En.Citatepedia^®.ro

A Letter From A Friend

kombanwa!

Tommorow is my day off.
It's not a busy time now at the office.
So I take one day off a week.
Our busy times are in May, August, and year end.

You know, we used to be superbusy a couple of years ago.
My boss is a workaholic.
He has no other life but his company.
My officemates frequently worked overtime.
I could get away from it because of my children.
Then, maybe, because of overwork, he almost dropped dead!
Since then, medyo nagaan ang among load.

I hope she is feeling better now.
Medicine/Science has progressed a lot these days,
and age is really no longer a big obstacle now to childbearing.
I have a cousin in Australia.
Late pod sila nakaanak.
The problem was with the husband.
Blocked ang tube for sperm cells.
He had laser surgery, after which, nagkababy sila.

So, don't give up hope (nozomi) .

I've been reading your poems.
Whether you call them your lies, empathies, whatever, they all boil down to life's truths.
Life is poetry for you, that's why,
you'll never run out of ideas to write about as long as you live.
I don't understand all of them though - maybe due to lack of empathy on my part or my brain is simply dulled!

You also write beautiful visayan poems!
They made me miss my father - he can be very poetic.
He used to criticize me and my mother that we couldn't speak good Cebuano.
My mother was Chavacana, and
I actually spoke that language first before Cebuano.

You lately write about war,
young men dying in conflicts these days.
Is peace and order getting worse there?
Are there more of summary killings these days?

You wrote about Silliman/ Dumaguete.
A beautiful place. I studied there one year and I loved it there.
You know, I had a bit of colonial mentality,
and to me at that time it felt like
I had a taste of a bit of American life -
rodeos,
square dancing..
.I enjoyed watching stage plays and
cultural shows there.
So I had a school culture shock when
I transferred to UP Los Banos.
There were lots of school demos
and there wasn't much art in their stage plays.
They were more concerned about getting the message across:

'Down with Marcos! ',
'Down with imperialism! '

Goodness, I didn't even truly understand 'imperialism' then.
After some time, I learned to appreciate
the liberal atmosphere there.

I liked 'The songs of the geisha'.
Made me think of the Japayukis here,
rather than the Japanese geisha.

After seeing the cherry blossoms here,
I don't think I can ever associate it
with autumn anymore,
even in the poetic sense

('Cherry blossoms fading and falling') .

It blooms in spring and
the peak of its beauty is only
a couple of days or so.
The petals don't fade
and fall.
They fall while still at the peak of their beauty.
They look beautiful even when they've fallen on the ground,
looking like snow from a distance.
They symbolize glorious death at the peak
of their beauty
youth.
That's why the sakura also
symbolizes the kamikaze pilots -
most of them were so young!

I backed track to some of your old poems
and I found that of Kazu!
Thank you, that was nice!
I'll show it to him.

Can't say much about my love being stronger than his. I
'm very far from being an ideal wife.
And no, his origins are not samurai.
He traced it some lowly Korean blacksmiths.
Centuries ago, Korea was more advanced
than Japan, and
Japan invited Korean craftsmen
to learn from them.
Funny thing is that his father is a fierce nationalist
(he was trained to be a kamikaze pilot) ,
and he looks down on Koreans!
He won't even try and eat any Korean food!

So long for now. Please give my regards to her.
Again, I'm not expecting your response.
I'll just be reading your poems.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Deceased Poets Of Nature

Such beautiful poems to Nature they did write
The poetry we love for to read and recite
May they rest in peace now where-ever they lay
The deceased poets of Nature their poems live today

They glorified Nature and her praises they sung
And though they may be long dead their poems remain young
the poets of the land and the poets of the sea
In their beautiful poetry their greatness we do see

Their poems and their songs I loved as a boy
And their poems and their songs I will always enjoy
The beauty of Nature they did celebrate
And beauty in their words they loved to create.

Great insights of Nature from them we did gain
The beauty of their words with us does remain
We loved them for their poems in decades long gone
The deceased poets of Nature their poems living on.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Browsing and Commenting on Poems.

It is my habit to read the poems
delivered by the young and old, male and female.
I pick up the poems by title and not by the authors.
Internet helps us to browse and comment on poems,
burst into by the poets from all the continents.
I read, chew and digest the new words, usage,
and the content in the poems. The young guys,
baffle me with colloquial, archaic and email forms
like gonna, wanna, u, and so on.
The youths write poems on love with inspiration
but old people have to perspire or be resilient
going back to school and college days.
If I murmur the tune of some melodious film song,
I find it possible to scribble on love-lorn life.
I am very weak in English manners of saying thanks
and expecting thanks for the comments made on poems.
The voracious readers of poems won't stop criticising
if we contribute touching poems or message giving lines.
The comments at times inspire me with new ideas and subjects.
If our lines comfort some hurt hearts,
guide some to ride the life with peace and hope,
that is enough for the mad people like us.

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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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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How Do You Write Poetry

There is a question I am often asked,
of which I have no answer for at all.
The question is a simple one,
how do you write poetry?
To be honest I haven’t got a clue.
With me the words just trickle out
one after the other,
if they rhyme that is great
and if they don’t, I just scratch my head.
I cannot tell anyone how to write,
for me it’s just a natural thing.
I write almost everything,
novels, short stories, poems and songs.
I have even written a couple of plays,
but that was a long, long time ago.
However to tell anyone how to write,
I would not know where to begin.
The answer I give to the question is simple;
write whatever you like good or bad.
It’s yours and be proud of it
no matter what anyone else has to say.
The more you write the better you will get.
However, the most important thing
that you should always remember and that is
that you write, write, and write!

9 November 2011

poem by David Harris
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In The Manner Of Borges I Write Poems In My Old Age

IN THE MANNER OF BORGES I WRITE POEMS IN MY OLD AGE

In the manner of Borges I write poems in my old age
And dream that they are not only imitations
Of poems written by others
When we all were young.

Instead I go on now in the darkness of the night
Because the fear of what will be
Is always so deep in me
It does not need Poetry or Happiness or any other Meaning
Outside itself.

We are small sands drifting on the edge of stars
Lesser beings of a time we will never know
All that we have done comes back to us over and over again
As if we never were

I don’t believe I will ever write Borges lines
He wrote them in his own imagined words
And I must in my own little life
Suffer to the end of time
All I have not been
And never will be.

God Who is Good
God of Love
You gave me so much
You did not have to give me Poetry also.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Part Of My Life

People write poetry for diverse reasons,
as in poems that describe the yearly seasons.
Poem's can show the love for our mother and father
and you can vent against the boyfriend of your daughter.
You can express your feelings about a day at the beach,
nothing is out of poetry's reach.
Beautiful poetry can make your heart soar
and bring alive days of yore.
It can make king's of old come alive
or make you sad enough to cry.
Poetry can describe angel's performing a celestial dance
or some other circumstance.
Poetry can help a relationship to mend
and it can also help it to end.
I have used poetry to describe a summer day's ice-cream cone
and to express feeling's of being alone.
Poetry will always be a part of my life,
to write of the good and write of the strife.
06/01/07

poem by Barbara Haskell
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Will I Still Write Poems When I Can No Longer Publish Or Post Them?

Will I still write poems when I can no longer publish or post them?
Of course I will-
I wrote poetry for years
when I knew their only readers were hoped- for ones-

I will write my poems
because they are my soul
my confessiion
my expression of deepest feeling
because they give meaning to my life-

I will write poemw as long as I can-
publish or post or not-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet

Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...

and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;

or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…

write as if it were only yesterday
that, in an air crash, all your family –
parents, wife or husband, partner, children, and best friend,
had lost their lives; write as if,
were you not to write,
your heart would break forever, or you would go mad...

write as if you’re writing somewhere
where there’s no such thing around, as ink;
you’ll have to use your own blood in the pen,
so use it carefully; so red, so living,
look at it… so beautiful, so precious,
and so solemn – use it carefully, don’t spill a drop…

write as if you’re borrowing every word
from the very centre of the universe, where suns and gods are made;
and need thus to account for every word
with your whole life, no less; know that every word
must be given back, cleaner, stronger, brighter
with your own power, than when you borrowed it;

write as if every poet that ever lived
is leaning over your shoulder, so that you
can feel their breath upon your neck as they say
‘Tell them all that we would tell,
but cannot now; tell them all of this’…
this, now, is how you must deeply be and speak;

write as if you are the only being on earth
who can tell them this; as if tomorrow, if tomorrow comes,
you shall visit them every one, at home,
and look them in the eye; write as if
you love them more than they will ever know;
write as if you were offering to live their lives with them;

write as if you were a force of nature in yourself:
as if whatever earthquake, hurricane or flood might do,
whatever law or love may greatly do,
whatever gods or men can speak, in fullest force,
this you may do, because the sound of poetry is such;
yes, write ‘as if’ – but know you really write ‘because’…

write as if – no, write because –
you know that only poetry can tell
all, that must be told, and must be known;
and as all hearts melt in the heat of your own love,
be in no doubt – and see that all are in no doubt too –
that life was never, never more serious,
never more glorious, than it is right now;

write all this.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Kohelet Again It Is Not Just The Vanity Of Vanities

It is not just the vanity of vanities
It is not just the truth of the contradictions
It is not just ‘a time for this and a time for that'
It is not just ‘Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth before the evil days grow nigh'
It is not just ‘Better a living dog than a dead lion'
It is not just ‘Enjoy your days with the wife of your youth'
It is not just the eternal truths
And the poem of the long home-
And the turning again and again of the wind and the water
And the sun and the sound-

It is not just the sheer beauty of the thing and its words
Despite an occasional archaic ugliness
It is not just the truth that cannot be gone beyond
Because this is what life is and what the grave is and what we are
It is not just too ‘that the making of many books much less the making of many poems is a weariness of the flesh-

It is that after all the years I have arrived at the time
Where the golden bowl may be broken and the voice of the grinders made low
And man return to his eternal home-

As in youth I in old age read and reread the words of the Preacher
And know myself and all of us in them-

Oh the greatest Literature is here
And part of it I repeat in my fragmented self
While the long distance of life goes beyond
In words which will be heard for the first time -

For this too is not everything
And what we do not know yet
Kohelet too does not know-

And for all of us as God permits
Who knows what will come
After the Vanity-
If it is after all Vanity
And the end of it all?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Her Father-in-law

He's really an interesting character.
When my kids were small,
he wasn't so happy that I'm talking to them in English,
because English is the language of the enemy.

Goodness, the war was over decades ago!

I felt it's weird.
I grew up listening to my grandparents and parents about how hard life was during the war and how cruel the Japanese soldiers were.
And here are my children listening to their grandfather's stories about his hard training as a kamikaze pilot.

He was recruited towards the end of the war,
and there were hardly any plane to practice on.

Basically, they were taught how to fly, not how to land, because anyway, theirs is a one-way mission.
Akiko said that it was fortunate that the war ended before he was sent to do kamikaze.
He said that it was 'zannen' (regrettable) that Japan lost the war, because he so wanted to see action!

Masanao thinks that his father had not actually been
to the front line and experienced the horrors of actual combat,
so his father clings to an idealist view on why Japan went to war.

Jya ne! So long for now

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Days Without Poems

DAYS WITHOUT POEMS

Days without poems-
Nights without poems-
A time of life without poems-
No poems anywhere.

Empty inside
Running outside
Tired.

No inner energy
No great urgency in feeling
Nothing.

In the emptiness inside of no- poems
I pass this time without song.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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One Hundred

To all those who have read my poems,
this poem is just for you.
This is my hundredth poem this year
and I feel like celebrating too.
You see for years and years,
I did not want to write anymore,
until I came along here and met all of you.
For some reason I cannot explain,
you took me under your poetic wing.
You made me want to write again,
with your comments by the score.
You brought life back to me,
took my hand,
and guided me from the wilderness,
from which I ran.
You gave me injection,
and my confidence once more flowed.
My pen was put to paper again,
and out the poems came,
one after the other,
but never one the same.
I took a little time out to write a novel too.
All this and more is all thanks to you.
Without that hand of friendship,
which you’ve all shown to me,
I’d still be wandering like a lost soul,
in that wilderness out there.
Therefore, I am taking this opportunity
with this my hundredth poem this year,
to send you a special thanks,
from the bottom of my heart,
to each and every one of you out there.

poem by David Harris
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I Wanted To Write The Poems Of The Stars

I WANTED TO WRITE THE POEMS OF THE STARS

I wanted to write the poems of the stars
The poem of Beauty and Hope and Inspiration
I wanted to write a poem that helped others
Find Joy and Meaning in their lives -

I write my little poems
Often they are the sad truths of my own little life
Consolations for myself
I think may perhaps echo the souls of others.

I am not what I would have been
And perhaps not what I should be
I am what I am
What G-d has given me to be -

poem by Shalom Freedman
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It's Not Easy Being The Love Poet

'The Love Poet' that's what they call me
I admit it's flattering being the one and only
Other poets write love poems I will concede
But none with the emotion of mine, none indeed

But being the love poet has it's price
Everyone expects my work to be happy, be nice
If I ever feel lousy I can't write it down
Because reading it might cause the audience to frown

I'm not always Happy Harry I will admit
Every now and the, I really feel like shit
Depression a remnant of the life I left behind
Has found me again and has it's grip on my mind

But sad or not, I've a reputation to uphold
I write poetry that's warm and not cold
Push depression aside begin a new love poem
2nd draft I write on my way home

Every now and then, I will read a sad one
Which leads to another, what have I begun?
I want to make people smile not cry
And here I am reading qbout how I want to die

Even love poets have their bad days
Finding out today was the end of always
Without her, love poems just don't seem right
Neighbors hear you crying, long into the night

poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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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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Poems About.

There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.

poem by Mahfooz Ali
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A bottom of heart

Such nice feeling from bottom of the heart
No one knows exactly when it will end or start
It can not be marketed all over for certain price
It is so precious and its feeling is very nice

Books after books are written on this subject
No one has advanced any particular reason to reject
It has such a tremendous driving force to sweep
You will be left with joy and later on only to weep

No one should live under fallacy
It has lots of joy and fantasy
Not difficult but it is not that easy
Keeps you wondering and very much busy

One may be counting starts in night
No one may know exactly what is right?
It is to be felt from within and alone
It has its own joy to be enjoyed by one

Have you seen person weeping with joy?
Talking silently with beautiful toy
It is such a unique feeling in lovely life
More joy of having her than making a beautiful wife

It is delicate phase one may pass through
All lies around and nothing seems to him true
Only one word strikes his mind all the way
“I long for you and can not remain away”

It is nice to feel all the way very good
No care for anybody and neglecting the food
It is like child asking for impossible
Landing in unexplored field with trouble

You may rightly attempt to write poetic verses
Tearing papers, writing all over and near misses
Nothing goes right from the beginning
It has disastrous start with the innings

One may try to hide the face but can not cry in open
Try to prove point by painting gloomy side with pen
Then also if no way is found out, going for long drive
Thinking all the positively how to come out of it and survive

May be it is lover’s exclusive zone
All novel ideas and new concept is borne
There is no room for backing out or escape route
No norms or any kind of rules to flout

It is always good to pass through such stage
It gives tremendous strength and power to manage
It can take place at any time and in any age
It will certainly be a unique experience and golden page

Almighty has made certain things for each other
Sometimes it may add to tension and make us to bother
But ultimate end will be very much positive and in order
The noble act has to be performed by not crossing the border

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mail-Box

As you arrive in the morning
To your office, my dear
And check your mails
Without doubt you know
I’ll be there for you
Waiting to give you
The mail of the day.

May be a poem
Or a prose -
A quote or a photo
That touches me…
And I would wish to
Share with you.
Or as ever before
Like I write everyday
My Diary of yesterday.

You may read in a hurry
As you always do
For you may have
Many other
Errands to run to.
Yet, my dear
Let me say it to you
That all my letters
And words to you
Are written with care
And the precious time
That I love to spend
Writing to you…

It’s been like this
For the past many years
And I hope it would be
For many, many years
When you open your
Mail-Box
And find in it
Amongst all your mails
A letter from me.
Everyday, every morning
For all those years
Till the day you retire
From your daily
Commuting…
To that very same Office
Of your 20 years.

And the day you retire
After your service
Of two decades more
You’ll have some nice
Memories
Of working together
With your colleagues
Many sour ones too
Of those meetings
That failed
Those deadlines
That derailed
And some good savings
Of your life of work
And a repertoire of friends
That stayed with you
Through all these years…

May be in one of those
Bitter-sweet memories
You might remember me
That mail-box girl
Who used to write to you
So very diligently
Every day of her life
To feel close to you
To be as near you
As much as she could
From many miles away
With a lonely, longing heart
And so many words to say.

For she couldn’t be your wife,
Neither your mistress
Nor be at your side
As you struggled and you hobbled
Through your life’s major strifes.

She could only be
A mute witness -
To all what you endured.

She could feel the stresses
And the strains
Of those sleepless nights
That eating outside
Those early morning wake-ups
Of your tours and travels
Like a vagabond
Trying to balance it out
Between work and home.

And they say: You are Married.
Married to your wife
Or your company, I guess.

For most of your time
Is taken away
By those tours
And your travels
Of a working life
Sans your wife
Beside you…
On many such nights
And busy days too
When you would rather
Be a husband to your wife
Than be a work-horse
All your Life.

And slog and slog and slog…
Thinking you are indispensable
For your company.
Yet that day would dawn on you
As it comes for every man
When he realises
That the company whom he
Worked for
Cared for more than his family
That very same company
To survive and thrive
In this world of the Fittest
Goes seeking young-blood
And leaves you aside.

And at the end of the day
You then do realise
Was it really worth
Giving those extra hours
Everyday
To your office over-time
And missing out on
Your wife’s
Diary for the Day
Or all what your son
Had to Say
To a Daddy-Dear
He could hardly get to see.

As a friend of yours,
A well-wisher too
And in this one of my
Many mails
That I write everyday
To you…
I would suggest you:

Take care of your wife
Be with your son
For these are the days
You would miss very often
When you grow old
And look back
In retrospection
And find that those
Glorious days you spent
Upgrading your career
Position and status
In the Office.

Those will go one day
And someone else
Would take your place
And the company would
Still survive without you
As it has done
With people coming and going
In all such big MNCs

Yet once your wife
Grows old
And your son grows up too,
You’ll miss these “good old” days
When you missed seeing your son
Growing up
Into the young lad
He would become one day.

And your wife would also feel
As If -
She has grown too old, too soon
For neither youth was on her side
Nor the time
She wished to cherish
With you, in her conjugal life.

So her youth and her time
Both awaited you
As the hope of life
Awaits a dying woman
On her Death-Bed.

As for me, My Love
I’ve never had the Fate
To live with you
And would probably never have
The Destiny
To share with you
My Life.

And yet, the woman out there
Your betrothed wife
Is a woman like me
And your son out there
Is also like the son
I’ve borne in me…

So, I would always love you
To have a happy family
Take care of them, my love
And be with them
As often as you can.
For a job may come,
A job may go…

Yet a wife once lost
Or a son gone forever
Won’t come back to you
However much you repent
Or regret
Later on…
Thinking of the Whys and Hows
Of the jobs that you did
The tours and the travels
And the over-time
Your company Fixed
For you.

Always Remember…
You are married to your wife
And not to your company.
And your son needs
The “Daddy-Dear” in you
Even if he may not tell you
Often, every day.

So Care, Share
And Be There
For Them…
Trust Me – You’ll get many more returns
And far more contentment
As you look back
Over the years…
Of all those precious moments
You spent with your family
Than going for power, position
Fame and money
And being a lap-dog to your Company
By running after them.

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Can Go On Writing Poems

IF I CAN GO ON WRITING POEMS

If I can go on writing poems
I will be happy-

If I cannot go on
I will lose something of myself-

I wonder how long I will be able to go on
Days? Years? How long exactly?

I write happily now
A poem I know I can post-
Without that I might be less happy about it-

If I can go on writing poems
This will be a sign I still have hope in life-

When I am stopped or stop
Will it mean I am finished
As a person also?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sometimes You Wish Someone Will Know The Greatness Of A Poem

sometimes as you write a hundred or more poems
you wish someone with taste
the one without which nothing will be called 'poetic'
shall read you and understand the greatness of your
words and style,

someone with a long black hair
smooth skin and possessing that intellectual flare
reads one of your poems and says
' i like this and i shall keep this
did you really write this? '

and you are so flattered that you forget that all the while
on the 5,000th poem
you have been writing all about yourself
on some pain of rejection

that love interest that never responded
that one so beautiful and yet had never laid her eyes on you.

and then, you smile, after all on that poem
inside those images, you appear to be lovable
and she, is never one ordinary fan.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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