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For Those Who Still Dream To Write The Best Lines Of Their Lives

you wish to write the best lines of
a poem, something that they will remember
for a lifetime, you want to put the best metaphor,
you like to be deeper than the deepest ocean
(or the bluest sky ever, or the tallest peak
of a mountain with snow caps, you want to
put the gentlest sound of the wind
on top of the Tibetan monastery, you like
to have your lines sound like a tinkering bell
of the meditating monks, you want it holier
than the saints, you want to make an impression
with the moon and the stars, before you die,
before you embrace the darkness and then
take on the glowing robe of light)
you wish to write the wisdom of the ages
in some few lines, you want to put your name
at the bottom, so they may remember you

how human could you still be!
divinity shuns this waste of words!

come to think of the paradox
the best poem is not written at all
it is not even spoken
not even the sweetest song of the bird
not even the flute or the lyre has that note

it is not here, not even in the hearts of men
or of the wise, it does not exist here,

it is not even heard yet, the metaphors still unseen
the rhyme unrevealed, the rhythm unfathomed...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Music In The Words

I sat down to write a poem,
but in it had to have sound
and then I thought of an old rhyme.
Whatever goes up must come down
and whatever has a rhythm must include sound.
It doesn’t need guitars, drums or flute
just a metaphor or two
to make your senses hear
the music in the words.

6 April 2011

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been

THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN

The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Ageing Poem

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 my scribbles
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Night Is Deeper Than I Am

THE NIGHT IS DEEPER THAN I AM

THE NIGHT IS DEEPER THAN I AM
The night is deeper than I am
Sleep will soon come
I have no lines I need to write
The words are only what they happen to be now
I wait and try to listen to myself.
I do not have much to say.

The poem written in this way
Will always suffer its own hesitations.
I write because this is who I am and who I need to be
These lines too another proof to myself of who I am
But are they a true proof or just another dreaming?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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All The Poems Remain Written Where They Once Never Were

ALL THE POEMS REMAIN WRITTEN WHERE THEY ONCE NEVER WERE

All the poems remain written where they once never were
The grass and the skies of Whitman form lines in the mind of Baudelaire
The trees and dark cities of the distance form single sounds in the heart of the poet who cares
Night is more than darkness and day more than an early setting out
Each thing influences the other and calls back its own origins and end
We are going somewhere we will never know whether we write eternal lines or not
Over everywhere can be heard in the morning light the selfsame sound that through the heart of Ruth burned the alien corn
Keats is not dead, and Borges is not dead and Kafka is not dead and Wordsworth and all those who wrote great lines are not dead
Poetry is the last first eternity of the living word
And those who can hear the sounds of others greater than themselves in their own lines know
We are all writing down this last poem for ourselves and no one else
Though as we go to pray each morning the minyan tells us secretly
All our prayers together are more than any single poem can be alone
In the grey long distance where no one hears any poem at all
God writes and rewrites for us all the book of the stars in which dread is no longer a name
And beauty bright bright beauty is heard and reechoed as more than we will ever be
God is the only Poetry in the End
God is the Only One who never will be dead..

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Do I Remember What A Poem Is?

DO I REMEMBER WHAT A POEM IS?

Do I remember what a poem is?
Did I ever really know?

‘Those lines which remain in mind forever’.

‘Our deepest feeling.
‘Our soul in words.’

‘A poem is what we most are in words
The Beauty- Language gives.’

‘You know it when your heart tells you so.’

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Will Not Write About A Poem Where You Can Relate

i will not write a poem
where you can relate
because it will
be painful
and i do not like
you to take
the pain

the pain
you have now
will be too much to bear
and if i add another dose of pain
from these lines i am afraid that you may not be able to take it

instead i will write a poem
where everything will be strange to you something that
will not make you remember something that will make you wonder
about a world which you have not ever known something that strikes a

note in your heart
that awakens you and brings you a new day
that presents to you some pages of the sea and tell you a story

not about us, that which takes you at the top of the mountain and lets
you see some clear skies, a full orange moon, a dark blue horizon something

that makes you wish upon another star that makes your heart
stronger than ever that which makes you live and never again think of death

because i love you

poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Cat Poem - with discussion

I must not write a poem
because I want to write a poem.
I must try to write the poem
when the poem has to be written.
Yes but what if my cat dies?

Yes, what if my cat dies
and I know my cat lived a
good and honest life
I can write a poem?

I can can’t I
I can have a cat poem can’t I
Life of an honest cat and that

Yes I know, I said the cat was honest
but I didn’t say that I was, and
I lied about the cat

________________________________
Discussion:
The poem begins as a slightly
finger wagging exercise in telling
people not to write just because
they want to write a poem - it must
be DRIVEN by the poem's insistence
on being written. The poet is
unable to sustain this arrogance
hence the cat. Then, using the
cat as an excuse, writes the poem
but in the end has to admit that
the cat was just a device to break
the rule outlined in the 4 opening
lines. (Secretly of course the poet
believes or at least hopes that the
poem is good enough to excuse itself
and be allowed to break the rule.)
But of course it isn't

poem by by unknown author
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's Late To Write A Poem

It’s late to write a poem-
It’s almost time to go-
And yet now as I was about to leave
The spirit of poetry came to me
And I feel in me lines that want to be written-

So as I quietly calmly surely write these lines down now
I know
The world can wait a long time for a real poem-
But when it comes
Oh how the sky opens up and the dreams go on happily on their journey.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When You Read This

when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Making Of A Poem

What's a poem?
It's a metaphor, it's a metaphor,
What's a metaphor?
'It is a device for seeing something in terms of something else.
It brings out the thisness of that, or a thatness of this.'

How do I write a metaphor?
Think of rain as the cry of the heavens,
Think of love as a rose,
Think of burning candle as the agony of a lonely heart.

How do I piece together metaphors?
On a moonlit night, I see my love reflected in the moon's silvery light,
Holding her tight, I smell the fragrance of jasmine tonight,
Adoring her smile, I see the beauty of monarch butterflies,
Staring in her eyes, I see the oasis of love in my high desert lonely life.

How do I write a poem?
I love her but have not a spoken a word.
You have the inspiration, put in some romantic words.
On a beautiful moon lit night, I wonder who is prettier,
When I look at you, I forget about the moon.

Knit together love, loneliness, fear and tears of heart,
Into a beautiful tapestry of emotions and feelings that mask your heart,
Stitch some metaphors, make it a heartwarming comforter.

poem by Jay P Narain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wanted A Poem/But There Was No Poetry In Me

I WANTED A POEM/ BUT THERE WAS NO POETRY IN ME

I wanted a poem
But there was no poetry in me
I said to myself from outside,
‘Write the feeling of a song'
But I had no song within me-

Poetry did not flow
No music moved me
I was alone with a Mind
That had no heart or song-

And then I writing
Simply tried to listen to myself
And what I heard
Was these awkward non- poetic lines
That make a poem
Which is not true poetry
And yet here now
proclaims its own rhythm as this page.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There Have Been Many Opening Lines Tonight

THERE HAVE BEEN MANY OPENING LINES TONIGHT

There have been many opening lines tonight
But none has been followed by a convincing poem -
Why is this evening one of trying and failing?
Why can't I at least write one small poem
That seems to me worthwhile?

I am doing better now-
There is a stanza,
And perhaps these lines will be a stanza too.

I have two small awkward stanzas
When I finish this one
I will try to feel I have a poem.

Nothing I do tonight is good enough
Is it better to have a poor poem
Or none at all?

I answer by posting these lines.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Scribbler's Stymie

Pen and paper in sight
I've got no poem to write

Staying up all night
I've got no poem to write

Although my mind is bright
I've got no poem to write

It's windy out tonight, should I go fly a kite?
I've got no poem to write

My ceiling, it is white
I've got no poem to write

It's 4: 59! Five, but not quite
I've got no poem to write

In your arms I'd feel so light
I've got no poem to write

I've had no sleep tonight
I've got no poem to write

Will you just hold me tight?
I've got no poem to write

Outside it's almost light
I've got no poem to write

It's late, off goes my light
I've got no poem to write

poem by Julia Grace
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I Find Us Between the Lines

I find myself between the lines
Of Marvin Bell's poem
'Prodigal? ' in his book
Of poems 'Mars Being Red'

It's like he's welcoming me
Back unconditionally
I'll put his words in brackets
So you can follow along

[I'm off to the front lines in the war to preserve
the privilege of myth-making]
That's me whenever I write
My poetic license tucked in my pants

I have [...the nerve to think
the future and remember the past...]
How does Marvin know how poems
Come to me and want to get back out

I still hink he is talking about me
In the last lines of the poem
[...They lived among the heroic
who did not want another life, and if

they erred in creating bigger-than-life characters,
they broke bread with the unspeakable,
and that is worth something.]
In case you are wondering

I think you too the other writers
Are the [heroic/who] also [did not
want another life, ...]
[and that is worth something.]

poem by Tom J. Mariani
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I Wrote A Poem Yesterday/ Can I Write A Poem Today?

I WROTE A POEM YESTERDAY/ CAN I WRITE A POEM TODAY?

I wrote a poem yesterday
Can I write a poem today?
Somehow all the poems of yesterday
Are not as needed
As a single small poem of today.
To have been alive even in the deepest way
Is not necessarily to be alive now.
These lines are my lifelines for the moment
Soon I will be gone
And there will come a day
When no poem will be written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Little Broken Lines Do Not A World Make

LITTLE BROKEN LINES DO NOT A WORLD MAKE

Little broken lines do not a world make-
A poem without a music of its own
Is not much of a poem-
Once I had a rhythm I could hear;
I’ve lost it.
Bare lines appear,
They have no song-
I try in rereading
To feel their music,
But there is not much music in me now.
A poem at best should be a music all its own
I have no such music now-
If this is a poem, it is a lesser one.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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You Don't Stop Writing Girl, Go Girl Go

You don't stop writing girl
You cannot stop, It is part of your nerves now.
Each vein looks for the proper word.
Each red blood corpuscle has become a syllable
For an imaginary poem in your mind.

Each beat of your heart recites a rhyme
A rhythm. A sonnet. A couplet.
Each curl in your cerebellum thinks of
An imagery. Another metaphor comes
And you grasp them with each breath.

You are alive girl. Go girl stop watching
The snow and make your imagination
Run wild like a snowstorm.

The sound of a snowfall. A snowflake
Layering on the side of your window pane
Speaks to you about this coldness
This beautiful sound of a very lonely song
Harking for Love.

Far away from your homeland
You weep for a while and then recover
Compose yourself and see your face in that mirror.
You are strong. You are as vast as the ten thousand miles
Away from us.

Go girl. Another poem knocks at the door of your heart.
Write it. Write about a chaff. The grain. The wheat germ.
Go girl. You are one of us, chosen not to speak
But to write.

I am waiting for your next poem. Gladly, I am.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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