A whisper of a hush Motif
A vagrant scribbbler just completed few lines.
A piece of creative writing and it's expressing
his inner feelings.
The narrator of the poem is a feminine gender
who made a protest quietly
and the poet was shocked simultaneously.
He sees the little woman a featherweight
who stimulates on the lines
and he heard of her whispering.
'Hey! my dear stick-in-the-mud
why you forced me to involve
with this baronet sexless?
Still the idiot expect a virgin baroness.
How could I be a virgin
after sleeping the half of my precious life
with a notorious poet?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Poet Without A Poem/ Empty and Desperate
A POET WITHOUT A POEM
A poet without a poem
Empty and desperate
Forces a few lines
As way of reviving himself.
The lines lead to other lines
A poem begins to come.
The poet hears his hope as he writes
And then when there is a poem
He just rests happily
Knowing he is alive again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Became His Own Poetry
A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY
A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.
A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am A Poet Of Short Lines
I am a poet of short lines-
Of lines that are phrases,
Of lines that are small and broken-
I am a poet of short lines-
Of impatience and small breath,
Of hurrying and not taking time-
I am a poet of short lines-
Of condensation and conciseness,
Of maximum meaning in minimum space-
I am a poet of short lines
Short ones.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Journey Of A Poet
A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.
Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions
A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind
With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry
Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words
A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.
A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection
A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
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All Day Long/I Have Been Walking And Thinking
ALL DAY LONG / I HAVE BEEN WALKING AND THINKING
All day long
I have been walking and thinking
Trying to write a poem.
And the lines are not lines
And the poem is not a poem
And the poet is not a poet.
And as the Jerusalem winter wind
Quickens my soul
And the sun flashes at me
The beauty of this world,
I know I have wasted my life
On what was beyond me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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111
The useless poem
He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness
His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins
And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end
Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody
Nobody really cared
Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem
Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness
(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)
Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The useless poem
He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness
His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins
And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end
Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody
Nobody really cared
Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem
Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness
(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)
Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Proud poet
I’m a Poet
I’m a poet because I Love Poetry
I love expressing myself in writing
I expressing myself in word
I express myself wanting to make a statement
I love making an impression
I wanna suppress depression
Suppress the painful feeling inside
Express and get rid of the depression that is stressing
Forcing me to go for counseling
So I write to be right
I write and to recite
Poetry releases the frustrations
Poetry frees prisoned souls
My personality improves
As I grow with my knowledge and experience
Why should there be competition
Why should you diss me
I ain’t trying to hate
Just trying to release my thoughts
I’m a poet by birth
I’m a poet by growth
I’m a poet by nature
I’m a conscious woman of poetry
I’m a respectful woman of poetry
I’m a confident woman of poetry
I’m a phenomenal woman of poetry
And this is only an opinion
Yet a true confession.
Zanele F Mavuso
poem by Zanele Mavuso
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The Poet Who No Longer Believes In Himself
THE POET WHO NO LONGER BELIEVES IN HIMSELF
The poet who no longer believes in himself
And writes on anyway-
The poet who is too weak to stop writing-
The poet who has died as a poet,
Before he has as a person-
The poet who may never have lived as a poet-
The old old old schnook,
Still trying to write a poem
And believing he has done it once again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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From A Poet To A Poem
From a poet to a poem
These hands performed artistic ink work
So delicate and flexible like a plastic fork
From a poet to a poem
These hands deciphers my mistress inner beauty
And her magical physical appearance
With these hands her intellect was portrayed
While the tears of ink resembles
The gentle flow of her tender, love and care
From a poet to a poem
Through the work of my hand,
The notion of love from the top of my head
Is wandering amid the lines of my page
From a poet to a poem
A heart to a page,
From emotional to physical
Hands made it possible
And now she knows
That through these hands I'll continue to love,
Care, speak and embrace her
poem by Leonard Webber
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Where Is The Poet That Can Inspire Once Again?
WHERE IS THE POET THAT CAN INSPIRE ONCE AGAIN?
Where is the poet that can inspire once again?
I have heard them all so many times-
Even the great are only familiar lines -
I wait for something different
From another dimension-
But it is not they who are tired
Or limited-
You can find worlds in them if you reread again-
It is I who have lost my soul for Poetry
And not only for Poetry-
It is I who am old and tired –
There can be no new poet and no new poem and no new poetry
When I have gone to the other side
Where listening and hearing are impossible.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I Am More A Poet
I AM MORE A POET THAN ANY OTHER KIND OF WRITER
I am more a poet than any other kind of writer-
But I am not a pure poet -
And not the best of what a poet could be-
I 'think' in my poetry
And it tells me what I dream and feel-
It is my soul-
God made me a poet
Perhaps not a good one as I would have liked to be-
It is so wonderful to be able to write these lines now
After long long hours of difficult silence.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Am An Old Man Writing A Poem
I AM AN OLD MAN WRITING A POEM
I am an old man writing a poem
I have been writing a poem all my life
The lines seem somewhat blurred now
But what I have written
Will say I hope
Something of what we are
And what we have been
And what we will be.
I am an old man still writing a poem
And I love with all my heart all those
Who have lived their lives-
in one way or another – with me
I do not know how to thank you-
I write these lines to thank you
And pray for the goodness and blessing
Of your lives and the lives of those you love-
And will love-
Now here
And in all your time to come.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I read another poet I could not understand
I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND
I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.
And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.
But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?
Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-
Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Is The Most Free Being
A POET CAN AT ANY TIME
A poet
At any time
Any place
May
Hear lines
Feel a poem
In his mind.
A poet is the most free being
In the universe
Because anywhere he is
Any time
He can do what he is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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