on Christmas drinks
Many parents wrapping presents
The Choir singing Christmas Carols
Countdown to corks popping Christmas pudding and people cracking up
Perfect plump pudding made to perfection coming on the plate
Excited playful children
Ready for the crazy crackers
Christmas carols flowing through our cheerful ears
There's pork, there's plump pudding, there's presents, pancakes and Christmas joy in our souls
poem by Alyssia Innocent
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My Idea of beauty
Beauty is the sensation of your heart skipping a beat,
when eyes full of mischief glance at you...
Beauty is the smile which appears on your lips, when you think of the way he smiles at you...
Beauty is in the heart which touches another
Beauty is tender hands holding each other
Beauty is strong arms holding you warm
Beauty is in water, beauty is in weather,
beauty is in air, beauty is in life
Beauty is in love, beauty is in wind...
Beauty surrounds you days and nights
yet no one knows beauty's heights...
poem by Nitya Pillai
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Mixed Fruit
Why should I paint you a full picture,
When the giving of a scent will provide the hint...
Of every detail.
Saving me time.
And,
Additional words to attempt to define...
What you should already know.
Life is becomong more like a bowl of mixed fruit.
I don't care what language it is you speak.
And a picture may paint a thousand words.
I've heard all of that before.
But if you can not smell what is in the air today,
And you are needing an interpreter...
There is more than delusions going on inside your head.
A numbing of it is what I would suggest.
Do not waste a cent on seeking help.
The tasting is in the pudding.
And the freshness of the fruit can not be guaranteed.
But what is evident...
Those making attempts to influence with control,
Are the ones out of their minds.
And time is the teacher that will present that lesson.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Georgina
They told me her name was Georgina
At first I thought she was an angel in disguise
She danced around my mind like a ballerina
Her beauty was excitement to my soul and eyes.
Her lips were as full as a boutique of roses
That a man would present to a woman in love
'Remember' beauty are from the words man composes
From the inspiration of woman, and not from GOD above.
Her eyes were as large and additive as the moon
And they called me, as fire calls a moth to the flame
The air was tranquil as it was late June
And then I saw her, and now I know her name.
Across the room was the first time that I saw her
I don't think I could ever forget that magical night
Her image is strong and her beauty will never blur
My love is for her and she will always be in my sight.
Oh how I wished that I had taken her away by the hand
But I know that I could never, even if I could try
As her heart and soul they belonged to another man
And I was just a visitor, who sadly was passing by.
In my mind and soul she will always be there
Her beauty could be compared to that of beautiful Athena
How I wished that I had her that's all in my prayer
After they had told me that her name was Georgina.
poem by Randy McClave
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