The Poetry In The Heart Of Hazel
far in the hills of cancainap
she feels poetry like the winds of the mountain
like the forest trees
and she writes them line to line
each syllable keeps on dripping
like the raindrops from the
roof to her footsteps
i have read what she sends me
day by day through the internet
i could have told her that the metaphors
are still looking for her because she did not put them
i didn't. Finally i did not tell her. In her lines i have seen
how her heart is burning like the wildfires in the forest
and no kind of criticism has the right to put it off.
i know, perhaps after four summers, she and her metaphors
soon shall meet. And there will be a big feast.
A truce, perhaps between feeling and discipline.
Art is always a patient listener
and in such slow
touches and brushes it paints more beautifully
than the warm hands of reality.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Bussokusekiku Japanese form
Bussokusekiku
6 lines
5 syllable, line one
7 syllables line two
5 syllables line three
7 syllables in the last three lines
Orientally
inspired I write poetry.
Exercise my brain
Look at things differently
If I can do it so can you
White chrysanthemum.
Signifying purity
One single blossom.
Typically Japanese
in its simplicity
Needs no explanation.
Savage warrior
who composes poetry.
Shows his softer side.
He must be a samurai.
A well trained brave fighting man
Writes beautifully of love.
28/10/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Moderns
To many reading modern poetry more interesting the meaning in the metaphors they seek to find
They feel it makes their brains work that much harder that it is good exercise for the mind
Rhyme for their great brains seems that bit too simple it does not test their thinking power at all
'Tis not a poem to them if it seems simple and the meaning in it easy to recall,
Yes rhyme for them it does seem that bit simple and deciphering it to them is not a test
The hidden meaning in the metaphors is something that does seem to try them best
Rhyme poetry to them is too simple and far too easy for to understand
It has to be blank verse with dozens of metaphors for their interest for to command
They look on rhyme and bush poets as inferior their preference in poets and poetry they make known
On literature they air their opinions like it is said to each their own
Their poetry evenings do seem quite exclusive rhyme poets to read they never do invite
Their unmusical lines that are laced with metaphors to each other they do recite
They do not like rhyme or they do not like bush poetry to them it is of another time
And in their poetry evenings there is no place for the men and the women of rhyme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I sleep Poetry
Last night I wrestled with poetry
As if a lion wrestling with its prey
I sleep poetry
I dream poetry
I walk poetry on thin line ropes
binding together steeply slopes
I make love to poetry like a new catch
On heat waiting to be let loose from its latch
So out of ten if I am bad, take a pen
And give me a score of five or a four
I constantly make love to poetry
With dramatic grammatical metaphors
The root of my poetic hunger
Is I starve myself a bit longer
In sleep I twiddle my poetic lines
Sharpen them to be as fine as a riddle
I sleep poetry
I drink poetry
Not just to quench my thirst
But to differentiate amongst
Good, Better and Best
There shall come the day
I have to say
When I will definitely call it a truce
When I have run out of poetic juice
2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Poem about Poetry - I know how God writes his poem
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the delicate, artistic and
defining lines of every flower
petals, pistil, stamen, pollens,
fragrant and scents that fill the air
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the ray of the sun
that reveals their metaphors
and rhymes in the rain
an arc over the clear blue sky
i know how god writes his poem
it is in your eyes, two lakes of honey
that sail me into your warm saccharine world
dilating and constricting to let them
speak more volume to my my lovelorn heart
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the dazzling lines of the sea
that shows the sky how many ways
it can define and redefine itself
it is in the breeze that pulls off a dancer
twirling towards me in every direction
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Love & Maple Syrup
Love and maple syrup goes together
Like the sticky winds of winter when they meet
When lonely lovers come to rest
Beneath the trees they do their best
But still they cant be free
Looking for the world to be
Anything but what they see
Longing to be understood
By the heart that shapes the wood
If you go into the forest, gaze up through the leaves
And see the sky thats almost wild
You must learn to understand
What makes the forest greet the man
Like a mothers only child
In the north when when winters claw
Relaxes now to keep the laws of nature in control
People come and stand in line
To rob the forest of her wine
But they dont feel the cold
Looking for the world to be
Anything but what they see
Longing to be understood
By the heart that shapes the wood
Love and maple syrup goes together
Like the sticky winds of winter when they meet
When lonely lovers come to rest
Beneath the trees they do their best
But still they cant be free
Love and maple syrup shine like
Embers warm, like thoughts divine
They tell us it is spring
Love and maple syrup stir
The thoughts of people into words
Of songs that they can sing
Looking for the world to be
Anything but what they see
Longing to be understood
By the heart that shapes the wood
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Caterpillars
the caterpillars all climb
line per line to claim
the topmost leaf
of the tree
and when they arrive there
they find out
that there is nothing after all
to eat and be merry
like a race for votes in poetry
there is nothing there
just speak your mind
and think of all the metaphors
that jibe with your sadness
or your joys
and your happiness and bliss
if you have them
show them
tell them that all your syllables
know how to dance
and that all your words know how
to sing
no matter where you are
whatever the limitations be
show the color of your lines
let them smell the scent of your stanzas
you may even tell a story
they too need something to appease them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I write these lines upon a sheet of paper
I write these lines upon a sheet of paper
That someone made from what was once a forest
Without much thought (as I suspect) for nature:
Does this not fill my heart with guilty sorrow?
Or is its lifeblood more akin to water
That runs in rivers under cloud and sunshine?
Why am I so affected by the sunshine?
All that I do - whether I read the paper,
Or, being thirsty, drink a glass of water,
Or walk amid the tall trees of the forest,
If there's no sun, my mind is fill'd with sorrow,
And if it shines, gladness is in my nature.
But gladness is not always in the nature
Of all terrestrial things, whether the sunshine
Dispels from my own mind some part of sorrow
For many men and creatures, as the paper
I read informs me, live within a forest
Of woe, and some have not a dropp of water.
One dropp of that mysterious liquid, water,
Would save a living animal, by nature,
Whether it dwelt in pasture or in forest,
However little it received of sunshine,
It cannot be exprest by lines on paper
How marv'llously that liquid quenches sorrow.
How much may we, the lucky living, sorrow,
For those who have been drown'd by cruel water,
The greater part of whom are not on paper
Recorded: but the cruelty of Nature
Alone knows. May their souls in heavenly sunshine
Be rested, and walk peaceful through that forest.
I think that life itself is like the forest,
A dark one, where one knows not whether sorrow
Will come, or else a glade o'erspread by sunshine,
That suddenly becomes a fall of water
That patters down in raindrops, in its nature.
Will those trees bloom or turn to crumpled paper?
I'll use no further paper from the forest:
My nature does not wish for you to sorrow,
But sit by flowing water in the sunshine.
poem by David Mitchell
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In Fifteen Lines
1.when you write
2.a poem
3.in fifteen lines
4.i always look
5.forward
6.to the fifteenth line
7.the best line
8.lies there
9.and it will just be the line
10.i read
11.the last line
12.lasts
13.it is deigned
14.with dignity
15. condescendingly, a respect to the brevity of poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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366.in Fifteen Lines
1.when you write
2.a poem
3.in fifteen lines
4.i always look
5.forward
6.to the fifteenth line
7.the best line
8.lies there
9.and it will just be the line
10.i read
11.the last line
12.lasts
13.it is deigned
14.with dignity
15. condescendingly, a respect to the brevity of poetry
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poet And The Lonely Lady
one summer a poet writes about
true love
and happiness
and this lonely lady
chances upon the lines of this poet
and she has tasted the sweetness
of happiness that love can bring
she loves every word in the poem
feels the ecstasy of every line
and every night
she says she cannot sleep
thinking, feeling,
wanting to be lost and be held in
his arms
she decides to love
the poet
ultimately
she travels to the place stated in his address
hoping to see him
so she will finally know
his love that touches her
in the bottom
of her heart
only to find out
it is sad
that the address does not exist
and the poet does not live there
and does not even
exist
perhaps only in the imagination
of those who want to love
and be loved
she is so sad she jumps into
a conclusion that love is a
lie
that the poet is a
liar
since then, she stops reading the poems
of that poet
(or any other poet)
who never dies
because he for once never ever lived
in the first place
except the poem
perhaps
which to date still convinces lonely ladies to live and believe
to love and be loved
that which defines
what love is
where love is found
and find it somehow in the arms of one
who is real, like it is alive, like it is true
to the one beside her
who touches her
with his
warm hands
who melts
her in his eyes
because
even unwritten by any poet
this love is still so beautiful....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sullen
Sullen sadness
of virginal solitude
Cramped
Locked away
Inside my own
boiling cauldron
of depressed bliss
I Sit there
and Stare
I Sit there
and Wither
Where is the heart
of solution
...Contemplate...
While you read this
Endlessly aching
My world is unconsoled
I'm beginning to think
that sooner or later
the ink on this paper
Will become no more
than a vapor
absorbed
by a line
in a slow
decline
Because writing
with finger tips
is a painful art
But bloods
better to stain
Pen Speak
keep it up
because they dont
seem to know
blood flow
I'm the spirit
poetry blew
her breath in
Lonely as it may seem
words are all I have
No riddles
No metaphors
Just ME
Passing minutes
as I bleed out poetry
By Samantha Campbell
poem by Samantha Campbell
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Francis Duggan- Poet Extreme (dedication)
Francis Duggan- so much to say
the best on the internet in every way
the poems that you read put you on a quest
and when you think that this one is the best
then you start to read the rest.
he can take you to oceans, and rivers far away
but in your house- 'you will not stay'.
he will take you to the tops of the mountains
and down into the valleys
and even introduce you to the town girl sally.
he knows so many people by first name
to remember them all
to him is a game.
he can tell you about the drunks in the streets
and everyone else you care to meet.
it is not that he is a busybody
who wants to know your life.
(but i think he's been there once or twice) ha-ha
but! he is easy to talk to everyone knows
and of his knowledge they wish to expose.
but! i think he is known best on the internet
for all the poetry he has put on line (close to 8000)
for his poetry is one of a kind.
so Francis Duggan, i return the praise
for the journeys you take me is just a phase.
a phase that i don't care to end
for in you i found a friend.
GOD BLESS
poem by Louis Rams
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The Feeling Of Poetry Is Lost
THE FEELING OF POETRY IS LOST
The feeling of poetry is lost -
Lines are written,
But they are without poetic feeling.
Dutiful lines which do not inspire.
I try
Line by line
To restore my soul.
I do not feel I am doing this.
Can a poem be written without poetic feeling inside?
Is what I am doing now
A poem?
Or is it simply one more small delusion
Through which a life is gotten through?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Looking and going back...
there were layers of years.
you were on one of those layers. You are blue,
a line of blueness, in between those other colors,
You are always the silent kind of blue.
They skip you and find you one of those insignificant lines.
The years pad each other like the barks of a tree.
You are one of the bold strokes now. Time does it.
They you go back to that old layer. You were blue.
You make some squeezes, and etchings on those other lines.
They squeak like rats.
You tell them that once you were there and you were the blue line.
They fully remember. But there is no difference really.
Your thinking is misplaced. You think you are different now.
No, they didn't. You finally regret going back.
You retreat once again inside the room sit on the chair.
You are a blue line. You corrugate a little bit like a magnetic ecg line.
But it will not last. You are a straight line now.
You watch TV till midnight. There is nothing significant.
You are still a blue and straight line. That you have to accept as a fact.
You turn off the TV. A nice sleep is always a better alternative.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Let's Leave The 'Poems' Without Metaphors
LET’S LEAVE THE ‘POEMS’ WITHOUT METAPHORS
Let’s leave the ‘poems’ without metaphors
Bare and stark and original
Quiet and sleeping and still
The soothing poems the calming poems
The poems that even in the middle of the night
Let us sleep.
Let’s leave the poems without metaphors
And go back to the simple words
And let them say all they can by themselves
Until they become metaphors too.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Don't Know Why I Should Try To Write A Poem Now
I don't know why
I should try to write
A poem now-
There will be other times
When the Metaphors
I ordinarily do not have
Flow not easily in me
Like water lava
Like blood- thinned by aspirin-
All I have to do is
Keep reading enough poetry of others
And exotic metaphors
Will come to me
As if I were another person's voice
And nothing in myself
Real as my own.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Pacific Trash Vortex (Triple Tetractys)
The rules for writing a tetractys are as follows:
Line 1 is one syllable syllable
Segment of speech usually consisting of a vowel with or without accompanying
consonant sounds (e.g., a, I, out, too, cap, snap, check) . A syllabic consonant,
like the final n sound in button and widen, also constitutes a syllable.
line 2 is two syllables; line 3 is three syllables; line 4 is four syllables;
and line 5, is ten syllables.
The fourth and fifth lines may rhyme or rime, the most prominent of the
literary artifices used in versification. Although it was used in ancient East
Asian poetry, rhyme was practically unknown to the ancient Greeks and Romans.
But this is not mandatory.
Waste
Sea green
Wavering
In slimy traps
In woozy circles
Gushing at the deep water horizon
Melody still rooting in bluesy rock
Gloppy red icing
Crooked letters
Violet
Colored
Dream
Fish
Yellow
Flimsy boats
Lanky white man
Muzzy from the work
Cloudy indigo sky hanging round all.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Poem Is A Vent
now you must
learn what poetry is
alright, you must
agree that it gives
sometimes a sense
of pleasure
where emotions begin
to play in the dark
in the park
it becomes the hallmark
of your freedom
you must have noticed
how the words chosen
are tilted in your favor
because now you are
the master of this
game of truth
and purity
you must know by now
that poetry somehow
is a escape
there are exits in
its structure where
you design your
freedom
your tunnel from that
prison wall of
closed structures
without windows without
light
this is the sense of
selfishness away
from the crowd
away from those
that humiliate you
from those that
knows nothing of you
except your madness
your introversion into the
silent (yet colorful world)
of metaphors
the frogs there sing
the rain does not stop
falling
the rainbows come
bridging that gap
between your
illusion and your
reality
you must know
by now
what all these means
in the most simple term
this is your
kit for survival
a box of words
the most private room
of your
sexy metaphors
your women and your
dreams
your treasures and
your island
your house without
a roof
because all night long
you always want
to see the stars
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Unraveling My Poem Unraveling My Life
you think you know me
every inch every color
since you have read
every poem i have written
you equate what i am
with what i have written
and your equation goes
through and through the lines
of logic like a telephone
pole connecting two islands
every sigh is learned
from every syllable of my lines
every yawn is discerned
from every sleepy letter that you
meet and see
are there no strangers there
that you meet? did you not
care to ask for his name?
are there no oceans there?
if there are, there must
be some oceanfloors
some sinks sinking
some whales occupying
so much space for your
kind understanding and
you may find yourself
hard of breathing, like a
diver whose oxygen tank
is leaking. You don't die
with me. You don't like my
sickness. You don't like to
get this infection beyond
my own solitude.
you unravel a poem you
discover that i have become
more covered. A voice tells
me, i am not my poems, i am
more than them. I am not just
a syllable, a word, a line.
I am more than what you have
tried to swallow inside your mouth.
i am blood and i am flowing.
you dip your finger once and
taste a dropp of my blood and
then in a second, i am no longer
there. I am a flowing blood and
what you have are stains, yes,
only stains turning into scars.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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