Not Just You
i, too, had it, not just once,
but many times, when i
wake up at the wrong hour
and think of you
and then i take my old
favorite pen and
yellow pad paper
and begin to write
a letter for you
you are a ghost now
far away
and i expect you
not to read this
letter that i am
not sending anyway
i will not even
read it
i will just keep it
so when another being
comes whose interest
is poetry and by chance
he digs upon my
poetry books that no one
bothers to read
anymore
at anytime
he may find it there
inserted in one of the
pages between
two chapters
concerning the themes
of love and
death
and perhaps he too
will understand how is to
truly love and be
so unloved because
death has come
to early because
the timing was wrong
because the world
has not understood
because one
sometimes in pain
has no cure
but just the silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
~ O' Poetry I Read I Write ~
~ O' POETRY I READ I WRITE ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
29 December,2009.
Poetry ~
I read I read I read
Without asking,
Knowing why?
Poetry ~
I write I write I write
Without asking,
Knowing why?
O' Poetry ~
Read n’ write
To share
Dare n’ bare,
Don’t care
Love to dye
By
Hi and fie.
.
O' Poetry ~
Life I buy
Never sell bye bye
All I’ll do until I die
Lo! I’m no hi-fi.
----
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Conversation
You write
Mediocre,
He told me
I told him
Go and
Read -
The superb
Writers, don't
Read me ;)
He said:
I was only joking
To rub you the
Wrong way ;)
I love your poetry.
I said:
Let me put it
The right way.
It's not only
My poetry…
You also love me ;)
He blushed and said:
How well you know me!
Yes, I love the perky
Poetess, more than her
Poetry :)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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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
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Letter body
Everything is there in th letter
And the letter has no letter.
Your body is a letter
You have to read and float
And go further and further.
Are you feeling comfortable?
Have you ever enjoyed your sleep?
You are not at rest
And not seen your body yet
The most valuable gift given to you.
You have not kept the body
In good condition
And the body is taking your care
Read the body read the letter of the body
And go with the body to understand the letter
And make yourself ready to get the nector.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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cn U rd ths? Its nt gd nws...
The National Literacy Trust in Britain
did a survey and
- yes, you guessed -
57% read 'only a bit' or not at all
and 25% of the older ones said
they had no intention to
read any more than this
So what do they read when
they read?
Well, mags,
and websites
and txt msgs of course
and jokes,
and TV books and mags
and e-mails
and eighth on the list comes fiction
that's made-up stories, right?
right
then comix ninth
then newspapers well
they're just for people
who don't have TV and
don't mind waiting 12 hours
to read the news put that tenth
what's that? poetry?
sorry would you spell that
oh poetry nah
girls said, they read
to find out how other people live
and feel and
to help them understand
more about themselves
boys said, they read
because they have to and
because it helps them
get a job so
some old farts might say
put up a sign
civilisation's postponed until further notice
but it may all work out
well it'll have to
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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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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So, You Think You've Found Me
I am not here
Not in these words
not on these pages.
I know..
You think if you read
Enough
Of what I write
You'll know me inside and out..
One small problem though
(I say this as I smile)
I am no longer
Who I use to be
When I use to be
The 'She' who wrote this..
I don't publish until I've grown
From the poem I use to be
If I was her at all...
Sometimes the 'She' you read
She isn't me at all
But a friend,
Or a story I read in the paper
Or a conversation I overheard..
The she you're looking for
You'd have to confront
Ask her all the tough questions yourself.
I'm not there..
In the tattered old pages
Of the poetry book you love so much..
If you read enough
Maybe you'll get a glimpse of the girl
The fragile creature I use to be..
That innocent thing who believed
In magical things so easily..
She does make an appearance from time to time..
She was very sweet..
The me you seek, you may not find..
I hide even from myself from time to time..
I grow from day to day
Oops! You missed it,
I've already changed.
Now some things, those are constant..
But, they aren't found here
Where you look for me.
poem by Rabia Minhas
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All Poetry... All The Time
All Poetry … All The Time
I Love To Read In Rhythm & Rhyme
I Love To Write Of Wistful Wishes
And Lips Speak Of Love Like Bold Kisses
All Poetry … All The Time
Poetry, Is A Medication For My Mind
Poetry, Has A Power To Overthrow Pain
Poetry, Should Be Spoken, Again and Again
All Poetry … All The Time
I Am Really Thrilled To Find
More Poet Lovers, and Their Word Artistry
All The Time … All Poetry
All Poetry … All The Time
May Each Poetic Puff, Rise & Climb
Into The Clouds, Up To The Stars
(Or Maybe Just Linger, Where You Are) …
All Poetry … For All Of Time
Written & ©: 5/24/10
By: MoonBee
poem by MoonBee Canady
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Wing Pages Of The Butterfly
at the nursery
while people
are at purchase
and at transactions
a blue butterfly
comes by
and opens its pages to me
swift and quick
and it says to me:
'Read! Read!
Read my pages! '
'I can’t read, '
I say,
amused
at this brash butterfly
'Read and write!
Read and write
about me,
and all flitting butterflies
Read
and write, you silly! '
it commands
And so I read
and I copy
and these are the words
the words from those
pages
the butterfly
holds up to me
poem by Raj Arumugam
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0317 Fingertip to fingertip, a human net
i think it's really wonderful
that with all the million poems on this net
people find their way to read what each of us has read
or written.
it's like a shining human net around the world -
fingertip to fingertip in space
all connected by the love of poetry
and the poetry of love.
so instead of moping and chewing our pencils,
feeling pathetic and unread
we can dedicate all our poems to all those real people who - yes! -
actually read them
and say
It's you I wrote them for - and you - and you-
and now I know you're there
I'll write some better ones for you in time,
that what it's all about...
and if I'm silent for a time
working on something that's good enough for you,
remember -
love, love, love
poem by Michael Shepherd
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In Between
in between the monotonous pages
of this book of life
some dog ears are inserted
the red tassels protruding like a tongue
saying nothing
not even some slips of the memories
within are the serious
delicate matters such as incessant wars
of mankind and the impulses of greed
i scan the pages till the end
i have not seen such chapters as giving in
to humanity
that innate goodness, i hurry to find it
not even in the appendix
someone inserted in this book
a letter
it says, love has long been gone
and no one knows where it is going.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A heart-throb and the go-between
The old man dropped his precious letter
into the isolated letter box
where it stands in the gravel road.
The notorious postman who tampers letters
comes very seldom to collect.
He found only one letter in the box
but no addressee and stamps too.
He opened the letter and read loudly.
' I am an old godforsaken man
but still not senile; good for nothing my dear.
This could be a giveaway for you.
If you read this I am sure you may excuse me.
Do you know about spiritual love?
Sometimes this letter will annoy you my sweetheart!
Take it easy honey as I am a dreamer.
I am lonely and frustrated
and I need someone with a goodwill
who comes and stay with me forever.
I'll offer you my old hammock
and I know thousands of stories
which I can read for you on full moon days
until you sleep quietly my darling.
dedication to the letter box at ' home for the elders'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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Poetry Is All In One!
Passion for poetry is insatiable!
Poetry gives pleasure nothing can!
Poetry is many subjects under one roof!
Poetry never bores to write and read ever!
Poetry is a compression of many ideas in a nut shell!
Poetry displays power of pen to capture men ever!
Poetry captures as photo castles built in air!
Poetry is spontaneous over flow of ides!
Poetry flows free if extemporary!
Poetry is prolific words sure!
Poetry is a thing of joy!
Poetry is beauty!
Poetry is witty!
Poetry cheers!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Liberty
On my books and poetry,
On my desk and on the computer
On the sand and on the beach
I write your name
On all the pages I have read
On all the blank pages
Stone bloody shed or ash
I write your name
On my greedy, tender friends
On my comrades, beloved country,
On my clumsy hands
I write your name
On my health and wealth
On the risk which disappeared
On the hope without memory
I write your name
And by the power of one word
I begin a life again
I was born to know you
To name you.
Liberty
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Professional Poet
and of course it was wrong
to label him as that – in just that tone of voice;
a touch of envy there, no doubt
implying a comfortable life,
a smart careerist, older poets youthfully
cultivated, poems in the right magazines,
editors gently kept in touch with;
keeping on the right side of his peers,
'interesting' reviews of their poetry skilfully woven,
professional favours quietly exchanged;
academic posts gracefully filled, and
moved on from; leaving grateful ex-students
recommended for the vacancy;
and an acquired ability
to write just enough, but not less;
so it should be rather, a lifelong devotee of poetry,
and when he started to read to us I felt mean
for assuming him to be some artificial thing
a professional poet;
I wanted to inhabit his poetry, the
house of his poetry; but some doors
to rooms were open, some were shut;
would I give the time to find and love the key?
He read his own poems
as if they were step-children –
proud to show them off, and yet, not really his;
the audience, taken aback by this,
hesitated to applaud.
But when he read the poems of others,
he read them as though they were miracles
to stun and to admire, yet he was, we were, barely worthy of;
dropping as fine mercy, as the gentle dew of heaven; he read like
an amateur would read the great, in awe; as -
a lifelong devotee of poetry. He shone.
In each of us, a poet was born and lived.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Write Poetry
I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,
I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,
I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,
I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,
poem by Saranyan Bee
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Inspiration for Grand daughter Chitra
The agony and ecstasy
of love inspires poetry
Which otherwise would not exist.
I am quite sure it would be missed.
Though I can only speak for me
I find romantic poetry
can pass the time so pleasantly.
Arousing instant sympathy.
For those who love but love in vain.
Who choose to share with me their pain
and those who win their hearts desire.
Set forth their joy in words of fire.
I read as if I’m in a trance.
Vicariously enjoy romance.
experience at second hand.
Love stories I can understand.
Although they don’t apply to me
I read them sympathetically.
In love you either win or lose.
It seems to me you cannot choose.
The agony and ecstasy
of love inspires poetry.
It has been so through history
Will always be so probably.
2-Jan-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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