Anonymous Poet
then anonymous poet
keeps on writing
his critic is the curtain
his reader his own
computer keys
the walls around him cheer
the ceiling stares
the beams comfort him
and the floors
say that his poems
are interesting
he does not really mind
after all
he is anonymous
and he likes it
that way
his life a mystery
his name a nobody.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Anonymous Ghurl
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to her mother
'I'll be me and no one else
I'll never be another'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to her dad
'The things that you have done to me
They make me feel so sad'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to God
'How can I belive in you
You are such a fraud'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to her friend
'I don't want to go on any more
I want it all to end'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to no one
'I can't go on anymore
As she pulled the trigger of the gun'
Anonymous Ghurl Anonymous Ghurl
Said one day to me
'Leave your body far behind
And you too can be free'
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Past Written Poems I Confess I Dislike
I have past written poems
which I confess I dislike
occasionally intensely dislike
when publishing most poets
will not include bad poems
but contrast can be interesting
juxtaposition of poems
arranged in selection volume
major poems great poems
will vary from reader to reader
who likes simple who craves deep
artistry from all forms may creep
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To the one who stole my poem
I had this poem
it was a particular poem
made many cry
told my story
to the person who is using my account
which i used to post my poem
which had been deleted from my computer
and only existed here in cyberspace
to this person
who added his/her poems to my name
i hope you, as a fellow poet
understand how a poem nursed
is not dissimilar to a child
i lost my child,
my poem.
if you have it please put it back
the name was 'father'
if you deleted it please write a poem
in this poem tell me that you have
i just need to know if my baby Poem is dead forever
or if it lives on your hard drive
poem by Anonymous Anonymous
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Artist Unknown
Much of our literature
has come from his pen-
or was He a She?
I can't say I ken.
When not writing poems
or dabbling in prose
Beautiful songs
Anon oft would compose.
Anonymous never gained
fortune or fame.
The works are immortal,
Their maker, unnamed.
Since the first of his line
painted Bison on stone,
Anonymous is
the artist unknown.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anonymous
Anonymous: there's comfort in numbers,
Safety and security in being
Faceless, nameless, no one who's worth seeing
When the crowd keeps tight knit and together.
Anonymous: it's ok to wash out
Against quickly cascading cavalcades
Rushing, crushing and forcing you to fade
In two doses of self-pity and doubt.
What does it matter if nobody cares
And no one notices the difference
Between you and this sea that surrounds you?
This shallow pool, all around, ev'rywhere
Dictates the tide of your non-confidence
And your anonymous nothingness too.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Don't You Sign Anonymous
Don't you sign anonymous,
To notes that you drop.
Don't you sign anonymous,
To get my head all heated up until it pops!
Be with me upfront and prepared.
Don't start a scavenger hunt to dare.
And please don't leave me grieving,
To be stunned as you run.
Don't scurry as you hurry...
To inflict me with dirt!
Knowing what it is that will get to me and hurt.
Don't you sign anonymous,
Be real and confront me.
Don't you sign anonymous,
To rile, torment and test me.
Don't you sign anonymous to throw in an 'if'!
IF I don't apologize,
You would be broken like a vase...
But away you'd fly.
Don't you sign anonymous,
Be real and confront me.
Don't you sign anonymous,
To rile, torment and test me.
Don't you sign anonymous to throw in an 'if'!
IF I don't apologize,
You would be broken like a vase...
But away you'd fly.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0176 Letter to a Well-known Contemporary Poet
I wanted to write to you about your poems,
that is, about something I couldn't quite put my finger on
so I didn't write in case it sounded inconsequential
and it's silly to write to a poet who handles words so expertly,
inconsequentially..
Inconsequential. That's it. I appreciate that you want to stress
life's inconsequentiality - this happens, that happens, but
we're none the wiser - that's a modern concern, I appreciate,
no neat wrapping life up with a brisk end-rhyme...
but how can I put this tactfully, inconsequentiality
or is it tangentiality
can seem to the reader eager to extract meaning
that is, the poet's meaning, as near as can be...
inconsequentiality can seem...obscure...
for this very reason, since it's difficult
to share the same inconsequentiality
if you see what I mean
and this unintentional obscurity
can sometimes seem
of course I know you wouldn't
but let's say to an uninformed superficial reader -
like pretension?
I hope you don't mind my mentioning this
it's only because I do admire your writing so much
and I know that the prizes and awards you've won
proves that no-one could possibly accuse you of pretension
it's just that I thought I should say how it seems
to a very ordinary reader. I hope you will read this
in the spirit it's meant. And I do look forward
very much to reading your next book
now the library stocks them.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sure, some journalists use anonymous sources just because they're lazy and I think editors ought to insist on more precise identification even if they remain anonymous.
quote by Ben Bradlee
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Apology To The Reader Who Has Written Me A Message I Have Not Answered
AN APOLOGY TO THE READER WHO HAS WRITTEN A MESSAGE TO ME I HAVE NOT ANSWERED
The real apology is not this poem
It is one by one
Reader by reader
Answering each one
Who has ever written me.
It is reading all the poems of others
I do not want to say
A ‘real no’ or a ‘false yes’ to.
It is opening myself
To perhaps a true friend
To perhaps one whose writing
I see better than my own.
The real apology
Is in opening up to the poems of the many unknown others.
Will I do this
Will I give it the time
When I already am guilty
Of not using my limited time
To correct my past work?
Dear Reader,
I apologize, I do not know.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Small Anonymous Word
A SMALL ANONYMOUS WORD
A small anonymous word
A word of praise-
How much this can mean,
To the lonely writer.
Writing far away and unseen
Forever to be unknown?
A small word of praise
How much it can mean?
Thank you my few readers
Whoever
You are.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anonymous
Well I wrote our names a thousand times
Just to see yours sitting nest to mine
Sent you flowers cards unsigned....anonymous
In days to come like days that passed
My heart beats for you, always has
Though you know me only as....anonymous
In dreams at night I carry your books for you
And when I rise a flame for you
Always too shy to carry the whole thing through
Like the light from that eternal flame
Burns for one without a name
My love forever will remain....anonymous
Oh youll always wonder who it was
Who it was
It was just....anonymous
Well I wrote your names a thousand times
Just to see yours sitting next to mine
And I sent you flowers card unsigned
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Apart
A part of this world I open my eyes and breathe...
Apart of this world I wonder what they think of me on Facebook
A part of this world I laugh at how beautiful everyone is...
Apart of this world I check to see who likes my comments
A part of this world I live in the brilliant orgasm of now...
Apart of this world I lay down some anonymous hate as Guest42
A part of this world I sigh at the joke of separation
Apart of this world I struggle to connect to someone worth it
A part of this world I smile at every pretty girl...
Apart of this world I smile at the pretty girls
A part of this world I am very close, closer than comfort...
Apart of this world I feel so very far away and so alone
poem by Poet Dragon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet: What A Good Poem Does?
A good poem exits the poet’s heart,
When inspired enough, flowing with ease,
In a way emotional, right from the start;
When feelings abate, it will tend to cease.
A good poem lifts up the reader’s heart
In the same manner, the poet had felt,
With attributes right that speak of his art;
The reader’s mind, a candle-like does melt.
A good poem’s a musical fine piece,
Rhythmical too, whenever it can be;
And like nectar to honey-making bees,
Giving, feeling of immortality.
Good poems come only once in a while,
When writes the poet, from his heart in style.
poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Eye to Eye
A poet with an artist’s eye
can conjure words to set the scene.
Then with the words that he’ll supply
his reader feels as though he’s seen.
The same scene which the poet saw
Draws on his own experience
of things that he has seen before
though it makes little difference.
The message that the poet sent
is perhaps not the one received
The reader senses the intent
and finds the poem well conceived.
The picture which the reader gets
is the scene his own mind sets
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Maid
I wish that I could have a maid
But if I did she'd want to get paid
She could dust my furniture and mop my floors
Clean the counter tops, windex the glass doors
Then I wouldn't have anything left to do
I could stay on the computer, writing too
And I could also play games all day
I'm afraid the computer is where I'd stay!
poem by Donna Nimmo
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It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, a congress of all those who have taught him and whom he has admired; that constitute his ideal audience and his better self. To this congress the poet speaks not of peculiar and personal things, but of what in himself is most common, most anonymous, most fundamental, most true of all men. And he speaks not in private grunts and mutterings but in the public language of the dictionary, of literary tradition, and of the street. Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the products something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.
quote by Richard Wilbur
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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zPt #4 More Than Summer
When the sun is too bright I remember
I want to be more than a shadow
When the air gets too cool I am certain
I want to last more than a summer
Mary Havran
(Written when poet was eleven years old)
A note to the reader: I have recently spent some time revisiting my earliest poetic efforts and upon reflection have decided to post some on this site. Poems whose titles are prefixed with the esignation “zPt” are poems written during my preteen years. I hope you find them interesting
poem by Mary Havran
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Elegy of a poet
I do not understand
as to why the people
are weeping,
crying,
mourning
and
to exhibit their sympathy
to match
or exceed with the compassion
of other in the same pursuit,
shedding the tears
for a poet
who died
writing poems
on everything
which even
the sun could not see
or imagine,
but could not
spell a few words
for whom
he lived,
he tried everything possible,
everything impossible
by making it possible,
and died
and
before the last collapse
entered the endevour
of writing poetry
on the walls of solitude
and confinement
leaving behind
the belief that
he might write
something
on his own epitaph
once everyone
pays the final tribute
and leaves the graveyard,
to show her that
he can write his own elegy,
an elegy of a poet
by the poet.
poem by Sandesh Shinde
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Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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