En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Ars Gratia Artis

i will say this
and i will say this
again to you

it is for art's sake
that i write
not for the rating
not for popularity

that is why i never
go on campaigning
that you read me

i do not advertise
no gimmicks
just plain writing
because i just feel
like doing it

words come and
i welcome them
they ask to be written
and so i have to
write them

art must be for art's sake
words are written
and poems are posted
because they are here.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Wrote A Poem I Could Not Write

I wrote a poem I could not write-
And then when I tried to write it again
Could not write it again -

Poems written and not written
Words and more words
What do they mean?

Paradoxes and games with words
What do they mean?

If there is Beauty in the language
It is one thing
But words just to hear themselves think,
Why should they mean ‘Remembrance'?

Oh Words oh Questions oh Darkness oh Life-
Let me write myself to the grave
Believing at least
That poems too even when they can be written
Have their small unhidden meanings.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Dear Friend

i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,

i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests

and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence

as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)

there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,

please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:

write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Many Can Teach Few Can Write

many can teach and be good teachers
some even aspiring excellent teachers
but few can image write wondrous words

who are now waiting among
those who have words worth writing
words waiting to be written?

writing will cost much
demanded much
then will cost yet more

a small fortune in wages
wages spent not made
still to be spent and yet

accumulative cost is nothing
for there are hunger hearts
minds waiting for these words

looking even searching
for quest sought words
therefore it matters not

if for a specific poem
or passage paragraph
only a few or one is searching

these thoughts
are important
still must be written

some of what we write
even much of what we write
is of no prime importance

but that small portion
which is important
that tiny potent seed

which is important
must be written
translate many can translate

some even translate
almost perfectly precise
but those writing

original thoughts
are far more precious
and their words

will also in their time
be sought after read
but there time is not yet

that which is not
written cannot
be read

therefore write
write
and write well

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Why No Reviews?

With tired eyes I scan
Down lists of poems new,
Posted as New Releases,
Written for Me, by You.

Many poems are posted daily,
Hoping to be reviewed by all,
The pages get longer and longer,
Will I find any of mine at all?

It is now the 17th of January,
Hurrah! ! ~ I’ve found two of mine,
Written 2nd and 3rd January,
Will they be seen by my Reviewers as fine?

Why do I torture myself often?
Why must I expect New Reviews?
I’d write my poems as usual,
Whether or not, they’d be read by you.

I force my Mind to write verses,
HIS Thoughts are not directed to me,
Lethargically the words form as poetry,
But with HIS help, they form abundantly.

© Jonathan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 17 January 2006

poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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Perhaps My Poems Have Already Been Written

PERHAPS MY POEMS HAVE ALREADY BEEN WRITTEN

Perhaps my poems have already been written
Perhaps it is all now senseless repetition
Perhaps I should just stop
And go on if I can to some other form of writing
God gives us what we have
We strive to go beyond ourselves
We can to a certain point
But then we have done what we have done
We can live a million years more
And write a million more poems
But what we have to write
Is done
Perhaps my poems have already been written
And small and poor and awkward as they are
Less than the truest poetry
They are what I have and am
Good-bye myself
I cannot go home.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Beware Words Written

words celebrating what is written
beware allure of beauty in words written
seek instead words thoughts not written
words not written thoughts not written

themes not written which need to be written

the importance of the unwritten demands writing
important world needs consciousness needs writing
urgent global necessity issues demands needs writing
actions resolutions policy change harmony restoration needs writing

poem by Terence George Craddock
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She Is Sleepless, She Is Probing

They read your lines
They perhaps like you
They try to read you
In between
she is sleepless
And she pities you
she is probing
And she writes for you too
And you feel so honored

Comes our arrogance
You say you write
Only for yourself
For art’s sake
You say you cannot
Write for no other
You say you cannot
Stop writing
Your essence is just that
To write for no other

To write or you die

Be kind
Let them read you through the night
Let them follow you
Warn them though
They may have followed
A blind man eking his way through
His darkness

Without even a cane to feel his way.

The Virgin Mary
And Veronica
The crying mother
And the cloth to wipe a bloody face

Don’t stretch further
There is no Christ in me.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Meditation Infused Medium Minds

written faith
hooked in words
rapidly writes

write your poems
straight out,
line by line,

no themes,
no plans,
complete as written

written words
written souls
infused medium minds

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Poem of the Ageing

A simple poem I wanted to write
The words were so clear in my mind
But my fingers were numb and sore
Lift a pencil they can't at all
Before a few lines write I could
With my signpen wrestle I should

I tried to read what I've written
And asked my self how did I fare
The words I saw were all in blur
And were in badly crooked lines
I have but lost my metering
And all my lines did hardly rhyme

My next poems shall not be written
And in my thought will just remain
Be unrecited as they may
Till in my mind they fade away

poem by Pacific Hernandez
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Did You Think That Poetry Is Always Better Written?

Contented with the plots
Sagging surges
soothing
In the movement of the minds
Some friends write
Thinking that poetry
Must be an art
For their
Therapeutic consumption
Of for its own
Sake pursued,

A friend writes poems
And tells me to read all
Of them, and I can
Always say
She has concentrated
On some poesies
Not on heresies
Of her life

I told her
Poetry is an art
And it is life
Itself moving
Inside our hearts

Albeit,
I like a certain thing about this
Albert,
And Socrates
Who never wrote a line
But just spoke them
That
There is something sickening about
The usual intimacies towards
Words and phrases

Sometimes on days when
I do not write
But just stand and stare
And listen
Without words spoken

Writing transforms at its best
Without my mind
Doing it. It is more of living
About living
And not drying, dying writing
As it used to be.
And my life is full.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Words

Words on this paper
Words in my head
Words while I'm texting
Computing
Unsaid
Words between people
Words on the phone
Words upon words
Even when I'm alone
Words from the Bible
I question
Don't mesh
Words from pornography
Making them flesh
Words with flat letters
Written in black
Good words and bad words
You cannot take back
Words that are shallow
Words that are deep
When they're too many
They put me to sleep
Words that I'm writing
And rhyming you read
Whatever I'm saying
There's prolly no need
Words from the alphabet
Words that can't be
When you are blind
And it's Braile that you see
Words that are worthless
And said on the fly
My words or your words
Are most likely lies
Words in a sentence
Wise words or fair
The only words earnest
Are those said in prayer

Written by Sara Fielder © 2011

poem by Sara Fielder
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Art For Art's Sake

it is art for art's sake
nothing more nothing less
shy away from popularity
delve on the magnanimity of
your day to day task
this art for art's sake
like scribbling for nothing
just scribbling and scribbling
like hearing and then writing
brown leaves fall upon
brown leaves on the ground
over the roots of trees
decay comes like everything
destined to be rotten
and then you sleep on some
cool shade
smelling the flavor of your
silent labor

art for art's sake
who needs your rating?

art for art's sake is like breathing
getting in your lungs
what is invisible to the eye
and yet so essential
the inevitable and the inextricable
the ineluctable the inexorable

it is like taking all the entrances
and then accepting
that there are no exits

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To be a writer

They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written

and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Great Poetry?

How could anyone ever truly
Define great poetry?
Factors are so many that contribute
To the way each person does hear-feel-and see.
The season, the day, the very time,
Along with each readers wisdom-knowledge-and mind.
A line read one day
May deeply stir the spirit
While the very next time read
The reader simply just can't 'get-it'.

Besides, who is to judge,
And who is to decide?
Who always speaks truth,
And who pray tell has never lied?
Let the one who has never struggled with emotion and word
Cast the first critical stone,
Let the pure, perfect poet
Read and write completely all alone;
Enshrined by himself
Upon his own empty throne.

After all, it is supposed to be
A bit (or more) of myth and mystery,
A little difficult to decipher, somewhat vague,
Meant to speak, but not brag.
For Goodness sake, it's poetry.
Not prose, not essay, and certainly not the news.
It's forms are many and free,
It's thoughts different and deep,
It's direction everywhere the heart can see,
It's origin, and destination, ineffable...

But to write, one must try, or die... such is the poems strength.
So, let the creator of words create.
With wild and wonderful words to decipher and debate;
And never let the beauty of it all
In trivial criticism suffocate.

What is great poetry though you still inquire?
I should have told you from the start;
(But, then you would not have listened)
Great poetry is always, and only,
Beautiful words written truly
From, and for, the heart.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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Being A Poet

I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.

Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.

At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.

If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.

There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.

I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.

Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.

In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.

With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.

Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!

poem by Angela Wybrow
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Life Art

Life Art

I want to write you a poem.

One that contains no verses

no words

how long it will be
I cannot tell.

It will be a poem that you can see through
yet it will shade you from the sun

a simple lyric
as complex as a crossword

I want it to be something
that you carry through your day

every day

I don’t know if I can write that poem

Or if indeed that poem can be written at all

So instead I am with you
Of you

And slowly together
we are writing our very own poem

Not on a page
Or in a lost notebook

But in the café
and in the street

At a table

In our bed

Every day we add another line

another image
another verse

and I know that with every word that we write
I want it to be the longest poem

That has ever been written.

poem by Andy Houlihan
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We Need New Poems

WE NEED NEW POEMS

We need new Poems-

So many great Poems
Have already been written.
Perhaps the Greatest poems
Have already been written.

But we need new poems.

We need our Poems
We need the poems only we can write
We need the poems we must write.

We need new poems
My poems
Your poems
Our poems.

We need new poems.
Let us write them.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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