In One Of My Poems
in one of my poems that i wrote last night
i started well you say, something great at the start
and the way i ended it, you say, was bad,
nothing but a cliche
about the shallow minds of people around me
(and of course, if i may be allowed to tell you,
must have offended you,
precisely, you were around me during that night
when i made a very bad ending
on that poem which started just right
on the first two stanzas) ,
but no offense was meant, the poem was written
with malice towards none,
it just had to end that way,
there was no more
electricity
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
This Is My Poem
This is my poem of ______. (date)
This is my poem, written by myself.
This is my first poem never written.
This is my last poem now to be written.
This is the poem I would have written
if I had lived yesterday what I lived today.
This is my poem changing white light
into gold-leaf
and blue into violet.
This is my poem like a heaven twisting
and turning inside of me
all night long.
This is my poem of opening a window
to show what was always inside.
This is my poem encompassing everything
hope can bestow or chance agree with.
This is my poem of open-ended freedom.
This is my poem breathing life into motion.
This is my poem written as I wrote it
a living being.
And this is my poem ending;
but only for today..
poem by Patti Masterman
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I Wanted To Start The Day With A Poem
I wanted to start the day with a poem
I heard instead a blessing for washing my hands
I wanted to start the day with a poem
“My eyes are lifted to the hills
From whence cometh my help”
I wanted to start the day with a poem
“Never did sun more beautifully steep in its first splendor
Valley rock or hill”
I wanted to start the day with a poem-
So I stopped and listened again
And waited to hear myself from inside
While my eyes were enraptured by the everyday light of things
I wanted to start the day with a poem
And the day started without me
And the poem said itself quietly
And waited while I happily wrote it down.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Evening Poem
AN EVENING POEM
An evening poem
Waits for deeper darkness
A night poem knows blackness
As home.
A morning poem is light
An afternoon poem is thick with heat.
All times have a poem
And all seasons poems also
All lives are poems
And all stories also.
We all are and all know poems
Poems pervade us
And the universe.
It is night now
But when the morning comes
Its poem will overshadow now.
What a brave new world it is
With so many poems in it
And what a life-
With such deep sadness
Waiting forever to be unexpressed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Will I Have A Poem Tonight?
WILL I HAVE A POEM TONIGHT?
Will I have a poem tonight?
Or will tiredness take me to bed
Without an answer?
Will I be able to find within myself
Some sounds of meaning
Some hint of beauty?
Something deeper than the darkness outside
As real as the longing within?
The poem which is written about the poem which is not
Is the poem which is written about the poem which is
And the poem which is
Is tonight the poem of the night
And the poem of the night tonight
Is the poem this poem is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Will Have Written Only One
I WILL HAVE WRITTEN ONLY ONE
I wrote another poem today
The poem that I wrote yesterday
Tomorrow I will write a poem
Whose meaning will not be unknown.
Again and again I continue to write
The single poem of my only life
When all my poems and writing are done
I will have written only one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Poem Came To Me In The Night
MY POEM CAME TO ME IN THE NIGHT
My poem came to me in the night
Long after I should have gone to sleep
It came with darkness inside and a fear of darkness deeper still-
It was a poem of the end of the earth
A dark poem
The last poem of the day and perhaps the last poem of forever-
It came to me in the night
And made me write it down gently
And said because there is no time left
It is impossible to add on to it
Or give it true character and feeling.-
The poem of the night and its darkness
Stilled me into vulnerable silence
And I slept and went to sleep
Far from the page I wrote.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Really Impatient Poem
Some poems are impatient things!
Yes, they pace up and down!
And while they're waiting in the wings
They're prone to wear a frown...
One poem woke me up one night
And dragged me out of bed!
I trembled on the floor with fright,
Enraged and seeing red...
The poem stood there, pen in hand,
With paper I could use,
Determined I should understand
That I must not refuse...
'I've waited long enough! ' he said,
'Get started straight away! '
I started crawling back to bed,
But he forced me to stay!
He held my feet and wouldn't quit!
'O.K.! ' I told him straight,
He spoke the title bit by bit...
I said, 'That's great... just great! '
He babbled on and line by line,
I wrote it word for word,
Of course I know it wasn't mine,
For that would be absurd...
'Thank God, it's done! ' the poem smiled,
'At last it's time to rest...'
He dropped my feet, no longer wild,
As if he had been blessed...
'One day the world will read this verse!
My thoughts in every home! '
Forgive me if I'm feeling terse,
He was one nutty poem!
Denis Martindale, copyright, July 2012.
poem by Denis Martindale
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Almost A Poem
ALMOST A POEM
Almost a poem
The lines are there
But they do not come together-
There is no music in them
And no pleasure-
Awkward, they cannot express the feeling they wish-
Almost a poem- too literal too much a cliché-
I wonder how many ‘almost- poems’ I have written
And if this is another one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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The Story Of A Poem
T'other day i wrote a poem
Weren't that much i guess
Had to do so much rhyming
And it all turned out a mess
Then i got meself to thinkin'
What was i trying to do
Was i tryin' to write a poem
Or flushing ma thoughts down the loo?
Y'see i started off this poem
Thinkin' i'd be honest, see
Then this awful bloody rhyming
Sort of got control of me
I wanted to say 'angry'
But 'concerned' just rhymed much better
Then i wanted to say 'email'
But ended up just saying 'letter'
This poetry's confusing
So will someome say to me
Whether i be writing poems
Or just tellin' you 'bout me.
poem by David Keig
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A Mouse in the night
As a mouse creeps silently through the house
It hardly makes any noise
It seems like that little creature
Holds the night in it's poise.
I wrote this poem myself because I like mice, and because it makes sense to write about a mouse in the night. This type of poem is a Ballad Poem. O, ya, just to let you guys know, all the poems you will see here are not copied from somewhere else, and I didn't even get any of my ideas from other poems. Just for a heads up! Well, I hope you enjoyed this poem.
poem by Isabella Badger
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The Poem Started To Be One Thing
The Poem started to be one thing
And became another -
It lost its way
And became mixed up-
To save it was to divide into two or three
But this was to lose it also-
Perhaps the mixed- up poem is the true poem
And the poem pure in one theme is only an abstraction no one needs -
The poem whose subject is its own writing
Is a minor poem
And one of lesser feeling-
I write this poem now as if I know
Even within myself
There are better, if less or more pure poems elsewhere
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written
THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What Is A Jewish Poem?
WHAT IS A JEWISH POEM?
What is a Jewish poem?
‘Shema’ is a Jewish poem
Perhaps the Jewish poem-
'Shmoneh Esreh' is comprised of Jewish poems
Nineteen prayers as one-
Our history is filled with Jewish poems-
From the beginning with Abraham and Sarah
Those who have given so much beyond our understanding -
Jewish poems everywhere -
Is each Jewish life a poem and a story also?
Or is it only those who give something to our people and history
Who are worthy of Poetry?
I have known many Jewish poems
People the great world will not know the names of
People who whether they walked humbly or not
Made the lives of others better in some way –
Kindness is perhaps the ultimate Jewish poem
And Justice also-
And Jewish poems are not without their contradictions –
As I write this poem in Jerusalem in the land of Israel
I think of the small Jewish world of Troy New York where I came from so many years ago
And miss so many people no longer of that and this world –
Longing for Israel for two thousand years was the Jewish poem
Living here now is a blessing and a gift
I thank God for.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wrote A Poem I Loved
I WROTE A POEM I LOVED
I wrote a poem I loved
But I could not rest content with it.
I had to write another poem,
And another poem.
And in the writing of other poems,
Some of which I also loved.
I lost the poem I loved.
Essentially I am a writer of poems
And not their possessor.
I possess many poems of others,
But somehow mine, I cannot.
However I love them
Perhaps I really believe
None of them good enough
To be worthy of such love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem As Conversations
a poem for ramona
and a poem for jean and a poem for candice
and a poem too for yuri
and a poem too for emma and another poem for hannah
and another poem for allan
and the rest of the clan
they are but
conversations sticking to my mind
and through these poems
i replay them
and you think these are not poems at all
precisely, these are conversations of the living
the living word
the word that still cohabits with us
we let them out from our mouths
but you do not wish to recover them
did you mean them all to be said
with the terms and conditions of truth?
i am recording them
and i am replaying them through these lines
i look where truth
lies
i find some and keep them
and these are these
on these lines
a poem for you a poem for the world that we all make
what we say is what we get
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What They Will Say
Some times, I wonder if I write for the future.
That may seem like a strange statement to make.
Forty-three years ago, I wrote a poem
that at the time no one wanted to know.
Now it is my best-loved poem
read by countless people around the world.
Thirty years ago, I wrote two poems
and each one won me an award,
but at the time I wrote them,
no one wanted to know.
All of which makes me wonder
if what I wrote in my yesteryears
that then none wanted to know.
Could they all be popular now?
Today I started collecting and retyping
short stories I wrote twenty years ago.
At the time, publishers and agents
didn’t want to know.
Now twenty year on
I am wondering what they will say.
24 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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Footnote to a famous poem
You all know it from the classroom.
It’s in all the anthologies.
Many say it’s his best; ‘a young man’s poem’
full of life and love and promise;
and short too. His long poems,
they’re great but few have the patience now
and who cares about Poet Laureates
when they’re out of fashion?
It never appeared, did you know,
in his lifetime. Sat in his desk drawer,
a single poem in a fine Italian leather folder.
His wife left it there after he died;
remembering when he’d sent it to her
the night before their marriage; she caught him
once, sitting there, an old man reading
a young man’s poem; closed the door quietly,
said nothing.
They cleared the house after she died.
It would never have come to light
if years later his mistress hadn’t left
a copy – it transpired - to the museum
in her will; he’d written it just for her, she said;
but made her promise not to publish it.
She felt she owed it to his memory though.
Some people prefer not to have
footnotes to poems; they say
they spoil the poem,
and cheapen a great man;
some people like them; they say
it makes poets seem more human.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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