En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Poet's Conference

Take away the quill pen,
Or the clacking of the keys
Of the hostile kissing
Of the keyboard
And there will be the manifests
Of the tremors and stammers
Of dysgraphic woes.

Take away the paper
Unsullied and immaculate
Without the stains of denouement
And there will be blood
And tears spilled
In an aposiopesis
Like the ink on every
Ethereal page.

Take away the guise
Of a poet or a writer,
Manqué or laureate,
The paradoxes, the metaphors,
The lyric lines that metamorphose
The fiendish solace beneath
The tombstones of the tacit
Written words
And there will rise
Fulminating the sunrise:

Agony,
Anguish,
Despair,
Desolate,
Morose,
Remorse,
Defeat,
Blackly,
Heavily,
Desperately,
Disembogued rivers.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil

The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow

The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.

poem by Adam M. Snow
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The Rivers of a Poet

The Rivers of the Poet

The verses of the poet
vary from the rivers
though they also flow
while circulating inside
until materializing
in words and verses
that others can see.

The poet’s soul communions
with the exterior world
and flows like the rivers
with each inspiration.

The rivers of the poet
do dry inside of him
as he writes,
but it is forever
that they flow in written form
upon the sheets of paper.

That is how
the rivers of the poet
leave and manage to stay
until another river
appears and flows
with another inspiration.

poem by Juan Antonio Rodriguez
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When I Write These Lines

when i write these lines it is as good as
thrown paper, some words are written but
they are meant to be discarded because they have
occupied much of sadness
worn out memories
overused mumblings

they are meant to be crumpled
and thrown away

this one, this one is not meant to be kept
it is written
but meant simply to be deleted

some words are meant to be said
and be forgotten
because of pain and because they do not mean anything anymore.
goodbye lines, goodbye
take your time, there will be a little waiting
until another fool takes you in
another poet in the state of an inevitable
writer's block

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bloody Paper Dolls

They bleed an ink of green blood
Cut them out
Faces of drawn misfortune
Bodies of frail dresses
Minds of empty blue lines
Given names of whores from distorted streets
Megan molly Shannon mind so weak
Created world of plagiarized lives
These bloody paper dolls have no eyes
They see not the tears upon her face
They bleed words onto the page
Green ink dripping
Soft words describing a life
Take there heads the lose all purpose
Fixed scissors this time ill make a man
Green ink bleeds from the cut up words
And the body it forms
These dolls aren’t real they are a shaken reality
Let her be she has dreams
And I cut the words from this page
I lost my age
I’m old... and still
I have bloody paper dolls all around
They rule my life
They are my reality
My friends
These words now just letters
Green ink stains my finger tips
My bloody dolls you are it.

poem by Victoria Martinez
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An African writer

I am an african writer
with the melodious lyric
flowing rivers of endless music
with words filled banks
of rhythmic juice

I am an african writer
the flower with the sweetest nectar
colourful juices of flowing oceans
oceans of endless streams

I am an african writer
dwelling by the shrine
in earnest worship to the gods of poetry
invoking my elders before me
warlord of the verbal war

I am an african writer
born with a pot of words
Caressed with the river of the niger
And burnt with the power of endless chatter

I am an african writer
With dead digits and ancient inks
Torn sheets with flee bugs
bestow to a journey of endless music
And beautiful heritage

I am an african writer!
Forged with letters and blood of lines
Strange eyes to a stories side
And rewarded with the gift of true sight!

poem by Venessa Ambrose
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Beneath Keys Of My Keyboard

what crumbs dwell yonder lie beneath keys of my keyboard?
a delicate art timing precise necessary to keep keyboard keys clean
but alas spilt coffee sugar sweetened is danger ant invitation

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Words on paper

Words on paper
~
Just words on paper
Where a story is told
An emotion revealed
Or a love laid to rest
Where a dream begins
An ambition is spoken
Perhaps a whim of fancy
Takes charge of the pen
To write what is written
Letters forming words
Shapley and beautiful
Expressions of a soul
Or a mind at play
There across the page
Words on paper
Written to have their say

poem by Matthew Holloway
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Will The Words Come Back?

Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?

13 July 2009

poem by David Harris
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I Have Written Too Many Poems Of Despair

I HAVE WRITTEN TOO MANY POEMS OF DESPAIR

I have written too many poems of despair-
Too much complaint-
Too much sorrow grief sadness difficulty pain-
I should have written more of hope of youth of love-
I should have sung of happiness
I should have been been a poet
Who helps others love life more

I can try now-

But can words of ‘will’ really be poetry?

It is when the lines come to the mind and heart
On their own
Naturally
That the poem begins to live.

Does this sound like a ‘happy poem’?
Or yet another lament for what I am
And have not been?

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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Don't

Don't fall in love with a poet
for they will melt your heart
and there is no escape, you see
for romance is their art.

Don't try to vie with a poet
for words trip from their mouths
as easily as quick silver
that lines the darkest clouds.

Don't tell a poet your secrets
for very soon you'll see,
they'll write them as a metaphor
upon a paper sea.

Don't make a stance with a poet
for you don't stand a chance
they'll sway you with emotions
and words that sweetly dance.

Don't fall in love with a poet,
however they endear,
for strong romantic gestures
will conjure flowing tears.

Don't fall in love with a poet
for life will surely change
but oh how happy you will be
to have it rearranged.

poem by Ruth Walters
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A Paper Rose

Each time pen and line
brush the page

it is with you in mind;

all these years

you've been
reader to my writer-

you and I

giving life

to what starts as

mere blank pages-

and end as

our shared experience.

I can feel you;
hear you breathing

and lay

down each

night

renewed

for you have

read

between my lines

written and

I

received

your resonances
come back

to my ear-

these reciprocities

tracking

the journey

we each

together

have taken-
our lines entwining.

No greater bond

than the bond

of reader and that written;

no love more timeless

than that shared

in the missive

shaped

by two

interchanging

in this journey

through

life's space.

No gratitude greater
than mine.

Capture here then

to be clear

the

paper rose

this writing
is

because
its lines form

a rose

which will

last

down the years
forever read
forever written.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Tears Of A Guy

Lone child in the wild
A bird thats lost at sea
The words that whisper in the silent film
Say tomorrows gone for me
All night lying with your head in my hands
And I search for reasons why
But if I cant get to it - I cant get through it
All thats gone now - all thats...
The tears of a guy
Is all I ever see
The tears of a guy
So many rivers run to me
Wake up dreaming with the sun in my eyes
Hear me screaming, dont ask why
Some strange music from some sweet soul song
Says I cant feel it - I cant try
Time goes - and the fountain still flows
Ill be watching through fortunate eyes
But I cant get cured - I must endure
All thats gone now - all thats...
The tears of a guy
Is all I ever see
The tears of a guy
So many rivers run to me
Drift by the walls - this way
Babylon - in your eyes
Drift by the walls - this way
Babylon - in your eyes
So many rivers run through me
(and we will walk)
Oh little angel
Its all I ever see
(and we will rise)
So many rivers run to me
(and we will walk)
Oh my little angels
In your eyes
So many rivers run through me
In your eyes
Written by : kerr/burchill reproduced without permission

song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Fluorescent Musing (Sonnet)

I seek for the temporal gush of the wind
And vie to ferry the holocaust in a dream
Beneath the summer's palm I gleaned
For the wisps of the hottest stream
To fill these disembogued vessels
And exonerate the concealed streets
To the grandiosity of buried castles
And let the fluorescent sun seethe
Into the iron cellars of the eye
To blind the heavily stained vision
With mouth full of blood I shall cry
Until I bleed out this lingering derision
As I lay beneath the scorches of the weather
And as it muse back past the shudders.

poem by Norman Santos
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The Perfect Vengeance Is Suicide

The blood spilled on the page
Unforgiving with stale stains
Of blazing vengeance, betrayal
And overweening pride
But amends fell in a vertical line
A taut brawl for the sake of memories
And rue lingers with your zephyr breath
And never will I commit to the same mistakes
Back to the glassine veneer, I meander
Hoping that these last words
Is suffice for you to remember
That you will always be
A great part of me
Let's not ruin
The end of it.

poem by Norman Santos
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Unraveling My Poem Unraveling My Life

you think you know me
every inch every color
since you have read
every poem i have written

you equate what i am
with what i have written

and your equation goes
through and through the lines
of logic like a telephone
pole connecting two islands

every sigh is learned
from every syllable of my lines
every yawn is discerned
from every sleepy letter that you
meet and see

are there no strangers there
that you meet? did you not
care to ask for his name?
are there no oceans there?
if there are, there must
be some oceanfloors
some sinks sinking
some whales occupying
so much space for your
kind understanding and
you may find yourself
hard of breathing, like a
diver whose oxygen tank
is leaking. You don't die
with me. You don't like my
sickness. You don't like to
get this infection beyond
my own solitude.

you unravel a poem you
discover that i have become
more covered. A voice tells
me, i am not my poems, i am
more than them. I am not just
a syllable, a word, a line.

I am more than what you have
tried to swallow inside your mouth.

i am blood and i am flowing.
you dip your finger once and
taste a dropp of my blood and
then in a second, i am no longer
there. I am a flowing blood and
what you have are stains, yes,

only stains turning into scars.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Too Frightened To Turn Off The Lights

A race to quiet and defeat truth,
Is on the rise.
Everyday someone is changing,
The events and what took place.
And 'whom' did what to 'who'...
With such embarrassment and disgrace.
Even a forced chuckle faked,
Can not charade a nervousness displayed.

A race to quiet and defeat truth,
Is on the rise.
Lies are being told by those who are shallow.
As if to do this gives them a popularity boost.
While choosing to defend and hide behind insecurities,
With a marketing done of a personality...
That doesn't sleep well at night at all.
And too frightened to turn off the lights,
To fall into anguish and darkened agony!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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why Socrates did not write....

he believes in what must be said
trusting in the recall of what is important
you should have paid more attention and
kept everything dear inside your heart
he never believes in the written word
he knows that time keeps on changing
and words in print do not, and like
Heraclitus, he had always invoked
that he can never step on the same river twice

i am no Socrates, neither am i Plato
i keep notes, and write, but i shall not always be understood.

i trust in the written word, and i must be foolish though.
i believe in epitaphs and tombstones, the tablets,
the bytes, those that i leave and soon may rise like the dead
must they redeem me soonest
that i can perhaps hope.

the words can go on, without me, i keep on murmuring
may my words protect me, may my letters make you believe my truths.

may i traverse the right path, and forever, not be punished
to be back, here, these valleys of tears, these thalwegs of no return.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let it be...

The feet of heart
Heavily laden
With agony and ecstasy
Desperately clutch at
The shifting
Vagrant sand dunes
Quite a few moments of death
Drop as tears and
Mingle with the wandering sands
To sprout as a desert flower or two
Elsewhere

Is that a mourning?
Is that a celebration?
Let it be...

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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