Bogus preface
Invited to speak about you
Or to write about your writing
I would praise, if fitting or not.
Preface to one’s work is a made up
20.07.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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No One Can Stop Us To Write
and they must know the reason why,
simple enough
we are writers and our essence is to write
for writing's sake
nothing aimed nothing gained nothing lost
we write because we are here
and we are here because we write
we write because if we do not
we no longer become ourselves
we lose our salt we become just like any
flesh, rotten, infected with bacteria
foul, and finally become just dust
on the corner of the road
we write and we keep on writing
because we are
we do not need the praise
or the condemnation
we do not need an audience
or an empty space
we write because we are
that is our essence and no one can stop us
except perhaps when the word is gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Learning language
Hear and hear to learn hearing.
Speak and speak to learn speaking.
Read and read to learn reading.
Write and write to learn writing.
They are four ways traffic.
04.02.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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Little Did I Know
Little did I know forty-two years ago
when I put pen to paper
after getting off a fairground ride
at sunset that day.
That what I was about to write
would be a crowning achievement
in my writing life.
That what I wrote would be read and used
in all the four corners of the world.
It would be used to compliment
photos, painting, and memorials
to those who had passed away.
A piece of writing
which would evoke so much in many.
For everyone who reads it
get their own impressions from within it.
Little did I know
more than any other of my work,
it would make my name.
Although I have written poems
for one reason or another
that have become favourites of mine,
Just Beyond The Sunset is a dream
and beyond that sunset
my dreams have come true
in a lot more ways than one.
For little did I know
what I was writing then.
21 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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When I Write About Giving Up Writing
WHEN I WRITE ABOUT GIVING UP WRITING
When I write about giving up writing,
I am not giving it up
I am instead trying to find another justification for continuing-
I am not giving up then-
If the whole effort is futile
If in the end it will mean nothing
If I despair of it even as I continue it
Still
I will not give up.
I cannot give up.
What else do I have, after all, except the writing?
After all these years of giving my life to it
What other work could ever mean so much?
Even if I fail in it
It is who I am
And what I can do.
I am writing again now
What else can I do?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What Will I Do Today And What Will I Do Tomorrow?
What will I do today and what will I do tomorrow
And what will I do for the rest of my life?
Write and write and write
Until I can no longer write –
And even if this writing is never known?
And even if this writing is wholly lost?
And even if this writing is not really worth very much?
And even if it is known only a little?
And even if others are highly critical of it?
And even if it seems vanity of vanity and only vanity?
Write and write and write
To the end of my life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A bolt will have a nut to fit.
We write, with a certain readers in mind.
The targeted audience determines
The tone and the contents of the writing.
The standard of writing might differs.
If a bolt is unfit to a certain nut,
It doesn’t mean it’ll be fit to none.
A horse has a taker; so does an ass.
I have no right to brand yours as bad.
06.11.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Speak With Kindness (Or Do Not Speak At All)
speak with kindness,
or do not speak at all.
speak not of judgement,
you are not the judge.
speak not of salvation,
let your living be your scriptures.
speak not of scriptures,
let your actions be your holy book.
speak not as apostle or teacher,
speak as a human being.
speak not of god,
then god will speak through you!
speak not as a man,
for you are woman too.
speak not with hateful malice,
for love does not work that way.
speak not as a prophet or seer,
speak as compassion made flesh.
speak not of morality,
speak of connection.
speak not of authority,
the tree and the leaf have just as much.
speak not of holiness,
for all that lives be holy.
speak with kindness...
or do not speak at all!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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For an unnamed teacher
You know that shot, in films and musicals
glamorising La Révolution Francaise:
a hundred metres away, just fitting into
the camera’s breadth of range,
a crowd which signifies rights withheld
advances on you (safe in bourgeois seat…) ,
led by a token handsome, flushed, tall
kerchiefed man or woman, centre-stage?
Today, that’s me – in upraised hand,
a Bill of Poets’ Rights… You said,
I’m told, that ‘if you were a poet,
you would just write praise…’
Do I detect a note
of implied criticism there? …
Did you not know, that every word that poets write
is praise? First, praise of the language that we use –
its glorious flexibility; praise of the chance to use it
at its height and breadth and depth,
freshly - as if it had never put before
this word with that, and made of it new thought
to lodge within your mind, and warm your heart,
to call from soul to soul, of what souls share…
Advancing on the camera, we shout,
if you don’t know this - that all that, is praise…
then you’re not ready for reading poetry, just yet…
‘For this we stand; for this we live; for this we’ll die’…
The photo-opportunity has come and gone;
the cameramen push back, drive to their editors;
the crowd disperses, glowing with its righteousness;
and leaves the world to darkness, and TV…
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Confined Spaces
I tend to write and I don’t know why
in confined spaces wherever I am.
My desk is filled with odds and sods
giving no more than
about six inches to write within.
Sometimes I write parked in my car
sitting behind the steering wheel.
Its not that I write better
sitting like a shrivelled up prune,
it is just that they are the only spaces
I can get my writing down.
In a confined space somewhere.
31 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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A World Of My Own
When I write I go into
a world of my own.
My concentration is so strong
the rest of the world around me
just doesn’t belong.
The rest of the world vanishes
when my writing takes control
and I slip into a world of my own.
I only see the writing in front of me
everything else gets ignored.
My hearing does not detect
the voices surrounding me
when I drift into
a world of my own.
It is as though I’m hypnotised
by the words that I write
and all else never matters
disappearing out of sight
whenever I enter into
a world of my own.
27 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Write
Write, keep writing lot
Write, write before you forget
Write, make it as reminder
Write, write before words disappear
Write, for you to contemplate
Write, write before your mind changed
poem by Maria Sudibyo
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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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I Write And Write And Write And Write
I WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE AND WRITE
I write and write and write and write
I write and write and write and write
I write.
And all this writing and all these words and all I am
Forever unheard.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric' (And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem)
I believe that if you can speak, you can write….,
So almost anyone can be a lyricist or a poet too…! ! !
Of course there’s talent involved…,
And some are blessed to have much more than others do….,
But if you can compose a letter, or hold a conversation….,
I feel you could write a song lyric or a poem….,
Now that doesn’t mean it’ll be top-notch….,
Or for that matter, even mediocre….,
But when you’re in a crowd or all alone….,
Try it…! ! !
Cause There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric….,
And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem…! ! !
poem by Trade Martin
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Whatevah
write
till it does not hurt anymore
write
till all the happy moments are consumed.
write
till all the aches are justified
write
till all your revenge is dissipated
write
till all angles are examined
write and keep on writing
till all of you is hidden, till all of you is folded back
write and keep on writing still
because you are your writer and there is no one who knows you well
except yourself, and what they know shall only be
skin deep
because you want it so,
you are the king in the jungle of your uncertainties
the Tarzan hitting his chest before Jane came and ruined it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Collage Collective Art
among us few poets
in our collective collage
it is always fitting
among such words
aspiring to beauty
fitting for me to say
'I love the lines
the way your hearts
and minds think'
it would be beautiful
to speak of our art
together with one mind
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Letter of Commiseration
“I’m writing to say.”
“I decided to write.”
I found beginning the difficult thing. (Remember not to commentate.)
How do I say I cried when I heard the news? That my body heaved with crashing sobs?
Some things words cannot contain. The need I felt to tell you that I hurt too. And instead
I work a polished screed of clichés and craft.
You will scan my words, wondering why I wrote at all. Why break my silence to say so little?
I picture myself stood apart from the mourners, wanting to be a witness to grief.
But I walk alone in Marble Hill Park and the flowers are funereal.
“Best wishes.”
“In my thoughts and prayers.”
“Condolences” (I ask you)
And the time it took to produce two sides of spidery writing.
I almost did not send it. I hoped the thought would count. Count for once.
It ought to have been an elegy, a song of praise.
But it was only an advertisement for my emotions.
“Hope you write soon.”
“Call me if you want to talk.”
poem by Patrick Rylands
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If Only The Hills And Trees Could Speak
if only the hill and trees could speak
it could have told you, how stupid and foolish have you been
waking up too early and doing all the things that others could have done for you
feeding the lazy ones, giving flowers to the uncaring, writing letters unanswered
loving much where they love you not, writing poems to cyberspace, thinking that
the stars too distant from you glisten to listen
and you speak to all these trees and hills that do not speak to you
and you write all these inanimate silence a letter: i know what love is and i keep on loving no matter what, for unlike you i am animated with love itself,
for love touches and speaks and cares and always wanting to be infinite.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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