Szynborska
'Somewhere out there the world must have an end.'
and then my wife throws out the last porcelain
out of the window
and then i stop writing an unfinished poem
because the gas stove is not
giving its flame
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Broken heart
Poets have broken hearts
My wife Tapaswini alleged
And without broken hearts
No one would be a poet
My wife Tapaswini clarified.
The poet wonders in his world
The poet work wonders through
His words and sentences
And my wife Tapaswini left
No space for my replied.
My wife Tapaswini left the place
Where I was and my wife Tapaswini
Could not reach me where I am
And the sparrow the crow all
Arranged their feast with joy
Where I am writing poem.
Where I was writing I was there
Where I am writing I am there
My wife Tapaswini always with me
I was not with my wife Tapaswini
While writing and the allegation
Of my wife Tapaswini I certified
And I attested One can take it granted.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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0377 Should be, but
I should be writing a poem
about those small wisps of white cloud
moving unusually fast across a blue blue sky
on their way to somewhere else
as if they're late for an appointment.
I should be writing a poem
about the way the breeze is so gentle
that it seems to have a secret plan with the sun
and the new green leaves
to do something quite extraordinary.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the trailing geranium leaves
are giving out a scent more white than green
more heavenly than any thought.
I should be writing a poem
about the way that the purple and blue and yellow and white flowers
seem to say nothing but beauty.
I should be writing a poem
but all I can do is gaze in amazement
at what I've seen before
and never seen before.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Too, Like An Unfinished Poem
an unfinished poem sounds like
an incomplete sentence
sometimes just a predicate without a subject
like love unrequited
a verb without a noun
an adjective so misplaced that
it calls for an adverb
it is more like a mouth
that opens but says only some syllables
though you as the reader
understands what the poet
wants to stress and mean and accentuate
for some parts of the poem are meant
not to be finished sometimes
in fact, they are meant to be concealed
and well covered like a bikini
to your.........or the prohibited love
you still keep in your........
or the memories that hurt you and are meant
to be unsaid.......you still want her not to
know..........
i, too, like an unfinished poem
like the sketch of your secret love many, many years ago,
once when you were young
the face is unfinished, you have not drawn the eyes
of that love so profuse that no canvass could ever contain
you still like this love unfinished, who knows
the ripe time comes and both of you
will finish
the unfinished love poem soon......
or some poems cannot ever be finished
because the words to complete them still
do not exist
or they are simply missing,
too lost like you,
they are not there yet to a feeling so new
so fragile and so indescribable.....
so rare........
and i, really, like it that way the poem
unfinishes itself
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Not The Poem Then
NOT THE POEM THEN
Not the poem then
Although it can be the poem
Writing
Simply writing
This is the duty and the meaning
And the release from meaninglessness
And the ‘enabling me to go on’
The poem is only one form of it
It is the writing which matters
My life has been this
This writing
Even if it is a poor poem now
As I write these words
I live.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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How to write a Poem?
Must I know what I write down
Meaningless or meaning found
Making poem, don’t know how
Must I know what I write down
Does a poem need to breathe
To plan a knit into a weave
Or can it start not to conceive
A poemed haze is free to breathe
Writing breath from writing down
The poem tilts as I think now
Bias nature changing how
The poem writes, still writing down
No thought, no poem, here with me
Should I stop or let it be
Bleeding brain, becoming free
Rereading, learning, me for me
poem by Paul Moosberg
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The Poem I Did Not Write Today
THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY
The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.
The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.
It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come
It is the poem which believes too that poetry will help save the world.
It is the good poem
The happy poem
The poem I did not write today
Is the poem my life is writing now and always
And with you it says
‘What a miracle it is that we are here
reading and writing
and loving life as we do’.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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The Poem I Am Writing/ Goes With Me Everywhere
THE POEM I AM WRITING/ GOES WITH ME EVERYWHERE
The poem I am writing
Goes with me everywhere
It is my life-
I cannot be without it-
I walk
And I feel
The poem comes to me
As the world does-
Outside and in-
Wherever I am
The poem is with me
And I am alive with it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When I Write About Giving Up Writing
WHEN I WRITE ABOUT GIVING UP WRITING
When I write about giving up writing,
I am not giving it up
I am instead trying to find another justification for continuing-
I am not giving up then-
If the whole effort is futile
If in the end it will mean nothing
If I despair of it even as I continue it
Still
I will not give up.
I cannot give up.
What else do I have, after all, except the writing?
After all these years of giving my life to it
What other work could ever mean so much?
Even if I fail in it
It is who I am
And what I can do.
I am writing again now
What else can I do?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I'm Not Writing A Poem Today
I'm not writing a poem today, don't feel like writing,
Instead I'll watch soaps today, while nail-biting.
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to sleep soon,
Instead I'll later wake up and look at the white moon,
I'm not writing a poem today, I'm just going to be sad,
Instead I'm going to search for something else that makes me glad.
So peace be unto anyone that reads the letter here,
For I am not writing a poem today, just going to get a beer.
poem by Chad Fisher
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I have wisdom
I have wisdom
I am writing poem.
I am not a child of market
I am not calling you to gossip
I am not writing a poem
To divert your attention
From main point of discussion.
I am writing poem for you
And you are reading my poem
With full seriousness.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Small Time
small time, you call it small time
writing
is small time, there is no money
in writing, like a
politician, look at him, he does not
write, someone writes for him
and he gets the prize
the money
the pot
the jackpot
and look at you
you keep on writing
and writing
and writing
oh la la
poems, fit for a woman
her limited mind
her gullibility
her passion for words and words and words
her imagination
and look at you
poor man, poor, poor, poor
what you give
to this world, what are you giving to this world
it is not even a flower
just a poem for her, and you claim that you are winning her heart?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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They Say It Is My Brain That Is Writing This Poem
THEY SAY IT IS MY BRAIN THAT IS WRITING THIS POEM
They say it is my brain that it is writing this poem-
They can see areas of it shutting down
And others lighting up more intensely,
As the words come down-
But I know it is me who is writing this poem
And my brain is only ‘part' of who I am
Whatever that means.
I am writing this poem
And you are reading it
And we are human beings
Aren't we?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Everything I’ll Ever Need
For My Wife
I’m writing this poem to tell you
Just how much you mean to me
I’m writing to say I love you
Sentimental as that may be
Your more precious than any gift
That I will ever receive
Your my morning, my night
And the air that I breathe
You’re the mother of our children
A friend when I’m lonely
Your strong when I am weak
Your everything I’ll ever need
You’re the ray of sunshine
When I wake each day
With fingers gently on my brow
You take all my troubles away
You’re my friend, my companion
But most all your my wife
You are what I live for
Each and everyday of my life
Your everything good in my world
And much, much more
There are no words to say how much
Your just everything I’ll ever need
29 Feb 1996
poem by David Harris
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438
To Choose Between A
Hot Breakfast Ready On The Table
And Finishing Another Poem
I Choose The Breakfast
Together With My Wife
This Poem Can Be Suspended
In Time
And Become Another Unfinished
Act Of Creation
By A Man Wanting To Fill This
World With Poems
After A While
When I Have My Fill And When
I Make Some Nice Conversations With My Wife
And My Dog Beside The Table
Looking At Me
For A Piece Of Fried Pork
When The Sipping Of Coffee Is Over
When I Finally Wipe My
Chin With The Sky Blue Napkin
When I Consider
Eating As Finally Over
As Promised
I Will Come Back Again
And Finish This Poem
And There Is Something
Nice In This
Act Of Creation
You Feel It
It Is Warm Like The Hand Of
A Beautiful Woman
It Is As Hot As Ever
Like This Wanton Desire
Lovely,
As Lovely As You Love Each Letter
Of The Word
Of Your Poetry
I Am Feeling It In The Bone
Of My Soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Breakfast Is Ready
(7: 45 in the morning)
to choose between a
hot breakfast ready on the table
and finishing another poem
i choose the breakfast
together with my wife
this poem can be suspended
in time
and become another unfinished
act of creation
by a man wanting to fill this
world with poems
after a while
when i have my fill and when
i make some nice conversations with my wife
and my dog beside the table
looking at me
for a piece of fried pork
when the sipping of coffee is over
when i finally wipe my
chin with the sky blue napkin
when i consider
eating as finally over
as promised
i will come back again
and finish this poem
and there is something
nice in this
act of creation
you feel it
it is warm like the hand of
a beautiful woman
it is as hot as ever
like this wanton desire
lovely,
as lovely as you love each letter
of the word
of your poetry
i am feeling it in the bone
of my soul
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Giving Up All Attachment To Love
'Giving up all attachment to love.'
That doesn't make sense.
'Why...
You don't like it? '
It's a bit absurd to me.
When love makes the world go round.
'What are you talking about? '
You just said...
Giving up all attachment to love.
'Oh...
That has nothing to do with you.
I was just thinking of a title for a poem I am writing.'
I thought you and I were having a conversation?
'We are.
I'm just waiting for you to say something interesting.
And when you do...
I will participate.'
Why do I keep believing,
To me you will ever be a friend?
'I love it.
Thank you.
Listen to this...
Giving up all attachment to love.
Why do I keep believing,
To me you will ever be a friend...
Go on.'
I don't even know why I am here.
You are sick.
You know that?
'Where are you getting this from?
I love it.
Listen...
Giving up all attachment to love.
Why do I keep believing,
To me you will ever be a friend...
You are sick.
You know that? '
You really are.
'Stop it.
Is this your own stuff?
You should be a writer.
I am stealing this.
I don't care what you say.
It is magnificent.'
I'm leaving.
'Why? '
We were suppose to go out to dinner.
'Why didn't you remind me?
You think I'm suppose to remember everything? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Only Poem Is The Poem/ At The Moment Of Its Writing
THE ONLY POEM IS THE POEM
The only poem is the poem
At the moment of its writing
The poem being lived now
The poem I am trying to make
The poem of these lines.
The only poem now is this one-
And this poem is so small and so self- reflexive
That it is not much of a poem at all.
The only poem is not much of a poem at all
This one
And me now? .
But what about everything else I have not done?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem After Poem After Poem
POEM AFTER POEM AFTER POEM
POEM AFTER POEM AFTER POEM
Poem after poem after poem
But a poem is not the way out.
Money is depleting
Soon I’ll be without.
How will I manage to live then
What will become of us all?
To write a poem is to do nothing
When the writing is on the wall.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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