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Read the poems and meet the words
Like they are strangers
They do not know you
And you do not know them
But then you
Get to know each other
With how you feel
And what they feel for you
They flow into your mind
And float there
Then they sink because
You rock them in your
Blood and thirst and
Loneliness, and you ask
If it is you in the poem?
Did I not tell you the magic
Of my poetry? Or of poetry itself?
I will tell you again
You read them and then feel them,
Then they become you
Because now you see yourself
Inside them
And the poems own you
Because now you own them too.
is it you? yes, it is also us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Is it you?
Read the poems and meet the words
Like they are strangers
They do not know you
And you do not know them
But then you
Get to know each other
With how you feel
And what they feel for you
They flow into your mind
And float there
Then they sink because
You rock them in your
Blood and thirst and
Loneliness, and you ask
If it is you in the poem?
Did I not tell you the magic
Of my poetry? Or of poetry itself?
I will tell you again
You read them and then feel them,
Then they become you
Because now you see yourself
Inside them
And the poems own you
Because now you own them too.
is it you? yes, it is also us.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poems About Poems About Poems
Poems about poems about poems-
More poems and more poems and more poems-
Poems poems poems poems poems-
How many poems?
How much poetry
Until there is no poetry at all?
But only 'words' and 'words' and 'words'
Until one goes far away
Where there was never a poem before-
And suddenly hears
“Let there be Light”.
And Poetry perhaps
Is born again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Write Poetry
I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,
I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,
I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,
I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,
poem by Saranyan Bee
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I Read Today A Hundred Poems
I read today a hundred poems
And cannot find
A single one that moved me -
Perhaps it is not the poems
But my poetic soul
that has no life -
I remember a poem
I read yesterday by Neruda
How beautiful how deep
How filled with passion and longing-
How rich in surprise-
I marvel at the greatness
Of his Poetry of Love-
There is Poetry
One only has to read a true poet
To find it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wanted My Poem To Be A Real Poem
I WANTED MY POEM TO BE A REAL POEM
I wanted my poem to be a real poem-
I have read and studied and memorized
So many real poems-
I wanted my poem to be one of them
Which others would read and feel and memorize
And make their own –
We want and we want and we want
And who are we with all our wanting?
Who am I with all my wanting?
One more dreamer
One more ambitious person
One more lover of poems
One more writer of poems
One more wanter of real poems
Who writes this poem
For others
who dream like me
of writing real poems.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Like So Many Poems I Read
LIKE SO MANY POEMS I READ
Like so many poems I read
These poems I am reading now
Are not poems to me.
They are too detached
Too abstract
Too up in the air.
I want to hear the words
Make a music of feeling
In my soul.
A poem must move me
If it is to be real.
Why then do I write these words
as if a poem?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Is Restless In Me
THE POEM IS RESTLESS IN ME
The poem is restless in me-
It waits to be heard-
Now that it comes
It does not feel especially happy about itself.
It knows it is not real-
It is not much-
Just because it is called a poem by me
Does not make it a poem -
The mind has its own place-
My mind also -
I am always thinking poems are with me,
And poems waiting to come-
But who am I and what do I know?
These lines are written in the still of the morning
When the light outside still brings hope
That a new day is possible.
But so many poems have been written in the early morning
And I am so old from hearing them said to me by myself-
And what does it all mean anyway in the end when God is the Only One?
And who am I to know what God is, or invoke the name of God
In such a small thing as my own poetry?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry Is All In One!
Passion for poetry is insatiable!
Poetry gives pleasure nothing can!
Poetry is many subjects under one roof!
Poetry never bores to write and read ever!
Poetry is a compression of many ideas in a nut shell!
Poetry displays power of pen to capture men ever!
Poetry captures as photo castles built in air!
Poetry is spontaneous over flow of ides!
Poetry flows free if extemporary!
Poetry is prolific words sure!
Poetry is a thing of joy!
Poetry is beauty!
Poetry is witty!
Poetry cheers!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Poetry Obsession
I have been writing poetry for just over a year;
That I love poetry, I guess, it's perfectly clear.
My output, to date, has been really quite prolific.
I feel pleased with my work, but it's not terrific.
Now is the time for me to make a confession:
For me, poetry has become a bit of an obsession!
Now I find that, sometimes when I speak,
My sentences unintentionally rhyme! Eeek!
My poems total over three hundred in number;
Sometimes, composing them affects my slumber.
Of my poetry, I admit I feel really rather proud,
But I feel way too shy to read them out aloud.
Often, when I'm out walking, or I'm sat on a train,
Ideas will manifest themselves deep in my brain.
I often find myself spending quite some time,
Pondering the two factors of rhythm and rhyme.
My poems all rhyme: I don't write in ‘free verse':
In unrhymed poetry, myself, I just can't immerse.
To me, poetry which rhymes seems more precise:
It has a better finish, and it just sounds, well, nice!
At my poems online, people have been gazing,
But I would disagree that my work is ‘amazing'.
From all over the world, I am quite often sent
From fellow poets, some encouraging comments.
I have chosen some of my poems to put in a book;
My local bookshop is selling it! Please take a look!
I was thrilled when they agreed to sell it in-store;
They sold the entire first batch, and asked for more!
My dream job is to become a really famous writer;
I know it's a tough journey, but I'm a real fighter.
For sitting, writing poetry, I would love to get paid:
Maybe, if I keep plodding onwards, I will one day!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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All These Poems About Poems
All these poems about poems
Where do they lead?
The world is so rich in so many other things
Write poems about them.
At twilight I look out
At strangers walking
To do their errands of preparation
for Sukkot.
A poem should have some Beauty in it
And not just be an effort at recording observations-
The scarlet bright flowers rage at me from the distance
I cannot translate their Beauty to words -
There is so much I have seen
And so much I will never write –
And so many Poems beyond my Imagination.
All these poems about my failing at poetry
And about translating the Beauty of the world to words-
This is a poem I not know how to properly finish.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Silence Of Edgar's Mind
Edgar had an evil approach
to his writing and to his
poetry that he composed
inside his mind and on
the paper that he wrote
upon.
His characters inside
his stories and poetry
had a shattered affect
that seem to have consumed
his mind as he wrote inside
the silence of his mind.
The silence of Edgar's
mind, gave him the evil
and the turmoilless thoughts
that shaped his short stories
and poetry into what it became
today.
But when i read his
poetry i can feel
his tortured soul
having so-much contorl
over him, that him
begins to battle
with his chastisng
emotions and his soul
That was forever making
him write the poetry
and the shoet stories
that he was chosen to
write until the end of
his life that he lived,
As he found himself
so desparately etched
with the loneliness
of being who he was as
a person.
As i got inside the
silence of Edgar Allan
Poe's mind i found a
constant struggle of
selfless-convictions
coming undone before me
as i read his work out loud.
poem by Erie Morganmaples
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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
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Her Beautiful Fragrance
Poems are my life
My feelings are not fake
I swear to god, I have loved her
However, she could never be mine.
Not even poetry can express how deeply I did love her
Still her beautiful complexion
Is everywhere in my poetry
Her beautiful fragrance, still I can breathe
Everywhere, I see her and feel
Never, have I ever been so close to her
Especially now when she is no more mine
I do not know anything
The perfume she applied, I still can feel
Poems are my life
She was a perfect poem and still I am trying to pen her into verses
These are verses of love as well pain
Forever, I will feel her
Even though she can never be mine
My sweet sugar I will describe her to be
Poems are my life and I do not know anything other than her
Her beautiful fragrance, I still breathe.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Thought Of Her Just Before She Called
Take that day the 25-7-2012..
I read all your poems
I feel all of these
I am all of these..
How do we All feel, This..
Thrust Upon us I enquire?
Was it advertisers, inserting there wares.
Tricked by the moguls on that brash plane
Moral influence numbingly belted, no mas no mas!
Unconsciously wers we inserted upon
Confused! ! Strangely, abused I feel not
Take that day the 25-7-2012
I read all your poems
I feel all of these
I am all of these..
How do we All feel, This..
The Records, the message stick,
That plane hidden......but within All,
Unawares inside we dived, outside
Allowed to descend.....ascend
The 25-7-2012 looks to me! consciously
As as a whole
We chose to sit and vent communally
Until we next commune my friends
Poet's Soul
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
I read the poet's inner world.
Pulse beats louder, then duller,
And all my doubts are just hurled.
The sadness sometimes a kiss cover,
Then suddenly curled at my feet,
Giving the whole body a heat,
The warmth of a true lover.
Fever passes through nervous points,
Chill runs through the whole body,
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
And feel that the soul is haughty.
I delve into the words and their nature,
Understanding destroys the walls,
Now I would like to capture
The main idea and the poems calls.
I read and my joy is in full swing,
My own soul gets the wings,
I am ready to fly with the singer,
Like me the poet is a swinger.
I am with that one who dared
To plunge into the holy spring naked,
I am with that one who shared
An inspiration and was not faked.
I read the poet's souls in the poems.
But do I read the souls of reality or dream?
Let's deem that no one here and there lies,
And the law of poetry is always precise.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 4th of April,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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