Here I sit with my paper…
Here I sit with my paper, my pen my ink,
First of this thing, and that thing,
and t'other thing think ;
I Then my thoughts come so pell and
I mell all into my mind,
That the sense or the subject I never can find :
This word is wrong placed, no
regard to the sense,
The present and future, instead of
past tense,
Then my grammar I want; O dear!
what a bore,
I think I shall never attempt to
write more,
With patience I then my thoughts
must arraign,
Have them all in due order like
mutes in a train,
Like them too must wait in due
patience and thought,
Or else my fine works will all come
to nought.
My wit too 's so copious, it flows
like a river,
But disperses its waters on black
and white never ;
Like smoke it appears independent
and free,
But ah luckless smoke! it all passes
like thee
Then at length all my patience entirely
lost,
My paper and pens in the fire are
tossed ;
But come, try again you must
never despair,
Our Murray's or Entick's are not
all so rare,
Implore their assistance they'll
come to your aid,
Perform all your business without
being paid,
They'll tell you the present tense,
future and past,
Which should come first, and which
should come last,
This Murray will do then to Entick
repair,
To find out the meaning of any
word rare.
This they friendly will tell, and
ne'er make you blush,
With a jeering look, taunt, or an
O fie! tush!
Then straight all your thoughts in
black and white put,
Not minding the if's, the be's, and
the but,
Then read it all over, see how it
will run,
How answers the wit, the retort,
and the pun,
Your writings may then with old
Socrates vie,
May on the same shelf with Demosthenes
lie,
May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato
be sage,
The pattern or satire to all of the
age;
But stop a mad author I mean not
to turn,
Nor with thirst of applause does my
heated brain burn,
Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar
combined,
My letters may make some slight
food for the mind ;
That my thoughts to my friends I
may freely impart,
In all the warm language that flows
from the heart.
Hark! futurity calls! it loudly
complains,
It bids me step forward and just
hold the reins,
My excuse shall be humble, and
faithful, and true,
Such as I fear can be made but by
few
Of writers this age has abundance
and plenty,
Three score and a thousand, two
millions and twenty,
Three score of them wits who all
sharply vie,
To try what odd creature they best
can belie,
A thousand are prudes who for
Charity write,
And fill up their sheets with spleen,
envy, and spite,
One million are bards, who to
Heaven aspire,
And stuff their works full of bombast,
rant, and fire,
T'other million are wags who in
Grub-street attend,
And just like a cobbler the old writings
mend,
The twenty are those who for pulpits
indite,
And pore over sermons all Saturday
night.
And now my good friends who
come after I mean,
As I ne'er wore a cassock, or dined
with a dean,
Or like cobblers at mending I never
did try,
Nor with poets in lyrics attempted
to vie;
As for prudes these good souls I
both hate and detest,
So here I believe the matter must
rest.
I've heard your complaint my
answer I've made,
And since to your calls all the
tribute I've paid,
Adieu my good friend ; pray never
despair,
But grammar and sense and everything dare,
Attempt but to write dashing, easy,
and free,
Then take out your grammar and
pay him his fee,
Be not a coward, shrink not to a
tense,
But read it all over and make it
out sense.
What a tiresome girl! pray soon
make an end,
Else my limited patience you'll
quickly expend.
Well adieu, I no longer your patience
will try
So swift to the post now the letter
shall fly.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Related quotes
Sonnet: A Bit of Patience
A bit of patience works out miracles;
A bit of patience puts off arguments;
A bit of patience problems well tackles;
A bit of patience preserves monuments.
A bit of patience can avoid hatred;
A bit of patience cools one’s anger off;
A bit of patience marks well good kindred;
A bit of patience makes many to laugh.
A bit of patience keeps good friends at peace;
A bit of patience can avoid big wars;
A bit of patience can jealousy cease;
A bit of patience can avoid big scars.
A bit of patience gives good advantage;
A bit of patience is good heritage.
poem by John Celes
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My Thoughts
Thought in the eyes,
The ears.
Thought in mind,
The brain,
Thought in heart,
The soul.
Great thought is great
when it becomes great deeds.
With my thoughts within
Building my world within
Learning with thought;
Is great learning wisdom.
Learning without thought,
Is opportunity lost.
Thought for others
Thought for God
Thought for good
Thought for God’s blessing
Thoughts teach me,
Thoughts educate me,
Thoughts clarify me,
Thoughts enlighten me.
Thoughts make me wise
Thoughts make me patience
Thoughts make me trust others
Thoughts make me clam.
Thoughts before act
Is smart and wise
Act before thoughts
Is stupid and foolish
That’s my thoughts
They make thinking clear
They make belief deepen
They make confidence high.
In thoughts, my world
In my world, make my thoughts.
In thoughts, my words
In my words, make my speech
It’s my thoughts count
Counting my thoughts
To endless counting thoughts
Thinking the thoughts endlessly
My thoughts and thoughts again.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Author's Inspiration
My fingers do not type the words on the page; they do not draw delusions on a thin piece of white lined paper. They are not meant for the works of art to be used and unworthy for. My fingers are worthy enough to paint pictures inside your cognizance, more than painting a paintless sheet that means nothing to me. My fingers work as if every picture I paint in my mind, inspires them to write the unwritten page, to make it a master piece. But not every inspiration inside my mind, will take merely a second to create. It takes time, patience, and art to smear the writings onto a page. Author inspiration is from what comes from the heart; deep and dark, inspring and light - it's as if it was left inside its cage. No freedom, no light, no darkness, no being of a creature that the render of the paper, simply gave up on inspiring the little ones'. It's as if this mere creature was left within a white blank world. No colors to paint, no words to express. An author inspiration is formed when they see or hear other works of art, whether it's music to their ears, movies they wish to be in, life and feelings that they feel or positioned in, or other writings that they write something else about - but as an inspiration from them. An inspiration can be from anything from the outside world, from what happens inside one's life, to what creates such imagination within one's thoughts that coats the page with color and creativity. Anyone can be talented. Anyone can have an inspiration. You just have to feel and be it.
poem by Alicia Meyers
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Patience, Hard Thing! The Hard Thing But To Pray
Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart's ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.
poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Patience (Live)
Was a time when I wasn't sure
But you set my mind at ease
There is no doubt
You're in my heart now
Said, woman, take it slow
It'll work itself out fine
You and I've got what it takes to make it
Said, woman, take it slow
and no no no no no
You and I got just a little patience
I sit here on the stairs
'Cause I'd rather be alone
If I can't have you right now
I'll wait, dear
Sometimes I get so tense
But I can't speed up the time
But you know, love
There's one more thing to consider
Said, woman, take it slow
And the lights are shinning bright
You no no no no no no ah baby
Said, woman, take it slow
It'll work itself out fine
All we need is just a little patience
-I wanna try and see if I can do this solo
Just a little patience, yeah
Some more patience, yeah
-Goes like this, it goes like this...
I BEEN WALKIN' THE STREETS AT NIGHT
JUST TRYIN' TO GET IT RIGHT
HARD TO SEE WITH SO MANY AROUND
YOU KNOW I DON'T LIKE
BEING STUCK IN THE CROWD
AND THE STREETS DON'T CHANGE
BUT BABY THE NAME
I AIN'T GOT TIME FOR THE GAME
'CAUSE I NEED YOU
YEAH, WELL I NEED YOU
OO, WELL I NEED YOU
OO, I NEED YOU
OO, ALL THIS TIME
song performed by by John Mayer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet 56: Fie, School Of Patience
Fie, school of Patience, fie! your lesson is
Far, far too long to learn it without book:
What, a whole week without one piece of look,
And think I should not your large precepts miss?
When I might read those letters fair of bliss,
Which in her face teach virtue, I could brook
Somewhat thy leaden counsels, which I took
As of a friend that meant not much amiss:
But now that I, alas, do want her sight,
What, dost thou think that I can ever take
In thy cold stuff a phlegmatic delight?
No, Patience, if thou wilt my good, then make
Her come, and hear with patience my desire,
And then with patience bid me bear my fire.
poem by Philip Sidney
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S e l f' ' s g r a c e
It’s said that we are graced
specifically, in three ways:
(though we might add,
but what is human life but grace?)
those three, firstly the divine grace
which we may turn to, any time,
in the scriptures as set down
(which we must bring to life ourselves..)
and then, the grace which flows
through the good fortune to find
(or does he or she find us?)
a teacher who may steer our course
through life, through teachings, and
through the understanding which we bring;
and third and last – and most mysterious,
most powerful, most firmly set;
and most of all, which all our living life
partakes of: grace of self.
But what is that? So darkly set
by our past thoughts, and words, and acts;
so darkly, lightly, made each moment’s presence
by our present life; and which, darkly again,
must influence our future life in ways
or even in our future bodies, if
such teachings as the Hindus hold
may energize our ways…
Can we, should we, attempt a gratitude
to our mysterious former self – that thus
we are, and to our present moment, brought?
So should we, in some novel, inner way,
dedicate our present self – to… self?
Fall silent, still; and in that place beyond
all thought, all word, all act, all sense, all seeing,
dissolve into ourself; know only, being?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Art of Letters
My brain is without thought and is vacant,
and there is nothing coming to mind.
There’s not even a blank canvas to write upon,
it’s as though I am mentally blind.
I’m tapping random keys on my laptop
I’m so unimaginative and tense.
A pattern is emerging from the letters,
but does it really have to make sense?
poem by Tex T Sarnie
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Sonnet 63: Oh Grammar Rules
Oh grammar rules, oh now your virtues show
So children still read you with awefull eyes,
As my young dove may in your precepts wise
Her grant to me, by her own virtue know.
For late, with heart most high, with eyes most low,
I crav'd the thing which ever she denies:
She, lightning Love, displaying Venus' skies,
Lest once should not be heard, twice said, 'No, No.'
Sing then, my Muse, now Io Paean sing,
Heav'n's envy not at my high triumphing:
But grammar's force with sweet success confirm:
For grammar says (oh this, dear Stella, weigh,)
For grammar says (to grammar who says nay?)
That in one speech two negatives affirm.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Patience
Patience is a virtue.
You'll need it to stay true.
Whenever you are feeling blue.
Faith, and patience will always pull you through.
Though at times it may seem bleak,
and hope is very weak.
Be patient and you'll find what you now seek.
Love is patience which you really need.
Push too hard and good will leave.
The patient man will take the lead.
Rewarded well for this virtious seed.
With which he grew and paid his dues.
The impatient man will always lose.
So wait your turn, ignore the burn.
With patience now you'll not be spurned.
poem by Michael McParland
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Poem super fast
Nothing is certain
Go with fountain
Be sure
Life is in vain.
2
Catch train
go for fain.
3
Present is yours
Neither past
Nor future.
4
O my soul
Come and
Wash my coal
See I am yours
This is the identification
Mark the mole.
5
Grammar is man-made
Not poem.
Go with poem
Forgetting word
sentences rules
Regulations of grammar.
6
Water is burning
Air is burning
Sky is burning
Still fire is not there
And this earth.
7
Only love I want
I am the product of love.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Making sense
No sense in it if you act non-sense
People may push you away with sense
You may think why people are utterly non-sense?
When you are perfectly ok and act wit sense
You may fail in your love attempts
Some thing may force you or to act prompt
Still you act with sense and avoid
You may face difficulties which are self maid
You may act wise with change of scene
Gentleman like approach when publicly seen
Is it not the humanly act minus sin?
When one tries to project what he has been?
What comes to your help or rescue?
You may be wondering without any clue
You may blink and face may turn blue
When projection makes no sense for you
Sense is third eye for human being
Timely act may make him king
Opponent may face defeat in the ring
You may survive……………..
What, if nothing suggests or paves the way?
Your voice may not be heard or have the say
You may stick to position and bat for long
Still it makes sense that you are not always wrong
You will know what lies ahead?
Common sense may stop you to be mislead
So even if you are worried or so tense
You may act wise and come out with sense
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Rubaiyat 37
Let not your thoughts constantly be fought,
Let thoughts in patience and joy be caught.
What patience? Cause what they call the heart
Is a drop of blood, and a thousand thought.
poem by Shams al-Din Hafiz
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Ask Not For Whom The Bell Tolls
It is a matter of life and death.
We sense our mortality in the destiny of another.
This isn't easy for us to confront.
We seek ignorance of such final thoughts.
Only those who have been made aware,
Can truly face death.
We look at its empty eyes and see nothing.
At first, we are afraid.
This is our human existence at stake.
If we were merely mortals, then this would be normal.
However, humans are not merely mortals.
Every single word within us cries out against the waste.
I am unique. So are you.
There is an expression,
'We will never see his like again.'
Even so, Easter has taught us
That God preserves the life force beyond death.
It is the hope of resurrection
That sustains us in this life.
Those that have this faith in God,
Believe in the past, the present AND the future
And we therefore spend our lives
In prayer and good works.
No matter where we are,
While there is a single thought left within us,
We can still pray.
This is life.
Not the striving for more and more things,
While others starve to death.
Let's be more sympathetic
In regard to complete strangers,
Men, women and children
Facing terrifying squalor, disease and persecution.
It's easy to feel sorry
For the good old Georges of this world,
Because they are the good ones we don't want to lose.
But what about the tiny babies
Who haven't the strength to lift a finger
To do any good works?
They are more deserving if left to live a full life
Than the ones who have already lived for decades...
Many of these have never seen a shoe...
And they don't even know that each one of them
Has an eternal soul...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)
The Lonely Writer
Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers
The needy juvenile writer
Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to
The Spite Writer
This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.
The Religious Writer
These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.
poem by David Whalen
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An Epistle To Robert Lloyd, Esq.
'Tis not that I design to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,--
For thou art born sole heir and single
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;
Nor that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare sentiments together,
To show my genius or my wit,
When God and you know I have neither,
Or such, as might be better shown
By letting poetry alone.
'Tis not with either of these views,
That I presume to address the Muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti,
(Sworn foes to everything that's witty),
That, with a black infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense:
The fierce banditti which I mean,
Are gloomy thoughts led on by spleen.
Then there's another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly quit
The debt which justly became due
The moment when I heard from you:
And you might grumble, crony mine,
If paid in any other coin;
Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows,
(I would say twenty sheets of prose),
Can ne'er be deemed worth half so much
As one of gold, and yours was such.
Thus the preliminaries settled,
I fairly find myself pitch-kettled;
And cannot see, though few see better,
How I shall hammer out a letter.
First, for a thought -- since all agree--
A thought -- I have it -- let me see--
'Tis gone again -- plague on't! I thought
I had it -- but I have it not.
Dame Gurton thus and Hodge her son
That useful thing, her needle, gone,
Rake well the cinders, sweep the floor,
And sift the dust behind the door;
While eager Hodge beholds the prize
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes;
And Gammar finds it on her knees
In every shining straw she sees.
This simile were apt enough,
But I've another, critic-proof.
The virtuoso thus at noon,
Broiling beneath a July sun,
The gilded butterfly pursues
O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews,
And after many a vain essay
To captivate the tempting prey,
Gives him at length the lucky pat,
And has him safe beneath his hat:
Then lifts it gently from the ground,
But ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;
Culprit his liberty regains;
Flits out of sight and mocks his pains.
The sense was dark, 'twas therefore (--?)
With simile to illustrate it;
But as too much obscures the sight,
As often as too little light,
We have our similes cut short,
For matters of more grave import.
That Matthew's numbers run with ease
Each man of common sense agrees;
All men of common sense allow,
That Robert's lines are easy too;
Where then the preference shall we place,
Or how do justice in this case?
Matthew (says Fame) with endless pains
Smoothed and refined the meanest strains,
Nor suffered one ill-chosen rhyme
To escape him at the idlest time;
And thus o'er all a lustre cast,
That while the language lives shall last.
An't please your ladyship, (quoth I,
For 'tis my business to reply);
Sure so much labour, so much toil,
Bespeak at least a stubborn soil.
Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,
Who both write well and write full speed;
Who throw their Helicon about
As freely as a conduit spout.
Friend Robert, thus like chien scavant,
Lets fall a poem en passant,
Nor needs his genuine ore refine;
'Tis ready polished from the mine.
poem by William Cowper
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If You Wait For Better Metaphors
let go that patience
waiting for a load of metaphors
to make your poem
for today, you end up poor
with no poem to share,
are you conscious about what the lords, the gods, will say?
about your creations?
the beauty that you must exude to please these lords, these gods?
they, who left you here, they who do not feed you
crumbs, left-overs,
they, who live in the clouds, who feast among themselves
and look down upon you
as mediocre crab
running to catch the ebb and
tide of the sea,
you write, because you do not rhyme
because you cannot count
the beat of your aching heart
you write, because your mind is blank
blacked-out,
look at you,
you do not look like any human being at all?
you fear
losing your poetic sense?
damn, write, do not pray for metaphors
do not crack your head for images,
do not pray for the gods and lords
they too have problems of their own
mindless,
senseless,
quarelling among themselves on some crowded skies,
your stay is short
there is no specific duration of your stay
write and write, let them have their own shame
life has no rhyme
in fact, senseless,
why pretend you rhyme? why pretend you make sense at all?
you are never god in the first place,
you are the quiver of this universe, the hum that numbs
why bother?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Past, Present, Future
i lived in the past for so long
that the present was always unknown.
now i always look ahead at all the possibilities
and there is so much, that i now see.
a shimmer of light at the end of the tunnel
and my thoughts being poured through a funnel.
the past is the past, and that's where it will stay
and in the present, we have to find a better way.
for the present will soon be our past
and if we don't do something, it will not last.
we must always look to the future
for it is only twenty four hours away
then it will be our past
and we have so much to do and say.
when i look at life, i truely have to laugh
today is our future and tomorrow it'll be our past.
now that i have you confused as to what i am
trying to say.
i guess i will try' to put it a better way'.
we all tend to procrastinate
always leaving it for tomorrow.
but! what if you don't see tomorrow.
and today you did'nt accomplish that task
how will you be remembered
if the present you left for last.
when we leave this material world
and our souls soar up in the sky
we will still have our memories
and that we can rely.
for when we get up there(if we do)
your soul will have carried all that you did
in this life
and the memories of friends, family
husband, or wife.
now when you look down on all that you had did
and asking yourself the question.
did i use my time, the way it was
meant to be?
or did i procrastinate, that others now speak of me?
we all have to work in order to survive.
but we must stop on occasion to smell the flowers.
and to enjoy all that we was given
otherwise how can you call this living.
(my thoughts: the words and stories were given to me.
so that i could write them down, for al the world to see.)
this is my philosophy.
poem by Louis Rams
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Machine made Elegance.
My father wrote in copperplate.
His beautiful calligraphy
I daren’t attempt to emulate
A task that’s well beyond me
Each letter was formed perfectly.
His grammar perfect and his prose.
Time was not a luxury.
Which was a factor I suppose..
My handwritings illegible.
To any one, sometimes to me.
I tend to hastily scribble
my thoughts down as they come to me.
But my P.C has changed my style
I can print out with clarity.
My poetry in a short while.
A blessing it has proved to be.
I was never taught to write
At least not write properly.
But I can print to my delight
and that is good enough for me.
The old ways change and we move on.
Although not always for the best.
Perhaps its sad that time has gone.
Now copper plate is by request.
Computers make it easy to
present hand written poetry.
In any font as we all do.
Which certainly impresses me.
15/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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What He Gave to Us
I wanted to do something different today
I didn’t know what to do, or even what to say.
I had a feeling deep inside- that made me
Want to scream “ I’m alive”.
I looked around at all the beauties of the earth
And thought about all my worth.
That I was born with all five senses
That the lord had given to me.
The sense to Touch a delicate flower
The sense to Hear a bewitching hour
The sense to Smell what s in the air.
The sense to Taste the juices of a pear
The sense to See the beauty of a pearl
There is another sense that they don’t say
Such as Feelings- of love, to wipe tears away
Feelings cover all aspects of life
It can make things wrong or things right.
Feelings of passion and despair
Of compassion from one who cares
Bitterness, anger, hate and sorrow
Even those make life worth while.
There is so much that we must be grateful for
For GOD has opened all the doors.
He knew that we needed all these things
To make our lives complete.
But there was still something missing
What good was all these senses
If we didn’t have the main sense.
The sense to think and rationalize
All that he had given
That was the thing that would really
Make life worth living.
(08/10/11)
poem by Louis Rams
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