You Only Need The Heart The Soul
to be a poet
(what they think is needed is the
discipline to fully master the craft)
one needs (however)
only the heart
the soul, the rest when summoned
properly
comes without much
hesitation, for in time, when you are
true and faithful
words come like servants
and arrange themselves like furniture
the chairs walk in
to form the dining set
with the center table
the curtains hang themselves
on window borders
to form a frame
a perfect perspective
to view the sea
of art.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
A View In Town Square
four blue chairs surround
a center table
at the center table
lies the red cloth
there are no diners
this time of the day
on the blue frames of
the glass window
where the white curtains
hang & flow like silky water
the lush of the red
bougainvillea is a wreath
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Priced to move quickly
This is an exclusive listing,
one of the nicer properties we've had.
If you like it, you should make an offer.
It won't stay on the market long.
They intended it as a retirement home.
The house itself is only five years old.
The kitchen is fully appliance,
everything in mint condition,
hardly used at all.
The dining area sits six.
If you remove this leaf,
it's perfect for two.
As we move into the living room
I should point out,
the larger sofa's a sleeper.
And look at this view!
You can walk across your lawn
and be at the beach.
They were married twenty-five years.
Notice that there are two full baths
with lots of counter space
and cupboards for storage.
The master bedroom gets sun all morning
and you have direct outside access
through these double doors.
The fence, streetside, and the trees in back
afford complete privacy.
There's a divorce involved.
They've attached a complete list
of everything that goes with the property.
It's all here, the dishes, pots and pans,
appliances, two sofas,
the dining set, the two canvas chairs
on the desk outside the master bedroom.
In fact, the form says it comes furnished
with everything but hope.
Would you like to make an offer?
©1993
poem by Lynn Cohen
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The Brandy Glass
Only let it form within his hands once more -
The moment cradled like a brandy glass.
Sitting alone in the empty dining hall...
From the chandeliers the snow begins to fall
Piling around carafes and table legs
And chokes the passage of the revolving door.
The last diner, like a ventriloquist's doll
Left by his master, gazes before him, begs:
'Only let it form within my hands once more.'
poem by Louis Macneice
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The War
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the south that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea!
Are figs of thistles or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and make good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,
Than a rotten fleet or a city of flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in freedom's name and the Queen's!
True, that we have a faithful ally,
But only the devil knows what he means!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Sonnet 11
is it any wonder i have no words to tell
how my heart yearns in absence of you?
the night revives this constant hell-
no vision replaces dark with bright view,
prefiguring the visitation of your form
in sacred majesty, transfiguring night
in darkened soul to that majesty. in turn,
unformed dark, unchanged by celestial Light
formless dark remains, unilluminated by art.
your timeless form, unsculpted by love's pencil,
lends no body to the unformed in my heart.
no form heart forms new, nor does it chisel.
thus your form, unchiselled in my inner eye,
and your heart, my inner sense can't spy.
poem by Doug Bentley
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Venerable Stones
In the great house of the master stones
are venerable, and those we cast are often
cast only in a brave attempt to soften
the blows cast on our house, our pride, a clone.
The correspondences to all are clear
because our stones, just like our paradigms,
are copies of the master’s, as sincere,
but little more than prose we gild with rhymes.
David Orr reviews Helen Vendler’s “Our Secret Discipline: Yeats and Lyric Form” (“Vendler’s Yeats, ” NYT Book Review, May 11,2008) :
If “Our Secret Discipline” isn’t as strong as it could be, it’s because Vendler has thought deeply about Yeats’s use of form, but not about form apart from Yeats. And this isn’t surprising, really. Her great strength has always been her close reading of individual poets. If that causes her occasionally to find correspondences that don’t exist, well, what steward hasn’t wanted to find a world perfected in the venerable stones of the master’s great house?
5/11/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Two Grey Rooms
Tomorrow is sunday
Now theres only one day left to go
Till you walk by
Below my window
The weekends drive me mad
Holidays are oh too sad
cause you dont go
Below my window
No one knows Im here
One day I just disappeared
And I took these two grey rooms up here
With a view
When you walk by
Below my window
You look so youthful
Time has been untruthful
Heaven knows I loved you
30 years ago
Hot days your shirts undone
Rainy days you run
Oh and then you fade so fast
Below my window
No one knows Im here
One day I just disappeared
And I took these two grey rooms up here
With a view
Only when you walk by
Below my window
When you walk by
Below my window
Below my window
Hey hey
Below my window
Below my window
Below my window
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Journey 2 The Center Of Your Heart
I know U've been hurt before
I can see it in your eyes
And if U just close the door
I would not be surprised
Even though I know U've heard it
These words I'm tryin' 2 say
I think the others only flirted
With the true meaning of always
U can say what U wanna
But I ain't gonna stop this journey 2 the center of your heart
No, no
Heart (Heart)
I see the candle through your window
Burns there every night
The shadow leaves an innuendo
Of no one holding U tight
Many nights I've dreamt U near me
But awaken 2 U gone (Gone)
I know one day U'll hear me
I don't care how long
U can say what U wanna
But I ain't gonna stop this journey 2 the center of your heart
Oh yeah
(Journey center of your heart)
Journey 2 the center of your heart
Heart
I've waited a lifetime, baby
Just 2 know your name
We've done everything in our minds
Let's stop the game (Let's stop it)
Even though I know U've heard
These words I'm tryin' 2 say
Somehow I think these others, they only flirted
With the true meaning of always
(U can say what U wanna)
Oh, U can say what U wanna
(But I ain't gonna stop this journey 2)
But I ain't gonna stop this journey 2 the center ... (Heart)
(U can say what U wanna)
(But I ain't gonna stop this journey 2 the center of your heart)
Heart, heart
(Heart) {repeat in BG}
Your heart {x3
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sonnet 24: “Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled…”
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Poetry is the Divine Part of Man
Poetry haters love to make fun of the touchy-feely stuff
as though that defined who or what poetry is.
Poetry is the last time the sun gets reflected
in somebody's eyes, when they're saying goodbye-
maybe for forever.
And it's that first dropp of rain, touches the new brides veil,
blesses her; as she's lifting it off her face
for the first time, after being kissed in the marriage ceremony.
And poetry might be that bubble,
over the sink.. keeps floating away, fully intact;
even though all the laws of physics and gravity may be saying
it ought not be able to go on existing;
And poetry in motion
is a baby, trying to walk and falling down
again and again;
refusing to give up, surrender
less painful though that might be.
And poetry could even be your hand over my mouth,
because you know that I can never really say
what I am trying so hard to say;
as there's another form of secret communication
connects soul directly to soul,
without confusing or complicated words.
And that is some of the invisible poetry,
lives in the eyes, the hands; the heart of the mind;
and all the hidden, inner recesses of a human being; and even though
something may be a form of poetry for one; it may not be for another.
Finally, if you balled up the emotions together, and then just threw them up
into the open air, not knowing where they might come down, or even if;
this too, could be one of the purest forms of poetry.
My words could go on flowing forever, like a stream, and that could be poetry;
or they might stop without warning and
poem by Patti Masterman
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Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Poet-Me
I sat me down
my Poet Me
for discipline's tight regime,
hollowing out clear intent
for syntax, line breaks and such.
Meter, Rhyme and Rhythm too
joined the group.
We discussed Constructs
and Literati.
'Now, I am in charge here' Poet said.
'everyone of you has a role.
At my pen
you'll line up
while I align your countenances.
Every poem like an orchestra,
needs a conductor,
the welder of Word and Form,
the rest of you are instruments
to play my minor chords'
'Well' said Rhythm, 'nothing fits
without me.
I am the heart-beat,
the sail upon the sea;
I am the up and down
nothing moves without me.'
'No' said Rhyme, 'I am the
music line, the melody sublime.
My efforts elicit;
guide the listener ship.
I am the note's completion.
With my friend Meter
we are the helm of this ship'
The Reader said 'No I am the ultimate.
I'm the Consumer of the Trade.
Who prevails in all of this
is only for me to say.'
'All of you are undisciplined,
are nothing, ' said Cacophony
'I'm the proof of that.'
'Where would you all be
without me? ' Emotion, said
who could barely constrain himself,
'no emotion no feeling, no poetry.
That's my motto.'
'No me, no me, ' rang out
and everyone talked all the same
Me, Poet Me and I,
had lost control
of them.
Til' at the door the familiar knock;
the owner of the house returning.
Figure quite imposing,
came in
sat down
thumping on the table.
'Everyone quiet down and listen up
here is what we are doing.'
In minutes all the quarrelsome brethren
lined up picture perfect.
Each took his place
sang his best
in the final orchestral poem.
Each time it goes this way.
I tend to forget.
Poet Me, I and all the rest
exist only in Imagination's mind
flowing.
in this the best
of all possible
poetically inspired
word, meter, rhythm and
syntax-governed
poetic worlds.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Tables and Chairs
The tables resent the chairs, apt to sit
Like the people who sit, forming froth
And food, tables so clean, a likeable soot.
This may disguise chemistry, even biology,
Between the anger and hatred is beauty,
Fully we admire them who talk of it.
The table is sweeter with food than the chair with people,
And who does not eat on this furniture of the soul,
This future of living, kindness is adored,
For we are abhorrent in conversation, in laughter.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Know His World
the center table is the sun
and the chairs around are his planets
the walls are the horizons
the floors are the abyss
his words on paper scattered stars
his dogs and cats his zodiac
his silence his void
doubts his ripples
in the sea of galaxy
where his soul
is immersed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Open to Review. For C.P.Sharma
Although they all believed they knew.
The truth was known to very few
and mostly those who held the view.
A single life time would not do.
For each immortal soul to learn
the lessons needed each in turn.
Which would enable it to earn
the merit needed to return.
From whence it came; the final goal.
To combine with the oversoul
and free from any earthly role.
Just one small part of a perfect whole.
Though I believe that this is true.
It’s only my considered view.
One which is open to review.
Because I know no more than you.
Although different creeds still argue.
Their way and only theirs is true
I think they take a narrow view.
Exactly as they’re taught to do.
The different creeds meet different needs
and on the whole most do succeed.
We ought to judge them by their deeds
and not the tenets of their creed.
Saturday,14 November 200
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Poet and The Angel
The poet woke up in his bed, he dressed and faced the day,
Not knowing what lay just ahead, he paused as if to pray.
Then suddenly, the angel came, right there within his room,
So how could things then stay the same? For that none could assume.
'Write down the words that I impart! ' the angel told him straight
And thus the poet made a start, in fact, he couldn't wait!
'Repent and mend your ways on Earth! Repent and start again!
Repent for every soul has worth. Repent for God not men! '
The poet nodded his consent, the words now on the page,
For this was always God's intent, as seen from age-to-age.
'The choice is yours and yours alone! The same for every man!
And Jesus waits the ones who've shown they wish to serve God's plan! '
How true, the poet sagely thought, there's no excuse at all.
We ought to do the things we're taught, or else we're bound to fall.
'You still have time to do what's right! Repent and serve the Lord!
Arise, stand fast, walk in the light, or else lose your reward! '
Of course, the poet's heart agreed, for that made perfect sense
To each lost soul that saw the need and each one that repents.
He asked the angel, 'Who's this for, lost Gentile or lost Jew? '
The angel shook him to the core, 'These words are just for you...'
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Faithful God
In a sudden stunt action
If, God who sits always idle
Shows up His very presence
…………in front of me;
and orders me to list out
my wants and desires, which
He is pleased to grant, at once,
by His powers of miracles.
Bewildered….I may certainly babble
as I do not keep
a ready list of items of demands
on my table
for, I have a cart load
of demands of various nature
and needed some grasping time
to arrange them in a priority order.
to avoid slippages or miss out of
any crucial, potential offers
Though I believe and worship in Him
I was never sure that He would come up
alive like this……….and without notice,
And in view of the difficulties stated herein
I would only request Him
To re-appear again
after a week's time
If, He is so faithful
In His promises just disclosed by Him
poem by Santhana Louis
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O You Who've gone on Pilgrimage
O you who've gone on pilgrimage -
where are you, where, oh where?
Here, here is the Beloved!
Oh come now, come, oh come!
Your friend, he is your neighbor,
he is next to your wall -
You, erring in the desert -
what air of love is this?
If you'd see the Beloved's
form without any form -
You are the house, the master,
You are the Kaaba, you! . . .
Where is a bunch of roses,
if you would be this garden?
Where, one soul's pearly essence
when you're the Sea of God?
That's true - and yet your troubles
may turn to treasures rich -
How sad that you yourself veil
the treasure that is yours!
Every Leak In Our Being...
how i wish i could escape,
and you tell me,
you may if you want to
she is never a door
to you,
you are a window without
a lock
a glass that looks out
to a scenery of
green and misty mountains
on a perfect
sunny day
of this stable house
this unshaken
pillar
how i wish i could be out of this cage,
and you tell me,
it is the cage of your making
your mind is inventing every bar
you close
something that is beaming with
the openness of freedom
you have painted all the furniture
with the colors of the forest
the cabinets with the color of the sea
the living room has become a flowing river
and the dining table
a frozen sun
the chairs have become shells
singing emptiness
to the amber sky
the roof whispers for the stories
about stars
she says, what more do you wish?
shall you destroy this placement
of our universe
some more?
what more would you ask?
do you ask the
impossible? you are blowing the
sirens of the
absurd
cool it.stay calm, do not rush
the hours
they are sleepy
you wish to leave?
please do, but before that
please try wearing my shoes
and tell me
if this place is not worth keeping
if there are no explanations
still that can
fill every hole in your mind
every leak
of our being
every wasted hour that lies helpless
on the face of the clock....
be the salt of my earth
stay.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Watching Merapi Mt.(2930 m)
I arrange the words
in the form of lava and rocks
a temple manner to speeches
of forgotten wanderer
then bury your heart
mute your view
silent your voice
I did not write a single word
in a piece
of seismogram paper
beat the words
the ranks of the river dwell
the spirits of the ancestors
'Why nights
so
you are here? ' you asked
I stole the heavens opened
to canvas my rose manner
I gave the fire flower stalks
is the time
simply rocks
Pos Babadan,2001
poem by Imam Setiaji Ronoatmojo
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