Woman And Poetry
writing poems together
with that woman is so much fun
i write mine, (i am much better than that woman)
i ask her to read my poems she obliges with her spectacles
as she opens her mouth to syllabicate
i gulp some saliva to my mouth
this woman is terrible
she makes me giggle
i have her word for word i have her metaphor per metaphor
there is no time to discuss
i like her to undress this time
i'll take the magic of her word
this time i will open my mouth
this time i will read all of her
i will not discuss i will not understand
i will just feel these metaphors
this mouth this tongue this body
this most important poetry
this love this lust this moment
after we have written
our poems together.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Word Of Mouth
Ive been trying to get a message to you,
But the operator cant put me through,
Because the vandals went and wrecked all the telephones.
And all my enemies are spreading bad news,
You wont call me, thats why Im calling you,
To put you straight about the rumors theyre spreading about me back home.
I should have known, sooner or later,
Youd get the news, sooner or later,
The word of mouth will get right back to you.
Somehow we lost communication,
My only chance in my situation,
Is that the word of mouth gets my message through.
The word of mouth,
The word of mouth,
But who are they to say the things they do?
The word of mouth says that Ive gone insane,
That wine and women have affected my brain.
Well whos the big mouth spreading the news again?
The word of mouth says Im round the bend,
Its all over, this is the end.
Exaggeration sure gets the better of people who send[? ].
The word of mouth,
The word of mouth,
But who are they to say the things they do?
The word of mouth said I should be put in my place.
The word is out Im in disgrace -- a waste of space.
But if they say it, say it to my face.
People talking, trying to dig up the dirt,
There are so many lies around.
They spread their gossip and the rumors around this town.
Word of mouth, face to face,
My word of mouth has stated my case,
And Im saying Im coming back home to you.
You should have know sooner or later,
Youd get the news sooner or later,
The word of mouth will get right back to you.
The word of mouth,
Shut your mouth,
Shut your face!
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Repeated Poem...
there is a handsome young man
residing in a far away mountain
he writes love poems...
it so happens that there is this
lonely woman who reads each poem
and amazed by said poems
she climbs the mountain to see the
man and tell him that she
loves him too...
the man is puzzled and the woman asks why?
those poems are not
for her, he says
and the woman is sad
goes down the mountain telling herself
that the handsome young man is a liar
and that from that time on
she will never read any of his poems....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sometimes I Find Poems
Sometimes I find poems
Like they were jewels in the sand
So excellently written
A blessing to read and understand.
Sometimes I find poems
Composed like it was a work of art
The writer weaving word tapestry
As he writes diligently from his heart.
Sometimes I find poems
Laced with just verbal grime
With random musings or lost words
That to read them is a total waste of time.
So to the writers who value the pen
With all respect, I give you my salute
With the hope you keep writing again and again
And to this site your work you contribute!
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Commenting (Please Read)
This poem is dedicated to a very dear friend in Canada.
Melvina Germain.
The first person who left a heart prints on my work almost a year and a half ago. Mel, a million thanks from me.
Love and Hugs.
David xxxx
Some people read your work
and then pass on their way,
never leaving a comment
whether they liked it or not.
For any writer good or bad,
unless someone makes a comment on your work,
you feel left out in the cold.
For those who think that comments do not help,
let me tell you what comments have done for me.
For six or seven years I had given up writing,
I swore I would never lift my pen again.
Then in January 2007,
I posted a few old poems on a poetry site.
I was confused and lost at the time.
Never though for one moment
anyone would want to read my humble work.
I was wrong.
Through the comments I received,
I started writing again.
Since the 19th January 2007 to today the 14th June 2008
I have written 1132 poems, a 80,000 word novel,
collaborated on over 20 poems
with two young ladies half a world away from me
and published my first book of poetry.
For under a year and a half
that is not a bad record
and it happened through the encouragement in comments.
So the next time you read someone work
and there is a space for a comment,
leave one please.
Those little heart prints can change someone’s life
and encourage them on to do better things.
Your comment does not have to be lengthy,
just a word or two will do.
Remember it is good to help someone
and by leaving a comment,
that is just what you will do.
I always leave a comment on everything I read
knowing how others comments have helped me.
14 June 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poems About.
There are poems that you will never see
Marked in a folder titled 'privacy'
Poems of hate and anger and personal pain
Poems about greed and hunger and personal gain
Poems about people I would love to see dead
Poems about women I met
Poems about relationships that have gone bad
Poems about issues with mom and dad
Poems about me, the person no one knows
Poems about places where only my soul goes
Poems I wish I could place in the clouds for all to read
Poems about lust, selfishness and greed
Poems I know will hurt those I hate
Poems I write by complete mistake
Poems I have hidden in my heart and my head
Poems about things that are better left unsaid
Poems I want to share and poems I want to retract
Poems of shame and how others might act
They stay in my psyche, they are a part of me
These poems I write, but you will never see.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I Have Read Many Poems I Know I Never Could Have Written
I have read many poems I know I never could have written
Poems whose language was far richer and more remarkable than mine
Poems that saw as I cannot see and sounded as I cannot sound
Poems of magnificent music and many hidden meanings
I have read many poems greater than those I could ever write
And have been humbled and saddened and inspired by them
Out there somewhere else
There have been real poets
And I in my own little lines
Love and respect them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Spelling
My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.
I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.
A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.
I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs tied
together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.
Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.
A word after a word
after a word is power.
At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.
This is a metaphor.
How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.
poem by Margaret Atwood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
To All Those Whose Poems I Have Not Read
TO ALL THOSE WHOSE POEMS I HAVE NOT READ
To all those whose poems I have not read
Who have said a kind word about mine-
I apologize
I simply am too selfish
And do not want to give the time-
I too do not want to lie
What if I do not like your poem?
And also I do not want to recognize
So many ‘equals' when I am after all to myself ‘the poet'-
An apology is of course not a real answer
Perhaps I will try to do better in the future-
But I do feel badly about this-
Please go on without me
There is a big world out there
And many listeners who hopefully
Will give time and attention to your poem
As I have regrettably not.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Soap
you wish i were true
to every word i wrote in my poems
like sadness
that i must be sad when my poems
talk about sadness
like separation and disgust and pain
that i must suffer
with the poems i write that i must have despair
and pain too
and disgust
for every word of disgust written in every word
in every line
how cruel of you
how cruel of truth
how can i justify my death when i speak only of death
and in the very poem
where i write the word
death
there is soap
there is this box of untruths in pandora and when i open it
they must spread and you may refuse to believe
me again
but it would be very cruel of you
to make these poems
all these poems be my life my only life
and lived
and day by day lived in accordance with the
mouths of these poems
empathy
is the word, it is like i am putting my feet in another person's
shoes
then i write, and i could have written about this word: happiness
joy, bliss
ecstasy, light, and amazing glory
i choose not to,
i think, i have too much of it, and i do not share it for now
there is no necessity
and i cannot really help
with so much loneliness and sadness out there
with them i stretch my hands to hold them and feel them
and they all become
myself. it is not soap then, and there are no bubbles in the skies
there is no child playing amazed by the bubbles that burst and by the
bubbles that
are so abundant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
0317 Fingertip to fingertip, a human net
i think it's really wonderful
that with all the million poems on this net
people find their way to read what each of us has read
or written.
it's like a shining human net around the world -
fingertip to fingertip in space
all connected by the love of poetry
and the poetry of love.
so instead of moping and chewing our pencils,
feeling pathetic and unread
we can dedicate all our poems to all those real people who - yes! -
actually read them
and say
It's you I wrote them for - and you - and you-
and now I know you're there
I'll write some better ones for you in time,
that what it's all about...
and if I'm silent for a time
working on something that's good enough for you,
remember -
love, love, love
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Word
Find the word, understand the word,
Depend on the word;
The word is heaven and space, the word the earth,
The word the universe.
The word is in our ears, the word is on our tongues,
The word the idol.
The word is the holy book, the word is harmony,
The word is music.
The word is magic, the word the Guru.
The word is the body, the word is the spirit, the word is being,
The word Not-being.
The word is man, the word is woman,
The Worshipped Great.
The word is the seen and unseen, the word is the existent
And the non-existent.
Know the word, says Kabir,
The word is All-powerful.
A Metaphor Is Easy To Make
a metaphor is easy to make
and so easy to recall
remember the cat's feet like a fog
leaving softly the harbor in the city?
remember a misery that jumps like a flea &
bites you and you cannot sleep
and you say life is like that
a flea
remember
you think of time as a growing child
a man,
a wild man running and chasing
virgins that must make most of their time
because
time is a-flying and
the rose that blooms today
tomorrow
may be dying
remember time in a bottle
remember life like a fruit fly trapped
trying to figure
out how to escape
and you say life is like that
a fruit fly
remember death
like a woman sleeping in her chambers
closing the curtains
and you say
death is like that
a mere closing of a curtain
just like that
remember how
loneliness is like a steel tunnel
you get in there,
some birds hover and fly away from you
you get in there,
and there seems to be no light visible
at the end
loneliness
life is like that
you see
metaphors and dissect every vein
every artery
every bone and
cartilage of
these metaphors that you
say do not exist
in prose
, , , , , , , , , , , that you say do not exist in my prose
mine is not poetry
mine is a poverty of poetry
and you claim
yours is the basket the cornocupia of true poetry
good for you, you are the prima donna
of this
dance
this quibble in poetry
it does not matter
give me some metaphors
about poverty, discrimination, meaninglessness,
purposelessness,
non-being, the metaphysics of early death
a being-in-distress
an addict
a streetchild
a battered wife
a cruel father
a hypocirte priest
an embittered professor
a disgruntled student
give me some metaphors about
corruption, lying presidents, secret killings
you are the master of metaphor
you are the queen of slave
metaphors
so be it.
make me a poem to the strictures of metaphor
give poems a strange face
a hybrid of dog and man
make them read and not understand
delude them
give them illusions
confusions
make them baffled, submissive, uncritical, uncomplaining
complacent,
bewilder them to your secret,
derivative and too personalized
metaphors
and you are happy
they do not understand a thing
and they will believe that you are God.
for those that we do not understand
we call it mystery
we call it metaphor
we call it
unquestionable.
let the oppression stay.
let the discrimination live in the metaphors that
you have made.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
36
a metaphor is easy to make
and so easy to recall
remember the cat's feet like a fog
leaving softly the harbor in the city?
remember a misery that jumps like a flea &
bites you and you cannot sleep
and you say life is like that
a flea
remember
you think of time as a growing child
a man,
a wild man running and chasing
virgins that must make most of their time
because
time is a-flying and
the rose that blooms today
tomorrow
may be dying
remember time in a bottle
remember life like a fruit fly trapped
trying to figure
out how to escape
and you say life is like that
a fruit fly
remember death
like a woman sleeping in her chambers
closing the curtains
and you say
death is like that
a mere closing of a curtain
just like that
remember how
loneliness is like a steel tunnel
you get in there,
some birds hover and fly away from you
you get in there,
and there seems to be no light visible
at the end
loneliness
life is like that
you see
metaphors and dissect every vein
every artery
every bone and
cartilage of
these metaphors that you
say do not exist
in prose
, , , , , , , , , , , that you say do not exist in my prose
mine is not poetry
mine is a poverty of poetry
and you claim
yours is the basket the cornocupia of true poetry
good for you, you are the prima donna
of this
dance
this quibble in poetry
it does not matter
give me some metaphors
about poverty, discrimination, meaninglessness,
purposelessness,
non-being, the metaphysics of early death
a being-in-distress
an addict
a streetchild
a battered wife
a cruel father
a hypocirte priest
an embittered professor
a disgruntled student
give me some metaphors about
corruption, lying presidents, secret killings
you are the master of metaphor
you are the queen of slave
metaphors
so be it.
make me a poem to the strictures of metaphor
give poems a strange face
a hybrid of dog and man
make them read and not understand
delude them
give them illusions
confusions
make them baffled, submissive, uncritical, uncomplaining
complacent,
bewilder them to your secret,
derivative and too personalized
metaphors
and you are happy
they do not understand a thing
and they will believe that you are God.
for those that we do not understand
we call it mystery
we call it metaphor
we call it
unquestionable.
let the oppression stay.
let the discrimination live in the metaphors that
you have made.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Moments Of Writing Poetry
Draft poems sometimes like
loose ripped off pieces of paper
to be drafted out roughly upon.
Draft poems hang around
in the strangest places waiting
to be written out one day.
Draft poems wait for a poet
to wake at the beginning of day
to be written out, in any
seized moments, sacrificed.
This is now time, shower time, eating time,
reflective time, conversation time, work time;
t.v. time, driving time, riding motorcycle time,
going to sleep time, cooking time, or any time.
Draft poems can only be written
in spared moments of seized time.
Draft poems can only be written today,
they will not wait for fair weather like hay,
which lays around waiting to be harvested.
Draft poems will not wait for a clear sunny day to dawn,
and then mature slowly, over a perfect golden summer.
Draft poems are ever now or never
if they are ever to be swiftly written.
A draft may possibly be perfected
upon any future day of favoured writing;
but a draft never written is a poem
never written, never completed, never known.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Open Stage Poetry Reading
After the one that sings, and after the one
that can make up poems of a kind right on the spot;
after a girl who didn't . . . walk very well,
took five minutes to get from her seat to the stage
then read one poem with hardly any words in it
and halted the whole way back in a staggering silence;
after the bald one's rhymes about this teeth;
a woman got up whose poems won't write down,
it's all in the way the voices in her come out.
We went to a medium once, and a woman locked
in a trance let a dead man come inside her and talk.
She held herself like . . . a woman being a man.
That's what it was at the open stage poetry reading,
and I left without talking, I hadn't come expecting it.
What could I have told her, I think it's a dead man?
It wasn't something I wanted to get that close to.
I could never do it myself, let a dead man come in-
or would it be, into me, a dead woman that would come?
poem by Eric Torgersen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Gratis Et Amore
for the poems that i have written
and which you read
by heart, i bless you with a prayer for luck
for another year
for the poems which i have not written yet,
i wish you a longer life, so you may read them
when they become finally written
for the poems i have in mind and which i will not write
i wish you patience i wish you some prayers
may these poems realize their worth
may they decide to become truths
with you i pray that God may be also kind
for those still unspoken
and may God bless your mind
may they open up like tight buds to become the flowers
of the world, the sun to warm them, the rain to shower them
may these poems live and linger
may they be like grass always unswerving to grow and cover everything
alive and loving.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Defeat Of Words....
i am lost in the forest of words
i always have more to say, more is there in the thinking
that chokes whatever word i like to say,
and i end up
foolish, before an audience that waits for my
mouth to shape an embroidered
idea,
a dressed woman ready for
the ball,
a young woman undressing
before she bathes in the
river
of time
a word, and then i look at all of them
those who wants to be awed
mouths open, agape
hands
and i ask myself
what is there to be said?
there is so much to be thought about
and there is no
moment wasted in trying to capture
what beauty is there
which must stay as beautiful as it
is never
said., ,
it is more proper
untouched by the fingers of words
just like life, at first i feel that it must be written
sort of
this was it, this was how it felt, what we saw
what be believe in
ah, on an afternoon,
finding those drift woods washed ashore
children pulling their arms
you realize how emphatic things are
rather than calculate, and emote
and do logic,
a circus of numbers,
tightrope equations,
there is more that the stars are saying
there is more to the wide open skies
in all their
silence for they have long spoken
before i
was born
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!