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They Never Know His Name

It is hard to write this
I am writing this with a challenge
That i have not forgotten
The father in me
The child that remains inside myself
Who for years have lived alone

They shall never know
His real name

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Authorship

You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Writing Is Like A Diet

It is not easy to write.
Even if one likes it...
Writing is like a challenge.
An obstacle to face.
And when confronted,
To make use of it...
A discipline applied,
Is what it takes!

It is not easy to write.
Even if one likes it.
Those who do may not sleep,
At night.
Or discover they have lost an appetite.

Writing is like a diet.
And accepting it becomes a way of life.
Those who ask how writing is done...
Usually have no idea,
Of what they must overcome.

Some believe writing is nothing but fun.
But those committed...
Know writing is more like a spouse,
That can be quiet as a mouse.
Then at other times a shouting occurs...
Heard from the inside,
With a wish to come out!

Writing is like a diet.
And accepting it becomes a way of life.

It is not easy to write.
Even if one likes it!
Writing is like a challenge.
An obstacle to face.
And when confronted,
To make use of it...
A discipline applied,
Is what it takes!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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To write is a challenge, But to understand the writer is a mystery

Right now I am writing history
Amongst a million other writers
But what makes me different
from that never ending million?

Every word has a meaning, has
it's background, I, on the hand don't.
Just a meaningless word, nothing more
But a word it is, nothing less

To write is a challenge
But to understand the writer is a mystery.
Right. Write only with the mind and heart.
So powerful, So strong, So moving.

Today, Tomorrow a never ending cycle.
Today becomes history when tomorrow becomes today.
So right now I am writing history
But tomorrow it becomes forgotten
It will not be forgotten if the writer has a mystery to solve, so to write is a challenge but to understand the writer is a mystery.

poem by Lady Simple
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And So I'm Writing...

I'm hard-pressed for time,
yet I do have the heart
And so I'm writing
Know not what to pen down,
have a paper to write on
And so I'm writing

May be I'll write about 'you and me'
Or may be of 'us and them'
Feel like playing with words
And so I'm writing

May be that starving beggar's hungry looks
Or that homeless Child's beckoning eyes
Are making me scribble these lines to you
And so I'm writing

May be you'll find my words vague
Or you might decipher a meaning
Intend to leave you in the oblivion
And so I'm writing

Whatever might be the impression I create
Wish to see its reflection on your soul
And leave an imprint on your mind
And so I'm writing

May be you and I've become immune
To the pathos of mankind
Or may be there's still
A dropp of humanity flowing deep within us
Wish to arouse 'The Human Being' in you
And so I'm writing...

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long

I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG

I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?

And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?

I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-

Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?

Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?

I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Family

There's a child inside
A man inside
A woman inside
A sage inside
A mother inside with breasts of love
A father inside with hands of care
A child inside beautifully caressed
A mother inside with the wing of dove
A father inside the flight to share
A child inside with parents blessed
A sage inside with a peaceful face
The peace to bestow in all its grace

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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That Child Hiding In One Of The Nooks Of The Busy Kitchen

there there
there is that child that hides in one of the nooks of the kitchen
badly beaten
and crying in silence

for years he is hiding there
and everyone is disregarding him
justifying
he is one of those pasts
and pasts
shall be forgotten

there there
there is that child that keeps on crying silently
and endlessly for years
my attention is
always caught
saying

i am you and you are in me
do not pretend that the years have grown some callous skin in your hands
that you are hard
and impenetrable

i am your father my child
and you cannot just treat me like a shrug on a shoulder
like dandruff on your hair
like some
old uncut fingernails

think some more
for solutions

and if you find it
this trembling room shall stop trembling
your nightmares
finally gone

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Write A Little

(Randy Owen/Don Cook/Ronnie Rogers)
Military mail call....
I lay out some paper, I take out my pen
Turn on my table-lamp and here I go again
It's time to write a letter, I'm in the mood tonight
Gotta find a way to tell you how I feel inside
So I write a little and I cry a little
It's so hard to find a way to say goodbye a little
But somewhere in the middle, my emotions interfere
So I write a little and cry a little tear
And I die a little, wishing you were here
God I miss you, can't be with you
I would kiss you oh so good
'Cause you're my only cure for lonely
I'd call if I could
So I write a little and I cry a little
It's so hard to find a way to say goodbye a little
But somewhere in the middle, my emotions interfere
So I write a little and cry a little tear
And I die a little, wishing you were here
Oh, I die a little wishing you were here
Wishing you were here
I'm writing and wishing you were here
I write a little and cry a little tear
I'm writing and wishing you were here

song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Strive Against The Silence Of The Night

I STRIVE AGAINST THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT

I strive against the silence of the night
Against my own inner emptiness
I wait to hear some song from inside myself -
Nothing is written.

I go back to where I am
And begin again.

There is always a poem if one is patient enough.

But what poem?
And for what special meaning of this night?

I write again and again
A poem which is about writing a poem
And when I come to end it
I question again and again
Whether it is real.

This night is already deep in darkness
And yet I have almost broken its silence

One more line
One more writing about writing a poem -

Perhaps Memory will come back to me
And I will write a more real poem
Than this strained effort now.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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At only 9 years old

At only 9 years old

At age you see your father as a hero
Reads you bedtimes stories and sings lullaby even in your dreams
Your night and shinning amour of a fortress in which you sleep
A friend when you have your mind to speak
But at nine years old, you learn life is cold
He is your pimp so as to feed his alcoholic need
When you are born your soul is of renaissance
But how abusive he is, it took no rocket science
A mother who was suppose to have a heart of paradise
And yet she stood aside as you where raped and vandalized
At only nine years old you tiny flesh ripped apart and sold
Filled with dirt and dressed with mold

By your own father you learnt how to hate a man
By your own mother you never really had a friend
As day in day out elderly man had a feast upon you breasts
With tears in your eyes you felt his thrust and heavy bosoms upon you chest
Only for a couple of rands, like rent to be met for his appetite
At only nine years you saw your hole life deteriorate
The school you learnt was that of life
Education syllabus was how to survive
They sat in the living like nothing had happened
And when one was done another would approach like a pattern in segment
Did they not father their own children?
Or was the greed of lust more devilish then satan

That these molesters and rappers confined to without remorse
And a mother and father who perceived you as their biggest resource
At age nine the real reason you lived was because you where afraid to die
But the real you was dead keeping you alive
I cry the tears you cry even if I not know you
Having your own father rape you because your mother allows him to
She says that’s the way of learning life
Maybe in her death she will realize you are just a child
Locked in your room butler windows for now escape
And yet everyday you prayed and still had faith
At age nine you never had a doll to play
Reality had forced you to a sex slave
How can a father upon his own child prey?
How can a father upon his own child prey?
How can a father upon his own child prey?

poem by Kgagamatso Chimelwane
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Dear Friend

i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,

i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests

and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence

as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)

there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,

please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:

write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There Are Those Who Wait Years To Write A Poem

THERE ARE THOSE WHO WAIT YEARS TO WRITE A POEM

There are those who wait years to write a poem
The fruit slowly ripens inside and then as with Rilke
It suddenly falls -

There are those who write a few lines
And come back time after time
And find the poem after many efforts-

There are those who cannot wait to write a poem
And once conscious of it must write it down as fast as possible
Before it is lost-

And there are those who only in the present writing
Find the poem -

The page suffers many methods and modes

But what truly makes a poem worthy
Is another question.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Letter From A Writer Searching For Her Soul And Wanting To Feel Not With Her Hands

Hello (to whom it may concern) ,

It's been awhile since we exchanged messages. Sorry, I'm not much of an |'onliner' these days. I resigned from my job. I'm, in the process of soul searching. Funny but I don't really know why I'm looking for a soul, my soul, when I cannot even see it. I'm on an unplanned vacation in some quaint town some miles outside the city while writing this email.

I guess I never had the chance to tell you how you took the glint from my eye. To write from the soul and not for the awards. I have overlook that writing is an Art. Thus it is priceless. A gold medal does not define you as an artist. Write until it ceases to become a craft.But more than just stringing words after words, conscious of your weary grammar, punctuations, right words, and subject matter. To write is to turn your heart inside out.

Beyond 'writing' and its technical definitions, it is actually a journey - a self surrender - towards the oblivion you are willing to traverse with your pen. And you find yourself in another state.

To write is to 'see' but not with your eyes. To 'feel' but not with your hands. And at the end of it all, you know that it's there. Writing takes over you. Thus, I often wonder: am i writing with the pen? Or is it the pen using me to write? But I know somewhere deep inside, there is a thing mightier than the pen that prompts me to write. And that is the soul.

I want to find my center. My creative process in writing. Ironic, but to find it, I must loose myself.

hahahahaha. whew. I know i sound stupid. Sorry. Thanks for bearing with me. Hope it's not too late to greet you a Happy New Year! ! ! ! =)

Always,
(name witheld, but this could be you)

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thank You For Writing A Poem For Me

i am your fan
many years and more years to come
i shall remain
your avid fan

thank you for writing me a poem
about love
and sleepless nights
thank you for writing about the ward
the man bound in
straitjacket
that glass of water that has to be taken everyday
to slide the pills smoothly
in your throat
thank you for writing about the children
who shall still find their mothers
their homes
thank you for bearing with us all these years
when we ourselves
have nothing to write anymore
thank you for being there
always and forever.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Father I Still Love You

I tried so hard to love you
But you never really cared
I tried so hard to trust you
But you were never really there

I wanted you to love me
But your heart had grown so cold
I wanted you to play with me
But money was your only goal

And now that I've grown older
And I look back on the years
I remember all the anger
The hurt the pain the tears

Father I forgive you
For all those wasted years
And I try not to remember
All the hurt the pain the tears

But father just please tell me
Did you ever love me once
Or was I just like leftovers
That you throw out after lunch

Father I still love you
And I'll never let that die
But father just please look at me
Say you love me to my eye

Father I must be honest
When you left I found another
My Father up in Heaven
And Jesus my loving Brother

They were the ones who loved me
When you had never cared
They were the ones who saved me
From a life of hate and despair

Father I still love you
And that will always stay true
But father will you love me
Because your child still needs you.

poem by Daniel Sweetnam
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Real Man

When I was a child
I thought as a child
I spoke as a child
I didnt know better
But now Im a man
I look like a man
Im old as a man
And I should know better
Got my head in the sky
And my mind knows what it wants
But my body just drags me down
And my world is something you cant see
But its still very real to me
You can find it in the hole where I keep my soul
There it is - way down inside me
Theres a real man
Forget about my body and be a real man
I see with my heart
I hear with my heart
I feel with my heart
Sometimes it works better
And some so-called friends put me down
And they pity me for trying
Bad emotions push me around
But the vision shines on and on
It will shine when we all are gone
And Id like to add a little sparkle while Im here
Light it up - way down inside me
Theres a real man
Forget about bad feelings and be a real man
Some mens world is only hate and money
Afraid of everything and they laugh at nothing
And they only live to criticize
You can laugh at me now [ha ha ha]
But the time comes to everybody
When you must decide
When that day finally comes along
You might wish youd been a little more strong
Then youll wake up in the morning cryin
Oh my god
There it is - way down inside me
Its a real man
You got to grow up sometime
Be a real man
Suffer them slings and arrows
Be a real man
Now be a real man
Dont sell yourself for nothing
Be a real man
Dont take no crap from no one
Be a real man
Get your trip together
Be a real man

song performed by by Todd Rundgren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is Me

He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.

He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.

He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.

He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.

He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.

Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.

19 April 2008

poem by David Harris
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The Wicked Postman

Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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My Heart Is With All Those Who Did Not Make It

MY HEART IS WITH ALL THOSE WHO DID NOT MAKE IT

My heart is with all those who did not make it-
Who never got there
Who aspired and tried
And worked hard
And did not make it.

I know -
For forty years
I have been one of us.

Out there alone- trying
Writing and writing
Getting nowhere.

Let us in the very act of the Writing
Be for once-
Our own critics and judges
And say,

“We have done something
We are real now
Nameless or not
Our poems are here.”

-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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That first writing session, what Dan Hill calls a creative blind date, is always a real challenge, and you bring that back to your partner when you return to writing with them.

quote by Cynthia Weil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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