When Confronted By A Lousy Poem
after reading another
lousy poem
(i guess it could be like
mine, in the strict sense
of your standard
master academic
poet, multi awarded
poetess)
i decided to pause
for a while,
reflect, meditate,
cogitate,
blink, wink,
t h i n k t h i n k
give the writer the benefit of the doubt
due to his feelings
he must have these
within him/her
asking myself what prompts
him to write
i think it is not for fame,
for he will never have, he knows it
the world is filled already with a million famous men
and women
and there is no place anymore for one
like him
(or me, i know, don't bluff me
i know, don't ask me)
i think it is because he is like a snake
(Nothing bad about snakes
nothing metaphorically treacherous)
bitten by another snake, bleeding
and sliding his way in the sands of the
desert
looking for an oasis
a date palm
a branch of an olive tree
(is there an olive tree in the desert?
i have not gone there anyway
yet)
looking for a cure.
i then make a conclusion,
he deserves to be commended
for this bravery
of writing about
pain
at least writing about it
since he still does not know
of any cure
for pain, or if there is
i know, he knows, it is only
temporary
like the pain in our
hearts
(or asses if you will)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
A Boy And The Snake And The Tree That Cures...
a snake is bitten by another snake
it is bleeding and leaves and looks for a tree
to take some sap
for its own cure,
a boy sees what the snake is doing
waits and when the snake leaves
the boy bites the tree
to take the sap
the boy is cured of its long sickness
the tree had long been there near him
but it is the snake that points to him
the tree that can cure his own malady.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Uncurable Pain
Someone out there has a cure to my pain,
But the faster they cure mine someone else feels the same.
It's probably a cure for my pain, maybe it is, or maybe it's not,
Whatever this pain is, it hurts alot.
My pain is like a river that never starts to flow,
But I know I'm not the only person with pain, other people have pain also.
Pain is like one of a kind like me and you,
It doesn't hurt as bad because I know it is something that I got to live through.
This pain is a mixture between life and death,
It was me all along hurting myself.
poem by La'Kira Jackson
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The Poet as a Feeler of Pain
What makes a poet?
Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like a conduit,
a plainspokenness to grief,
the hairs of the head
dancing on end,
the blood swarming
with the voices
of all those who have died,
will die,
& will also be born?
Is it a catch
in the throat
that awakens the eyes,
is it in the eyes themselves
or is it something
in the heart?
I think it is pain-
an openness to pain,
so that the least leaf
cuts the hand
& the smallest tear
cuts the cheek
like jagged crystal,
so that the world
is a sick infant
& the poet its mother,
praying, crooning, promising
to be good
if only the cure
takes.
There is, of course,
no cure.
Poetry does not cure
the poet
& the poet
does not cure the world.
Usually he catches
the world's diseases
& dies
even before his time.
But against all odds
& all indifference,
another one is born.
The world must have
someone to feel its pain
& speak of it.
The poet is that mouth.
poem by Erica Jong
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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No One Can Write A Poem For All The Pain Of The World
NO ONE CAN WRITE A POEM FOR ALL THE PAIN OF THE WORLD
No one can write a poem for all the pain of the world-
No one can write a poem that can truly heal another’s suffering-
A poem may help in a small way sometimes,
It may bring a bit of light,
But it rarely can cure-
So many I know have sufferings,
And so many need help.
A poem is a prayer to God
For help for those suffering-
May more kindness come to the world
And your and our pain
Be less.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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For I Do Not Have Dreams Anymore
i do not dream
that you shall remember me
i do not write
to be remembered
i am looking for relief
someone wonders why that snake is biting
every bark of every tree
it is restless
it is looking for a cure of its
disease
that snake wants to live
some more years
it is looking for the cure of
its restlessness
i do not dream of any dream
i just want to live for another day
i have no more dreams
i am fading like an afternoon light against the horizon
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Tree in the Desert
A tree in the desert thirsts for water
A tree in the desert gets too much sun
A tree in the desert is alone in the freezing night
A tree in the desert might never be seen
A tree in the desert might never be touched
A tree in the desert may or may not thrive
A tree in the desert struggles to stay alive
poem by Leo Valencia
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Locked Inside Her Pain
Living day to day in severe pain,
overwhelming is her pain today,
can't walk too good, for her legs hurt so.
Kind and gentle she is, through all of her pain,
even on her worst days, she always has a smile
and a kind word for those who may pass by her way.
Day after day I watch her in pain
and pray there was something I could do.
Intensely wanting to just be able to take all her pain away,
nothing I can do to help her with it.
Sweet and loving she is, her pain is sometimes unbearable.
Intense pain is what she lives with everyday.
Doctors won't give her anything for fear she may be allergic.
Each and everyday her pain becomes worse.
Hating myself because there is nothing I can do to help her,
hoping that someday they will find a cure for Fibromyalgia and tendontis,
realizing that she may never ever be pain free.
Patiently, she tries to do the things she used to do
but, once again her pain stops her from doing them.
Inside her pain she cries, for relief of her pain or maybe a cure
never getting the relief she so deserves, or wants.
Dear Lord, please take my mom's pain away,
so she will no longer be locked inside her pain
and give her the life she used to know back,
so that she can live her life a normal person without pain,
and God, please be with her every day and night
and keep her safe and warm.
poem by Melissia Ann Senter
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Metal Beat
Nobody knew me so I bought some time.
An hour or two with a friend of mine.
Somebody lied so I burned their soul.
Somebody screamed and the fire burned cold.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I soothe the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
Like someone walks on their grave.
I booked a small room in a cheap motel.
Somewhere to hide and a cure to sell.
I call it fashion, Ill make them bleed.
No one to love but a ghost to feed.
I was a puppet pulling my own strings.
I cant believe that I did such things.
I was a shadow but God forgives.
Now Im a priest and jesus lives.
- adlib -
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
I take the pain away.
I cure things, sweet young things.
Like someone walks on their grave.
How can I save you if you dont confess?
Kneel down bitch be truly blessed.
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who Does Not Really Want To Write The Best Poem In The World?
yes, a five-star poem.
the one fit for first prize
awards, the one that will
make you famous
worldwide,
who does not like to
go on tv? read that famous
poem personally.
me? sorry i don't.
i am tired writing the best poem
of my life
been writing for years
i can imagine
trying to fit in
with the most famous ones
dead and alive
but i know i can never write it
because i can't
because i don't
because i do not have any reason
to write it.
i love to write.
AND that is foremost.
that is final. nothing ambitious.
nothing to change your world
or this world or that world
nothing to influence another
indonesian or turk
or swedish or
anybody or anything
what advantage do i get
when i say i just love to write
when i say i do not want to write the best poem in the world?
nothing, except the joy of having
to make the deep breath
in my life.
air that fills my lungs
and make me dream and make me sleep
longer than you do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When In Pain
when in pain
i prefer silence.
but i keep on writing.
and writing.
and writing.
and writing.
when in pain
i prefer always the silence
of the stars.
makes me feel like i am a star.
this silence, this pain.
when in silence, like the stars,
the pain gets too peaceful
like the stars
and then the pain subsides like
an ebbing tide
like an anger subsiding into
a still undisturbed mind
when i shine like a star
i remember the pain and it does not pain anymore.
silence kills the pain
like a distant star on a dark night like this one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem For A Friend In Ohio
i shall be
the chronicler of
your pain
i do not understand
it actually
i pretend i feel it
i have respect for it
and so i keep
writing
it is you who knows
everything
about you and your
pain
it is only you who
knows where
the cure is
when you leave us
we understand
there is no cure
and that is the saddest
fact that i
have written
i am the chronicler
of your pain
inside that moon
that host with some
blood stains
i am the sadder part of
you
that spectator
when you pass by
that spot where
two flaming suns
just recently
set.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: The Desert-war
Two Eagles want a mouse as Baghdad’s King!
The Desert -Snake is too wily to swoop:
Once he is gone, they can have anything,
From oil and gasoline to camel-soup!
They encircled the Snake in the desert!
The Snake is swift and appears like mirage!
His oil-wells burn the two intruders' heart;
They cannot turn so fast to be his phage!
The Eagles know the Desert-Sun is hot!
They know they cannot bear the heat for long:
They take a risk but don't want to be caught;
They cannot take the country for a song!
The Eagles may be Kings of their own skies!
The Desert-Snake rules, though on belly lies!
poem by John Celes
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I Want To Write A Sad Poem Today
how i wish to write a sad poem today
for instance: wilting grasses and dried river beds
stinging heat of the sun
cinder like sands of the shore
heat waves, and melting ice caps
something like there is no place that is cool
to my senses,
how i wish i can write the poem about a mad woman
and a husband that always follows her laughter,
how i wish not to be affected by such a sad poem
but i am
and i do not wish to add insult to injury for writing it
and so
i quit, i will not write a sad poem about other people,
that will be too much,
i decided not to write about it anymore.
i will forget about it. I will write something much better.
i will write about
nothing at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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His Call
That evening
I sat down to write
My very last mail
To him.
And while I was writing
I could feel
My aching heart
Throbbing so loud
I could hear
Every beat of it
Pulsating with pain.
And still I kept writing
My very last mail
To him.
Though my eyes
Felt blurred
With all the tears
That rushed asunder
Streaming through my cheeks
And yet I brushed them aside
And wrote
My very last mail to him.
And when I had done
All the writing
I took a long, last look
At that letter of mine
Re-reading every word of it
That I had written to him
With all my heart...
Those precious moments
Were so endearing to me
For I felt that
Once this mail goes
I won't be able to
Write to him anymore
No more of those
Diary mails of mine
I used to write to him
Everyday.
For I had made a Promise
Never to go back
To him.
And that promise I had made
To him and to myself
With all the pain
And the agony
That had shrouded me.
Yes - that promise has stayed Intact
And I would abide by it.
And I haven't faltered...
Though my tender heart feels
So very Bruised.
And even though
The other day
He called me up
And I heard
His broken voice
Over the phone
Saying that
He had read my mail
Explaining himself
How he was...
How very dear to him
I have been
How very close
To his heart.
I just listened
And yet his garble of words
Were beyond me now
And more than his voice
His words of care
I could hear -
The waves of silence
That had engulfed me.
He did all the talking
And I -
All the listening...
And yet,
Today - when I look back
I don't feel like going back
To him anymore.
And I know he might call again
Asking me if I am cross.
In life's such delicate
Situations -
Being angry doesn't help
So why should I be?
It is just that
I don't feel like
Writing to him anymore
The pain is just too much
And so are the scars of the past
Like scabs on the skin
Bleeding every now and then.
And so that was my last mail
My very last mail to him
And his call for a truce
I had to choose...
Truce with him
Or truce with my silence.
And I looked back
At all the hard times
He had given me -
All the pain of the past years
That kept reverberating inside
Like the Tinnitus of being Deaf.
And I thought
I would call it a truce
A truce of realisation
A truce of acceptance
No - not with him.
But - A Lifetime's Truce
With me and my Destiny.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Painful Writing
sonnet #11
painful writing
living can be through introspection
searching for the meaning in my life
yet this does not imply perfection
pleasure versus pain is still in strife
i am in growing and creating
in the making ever unfinished
the writer prevented from writing
life passing by not truly engaged
pain prevents me from writing freely
and then i write to escape the pain
still needed by someone uniquely
for together we have smelt the rain
when there is nothing left to explore
being opens up in death a door
poem by Derrick Hubert Schnabel
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Dead And Gone
In years from now when I am dead and gone
Will people read the words that I had wrote
If they do will they agree with what they read
And if so truly, understand the feelings I had spoke.
Will they feel the pain and suffering that I felt
In the many days of my own life
Maybe they will etch my feelings inside their soul
And If so, I wonder for me if they will cry.
I wonder if anyone will go into a deep thought
After reading the words that I had spoke
And then will they think and understand that feeling too
While inside their soul or heart a memory I will had awoke.
Maybe they will be with me in those lonesome nights
When my soul and I felt so very alone
When I couldn't sleep so I had to write
While my soul stayed stationary, but my mind it did roam.
And will they feel the pain that I did feel
With every line that I suffered as I did write
Will they shed a tear that my lover never shed for me
While she was always in my heart and in my sight.
And when they finish my book and close it shut
Will they reflect my feelings as they walk away
Will they say they know the pain that I have felt
As they too had felt it in their very own days.
Will they cry the tears that was never cried for me
As they go searching for my last resting place
To give the sympathy they might say I deserve
While trying to visualize my soul through my face.
If they look and find and then walk unto my grave
I wander for me if i will receive long forgotten grieving
Telling me how sad and the pity they hold for me
After reading my words, maybe they will start believing.
And maybe they will walk to the graves of the others
The ones who did me wrong and who sealed my fate
Who made me the poet whom I had to become
Will they tell them their souls, and living they do hate.
So as I finish writing with these last few thoughts
I hope forever my words and feelings will continue on
As I know I am not alone and my pain is not fastened to me
But really who will know, until I am dead and gone.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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The Last Flight
there is always a reason why a man cannot
cease writing
there is that denial of what was there a long time ago
it sits there like a statue
beside the door of the house
where the window is always closed
there is always a reason why the words keep flowing
like a river
why the river is always filled with running water
despite the drought
you see the bones of cows
the dust of the sands in the desert
it was once an oasis
where date palms abound where women bathe
with their men
where they make love
under the crescent moon
there is always a reason that you know
but you do not tell
but which i will always deny
as truth
it is this denial that keeps my hands going
like soldiers ready for a kill in that theater of war
it is this roaring lion that does not bite
that keeps me
in fear that keeps me speaking inside myself
there is no one here
there is no wall anymore
the winds are waiting with all the wings of the dead birds
it is ready
i am undressing
this is the flight.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An olive branch
Can that happen ever?
Wars are averted forever
Olive branch in one hand with message of peace
For millions of people to live at ease
Many may doubt and see it as impossible
The wars are imposed and forcible
Slight provocation can engulf entire world
No country can afford to keep the relation in cold
Has world ever witnessed winning of war without fight?
Who would judge our action and emphatically say right?
Can peace be taken as last hope to see the light?
The peace should not be lost out of sight
Yes, mere gesture or process with olive branch is imprcaticable
The impossible result is achieved through and histroy can be tracable
World with the piles of atmoic weapons can’t dare to fight
Only peace with olive branch can lead us and make it alright
There may be threat behind olive branch diplomacy
Still it has increased the peace efforts with frequency
The world doesn’t want misery in the form of another war
We have missed opportunity but still are not very far
With deterrence on one hand and olive branch on another
The blame may be passed on to others
There may still be hidden efforts to defuse
No one may want wart but refuse
Olive branch strategy is right means of persuation
The war is ruled out and is out of question
There may be complete annihilation and destruction
It can succeed with powerful message and instruction
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!