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Moonyeen

frail lady Emily Dickenson
That is moonyeen
the girl of the night of chat
the student of the law website
asking questions
about some directions
what to do with her life
where to go
why
she is asking why
she is asking me why
i am making all things hard for her
as i threw questions of law and facts from a pile of law books

while i keep on writing my poetry and enjoying every situation
she has to read her
political law
her constitutional law with utmost logical objectivity

she is asking why i have made life hard and harsh for her
why i am cold and damp setting high standards on her legal studies
as i enjoy my craft of writing poems everyday

for days she is sad and would not chat
she shuts herself to all her difficult questions
while i
have sweet conversations with myself

i know her predicament though
she burns her candles with the law

while i sit peacefully under the cool shades of the trees
reciting all these love of life this zest for living

on the other hand moonyeen had to study her law
submit to the definitions of justice and equity

i have had all of that unjust stuff for years those dusty law years
and they serve no other purpose but for me to earn my living
to support my poetry and my love for this silly stuff
nonetheless makes me fully human fully alive!
these poetry which at the end will render
a disposition

who ever told you that life is fair?
whoever told you in the name of all our laws that life is fair?

that is the question assigned for moonyeen not just for this semester
but for the whole span of her lifetime

while i make my poems and read them all alone for myself.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is A Habit

writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry

and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Gertrude Stein is interviewed on American poetry

and there was the knocking on the door
that we were expecting
and it was the man
that we were expecting
with the questions we were expecting
to which answers were expected
by those who expect answers
as if life were like that
which for writers it is not

yes, tea was drunk
and after tea the tape recorder set up
so that what I said
I would continue to say
somewhere else
even when I changed my mind
here and nowhere else

and he said Ms Stein
what do you think of American poetry
and we said well it's American
and it's poetry
that's as it should be
and really that's all there is to say
and the man looked disappointed
so we asked him did he read poetry
and he said poetry no I dont read poetry
but my editor does
so I said it's really about Americans
living their lives
that's what American poetry is really about
because Americans move around
and so their words move around and
words in English have lost their intensity
but American words are always on the move
and they are more intense
yes, Americans living among Americans
and talking to their neighbours
if it's not about that
it's not really American poetry at all is it
if it's not about that
then why bother writing poetry

and the man was asking about a rose
being a rose being a rose and we said
for a hundred years the rose
has not been red in poetry
but now for the first time in a hundred years
the rose is red again

and the man looked at his watch
and said thank you Ms Stein
and was switching off his tape recorder

and a month later that
was what we said
in a magazine much read
by Americans who mostly
are not poets no very few but we said it
we know that this is so
because we read it there
and we think that really
that was all there was to say
because that was all we think
is really important
about American Poetry
that the words move like Americans move
and that is exciting for a writer
and that is the important thing about
American Poetry

poem by Michael Shepherd
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After All Hymn

After all I am human
And I get mad sometimes
Sometimes it is hard for me to think of something else in
Order to get rid of my anger
But I think I have to replace it with poetry
Poetry is my life
And I live writing poetry
Is poetry just a scribbling that doesn't make sense?
No
Poetry are feelings that are wrtten on a piece of paper or in the computer Scream
Poetry makes sense because every word I carefully select
And there are other words that might pop out of my mind
That I connect with the words in my heart
Do I use strong words in my poetry?
Yes I use strong words
Do I offend my readers with the words I pick?
That Is something that I try not to do
AAafter all
I am human and I do make mistakes
But after I make mistakes I try to move to the next step so I never get Stuck with my mistake
Yes poetry is my voice that is a message that I am trying hard to give to My readers
There are so many different styles of poetry
Haiku, rhiming, and free style
But I always stick with the free style of poetry
I find that it is the style that sooths me just fine
After all
I try very hard to live a modest life that is very plain and simple
From the one I lived 16 years ago
What is wrong to live a life of luxury to me?
First I need to have the money to live a luxurious life
The second part is that I don't want anything to do with a luxurious life
Because I am happy living my simple life
And I hope to live that simple life forever
I want to have dreams only and I don't wish them to turn into reality in My Life
Because I know that my dreams will be dreams
No I can't sell my dreams
Because my dreams are only fantasies that I face every night when I sleep In my bed
And after all I will always be human

poem by Aldo Kraas
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The aged poet. For Kealan if

When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart

he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’

and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry

and so he did and so he did

and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub

and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet

and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub

they came and listened
at his door and at his window

and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence

and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Social Studies

i

a mother taking care of
a son who just had a nervous breakdown
there is no way
for a mental asylum

ii

there is this woman who writes poems
translates them from bisayan to english
making the poems
the little burdens of grammar school

iii

there are siblings who quarrel all the days of their life
forgetting the color of their blood
too near and so too far
cutting navels, making fences, choking necks

iv

how did we end? we started with some social sketches
defining what social studies is all about
sweet nothings, and trivial matters
bridging gaps, comparing black and white
and dreaming of rainbows

v

no lust. a friendly chat. something platonic.
a brother to a sister. birds hiding some wings.
oral intercourse.
social studies. a little poetry. a human craving.
empty. full. empty. lull. wanting to go.
but staying still.

vi

oh my, i tell myself finally as we say goodbye
i still have work to do. something legal piles up.
an issue on international law. some circular reasoning
begging the questions. i lied.
in fact, i am still here.

vii

back to poetry. some metaphors are popping out
the ceiling speaks. a lizard shows its tongue.
speaking. come, come, catch me, i am a meta4,
this is absurd. the ceiling sings.

viii

8. this is the number that climbs up.
complete and round and round like two moons
up and above. over each other.
a monkey. a cat without ears and a hidden tail.
free thoughts. use the period. breathers.

ix

nine lives. do i get nine lives after twelve years
of writing poems? no it is not just twelve.
i am 49, and i will turn fifty, on the nth poem.
jalousie songs. palm trees opening leaves.
roots i hear roots ripping my robes.

x

this will be the last. ten. put an o. and you know what i mean.
the white people do not understand the power of (o) ten.
they do not speak the brown language. Or the black one.
stiff and hard and long. nothing lousy. or lusty. just clean fun.
a play with words. what can words do? did you say you cry?
this is the last. and you know very well. i have to go. i made
promises. i have Frost. And Neruda too. and yes, what about
myke O?

social studies. nothing about the P.... I'm finished.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...

Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.

But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'

Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.

The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.

Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.

I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.

It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?

poem by Maddy Macleod
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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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A Dying Race

My friend Kessa’ and I
Always loved writing
Poetry was our favorite
Everyday on the old yellow school bus
Number 6 or 149
She and I would read to each other
What we had come up with
The night before

I was always a little
Green with envy
Because her writing seemed much
More mature than mine

But one day we realized
That poetry was dying
Even though so many people
Write it all over the world
Poetry has lost it’s fame

Kessa had started a poetry club
But no one showed except me
We wondered why that was
For poetry was a wonderful
Thing
A great outlet
When things went wrong
Which they always did

To me it has become the dying race
Hanging on a thin thread
Of life
What miracle will happen to keep it float
Who will make difference
To relight poetry
In everyone’s mind?

poem by Sydne Morris
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Private Poetry

Every poem, Every poetry,
Where are all the poets?
Hiding out, Hiding away.

In the beaches, forests,
In the caves and rooms,
In the islands and temples.

Make their private poetry,
Every now and then,
Here and there,
Over here, Over there.

Somewhere, somewhen,
Someone, somebody,
No one, No body,
Some here, some there.
Somehow, not matter how,

Everywhere, every when,
Every turn, every look,
Every search, every research,
There is a private poet.

Making a private poetry,
Writing private poems,
Writing lovely poems,
Writing profound poetries.

For the world and all
To ponder,
To reflect,
To open our heart,
To hear and listen;

What poets have
To say and write,
In a private poetry,
For the world to read
And treasure.

poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Poems As Diary

to know me
there is no other but this poetry
to know poetry however
please do not read
my diary
for this diary may fail the standards
of your poetry
but at any rate everyday poetry is a diary
what makes us fume like a mad cow
what makes us whistle like a satisfied lover
what makes us surrender in defeat and shout victory in triumphs
little things and big things
all summed up
in this new thing: diary as poetry
and poetry as diary.

we do not even have to rhyme
does life rhyme at all my friend?

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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It's For Me

Poetry for me, is just like breathing
I inhale Life and exhale poems
It's for me - I do the writing
No matter, if ever, comments come.

As chosen words come out soothing
Release the pained and burdened heart
I find relief in simply writing
Touching others with what I impart.

But always the joy is within me
The reading by others may truly bless
I'm grateful they read my poetry
But the writing is my true happiness!

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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I Could Have Enjoyed A Very Nice Conversation Out There At The Mall

i can make choices
like i am thrown in an ocean of choices
everyday as i decide for myself
what to do really

i could have gone to the mall
shopping or just enjoying the walk there
seeing lots of people and meeting them
and knowing their names and
having fun with them

or get a date with someone else
have sex at the motel or have a ride
somewhere in the countryside where no one
knows me

i could have done all these but i am so foolish
for instead here i am writing this low key poetry
wanting to figure out what do i really want in my life

i can figure it out someday
and i will figure it out now as i have been doing
this thing everyday
every hour: i just love this stuff writing for nobody
(but you may read if you want
blogging for no one and surfing for more words
and idioms and looking for that part where i become
an idiot or the everyday moron on the screen
at You-tube or facebook or friendster)

well i guess, this is it:
just trying to be nobody but a writer like you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What Poetry Is

Poetry is giving Life the foundation to
Sustain it's self, to give Life the water for
Growth.

Poetry is showing Life all of what the
World is like, to show Life how to
Survive.

Poetry is explaining to Life that the
Smallest details make all the difference,
To explain to Life, Life isn't Life without
Living.

Poetry then tells Life to Live.

poem by Andrew Phillips
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Poets and Poetry

Poets love writing poetry Poetry releases there feelings there are all kinds of poetry, but poetry is in all life nothing can change that. Poets and Poetry is always around us this poetry is about poetry so you decide if you want poetry in your life.

poem by Jeeva Premachandran
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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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Scribbles Transcribed

Some write for glory and for fame.
I write because I am obsessed
and wordplay is my favourite game.

I concentrate on poetry
Because I find it to my taste
and pass my time creatively.
I could not sit and watch T.V
and live my life vicariously.
That would drive me to insanity.

I have a wide vocabulary
which I love to exercise
Harmless but it amuses me.

What better way to pass the time
than writing formal poetry
I do not find it hard to rhyme

I’ll never be a household name
Which does not bother me at all.
I write for fun and not for fame.

My writing will not make me rich
I very rarely publish it
I merely write to scratch my itch.

My pad and pen accompany me
No matter where I choose to go
Though I scribble illegibly.

Record what takes my interest
and jot down anything I see.
When I get home I do my best.

To read the jottings I have made
which is sometimes difficult
as pencilled words tend to fade.

I find that if I persevere
for long enough I understand
enough to make it very clear.

I sometimes wish that I could write
In a clear and cursive script
If I had perhaps I might.

But I am too impatient to write
All of down the things I want to
My scribbling will have to do.

Thank God for printers and P.Cs
So when I post its legible
and you can read my verse with ease.

The feed back which you give to me.
I read with greatest interest.
And it improves my poetry.

My hand writing will never be
capable of being read
by anybody else but me..

(18-Jun-07)

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Beauty on a Page

Poetry is the lyrics to an enchanting melody,
one that was composed for the simple purpose
of having beautiful words attached to it.
Poetry is chicken noodle soup
on a cold day when the soul is sad
and bones are aching with cold.
It is the medicine needed
when one feels lost or lonely
and only words of comfort are needed.
Poetry is a beautiful butterfly,
floating on a spring breeze,
flowing, gliding, whispering.
Poetry is the realization
and the answer to life's
toughest and most difficult questions.
It is the sound of soft wings
beating against air as a bird is released
from being captive and scared.
Poetry is simply a combination
of everything beautiful in life,
of everything fragile.
It is love, hope, pain, sadness, fear,
It is beauty on a page.

poem by Nick Downer
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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
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