En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Don't Ever Think That I Write Good Poems For You

all these
are but exercises
like a morning walk
at the oval
of the university

i am a man with
no ambition for the
nobel prize in
literature

you're funny
come to think of it
what i write
are not poems

not pieces
for a poetry contest

these are
scribblings of
a trying-hard

expressions of my
day
away from the usual
routine of the
hammering days
black robes
and frozen faces

do not be
offended if i
misspell some
words
no harm intended

i do not edit
my work neither will
i ask your kindness
to do it for me

it is like this:
i put on some notes
for the day
random thoughts
nothing schemed
no arrangements
nothing planned
pure streams of
consciousness
my fingers follow
and press the
letters on this
screen

and some by
their misjudgments
say: what a poem!

i don't even know
what they mean.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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 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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Oh The Poems

OH THE POEMS AND THE POEMS AND THE POEMS

Oh the poems and the poems and the poems
Oh the love of Literature
Oh all that stuff
I have given my life to-
Words and meanings and feelings
Pages and pages and pages –

What it is all this literary life for?
When out the window out the door
With our eyes we see in an instant other worlds other dreams?

I don’t know and I will never know
And Literature is certainly far more than I can say it is-

Oh the poems and this poem and this day turning grey
And all my life old and old and more old and more old-

Oh why oh why oh why
And always back to God
My last rescue and refuge and escape
I who have read so much Great Literature
And can only write this-

Oh the why and the oh oh oh and the words
And the whole world of Literature
I would belong to and do not.
Oh the words oh the world oh the Literature
Oh God help me please can’t you please help me a little or not?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.

It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !

© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006

poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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Poetry by Meena Mustafa

My brain is a recorder
It stores all black and white
Each time I write a poem
It throws a different light
It makes the reader happy
At times it makes him sad
The love of poetry
And the poems that I have
Words pour like fountain
Imagination takes its place
On a journey to knowledge
Poetry we must embrace
Poetry is my refuge
And keeps me on the path
Expressions take new meaning
And words pour out at last.
Poetry is a song that sings to the soul
The rhythm of the words that a pen can hold.

poem by Meena Mustafa
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~ Psychosomatic Lingerie ~

From: Sadiqullah Khan
To: Nivedita Bagchi
Date-Time: 12/23/2009 4: 47: 00 AM (GMT -6: 00)
Subject: A Nobel Prize
-
See my poem, A Nobel Prize. I have included ur poem there. Is it ok?
-
To Poet Sadiqullah Khan:
By love you’ve embosomed my poem…
On the eve of New Year Poet niv
‘Crowning’ your poetic affections
Regards for the honor,
In Ever Poetic Tieship.
niv
31 December,2009.
-
Sadiqullah Khan (12/23/2009 4: 30: 00 AM)

A Nobel Prize

I
As on today
24 Dec,2500 BC
Being the head
Of the committee
Where a beautiful poem
PSYCHOSOMATIC LIGERIE
By MS. NIVEDETA BAGCHI SPC.UK.
Has been submitted
For review
And I hereby
Bestow upon her
And she is
Very kind
To accept
A NOBEL PRIZE
For the reasons
That she has written
Pure and sensible
Human emotions
And feelings
Applause
Congrats
........
24/12/2009
~ PSYCHOSOMATIC LINGERIE ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
24 December,2009.

Its scare
And rare
To get
Privacy
Intimacy.

Don’t care
I do dare
To bare
Psychosomatic
Lingerie
In poetry
Else are
Scary
Parry
Fury
Lurid hungry.

Ms. Nivedita
A wee lory
The Poetry
Her emotional
Sanctuary.

-
Sent to Noble Prize conferring committee:
[In Best Poem category for the year 2500 BC ~ niv ~ LOL! ! ]

------

Copyright reserved by the author

poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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When I Found The Words

When I found the words,
that turned into poems
I was instructed to follow a career
that could earn a living,

something away from literature
or even journalism,
that would not come to defy
my relationship with God.

I was taught the languages
of mathematics and accounting
but the words were hunting
for a way of expression,

being stored up for years
even while my then wife,
saw my poetry
as just sentimental rubbish

and now that I am hammering out
the words, the meanings and sounds
I am again haunted by an elitist clique
for whom the position of the self

has become much higher
that the power of words,
who comprehends any able wordsmith
as a threatening menace

as they have to hammer away
at one verse for weeks and months,
rewriting it up to sixty times
to make a poem from it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Please understand

Have a little consideration
For my unpoetic
Choice of words
I know they are not
To your liking

Your taste is
Professiorial chair-like poetry

Distinguished literati

We are different

You write in the name
Of literature
Perhaps for a prize

You really have to follow
What the awards committee
Says in the rules
Follow page one
Do not disregard page two
And the last rule is

Do no deviate
Do not be a deviant man of
Literature of poetry
Of music
To their ears

I write because I do not know
How to live anymore.

This is a life-death situation
And there are no rules

No specific authorized physician
For this sick, dying man

Those that heal, come
Those that know how to heal, you are welcome.

Tersely put, I write in order to
Live everyday of my life.

Not for fame, not for honor
Not for a chart, they are not necessary.
I have no use of such. Give it to the Lady or the
Gentleman out there, who is grappling with a name
Not with life.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Words

I write there, and then you write they’re
I write who, and then you write whom
I misspell my words, too me you then curse
Then you call me a stupid loon.
You call me names, from which I refrain
Then I am off to a different room.

I forget punctuation's, It gives you frustrations
I don't use a contraction, you give me verbal action
Then I misspell a word, you call me absurd
I give you my silence it’s my only reaction.
You call me a name, my innocence I proclaim
My humility is seems, is your only satisfaction.

I sit at my typewriter, I still am a fighter
As I close my eyes, words still materialize
Words are my friends, rhyming is my sin
Maybe someday that, you will realize.
I finish another poem, to the world I show them
I write another verse, it becomes my universe.

You are my inspiration, my poems your creation
You correct what I write, it gives you such delight
You enjoy to respell, at words which you excel
You tell me they are wrong, I know you are right.
But you still are my friend, I hope it will never end
I am the poet, your a wordsmith and you show it.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The commandments of poetry

I shall love poetry
For it is the conversation of God
Over my world

This is not a godless art
Though I name no God
I am bearing witness
To Him creating these
Poems

I do not write poetry
To excite myself
I write them
To sustain
My soul

I shall never use poetry
As a pretext
For fame and glory
It is my spiritual
Devotion

Poetry is pure
Virginal
It is not found
In conformity

I shall bring forth my poems
As a mother brings forth
Her children
Out of my own flesh
And blood

This poem shall not be
An analgesic to kill the pain
But it shall be the wine
That puts me to action

Each poem created
Shall leave me humble
It can never equal my dreams
And always inferior
To God’s marvelous
Creations
Always second
To Nature.

Poetry rises from my heart
In these words
And they have no purpose
But to purify

This poetry shall grow
The flowers of compassion
To console
The hearts of the lonely
And those who are lost

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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That poem

It was a day much like any other.
Too many letters to open right now;
The phone pipped and bleeped and hissed
as it recorded too many requests
to read here, go there, answer these questions,
be interviewed;
why did you write this poem,
did you mean – ten lines
of prosaic speculation follow, about some mere
two words; wouldn’t this poem
be better without the last two lines?

please read my poems and
return the manuscript with
your extensive comments…
(the invisible PS reads ‘I’m just
as good as you, and younger, and, moreover,
more in touch’…)

the occasional face peering
over the gate; once every few weeks
a stranger boldly knocking at the door
so sure the poet would be glad
to meet a fan, unannounced,
eager to tell them what their
poetry really meant…

his fame, like some dark aura
which he would have craved, in those days
when he rose early, wrote for hours
to preserve his sanity, before he went out
to that job which made him miserable – his fame
now pressed around, demanding.

It was a day much like any other:
a poem might come, life
might flow; flow down, flow through, flow out..

Dusk and a sigh and a laying down of pen;
should today’s lines go straight into the overflowing bin,
or be returned to tomorrow, in the fresh of day -
there seemed to be something there
around coffee time that morning,
it was going somewhere…

Years later, this poem, found in his
random papers when his widow
paid her last gleaning respects to the genius
which she loved less certainly
than she loved the man –

this poem would be pounced upon,
chewed, spat out with discriminating pride
by literati – look, our idol has his feet of clay..
shall we measure his greatness by his failure
or feed our envy and our self-regard?

No. Sit here, in his chair; take up his pen;
put that poem in front of you;
be there, on that day like any other
when no sublime inspiration came;
yet, work was done, somewhere, innerly;
know that;
love poetry.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Do You Really Find It Hard To Write A Poem?

let me tell you
it is not hard to write the poems in your mind

they are already there in the first place
inside your heart
always wanting to be written

all you need is just your way of waking your fingers in deep sleep
let them be
let them write the words
at the tip of your fingers
let the words speak for themselves
do not intervene
let them be
let the emotions dance like the wind
let the thoughts trickle like the rain
let them be
follow the river as it winds along the banks of your feelings
then watch
how all the waters of your self fall like

a water fall.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind

I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND

I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”

The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Written Word Rules!

At the idea of poetry, some people seem to scoff,
As they consider it is an art form only for toffs.
They may think that the concept of poetry is boring,
And that it will leave them fast asleep and snoring.
There are all types of poems: modern and classical.
There’s something for everyone: it’s not boring at all.
The lyrics of songs are poems as such;
They often rhyme together very much.
People like to sing along with their favourite songs,
So why does the concept of poetry feel so wrong?
I’ve only started writing poetry in the last few weeks,
And, I have to admit that I thought it was just for geeks.
But, now I can see, that whoever you are,
Everyone has the potential to go really far.

I have to admit, I much prefer
The written, to the spoken word.
At night, I lay awake tossing and turning in bed,
With random thoughts running through my head.
By my pillow, I keep a pen and note pad,
To jot down any thoughts, which I’ve had.
At the top of the page, my thoughts I jot,
And I always plan out a really rough plot.
I like to include words which have a nice ring.
Words, like these, into my poetry, I like to bring.
I continually go through the alphabet time after time,
Searching for useful words which, pretty much, rhyme.
In simple terms, my ideas, I always like to express;
Complicated and fancy words, my mind doesn’t posses.

I’m sat here, writing this poem, on a speeding train,
As thought after thought, floods into my brain.
I’m writing notes on a mini pocket timetable,
In any tiny blank space which is available.
In my handbag, I’ve got no pad, but I’ve got a pen;
My scribbled notes, I just hope I can comprehend.
I really must start carrying a notepad everywhere;
To forget all these thoughts I’ve had, I couldn’t bear.
When I’m thinking of ideas, I just can’t relax;
My mind seems to buzz to the absolute max.
I’m not far now from my final destination,
And the train is due to pull into the station.
On this subject, there’s not much more to be said,
So, I’m now putting this poem well and truly to bed.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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There Is No Poem For Me Today

THERE IS NO POEM FOR ME TODAY

There is no poem for me today
There is no poem of yesterday
The poems have gone
And far away
There is no poem
For another day.

There never will be another poem
Poems are gone
Poems are stone.

All the words I will ever write
Are not enough
For a Poem of Life.

The Poems are not
They will never be
I am not a Poem
Nor Poetry.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Faculty

Sometimes it seems so hard to work out the words,
and then again it seems not hard at all. Just write,
is as simple as that. There are times i can't seem to
work the words, other times the words come up
bubbling in my head with character and meaning.
At times i feel challenged by other writers, and i
begging to doubt my ability to work the words,
i simple read another writer and then i know i have
nothing to be worry about. I understand then that my
contest is with myself and not with other writers.
We all think about the same things, because once
in our life’s we all go through the same situations.
We all have the brain to create anything in our heads.
There’s nothing that i can't do if i focus and if i
don't focus; “you see” this word- focus is meaningful
in some ways, we need the focus, but in poetry we
need more the fantasy in our thoughts, the meaning
to our words, focusing can be important, but if your
head is not in the mood, there’s not going to be any
words bubbling up, even though you don’t need it so
much, because you can create a poem out of anything.
There’s one thing about writing, and reading poetry,
understanding the meaning behind the words.
Every word or phrase has a meaning behind, this is
where readers need to understand; for example-if i'm
drinking away my sorrows, it can mean, crying my
heart out, it can mean, i need to forget, it can mean,
a big hangover, it can mean, sleeping out in the porch,
it can mean, forgetting all you did last night; how many
things out of a phrase. Right know I would just like
to be in my cabin and sit right in front of the fire-place
with a bottle of wine and enjoy my pastoral life while
i write, amazing things.

poem by Elenushka Toledo
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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 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
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Poetry The Beacon!

Beacon of literature is ever poetry only!
Greatness of literature lies in quality ideas;
Richness of language depends on poetry;
Worthiness of matter in poetry only is best!

Writing needs creative mind whatever thing is!
Novels, Short stories, Prose and Poetry are they
That enhance the richness of literature ever;
That too writing poetry makes one great sure!

Having chosen the form of poetry to write itself
Is not an easy matter as it needs skill and time
To write what one feels, thinks and conceives
In heart, mind and soul, otherwise no good at all!

Other forms of literature needs concentrated work
But poetry needs natural ability to express free all!

poem by Ramesh T A
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