Norms for the copy

I read a poem that reminded me
Of the one I have written earlier.
Could mine then be the copy of that one
Because it has been written earlier?
27.06.2005

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The Poem That Perhaps Never Should Have Been Written

THE POEM THAT PERHAPS NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

Not the poem of yesterday
Nor the poem of tomorrow
But the poem of today-
What gives life meaning now.
Not the poem as it is read
But the poem as it is written.
Not the certain poem
But the poem that does not know
If it truly is a poem.
The poem that gives hope only when it is written-
The lesser poem-
The poem that perhaps never should have been written.
The poem I am writing now,
Perhaps for myself alone
The lesser poem
The poem that perhaps should never have been at all.

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Temethos, Antiochian, A.D. 400

Lines written by young Temethos, madly in love.
The tile: 'Emonidis' -the favourite
of Antiochos Epiphanis; a very good-looking young man
from Samosata. But if the lines come out
ardent, full of feeling, it's because Emonidis
(belonging to another, much older time:
the 137th year of the Greek kingdom,
maybe a bit earlier) is in the poem
merely as a name -a suitable one nevertheless.
The poem gives voice to the love Temethos feels,
a beautiful kind of love, worthy of him.
We the initiated
his intimate friends- we the initiated
know about whom those lines were written.
The unsuspecting Antiochians read simply 'Emonidis'.

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This Is My Poem

This is my poem of ______. (date)
This is my poem, written by myself.
This is my first poem never written.
This is my last poem now to be written.
This is the poem I would have written
if I had lived yesterday what I lived today.

This is my poem changing white light
into gold-leaf
and blue into violet.

This is my poem like a heaven twisting
and turning inside of me
all night long.

This is my poem of opening a window
to show what was always inside.

This is my poem encompassing everything
hope can bestow or chance agree with.

This is my poem of open-ended freedom.

This is my poem breathing life into motion.

This is my poem written as I wrote it
a living being.

And this is my poem ending;
but only for today..

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Can A Poem Be Written

CAN A POEM BE WRITTEN

Can a Poem be written
In Anger Frustration Fear Disappointment?
Can it be written
In Failure?
Can a Poem be written
When no light shines
And the middle of the night is longer
Than life itself?

Can a Poem be written now
When old afraid sad angry foolish failure me
Cannot even dream?

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That studies have shown that more people are getting up earlier, they're getting their news earlier. They're getting less sleep, getting up at earlier hours.

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Every Poem That Is Not Written

EVERY POEM THAT IS NOT WRITTEN

Every poem that is not written
Sings another poem
That is not read.
And every poem that is not read
Waits in its own silence
Until
The Universe itself
Becomes Poetry
And God sings to us
As if we too
The poet and the poem
Were the singer and the song
Unknown.

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A Poem Can Be Written Anywhere, Anytime

A poem can be written anywhere, anytime-
A poem can be written too early in the morning
While waiting in Talpiot for ‘Rami Levi Supermarket’ to open-
It can be written in one’s head in a frozen Army barracks in Beit El
Or in a small room on Rav Berlin St on an old Smith- Corona
In the first happy years of one’s marriage-
It can be written for years from Haganah St. in French Hill
In the family years and the lonely ones
It can be written walking by the sea in Tel Aviv
With small children in hand-
It can be written on the same shore years later when one’s life has been broken
By Love’s desertion-
It can be written in old age on Rehov Shahal in Givat Mordechai
As one takes joy from the birth of one’s first grandchild-

A poem can be written anywhere anytime-

I have been writing my poems in Israel
For more than half a lifetime-

May those too
Who come after me
Read and Write Poetry here.

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Will The Poem Written Today/ Read Well Tomorrow?

WILL THE POEM WRITTEN TODAY/ READ WELL TOMORROW?

Will the poem written today
Read well tomorrow?
Will what seems so right now
Last beyond the time of its being said?

Or am I a poet of the present moment only
Who in the saying believes in what is said
And who fails in the long – term reflection?


What will remain of all my ‘presents’
And all those times of writing
And feeling it is true?

Years from now
Long after I will be able to read any poem

Will these lines mean anything
To anyone?

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I don't think I could have written what I did any earlier.

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A Poem Can Be Written In Five Minutes

A POEM CAN BE WRITTEN IN FIVE MINUTES

A poem can be written in five minutes-
But what kind of a poem?
A true poem takes forever to read-
And who knows how long to write?

I

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The Poem Tired Of Being Written Of Itself

THE POEM TIRED OF BEING WRITTEN OF ITSELF


The poem tired of being written of itself
It wanted other worlds and more distant beauty
It wanted the inspiration that ordinary life gives
It wanted too a language beyond what simple words could mean
But the poem could not be more than it was
It fell back upon itself
It was lost in its own lonely being
The poem stayed forever a poem about itself
And when no one read it
The poem had only itself to blame.

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A Poem To Be Heard

A poem to be held

a poem to be fed, with words stronger than the ancient

spirits.

Ti's a poem to be read by all.

A poem that beats the heat of temptation away.

It's power in every single word attracts the moonlight.

A poem, a light in the dark wilderness.

A poem that is just needed and leaves the audience

speechless.

A poem that comforts a sad soul.

Read to me a poem

when I'm cold.

Read it to me till I'm old.

When I'm heart broken, a poem, a love, I'd want.

A poem, a victory through lives endless battle.

A poem an epistle to mine heart, and every written word

in it is heard.

A poem, about royalty, about Kings and Queens

and how they live in luxury.

A poem, a song about sweet heavens.

Read me a poem and slow my heart beat down.

A poem with a tasty flavor, I'd want to hear.

Read me a poem that explains how Nelson Mandela

conquered his fears.

A poem that can describe how Martin Luther Kings

felt when he fought for freedom.

I long to hear it,

Therefor read me a poem,

to be heard.

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There Was a Poem Written Long Ago

There was a poem
Written long ago
A quiet poem
I cannot read it now
I will not write it again-

A quiet poem
We wrote
That went deep
Into my soul
And made it know
That life
Is forever good and beautiful-

A quiet poem
that will never be written
for me
again.

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Nothing..

This poem is not about love..
This poem is not about pain..
This poem is not about the things i have learned...

This poem is not for the broken hearted..
This poem is not for the ones seeking help..
This poem is not for the depressed...
This poem is for no one,
Because no one can contain nothing...

This poem is not filled with wisdom..
This poem was not written with love...
This poem was not written for a lover nor a brother...

This poem was nothing special...
Not quite remarkable....
But it is nothing because that what it was...
Nothing and it will never be anything...

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A Poem Can Be Written Too Early

A POEM CAN BE WRITTEN SO EARLY

A poem can be written so early
That even the morning light
Won’t see it.

A poem can be written too soon.

A poem can be written before it exists
And so never be
Despite the fact that it is.

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This Poem Should Have Been Written Long Ago By Someone Else

This poem should have been written long ago by someone else
They should have said what needs to be said
Clearly and yet beautifully
They should have known what to do with their words and their intimations -
But instead I old I tired old I I with the I I I always I’ing
Have to write it again-
This poem should have been written by someone else
The way I was when I was young
But even then probably it should have been written by someone else
Younger happier stronger wiser more courageous able to give and inspire others to love life more and make it more good and more beautiful
A real poet a great poet should have written this poem
And then it would be one
Even I would try not to forget.

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The Last Poem Was Written Again And Again

THE LAST POEM WAS WRITTEN AGAIN AND AGAIN

The last poem was written again and again
It said ‘All the poems have been written. There is no new poem to write.’
Writing it again now
I wonder how I dare demand the attention
Of any possible reader.

Aren’t they all as fed up with me
As I sometimes am with myself?

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The Poem About The Poem About The Poem

THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM ABOUT THE POEM

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written in dream
And forgotten in sleep
Comes back to me slowly now
As if it had been away on a long long journey
And is reluctant to come home-

I write it
But it really writes me
And when I try to make sense of what it means
It tells me its ambiguities
Are more important and interesting
Than my clarity-

The poem about the poem about the poem
Written now
May not be a poem about a poem about a poem at all
But may merely be my own playing with words
Which take the place in my life
Of really living-

A poem about a poem about a poem?
Surely this is a mysterious thing
If it exists at all.

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The Poem That Is About To Be Written

THE POEM THAT IS ABOUT TO BE WRITTEN

The poem that is about to be written
Will form itself slowly,
Line by line,
Will make of itself a meaning
It does not know.
Will be beyond
All that it could have thought to be – beforehand.
The poem that is being written
Has no name,
No face,
No beauty,
No light,
It is just the poem that is coming to be in the silence,
Where I am alone with my own Seeming.

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For a Lost Poem

Dedicated to the poem 'Moon Light' that was written a few years back.

For a Lost Poem
A poem written long ago –
disappeared on the face of the earth
as if it never existed – but somewhere
beyond this skyline it did;
where the moon sits, and shines its light –
this poem has been erased from history,
from where it was put into storage.

Oh poem, I feel a loss for you!
Where have you gone? Oh where have you gone?
Moon Light, once many people read,
and praised me for such delicacy,
now she is gone too.

As if death has to come with:
the darkening sky, oh ye poem –
ye selfless poem come back and
let the light shine upon you.
A poem has gone, but where?

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