Hearing Again From A Student Who Broke Down
her face pale as a fading moon
her hands trembling like the leaves blown by the wind
at dawn
she is
the thin, tiny girl in a row of the brusque and the thick faced
law students, so to speak she has become the weakest link
of their argument
why one has to study law and become a lawyer and compete
for power, money, and position
she finally retreated, broke down somewhere where she says she
screamed without tears, where she writes her poems finally
in inkless pen and imaginary sheets of paper
her mind exploded into some painful shrapnel
that is what happens when you are so true to a vocation
when you do not learn how to fake feelings
and eradicate some emotions
and be the woman and man
tough like steel and shrewd like the fox
or fight matters out like the rats in garbage cans
and yet appear coy like a dove,
they say, this is the battle of the fit and the survival of the fittest
no muscle no guns no spears or swords
it is what they call the decency of words
and logic and sophistry sometimes
she chats with me today, thanking me for the books
for the lightness of being, she blames her stupidities of being
weak, the weakest link of the
argument in law school, she blames her poetry, (she hates my poetry: who says that life is fair? nobody raises a hand)
she says she is now coming to terms with herself
befriends her journal the more, she is taking more breath
regaining her composure
next semester, she will be joining us again,
she promises, no chains, no feelings, a little wit and humor
and nothing fading and not one shall be pale among the brusque
a pachaderm
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Every Time
My eyes may be hollow My face may be pale
I may be just a shadow of my former self
But tonight the ghost of heartaches past Is steppin' into town
Gonna haunt the places where we used to hang around
Draggin' my chains Draggin' my chains
Movin' in slow motion but it's motion just the same
Pulling the weight of yesterday's pain
I may not be free yet, but I'm draggin' my chains
Some chains are made of gold Some chains are made of steel
Just cause you can't see these chains Don't mean they're not real
Until I find the weakest link in your memory
I'll be a prisoner of your love tryin' to break free
song performed by by Pam Tillis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Retrieved Poetry
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
But the inspiration that befell the poet,
But the gods that cursed the poet
Would never allow him grow weary.
It keeps pouring out like morning dew
From sundown to cock crow.
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
Those would get paid
That wishes it out of this world.
Judgement day, the pay day, even today
,
Memories linger of what the gods inspired.
Only poetry has survived a worldwide flood.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
But the inspiration keeps coming,
But the memory keeps living.
Poetry lives on even when the world is dead;
It dies only if it is not poetry
And there is only a good few poetry.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
Until we start seeing poetry as poetry
And nothing more, until that day,
Until we start thinking he is inspired,
Until we stop thinking for the poet;
He is possessed he is innocent.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument.
Even as we cut from the same tree,
Even as we speak same universal language,
You cannot cut deep if your axe's blunt.
We can never speak from same mouth.
You can only say your own thought.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument,
If poetry is dead killed by death,
If poetry is dead swallowed by death,
The corpse should be in our front.
We should know how to bury it.
We should dig not cover it with dust.
Poetry is dead,
If poetry is really dead,
There is cause to weep bitterly,
There is cause to think deeply
For the world has been stripped naked.
For poetry is great, ageless, timeless, bottomless
At the burial we must remain emotionless.
poem by Chime Justice Ndubuisi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry is the Divine Part of Man
Poetry haters love to make fun of the touchy-feely stuff
as though that defined who or what poetry is.
Poetry is the last time the sun gets reflected
in somebody's eyes, when they're saying goodbye-
maybe for forever.
And it's that first dropp of rain, touches the new brides veil,
blesses her; as she's lifting it off her face
for the first time, after being kissed in the marriage ceremony.
And poetry might be that bubble,
over the sink.. keeps floating away, fully intact;
even though all the laws of physics and gravity may be saying
it ought not be able to go on existing;
And poetry in motion
is a baby, trying to walk and falling down
again and again;
refusing to give up, surrender
less painful though that might be.
And poetry could even be your hand over my mouth,
because you know that I can never really say
what I am trying so hard to say;
as there's another form of secret communication
connects soul directly to soul,
without confusing or complicated words.
And that is some of the invisible poetry,
lives in the eyes, the hands; the heart of the mind;
and all the hidden, inner recesses of a human being; and even though
something may be a form of poetry for one; it may not be for another.
Finally, if you balled up the emotions together, and then just threw them up
into the open air, not knowing where they might come down, or even if;
this too, could be one of the purest forms of poetry.
My words could go on flowing forever, like a stream, and that could be poetry;
or they might stop without warning and
poem by Patti Masterman
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The True Meaning of Poetry!
What is the true
meaning of poetry?
Is it rhyming
words together?
Is it about love?
Is it about
impressing?
No, unlike some,
I have discovered the,
true meaning of poetry!
Poetry is the feelings in your heart!
It's really just your heart on paper!
Poetry can be about anything really,
Anything at all! It can have a certain theme,
Like shoes, a talent, a fantasy, love,
World issues, personal issues, history,
Past events, important things!
Poems can mean nothing,
But they can also mean the
World to any one! You just
Never know! Poetry is a way
For people to express them-
Selves. Ex-addicts sometimes
Use poetry to help them when they
Are craving their old addictions.
Like I said, poetry can mean
Nothing to one person,
But mean the world to another!
poem by Rhiannon Parvin
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An Introduction To A Poetry Book
Poetry Is More Than Mere Words,
i agree
mere words do not make poetry
it is the mixture
of night
and day
and day
and night
when
you think of yourself
and the other
when the night
dragged
so slowly
and you forget
that
morning has arrived
like
an unwanted visitor
of you party
it's a profound expression of what's inside oneself.
oh yes, it is always the inside
that matters
myself wanting to get out
from the cave
of innocence
and assume
the form
of a bird
wanting to fly away and never come back
since
there is no home
anymore to
speak of
It's an impressive play of words with meaning and
depth through which the author shares his feelings,
thoughts,
and
ideas.
i agree, it is sharing
above all, reaching to others who take the same
walk with you
angst
depression
joys
bliss
nu mbness
and feelings
of guilt
a confession
Through poetry, he conveys his innermost self -
putting them into vivid
and vibrant verses
that tell stories,
express sentiments,
and speak of lives.
In this kaleidoscope of poems,
he gives focus on everything
and anything there is,
making this poetry
as diverse as life itself.
Enjoy
these poems, and
you'll find yourself inspired
to write your own.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Undefined
Poetry is a great many things
to each poet you see,
Poetry even has various meanings
as to what it is to me
Overall,
Poetry is the means
By which my heart communicates,
My mind finds the words
For these feelings and translates
Sometimes,
Poetry is my lover
My fantasies he fulfills
Beckoning me to crisp, white sheets
where my blacks and blues I spill
Or,
Poetry comes as a mysterious moon
appearing softly in the night,
age old secrets of the universe
he reveals to me with his light
See,
Poetry is my spirit
the connection to the Divine,
It lets me see what I am to be,
let’s me soar when I feel confined
So,
Don’t try too hard to define
What poetry really is
Just know that what you get from a poem
Is all a poet had to give
11.25.02
poem by Tamika Stubblefield
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry Dream.
I drift Yeah ~ ~ ~ ~ drift,
Network at home and abroad to find changed,
Finally came to this piece of land,
This is the poetry of the static earth?
Hoped to write a good poem,
To allow them across the oceans.
They become afraid of heavy stones,
Not sensual in the sink into the sea!
How many years after writing poetry?
This life caught in the areas of poetry,
Poets seem to lose direction.
Not to warble his life sentence,
Poetry is difficult as the expense of my new hand,
He voted Shigao nowhere Monet,
Sometimes, as the water is no longer up,
Poet dead bodies over the sea.
Poems written to a basis
Vernacular into a good poem, rare words,
But thousands of miles seeking Hello,
Poetry does not seek out the words parallelism.
Present the most chaotic poetry,
Have you written in classical Chinese poetry Link old-fashioned,
Vernacular writing to another, then no taste,
But to one day rushed into cloud,
To break the shackles of poetry,
Create a new charm,
Freedom to write my hope,
Unrestricted write a new realm.
poem by Albert Wong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On The Poet And Poetry: The Complete Text
1
Shakespeare and Kalidas and Homer
had no need to flaunt qualifications
so don’t trumpet too much of yours
2
in this kingdom
where one writes
there is no seniority, each is equal
3
it is not important to be a poet;
the thing is to bring the poetry
4
one may win titles
and may be crowned Poet Laureate:
but only time points out
the poet from the crumpet
5
none of your self
and none of your importance here:
just poetry, if you can,
poetry is all that’s needed
6
poetry can be
like a sky filled with wrangling clouds
or as a sky without a wisp
7
in poetry one wakes from dreams
and it may yet be
that one’s wakefulness is itself but a dream
8
in poetry there are no
clichés in thought and phrase;
and what is left there is
the resplendent and the living
9
the writer who repeats
inaptly
word, phrase and concept read or heard
comes second-hand into a market for bad verse
10
one writes;
one does not fill one’s mind with the words:
I want to achieve
11
one writes and
the self disappears
and what is left is understanding
12
poetry leaves one
rich inside
and ordinary outside
13
the fool defines poetry
and poetry defies all definitions
14
poetry entertains, inspires;
poetry tickles, distracts, and shapes and frees -
but its true intent, no one knows
15
expand your understanding of the self –
it includes the world
16
if one had no coins
one cannot buy bread;
but not all the world’s wealth
can bring you poetry
17
celebrate your locality
but go beyond the parochial;
go beyond the region’s arrogance
to reach minds across cyberspace
18
many lines, and countless lines
many pages, and thick volumes
don’t make poetry
19
Oh no!
Not another love poem!
Oh no!
Not another poem about oneself!
20
rhyme, technique and meter
and tricks of prosody
don’t make poetry: passion does
21
the fool speaks of having
written the most number of poems in the world;
and the same fool speaks of quantity
22
we rarely succeed
if one does not go
beyond oneself
23
you wink, you twinkle
you want praise;
you write and you publish online
and you want to win titles –
and so poetry eludes you always
24
a hundred titles, a hundred prizes
a hundred spots of fame
and international renown
all these pale, all pale
before a single line of luminosity
25
the ambitious write pathetic verse;
the lover yields
and poetry embraces such a one
poem by Raj Arumugam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old
Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.
poem by Eric Graham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We are making it
People don't understand
What we feel inside
That I finally found a man
And his heart is all mine
That he found a woman
That he can call his own
Everyone wants us to fail
Needing a hand out
To ask them all for help
But all we need is each other
Together Forever hand in hand
We are making it
Through all the thick and thin
And we know in our hearts
Where we've truly been
Through the smiles and tears
Together we battle all our fears
Our souls are a perfect fit
And together.............
We are making it
poem by Dawn Ellis
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quotes From Poets On Poetry
** QUOTES FROM POETS ON
POETRY
The great Shakespeare in his ‘A Midsummer
Night’s Dream’,
Speaks of poetry as ‘forms of things unknown,
The poet’s pen turns them to shape,
And gives to airy nothing a local habitation
and a name’!
John Ashbery had always felt, that ‘poetry
all the time goes on in his head’, -
And ‘occasionally he snips off a length’!
For Coleridge, ‘prose is arrangement of words
in their best order’,
But ‘poetry is the best words in their best order’!
For Paul Engle, poetry is ‘ordinary language
raised to the N-th power’,
While for William Wordsworth it is a continuous
shower, -
And ‘a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings,
Of emotions recollected in tranquility’, - is fairly
healing!
Shelley in his ‘Defense of Poetry’ sincerely felt,
That ‘poetry lifts the veil, from the hidden beauty
of the world’,
Making ‘the familiar objects be as if they were
not familiar’!
While Carl Sandburg speaks of poetry as, -
‘The journal of a sea animal living on land,
Wanting to fly in the air’, - as high as it possibly
can!
Robert Graves declared rather candidly, -
That ‘if there’s no money in poetry’, one need
not feel sorry,
Since there is ‘neither any poetry in money’!
I conclude with Robert Frost, who always felt,
That writing a ‘poem is discovering as he
progressed’,
Since for him, ‘poetry never had a pre-meditated
end’!
-Raj Nandy
New Delhi
26 Feb 09
(** The words of our famous poets/authors, have
been placed in ‘inverted commas’.)
Poetry, That's What I Write
Parody of the classic song Money, That's What I Want
The best words on the page are here
Teaching you a hell of a lot more about life
Then just the birds and bees
Now you know words of magic
Words of wisdom
Given birth
Right here, right now
Oh, yes
Poetry, that's what I write
My wicked writing should give you such a thrill
So don't be shy
Go ahead and click on this link right here
My poetry won't pay your bills, no
But I can promise to give you some kinky thrills
Now you know
Poetry, that's what I write
Bright and beautiful
Perfect as can be
Poetry, that's what I write
Oh yeah baby
Poetry
Poetry, that's what I write
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I like
Poetry
Oh yes
Poetry, that's what I love
Poetry, that's what I write
Whoa
My poetry is the best
It's true
If you don't agree then I don't need you
You can kiss my sass
Now you know
Now you better read it
Oh yeah baby
Well, now read my poetry
Ooooh, oooh yeah my poetry
Read my
Love my
Poetry, oh yeah that's what I like
What I love
Oh yeah baby
Poetry, that's what I write
Yeah
2008 Ramona Thompson
poem by Ramona Thompson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What He Did
as law professor teaching civil and political law
he did not tell his students that he writes poems during some
breaks of their studies.
as the students hurdle a legal problem in marriage
he preoccupies himself with some images: an old weary man
carrying an ax, debarking a tree without leaves.
it can carry him far away to some hills in his mind.
clouds and storms dock on his forehead.
he shakes his head, and goes back to the legal words
right on the page of his book. Finds himself again, strong willed.
Astute. Wise. Objective. Sharp.
A student raises his hand and recites a solution the problem.
He listens and claps his hands.
The class is dismissed and he is left alone in the room
It is 8: 45 in the evening.
Images come again. The tree is finally cut. The barks turn into paper.
He knows now the cause of the decay. Some termites.
The old man is dead. Cut by the ax. The ax is gone.
Who did it? Why?
These are his mind games.
He opens the door of the car and begins to drive himself back home.
He has a poem to write again.
It is about that old man who died beside a tree that he debarked.
It is not more of the ax or termites.
It is the tree. A tree without leaves.
A very lonely tree which is cut.
He is happy now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Homage To Life
It’s good to have chosen
A living home
And housed time
In a ceaseless heart
And seen my hands
Alight on the world,
As on an apple
In a little garden,
To have loved the earth,
The moon and the sun
Like old friends
Who have no equals,
And to have committed
The world to memory
Like a bright horseman
To his black steed,
To have given a face
To these words — woman, children,
And to have been a shore
For the wandering continents
And to have come upon the soul
With tiny strokes of the oars,
For it is scared away
By a brusque approach.
It is beautiful to have known
The shade under the leaves,
And to have felt age
Creep over the naked body,
And have accompanied pain
Of black blood in our veins,
And gilded its silence
With the star, Patience,
And to have all these words
Moving around in the head,
To choose the least beautiful of them
And let them have a ball,
To have felt life,
Hurried and ill loved,
And locked it up
In this poetry.
poem by Jules Supervielle
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Our Differences With Poetry
You balance yourself on these lines as the sentence is clear,
It differed from all the worldly possessions to the eye
As each eye was indoctrinated, each eye blinked to the sight
Of the sentences that were temporary, always exact and narrow
As well as sounding a whole quiet exception.
The power of poetry is great, as I have seen you with my perception
As perceiving is all I do in the face of danger, the dangerous words
Are an enemy to my own poetry. Your poetry is not my poetry.
Rather it is an inclination to sour beliefs and irresolute structures,
I am for one cynical, and I am also afraid lest a man decide to act on my word
With difference, and betrayal.
So off with your poet-hood, and me my own route,
The guess of talking thoughts is upon us from the rear
And I am in doubt as to the position I am in.
I have no more argument. Enough.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Time Doesn't Stop
As the wind blows
Pulling me in
Life is but a whirlwind
You must begin
Starting as a baby
So soft and sweet
Crying all the time
Can’t stand on two feet
School begins
And your super siked
Got your books in hand
And your lunch pale tight
Off to high school
Looking for a place
Trying to find you’re position
And not fall on your face
Moving to college
Finally away from home
Living in a dorm room
Sleeping all alone
Reality sets in
While your out on your own
Worrying about your bills
Did I pay all of them even my phone
Retirement is next
You saved up your money
And if you were lucky enough
You landed a honey
Skin and bones so fragile
Like dust in the breeze
Looking up to the lord
Saying let me in please
Life is just a place
Here on this earth
Take it for what it is
And all that its worth
A Man Became Addicted To Poetry
A MAN BECAME ADDICTED TO POETRY
A man became addicted to poetry-
Wherever he went he read or wrote a few lines-
Poetry became much of what he did-
Poetry and poetry and poetry-
As if that alone could give meaning and pleasure to his life.
A man became addicted to poetry
And so lost at times
What true poetry is –
Now he writes without knowing
Whether he is truly writing
Or merely using the ‘idea and world of poetry’
For his own peace of mind.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!
Poetry! Yes!
P. The Purple
P. The Pink
Poetry! Be a mix of emotions,
Poetry! The different kinds of expressions,
Poetry! The different kinds of experiments
Poetry! The Corners of exploration
Yes! Yes! Yes!
The Vague Of Emphasise.
Though be the same thoughts and emotions, he solves the different vexed questions of equations
Poetry! My blue sky!
Poetry! My brown skin
Poetry! My White clown
Poetry! My green grass
Yes! Yes! Yes!
Expressed and impressed,
applied and implied
thrown and blown
pen with a book,
a vein of a blood
Poetry! the visions of missions,
build in all kinds of potions,
Poetry! the zeal of joy,
it being in zone
I Learn!
I Observe
I Like
But! I Love!
poem by Anele ''The African Son'' kaPotelwa
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