Men at war
Critics of him wrote volumes more
Than what W. Shakespeare himself wrote.
So did in miles more, preachers of Geeta,
Than Sage Vyasa himself narrated.
Men lost their head on women much more
Than Creator intended them to.
Men at war, woman the cause.
17.05.99, Palakkad
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Related quotes
Shakespeare Wrote A Poetry
SHAKESPEARE WROTE A POETRY
Once upon a time
Long before I read
Shakespeare wrote a poetry
No one shall see
The like of again.
We small soundmaking fools
Utter our deepest utterances
As if they were the stars-
But the stars the true stars
What Shakespeare wrote and knew
We cannot touch
Or come near
Not even in our greatest words unseen.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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No More
I wrote my name on the seashore
The waves came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the air
The wind came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the sky
The clouds came and it was no more
I wrote my name in the puddles
The sun came and it was no more
i wrote my name in the dust
The rain came and it was no more
One day Gabriel wrote my name
and alas! i was no more
poem by Humna Hamid
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Lost poem
It was on this page, then gone
Like feathers blowing in the wind.
Where is the prose I wrote?
Not a letter is in sight.
I am looking with all my might.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?
Today I wrote a new poem,
Was it lost in cyberspace?
I hope not for I might not know it,
Even staring at me in the face.
Give me a break, my memories are at stake.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?
Legends, Elegies, Pleasures And Norma Jean
The man who wrote Legends of the Fall
Wrote; 'Don't fall in love as if fallin' off a dock at night'
But when you are struck by the thunderbolt
How do you not fall?
The man who wrote the Duino Elegies
Wrote; 'Beauty is only the start of bearable terror'
But to be stuck without beauty
Is unbearable
The woman formerly know as Norma Jean
Wrote; 'I know from life one cannot love another'
I know what she meant, but to love you
How can I not?
The man who wrote The Pleasures of Hope
Wrote; 'How hard it is to find the one just suited to our mind! '
But it is just a little too easy to find one
Who is ill suited
From Legends, Elegies, Pleasures and Norma Jean
What they wrote is unforgettable
And that is what you are muse, though near or far
In every way
poem by MacGregor Tagliaferro
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If you are feeling something, then Shakespeare felt it and wrote about it - and wrote about it so eloquently.
quote by Richard McCabe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Linda Song
Music: Barry Manilow
Lyrics: Enoch Anderson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He never wrote a song for Linda
He wrote as though he lived alone
He wrote of dreams that end
And of sad brave men
Inventing worlds he'd never known
But he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
Loved him back to life
When his luck ran low
But he never wrote a Linda song
He nearly broke his heart at writing
Linda kept him from despair
Standin' by his side
through the hungry days
But he hardly seemed to see her there
And he never wrote a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
The one real thing in his crazy world
And he never wrote a Linda song.
When the bills piled up
He couldn't pay
He couldn't dream no more
So he hitched a ride and he rode away
And he left a note for Linda by the door
By the door
When times got rough he'd phone her
Once or twice she took the call
Then she changed her number and she turned her head
And Linda never looked back at all
He'll never write a song for Linda
And she was right there all along
All he knows is no one understands
And he never wrote a Linda song
No he never wrote a Linda song
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once Upon A Time
ONCE UPON A TIME
Once upon a time
Long before I read
Shakespeare wrote a poetry
No one shall see
The like of again.
We small soundmaking fools
Utter our deepest utterances
As if they were the stars-
But the stars the true stars
What Shakespeare wrote and knew
We cannot touch
Or come near
Not even in our greatest words unseen.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It is not half cooked
Having heard and read, I wrote.
Having seen and felt, I wrote.
I wrote of love and romance
From experience and perception.
As I wrote I was soothed.
Don’t scorn my writings as half cooked.
10.10.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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His Booklover
and so it came to pass
that his book lover
that he loves so much
skipped the book that he wrote
in years,
feeling dejected
he wrote another one
intended for the one
who is willing
to have him.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The itching truths are ignored
Poets wrote volumes
About flowers and blossoms
But were mute in their praise
For fruits and seeds,
Which give more charm.
Poets wrote reams
About the spring and its warmth
But did rare in their concern
For the summer and its dampness,
Which touches deeper senses.
Poets wrote tonnes
About the beauties of spinsters
But were silent to picture
Beauties of wives and mothers,
Who display more lustre.
They dare not write the real
That are itching to readers
00.04.97, Agartala
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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In The Day's When We Are Dead
Listen! The end draws nearer,
Nearer the morning—or night—
And I see with a vision clearer
That the beginning was right!
These shall be words to remember
When all has been done and said,
And my fame is a dying ember
In the days when I am dead.
Listen! We wrote in sorrow,
And we wrote by candle light;
We took no heed of the morrow,
And I think that we were right—
(To-morrow, but not the day after,
And I think that we were right).
We wrote of a world that was human
And we wrote of blood that was red,
For a child, or a man, or a woman—
Remember when we are dead.
Listen! We wrote not for money,
And listen! We wrote not for fame—
We wrote for the milk and the honey
Of Kindness, and not for a name.
We paused not, nor faltered for any,
Though many fell back where we led;
We wrote of the few for the many—
Remember when we are dead.
We suffered as few men suffer,
Yet laughed as few men laugh;
We grin as the road grows rougher,
And a bitterer cup we quaff.
We lived for Right and for Laughter,
And we fought for a Nation ahead—
Remember it, friends, hereafter,
In the years when I am dead—
For to-morrow and not the day after,
For ourselves, and a Nation ahead.
poem by Henry Lawson
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I Weep I Weep - For The Lost Poem!
I weep I weep - for the lost poem!
I wrote it in the night
I wrote it in despair
When to my beating mind
There was no light.
I lament for the lost poem!
Was it torn? If no, where lies it?
I wrote it in despair
And now like a lost sheep
I fetch it.
How time passes!
How the black hair
To more graying hair
Will turn!
And in the meantime
My poem my lost poem
I rue.
poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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All She Wrote
Something's wrong with your mind
It won't think of me anymore
Was it all a waste of time
Tell me why was I such a chore
Broken glass lies empty
Cut my voice so I can't say
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Lying here in your bed
The one that you liked to do it in
Pieces of long brown hair
Are all over it and still in my brain
I can't explain
What it's like not knowing if I'll ever cross your mind
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Sleep through the day
Fight with the night
Seven a.m. and the tv is white
Covered in snow
I never knew that hell could get so cold
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Today was that day
It was that time
And that was all that she wrote for me
You fell away
I don't know why
And that was all that she wrote for me
Something's wrong with your mind
It won't think of me anymore
Was it all a waste of time
song performed by by Default
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Was Nothing Left To Write
THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO WRITE
There was nothing left to write
Everything had already been written
And was being written over again and again
By thousands elsewhere-
There was nothing left to write
And nothing new to say -
And no need for anything he had to give-
It was over for him as a writer
Whether he accepted it or not-
No one would ever need or want anything he could do again-
And so when he despite all this still wrote
It seemed to many simply pathetic-
The obsessive reflex of an already lost soul-
Who wrote and wrote and wrote
Who writes and writes and writes
Who cannot stop
However senseless all he does, is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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They Call It Gentle and Smile
The Sun wrote a poem
That is morning
The Moon wrote a poem
That is evening
I wrote a poem
That is love
You wrote a poem on your lips
They fondly call it gentle and smile
poem by Kavin Charalan
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I was asked by a group to write a song on the theme of brotherhood. This was before women's liberation, when brotherhood meant men and women both, so I wrote the song. Since I had always been very fond of the Passion Chorale, I wrote words to that great piece.
quote by Tom Glazer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My sense of a poem - my notion of how you revise - is: you get yourself into a state where what you are intensely conscious of is not why you wrote it or how you wrote it, but what you wrote.
quote by Philip Levine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I wrote The Same Sea not as a political allegory about Israelis and Palestinians. I wrote it about something much more gutsy and immediate. I wrote it as a piece of chamber music.
Dear John
(vocals by john prine)
When i woke up this morning
There was a note upon my door
Saying " don't make me no coffee, babe
Cause i won't be back no more"
And that's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
Now jonah got along in the belly of a whale
Daniel in the lion's den
I know a guy that didn't try to get along
And he won't get a chance again
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
She didn't forward no address
No she never said goodbye
All she said was "if you get blue
Just hang your little head and cry"
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
Now my gal's short and stubby
She's mean as she can be
If that little old gal of mine
Ever gets a hold of me
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i fetched your saddle home"
Went down to the bank this morning
The cashier said with a grin
I'm sorry for you little john
But your wife has done been in
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home"
That's all she wrote
"dear john", i sent your saddle home
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Words and Messages
It started with a word
You wrote it to me
Began an inspired read
Gave to the night poetry
And the beauty found
A reflection of you
A line penned from the heart
Speaks volumes in itself
Quiet little words
Paint a new vibrant world
Unfamiliar and beautiful
And then it’s the same
As though known before
You wrote it to me
A single line began it all
Words and messages
You had me at hello
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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