The French Teacher
I am taken with her skill of language
well versed in verse root romantics
as well, wooing and cooing
with captivating kinesthetics
intuitively she knows how to move
keep her poet jaw dropped and gushing
spilling fount flow for fumbling and wondering
that he might please her with writing
that he might please her with writing
writing, writing for offering...
form voluptuous statuesque classic
Romanesque animate becoming
hair hallowed aureate dawning and drawing
generous goddess lips eyebrows blowing
crystalline kisses through azure spectacles
spectacular splendid spectacles
inspirate azure and emerald speckled
aquamarine splendour shining
spectacles windows bowing....
But she is no mere anachronism,
mine ageless angelic antiquity
rather, an archetype for study sustaining
filling parched poets and artists hungry
unto the ages exhausting eternity
her accent accentuates geometry
I am aching articulation arching
fantastic fresco, mosaic musing
influx imagery inundating overwhelming
core etymologic elocution erotic
syntactic sublime as enamouring
and she is laconic, tutoring beauty
the virtues of verity; beloved brevity
I am putty in her hands, clay for sculpting,
molding metal for cursive casting
As for her, mine words are so such;
We are crafting each other in many languages
For Karen M
merci beaucoup: -)
copyright R. Resh 2008
poem by Randy Resh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Comics is a language. It's a language most people understand intuitively.
quote by Bill Griffith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem's Language
a poem has it's own language
if a poet uses the glamour of the language
in his poem...the language
would stand out
if a poet shows his versatality over the language
in his poem...the poet
would stand out
the poet and the language should
lose themselves in the poem...for
the poem to speak it's own language
poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Acushla
I NAMED her twice, I named her thrice,
I named her ten times over;
The wind heard, and the singing bird,
And the bee in the creamy clover.
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
It's little that a man may do,
Whose heart is hot with wooing.
I left the field, the harvest yield —
The grain was ripe to falling —
And ran, and ran, a crazy man,
And I the whole time calling
'Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
When Love is keeping holiday,
What work is worth the doing?'
Her feet were fleet, her pretty feet
Upon the hill and hollow;
She bade me stay, she cried me nay,
And still her eyes said 'Follow!'
Acushla! Acushla!
The cushat dove is cooing;
To capture her was sweet, indeed,
Yet sweeter the pursuing.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Also, they don't understand - writing is language. The use of language. The language to create image, the language to create drama. It requires a skill of learning how to use language.
quote by John Milius
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Once a sea-nymph loved a boy
ONCE a sea-nymph loved a boy:
He and she they loved so well.
'Oh the foamy billow's joy!
Oh the rippling in the sun!
Oh the round waves, one by one, Swaying, swaying, swaying, To and fro.
Oh my pearl and coral cell, And the long weeds playing,
While the surges come and go, Come and go!'
Boy and nymph were hand in hand:
He and she they had much love.
'Oh the green and ripening land!
Oh the lime-scent in the trees!
Oh the langour of the breeze,
Wooing, wooing, wooing, Light and low!
Oh the twilight in my grove, And the cushats cooing;
While the brook steals soft and slow, Soft and slow.'
Love, that heard them, laughed aloud, Took them to the side of him.
Was it land or leafy cloud?
Was it billowy cloud or sea? 'Twas the home that eyes, kissed dim,
Look on as they'd have it be.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Poetothemics
No magician can make
Moon: A beautiful lass.
A poet can............
No device can grasp
The language of celestial
A poet can.....
You know! He dug out the beauty
From sorrow and melancholy
Mixed it with wine and enjoyed.
And He, enjoyed the song of her,
language was not known to him.
And He, depicted spirit of revolution
As a spiritual bird.An Albatross.
Bursted he and questioned to me.
'What device a poet has?
How they operated the device? '
I replied..
When a vinsect bites to a poet
Poetothemics activated.
'Never heard such words before! '
Now you heard from me!
He said...A poet can...
............***...........
poem by Aftab Alam Khursheed
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Captivating Madness
It's a captivating madness,
Experienced by one and all!
Captivating with excitement,
Cotton candied and popcorn balled!
There is amusements in the atmosphere.
A circus that delights!
Thrills and chills to goosebump with squeals.
'Free Admission' is the call!
There's nothing left to keep a calm breath...
Not today on this rollercoasting ride!
And the ringmaster confesses,
Those who witness are being blessed.
Since this mess adventured,
Churns to a frenzy...
And must not be stalled.
It's a captivating madness,
Experienced by one and all!
Captivating with excitement,
Cotton candied and popcorn balled!
For anyone in doubt,
Of this craziness coming to an end...
Hold on tight and close your eyes,
There's more attractions
Being prepare...
That have yet to begin!
It's a captivating madness,
Experienced by one and all!
Captivating conscious minds...
With no hint to slow,
Even to a crawl.
Who believed these actions,
Would heal and someday mend!
Not this captivating madness,
We've been addicted to defend!
It's a captivating madness,
Complete with somersaults.
Backflips with closed lips are seen...
And some knocked out by what is viewed,
Are administered smelling salts!
It's a captivating madness...
Deplete of accepting fault!
And those who foresee the future say,
This madness feeds massive assaults.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Lunch With a Poet
I had lunch with a poet, just the other day.
A poet who has written fine and lofty verse,
Conveying his experiences, emotions and his ideas, in
Vivid, imaginative ways, condensed in simple language,
Choosing words for sound and power,
Rather than impressing readers with poetic adulterations.
Almost apologetically, he said he uses 'nickel words'
To write his inner thoughts. It was as if he were at fault,
As though he thought those simple sounds
Had lessened the intent of his poetic worth.
I emphasized how wrong he was, and tried
To make clear, a poet writes in sympathy with his reader,
Overleaping the barriers of understanding by the simplicity
Of his language, and of his words.
To write with words of misty meaning does not make
A mystic.
To write with vulgar words does not lift up the poem
On wings of song, it only floats as high as the poet's
Commonality who, mistaking flatulence for inspiration, becomes
Enmeshed in a literary byproduct of the foulest of excretion and Smells.
My friend failed to intellectually understand,
But spiritually Accepts, as his writings reveal,
That clarity of thought and mind is the poet's
Highest point of the poet's integrity.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Each book, intuitively sensed and, in the case of fiction, intuitively worked out, stands on what has gone before, and grows out of it. I feel that at any stage of my literary career it could have been said that the last book contained all the others.
quote by V.S. Naipaul
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The bilateral pull
My dear!
I am all mad to hold you near.
I am sad to lose you ever.
Now and then I pay you my care.
To return it bare, you didn’t brave.
My beloved!
No day passed that I have not loved.
No week passed that I have not versed.
No month is gone, I have not emoted.
You never requited, simply stored.
My darling!
You are all the time in my noting.
No one blooms as you did, in my writing.
No one moved you as I did, in wooing.
I am doting, seemingly in vain.
My sweet!
You know, a moth in life never sulks
That the Tulip by no time beckoned
And that it never had a suck or hug.
Yet the moth is on move to gladden.
You, a fixed Sun,
I, a revolving Earth,
there is a pull between us,
the pull being not unilateral.
25.04.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chug-a-lug
Here a mug, there a mug, everybody chug-a-lug
Here a mug, there a mug, everybody chug-a-lug
Gary likes a girls tight black pants
Larry knows he doesnt stand a chance
Carl says hurry up and order it quick
Dave gets out to chase that chick
Dennis wonders whats under the hood
A big chrome tach and it sounds real good
I go down to the root beer stand
And drink up all that I can
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Cold beer, root beer
Here a mug, there a mug, everybody chug-a-lug
Brians still glued to the radio
Louies lookin out the rear window
Guys got around to orderin fries
But root beers my best buy
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Cold beer, root beer
Here a mug, there a mug, everybody chug-a-lug
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Give me some root beer (chug-a-lug chug-a-lug chug-a-lug)
Cold beer, root beer
Here a mug, there a mug, everybody chug-a-lug
Root beer, need another mug now
Root beer, chug-a-lug-a-lug now
Root beer, need another mug now
Root beer, chug-a-lug-a-lug now
Root beer, need another mug now
Root beer, chug-a-lug-a-lug now
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My suggestion is that at each state the proper order of operation of the mind requires an overall grasp of what is generally known, not only in formal logical, mathematical terms, but also intuitively, in images, feelings, poetic usage of language, etc.
quote by David Bohm
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Simply Deep
ft. Solange Knowles
[Verse 1]
Is anybody home in there?
I unexpectedly dropped by your heart
I simply wanted you to hear
The cry of my love's never ending start
I'mpossibly escaping you
And circumstances never stand a chance
So intrigued by the things you do
[Chorus]
Through my eyes I envisioned you
Your love protects my every move
My life swings to your heart beats
My everlasting love is simply deep
[Verse 2]
In seconds it's been timeless
When I'm with you
song performed by by Kelly Rowland from Simply Deep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Song Of A Rhyming Man
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
This modern verse too much for me it's way above my head
Though modern poets are now the rage and Rhyme is with the dead.
I love the sound of rhyming words, I love the verse that rhyme
To blank or free or non rhyme verse prefer it every time
And there's many who will disagree and most will say I'm wrong
But give me ballad or rhyme verse or good old rhyming song.
You may say I am limited and with you most will agree
That I'm not into modern verse of twenty first century
But I've been an old style rhyming man since nineteen seventy three
And I am in my sixties now and there's no changing me.
I love the sound of rhyming words like Dan will rhyme with Ann
And I could never be a poet just call me rhyming man
And I am guilty of no sin and I can't see no crime
In liking sound of rhyming verse and loving words that rhyme
poem by Francis Duggan
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Eighteenth-Nineteenth Century Verse
France is the country of poems and prose
the lovely French language tells us so.
Romantic love in classical verse
dates back to Voltaire from days long ago.
The 18th century brought poets from Paris
writing about France and the Seine,
and so many other Parisian wonders
that lie in that fertile plain.
Yes France was a country of talent
In England, Wordsworth stole the scene
whilst Coleridge, another fine English poet
wrote lyrical verse about Pastures Green.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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Poem about Poetry - How a Poem is born
a poem is born
when the poet
merges his soul
with the universal mind
through his language -
the language that floats
in the sea of this universal mind
waiting for the poet
to turn over and over
to entertain it like a mother frolicking
with her new born
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Every poem
Every poem stands
on its own legs
and although
it displays something
of the poet’s soul,
in reality the poet
stands totally free
from it.
Every word and rhyme
and every verse
is totally independent
from who and what
the poet is
and is nothing more
than a verbal painting
of feelings, life, reflections
or any thing
that the poet wants
to express.
poem by Gert Strydom
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