I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
quote by Virginia Woolf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.
quote by Virginia Woolf
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Signing Off
Signing off
Signing off
Does it surprize you
I wont need your lips anymore
Signing off
Cant idolize you
My heart crossed your name off the door
Signing off
Now that Ive told you
That this is just where I came in
Signing off
Why should I hold you
Youve already said I cant win
Its strange how the rest of the world knows
The things you should see at a glance
And I want what all of the world knows
A person to person romance
Signing off
I cant pretend dear
My trip to the stars took a spill
Were all through
This is the ending
Because you only wanted a thrill
Im signing off
Ill always remember the pleasure
Of friendship and all that its worth
I know that its something to treasure
>from here to the ends of the earth
Signing off
Happy I met you
So please make me happy again
And be sure I wont forget you
The best of everything until then
Im signing off
Signing off
Transcribed by amber
song performed by by Ella Fitzgerald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She And He
To be a woman is to be silent and sure
To know, to be secure,
Not just about oneself but about the world,
About what's good and what's bad,
What to hold and what to void.
To be a woman is to be strong,
Not by becoming strong, not by acquiring strength:
To be a woman is to be strength itself.
To be a woman is not to speculate,
Not to know separation from the self,
Not to know death.
To be a woman is to find one's depth within oneself.
To be a woman is never to venture,
Never to stray, never to search,
But to have, as natural right,
Dominion over the earth.
To be a woman is to hold sway,
To be a woman is to be the source.
To be a man is to seek, to venture, to define-
And to find one's annihilation in woman.
[From The Serene Flame]
poem by Makarand Paranjape
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Was It You Who Wrote Some Poems?
it happens in a crowd
or a party or a reunion
to be exact and short of
any dialogue
you ask,
was it you
who wrote some
poems?
and i say
yes
and i ask why?
and you say
oh i like every poem
there
and i ask
which ones?
the one about love
or passion
or compassion
or was it the poem
that hurts
and makes
one feel the
urge to kill oneself?
and you say
i like the
sad ones
those that
make me cry
and think
of my broken heart
and i say
i never wrote
sad poems
and you say
you swear
i have read
the sad ones
and i really cried
alone
and i say,
i never wrote
them
they write themselves
and i do not really cry anymore
and you say
really?
and i say: i am numb.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Hate Anon
Anon
sends poems
and they are published
everywhere
I submit poems
and am lucky
to receive
a scathing
reply.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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I Forgot The Poem I Wrote Today
I FORGOT THE POEM I WROTE TODAY
I forgot the poem I wrote today
I forgot the poem I wrote yesterday
I have forgotten all my poems-
No one rereads my poems
I do not reread them-
They will all be forgotten-
O Poems O World-
Will we ever know
What God Remembers?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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
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If I were a bard
If I were a young Bard.
I wrote my first poem when I was about 13.I was taking a short cut home
when I saw a woman washing her herself by the fire place, few people in
those days had a bathroom. I was so enthralled by this that I wrote a poem.
My older brother found it, gave my ode to my mother, who said I was a pig.
This shocked me so much that I never wrote another poem before I was fifty
one. But all the poems I didn’t write came tumbling out it was like they had
been filed in my head waiting for me to pick up a pen. This particular well is
empty, the poems I write now are contemporary. I have a collection of
verses, edited by a friend of mine “The Tasmanian Tiger” when settlers came
to Tasmania they eradicated that animal, it will never come back and that
saddens me deeply. In Norway we very nearly killed off the wolf, my inner
ear can hear them, in a snowbound dale them when the moon is full and
I too can howl to a mythical past; a longing for harmony in a cruel world.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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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
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I Wrote A Poem I Loved
I WROTE A POEM I LOVED
I wrote a poem I loved
But I could not rest content with it.
I had to write another poem,
And another poem.
And in the writing of other poems,
Some of which I also loved.
I lost the poem I loved.
Essentially I am a writer of poems
And not their possessor.
I possess many poems of others,
But somehow mine, I cannot.
However I love them
Perhaps I really believe
None of them good enough
To be worthy of such love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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George Crabbe Wrote Of
George Crabbe wrote of hardship and poverty and woe
In the England he lived in a long time ago
But perhaps his poems might be more popular today
Had he looked at life in a less truthful way.
George Crabbe wrote of children in dire poverty
The poor sad victims of Human cruelty
And the poems full of pathos and the poems full of truth
Of a poet who was blessed with the great gift of ruth.
He wrote of human cruelty to their own kind
A God in the soul of such a person you'll find
He did not write of mythological figures or monarch or squire
He wrote for the poor his type I do admire.
Of the poverty around him he was all too aware
But poets like George Crabbe they have always been rare
Though if you feel a bit down and a good laugh you do need
His poems lacking in Humor are not for you to read.
Of the poor souls of England George Crabbe did write
His poems not hard to understand or to read or recite
And though as a person and poet he was great
Such poets the masses never do celebrate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I wrote those poems for myself, as a way of being a soldier here in this country. I didn't know the poems would travel. I didn't go to Lebanon until two years ago, but people told me that many Arabs had memorized these poems and translated them into Arabic.
quote by June Jordan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poet Prince
By day he wore a royal crown.
By night we wrote his poems down.
He wrote of justice, love and peace,
A future time when wars would cease.
Through vision, dream and prophecy
He wrote of wonders yet to be.
In time, his poems filled his room:
The left side joy, the right side gloom.
For life is both the sweet and sour,
And weakness till the time of power.
A prince must think such matters through,
To seek a sovereign point of view.
And so, while lesser mortals slept,
The prince, through poems, wisdom kept.
By day, by night he persevered
With revelations that appeared.
God said, 'Forget your crown of gold.
The world is ready to be told.'
The prince removed his crown that day
And as God's servant walked away...
poem by Denis Martindale
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My brother used to say that I wrote faster than he could read. He wrote two books - of poems - better than all mine put together.
quote by Laurence Housman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
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I Waited Outside The World Of Wonder
I waited inside the world of wonder
The poems were coming to me night and day-
I knew I had a vocation at last
So I gave myself into it-
Year after year
For years I wrote poems
They came in and out of me
Like breathing
And I found them wherever I looked and walked
And took them home and wrote them down
And they became my song and my me and my life and my joy
And oh what a wonder it was to be simply to be
Writing them down-
And now writing this one down after so many years
I too still sing and wonder why God has been so good to me
And given me so much I simply love.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Let Me Publish Our Love
Poets wrote love poems,
Which were love letters,
To their lofty queens;
Save queens, all have read.
I wrote love letters
In the form of poems
To my hefty queen;
Save others, she’s read.
Love has no charm when
The queen alone knows,
Also when others
Know but not the queen.
She must know my love;
My friends must know it.
Let me publish those
That I wrote of her.
(02.06.2011)
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Three Dog Night
Chuck Negron
who I did meet
is really sincere
and really sweet.
I told him I wrote
'Poems of
Inspiration
and Recovery'
People who
read them
can feel
better with discovery.
My poems have
words in them
like the word
“pray”.
These poems
where on
display
in Hazelden Ctr.
that very
same day.
Now he did
sign my book
writing to my
alias Suzae.
The book he
wrote is
“Three Dog Nightmare”.
describing
his life which
is almost like
one of Razel’s
“Frightmares”
It’s about
his drug
addiction
& his word
of hope,
for anyone
addicted to
or strung out on dope.
Now buy it on
Amazon or at
your local bookstore,
it’s worth every penny
and then some more.
Written on April 2nd 2011 by Christina Sunrise
www.christinasunrise.com www.purplepoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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I Wrote Many New Poems Now Long Forgotten
I WROTE MANY POEMS NOW LONG FORGOTTEN
I wrote many poems now long forgotten
Why do I believe any poem I will write now
Or in the future
Is better than them?
I am a man lost in the world of his own words
And the only way out I know
Is writing more words
Which too are added on
To the unending pile of the forgotten.
Tell me where this poem too will be
When I am in the ground?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Almost Made Up Poem
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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