En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Unable To Link...

your inability to link
even to the simplest vowel
have given birth
to more consonants
and being so
the world cannot anymore speak
and now no one hears
what ought to be said...

it is always a series of departures
a train not stopping
and without breaks it falls on a deep ravine
without the vowels
you shout for help and now it comes back to you
the misfortunes that you are giving
the consonants bury you
soundlessly.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Out of the simple consonants of the alphabet and our eleven vowels and diphthongs all possible syllables of a certain sort were constructed, a vowel sound being placed between two consonants.

quote by Hermann Ebbinghaus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Danish Language

With vowels and consonants
like English or Cebuano
but with ø, å and æ,
strange vowels to read
What is seen or read
is not the same as heard or said.

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Brute animals have the vowel sounds; man only can utter consonants.

quote by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alphabet Wars

many letters escape
many are found
may there be harmony

in the alphabet
oh no XYZ are protesting
being always listed last

yes Deva letter Vowels
keep stealing spotlight
Consonants are angry

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Cosmopolitan Greetings

Stand up against governments, against God.
Stay irresponsible.
Say only what we know & imagine.
Absolutes are Coercion.
Change is absolute.
Ordinary mind includes eternal perceptions.
Observe what’s vivid.
Notice what you notice.
Catch yourself thinking.
Vividness is self-selecting.
If we don’t show anyone, we’re free to write anything.
Remember the future.
Freedom costs little in the U.S.
Asvise only myself.
Don’t drink yourself to death.
Two molecules clanking us against each other require an observer to become
scientific data.
The measuring instrument determines the appearance of the phenomenal
world (after Einstein).
The universe is subjective..
Walt Whitman celebrated Person.
We are observer, measuring instrument, eye, subject, Person.
Universe is Person.
Inside skull is vast as outside skull.
What’s in between thoughts?
Mind is outer space.
What do we say to ourselves in bed at night, making no sound?
“First thought, best thought.”
Mind is shapely, Art is shapely.
Maximum information, minimum number of syllables.
Syntax condensed, sound is solid.
Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best.
Move with rhythm, roll with vowels.
Consonants around vowels make sense.
Savour vowels, appreciate consonants.
Subject is known by what she sees.
Others can measure their vision by what we see.
Candour ends paranoia.

poem by Allen Ginsberg
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Silence is the axe

You are the vowels and I, consonants;
When was the word formed?
It must have, perhaps, in our first meet.
You are cotton and I, fire,
The gap between us hare-line,
Enough to prevent from sparking.
I do not want to be with you but in you;
I do not want you to be in me but with me.
You do not know what I feel of you
Nor have I courage to reveal it either.
Silence is the axe, the word was split.
11.11.2006

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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And So I Write This Poem...

because i cannot tell you
exactly the facts,
all the details that may
hurt you
and me at the end
of this
pathway where pebbles
have sharp edges
and mud is sticky and
foul
rotten leaves abound
and worms
are busy eating what
leaf is left,

because i do not want
to hurt you
neither does i want to
suffer
with self-inflicted
injuries

and so i am back
with these lines there is
no way that
you can sense that
there is something blunt
in the vowels
something unspeakable
in my consonants,
as expected,
life in dots and dashes
some blanks
too.....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To A Fellow...

i am reading every writing on the wall
the letters are so cold, like the arms of a dead man
defeated,
nothing interests me really, except myself, after having gone into same wars with you,
the self above self, that seems to be the golden rule now for survival
the mind must circumnavigate its own world,
convoluted upon its intestines
its own trails
it is you that i am worried about, the moron, the destitute,
the loquacious duck on the pond,
there is no map, and so you have no direction at all,
circular in motion, arriving at
no train station
i give you time, a cup of hours, we drink it,
i watch every syllable that your mouth is mumbling
because i am worried about what the child in you is saying
i hear every vowel there and pay attention to the power of
your consonants,
that which you cannot say, or that which cannot be ever said
fool, God's fool,
we are, and you the moron that mumbles what you cannot really understand
is king,
the wise man, that baby crawling under the bed
in the middle of the bridge as we watch
the tilt
if you fall, we all die.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Like To Think That All These Are But A Game Of Words

that is the impression from the beginning
when i started to scribble
word, and more words, i assured her that they do not
mean anything at all just
words, and words and more words

that even a sunflower wilting and spreading all the seed on her feet
are nothing too but words and more words
nothing to grow nothing to expect like a sprouting something

thus my loneliness, i again assure here, is nothing but a word
my way of taking solitude on the other side to save myself
is another word, and she of course, did not believe me saying

there is more to these words, there is fire in them and i see you burning
there is the sun inside them and the letters glow and the

there is smoke rising from the heads of vowels
from the nonspeaking consonants

i keep hiding the flowers
i bury those that are alive in the silence of my pretensions

until one day she grips me like she is a knife wanting to stab me
and then she stabbed me right in my throat and there i bleed

words, words, and more words coming from the slit
bloody words, and she was convinced, until death, ... and then i vanish.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Anne Pennington

Until her last breath she enlarges
Her Oxford house
Built in Slavonic
Vowels and consonants

She polishes the corner-stones
Until their Anglo-Saxon shine
Begins to sing

Her death is like a short breath-stop
Under the distant limetrees of her friends

Trans. by Peter Jay, Anthony Rudolf, and Daniel Weissbort

Anonymous submission.

poem by Vasko Popa
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For You..

Courage and integrity are wondrous things to see
In your eyes I see them both looking back at me
Courage and integrity before were simply words
Vowels and consonants, sounds that I have heard,
Visions from old battlefields, heroes standing tall,
Yet now I see them in your eyes in writing very small.
Courage and integrity at last I understand
The beauty of the meaning behind the open hand.
Courage and integrity are wondrous things to see
One day my love I hope you see them looking back at thee.

Craig Norris.

poem by Craig Norris
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Strip Teaser

Strip teaser...
Each time you remove an unneeded vowel,
And you appear,
Exposing consonants clear...
I shiver.

Strip teaser...
When you lick your lips,
Between the 'M's-'C's and your 'T's...
With teeth that touch,
I sit amazed!

I am dazed as my heart rate races.
My blood pulsates with an increasing pace.

Strip teaser...
When you speak,
Crisp and deliciously delivered from your tongue...
Is clear diction!
Not commonly heard today from anyone.

Strip teaser...
I can stare or close my eyes.
Clinging with a desire I can bare...
To hear,
What is clearly understood.

Your elocution is...good! Terrific.
And keeps me on the edge of my seat!
More. More. More...
I find myself repeating,
In unexpecting need.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Space

From the trees the leaves came down
until we joined hands with a wand
and that act enabled them
somehow then to reach the ground

where they scuttered round our feet
urging the latter to unite
with a baton as if that act
together with the hands can clasp

a dowsing-stick cut from the same
branch from which we launched
converging on gravity's purge-point

at which point we merged to remove
all consonants from our star-maps.
The infinite consists of vowels alone.

poem by Bill Knott
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Mr.Vowel the Judge

The articulatory features that distinguish different vowel sounds are said to determine the vowel's quality. Daniel Jones developed the cardinal vowel system to describe vowels in terms of the common features height (vertical dimension) , Backness (horizontal dimension) and Roundedness (lip position) . These three parameters are indicated in the schematic IPA vowel diagram on the right. There are however still more possible features of vowel quality, such as the velum position (nasality) , type of vocal fold vibration, and tongue root position

Sent him to life imprisonment
for violating the talking manner,
And the innocent found at last
That he's dumb and deaf?

* In matters of style, swim with the current; in matters of principle, stand like a rock.
-Thomas Jeffersn

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Dignity Of Words

i agree as you say
that words must still keep that dignity
they used to have
before we meet

after all we started with a few words
took some more
and savored its flavors
the scents of its letters
the tastes of its
sweet vowels

when we kissed if you remember
we swallowed words

when we made love we let go
some consonants
to our satisfaction
the thrill seemingly without end

now while dining we are four seats apart
you seat at the front
i at the rear of this distance
between us

the words are not reborn
only this silence
constricting like a boa
swallowing
the crowd of thoughts in concrete

on walls of words
our heads finally collide

i could have opted for
the mute and deaf
the dumb who loves me for whatever i am

regret is not my choice
it is here and not leaving
it is eating me
like i am a delicious delicacy

i am sorry, i keep my mouth shut.
what will i say? i am back to the silent world
of my solitude

long time ago, this was paradise of clauses
now, you say it, this is a complete sentence.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Am Not Bothered

all i do are mere exercises
as i flex a word
make it run in the confines of a clause
into the sentences of
my soul

i take you and i play
i create a door and when you are inside a room
you may have seen nothing at all

because you very well know
about the story of the wind
it makes you colder and feel
that it is just lying there

i am always far away from you
even if you kiss me passionately

all i do is caress a letter
and it grows into some pretty words
because of love

i sow a vowel into a fertile ground of consonants
and then the sounds of concerns begin to hush

you see a baby
you baby talk it
you surrender the maturity of your thoughts
because all it has given you is pain

a thousand flowers bloom
filling colors to the black array of stones

in silence the sands are too beautiful
the sea breeze wants to drown them

these are the exercises of the mind
looking for justifications for some hardships that are left
in the dark

words are not just tools
they are also toys
to make the child believe that this world is too a
playground for joys

there is an experience of so much freedom
in every clause in every cause

you wonder why i do not dabble into punctuations
anymore
i am not bothered
i am not sour....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Watching Something Else...

i spin some letters, mostly consonants
for fear that so many vowels can be too noisy

sometimes we dwell more on the algebraic
x and y
z comes in to add more anonymity to the equations
that we grapple with everyday

looking for answers
with already prepared quadratic equations

to simplify life we offer simple equations
we reject too many complications and lessen the variables

eating breakfast, drinking the water
mastering the daily sequences and shying away from new innovations

there is no need for more vacations
they are all the same roads and seashores same malls and

delicacies, routine, colors of those items are not really changed,
the taste of that chicken is the same all over the world

be it in Austria or France or
Punta or Galas or Talisay or Sinonok

what matters is the compactness of your belief
inside no one can convince you no one can take you somewhere else

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Tender Reprieve

I am naïve about relationships and kisses,
About the dreams that weave themselves
Around a fragile heart,
And I do not know how to protect
Myself from love.

Emotional before photographs of you,
I break like pottery to see you smile,
I crumble like autumn leaves
In a child’s hand
To remember your shimmering brown hair
And the perfection of your neck
That someone else touches.

And I have also lingered lost in thought
About the lighter brown hair of another girl
Who captivated me for a moment, but less excruciatingly:
I nearly fell in love with your best friend
To merely hear her speak your name;
No one will ever understand how much
Those lovely vowels and consonants mean to me.

I need to be granted a tender reprieve
From the languishing agony of not seeing you,
To be set free from the prison of sunless days
Where perfume no longer lingers upon a pillow,
Where flowers fail to form beautiful bouquets
Because I don’t know the way to bring them to you.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
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World is stopping,

World is stopping,
World is stopping all moving,
World is making all destruction,
World is stopping to see a Revolution,
World is stopping to see feigned verses Unfeigned,
World is stopping to see us dead to live,

World is stopping to see burdens Increase,
World is stopping to see us going to Hell,
World is stopping so that we do the Will of Truth,
That the Truth is a lie to many people,
But Truth is living by the will of the Unseen,
Since He does not exist,
He really does exist.

poem by Maxpoet Beauty
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Sonnet: Nature’s The Best Teacher

Mother Nature’s the best teacher we know,
Teaching both young and old without a fee;
Through flora, fauna and all creatures, oh!
Her lessons being unique, naturally.

Vowels, consonants, she shows to utter;
Her music is most melodious to ears;
And anyone in her lap learns better,
Than what classrooms can teach them o’er the years.

A loving Mother Nature is to all!
She soothes their minds and mends their broken hearts;
A friend and guide and playmate, one can call,
Who shares her hidden secrets in small parts.

So, go to Mother Nature, learn a lot;
No teacher betters her in any slot.

poem by John Celes
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