Robert Graves

The Poet in the Nursery

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
In a dim library, just behind the chair
From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling
A song about some Lovers at a Fair,
Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling
That rhymes were beastly things and never there.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking
About the tragic poem I’d been writing,...
An old man’s life of beer and whisky drinking,
His years of kidnapping and wicked fighting;
And how at last, into a fever sinking,
Remorsefully he died, his bedclothes biting.

But suddenly I saw the bright green cover
Of a thin pretty book right down below;
I snatched it up and turned the pages over,
To find it full of poetry, and so
Put it down my neck with quick hands like a lover,
And turned to watch if the old man saw it go.

The book was full of funny muddling mazes,
Each rounded off into a lovely song,
And most extraordinary and monstrous phrases
Knotted with rhymes like a slave-driver’s thong.
And metre twisting like a chain of daisies
With great big splendid words a sentence long.

I took the book to bed with me and gloated,
Learning the lines that seemed to sound most grand;
So soon the pretty emerald green was coated
With jam and greasy marks from my hot hand,
While round the nursery for long months there floated
Wonderful words no one could understand.

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A Poet Became His Own Poetry

A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY

A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.

A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.

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A Journey Of A Poet

A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.

Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions

A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind

With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry

Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words

A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.

A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection

A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.

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Book Of Brilliant Things

Thank you for the voice, the eyes and the memories shine
Thank you for the pictures of living in the beautiful black and the white
Some say well be together for a very long time
Some say that our first impressions never will lie
I open up to take a look into the bright and shiny book
Into the open scheme of things
Book of brilliant things
Book of brilliant things
I open up to take a look into the bright and shiny book;
Into the open scheme of things
Book of brilliant things
Oh, book of brilliant things
I thank you for the shadows
It takes two or three to make company
I thank you for the lightning that shoots up and sparkles in the rain
Some say this could be the great divide
Some day some of them say that our hearts will beat
Like the wheels of the fast train, all around the world
I open up to take a look into the bright and shiny book
Into the open scheme of things
Book of brilliant things
Book of brilliant things
Some say we can be together for a very long time
Some say our hearts will beat like the wheels of a fast train
All around the world
All around the world
All around the world
Some say our hearts beat like the wheels of a fast train
All around the world
All around, all around, around, around
All around the world
Our hearts beat like the wheels of a fast train
A very long time
All around and all around and all around and all around the world
Some say well be together
Some say
A very long time, some of them will say
A very long time all around the world
Words & music : james kerr, charlie burchill, mel gaynor, derek forbes, michael macneil (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission

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I Am No Poet

A poet... oh i am? , says I,
Perhaps it's what you think
Just mixed up words of life I cry
Like someone on the brink

Mere words assembled in a row
From thoughts a few of many
labelled then a poet so
Though none worth but a penny

I speak as though my mind should find
My head in quite a spin
With rhymes and verse a peace I find
That life could ne'er begin

That label sticks and holds me back
A form I have to follow
A fear of literary attack
Can leave my words quite hollow

So cast me not as just a poet
Sense that i am fighting
I'm more than that and you should know it
That's why i keep writing..

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Six Words Long

This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
Couldn't think of any lyrics
No i never wrote the lyrics
So i'll just sing any old lyrics
That come to mind, child
You really need words
Whole lotta rhyming words
You gotta rhyme so many words, mm-mm
To do it, to do it, to do it, to do it
To do it, to do it right, child
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
I know that you're probably sore
'cause i didn't write any more
I just didn't get to complete it
So that's why i gotta repeat it
This song is just six words long (six words long)
This song is just six words long (six words long)
Oh i make a lotta money
They pay me a ton of money
They're payin' me plenty of money
To sing this song, child
I gotta fill time
Three minutes worth of time
Oh, how will i fill so much time, mm-mm
I'll throw in a solo, a solo, a solo
A solo, a solo here
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song is just six words long
This song's got nothin' to say
But i'm recording it anyway
I know if i put my mind to it
I know i could find a good rhyme here
Oh, you gotta have-a music
You need really catchy music
This song has got plenty of music
But just six words, child
And so i'll sing' em over
And over and over and over
And over and over and over, mm-mm
And over and over and over
And over and over and over again
Six words long, six words long
Six words long, six words long
Six words long, six words long
This song is just six words long
It's just six words long

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Some Silence, Some Words

Today somewhere a mirror broke
And a music of end splashed in the pages of time,
Someone lost his meanings in the broken mirror..
And an unending silence flowed
Many things happen silently, , ,
How the silent weeping of the lost meaning wander in the depth of the night, , ,
I unveil the sea of darkness...i find only silence
And the music of the end keeps on splashing around
Life is all about some silence and some words…
Far away a poet was looking for words, .
And a poem was seeking for its understanding, ,
for the heart where words dwell with meanings, ,
As long as they both were away everything was all right...
And when they met, , ,
the poet lamented on the end of words of the poem, , ,
and the poem on the unending silence of the poet, , , , ,
poems are not about understanding....
poet is not about words, , , ,

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Death Of An Unpopular Poet

By: jimmy buffett
1973
I once knew a poet
Who lived before his time
He and his dog spooner
Would listen while hed rhyme
Words to make ya happy
Words to make you cry
Then one day the poet suddenly did die
But he left behind a closet
Filled with verse and rhyme
And through some strange transaction
One was printed in the times
And everybodys searchin
For the king of undergound
Well they found him down in florida
With a tombstone for a crown
Everybody knows a line
From his book that cost four ninety-nine
I wonder if he knows hes doin
Quite this fine
cause his books are all best sellers
And his poems were turned to song
Had his brother on a talk show
Though they never got along
And now hes called immortal
Yes hes even taught in school
They say he used his talents
A most proficient tool
But he left all of his royalties
To spooner his ol hound
Growin old on steak and bacon
In a doghouse ten feet round
And everybody wonders
Did he really lose his mind
No he was just a poet who lived before his time
He was just a poet who lived before his time

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Picture Book

Picture yourself when youre getting old,
Sat by the fireside a-pondering on[? ].
Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago.
Picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other a long ago.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Picture book.
Picture book.
A picture of you in your birthday suit,
You sat in the sun on a hot afternoon.
Picture book, your mama and your papa, and fat old uncle charlie out cruising with their friends.
Picture book, a holiday in august, outside a bed and breakfast in sunny southend.
Picture book, when you were just a baby, those days when you were happy, a long time ago.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Na, na, na, na, na na.
Picture book.
Picture book.
Picture book.
Picture book.
Picture book,
Na, na, na, na na,
Na, na, na, na na,
A-scooby-dooby-doo.
Picture book,
Na, na, na, na na,
Na, na, na, na na,
A-scooby-dooby-doo.
Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa a long time ago.
Long time ago,
Long time ago,
Long time ago,
Long time ago,
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

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The Book Of My Life

Let me watch by the fire and remember my days
And it may be a trick of the firelight
But the flickering pages that trouble my sight
Is a book I'm afraid to write
It's the book of my days, it's the book of my life
And it's cut like a fruit on the blade of a knife
And it's all there to see as the section reveals
There's some sorrow in every life
If it reads like a puzzle, a wandering maze
Then I won't understand 'til the end of my days
I'm still forced to remember,
Remember the words of my life
There are promises broken and promises kept
Angry words that were spoken, when I should have wept
There's a chapter of secrets, and words to confess
If I lose everything that I possess
There's a chapter on loss and a ghost who won't die
There's a chapter on love where the ink's never dry
There are sentences served in a prison I built out of lies.
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
There's a chapter on fathers a chapter on sons
There are pages of conflicts that nobody won
And the battles you lost and your bitter defeat,
There's a page where we fail to meet
There are tales of good fortune that couldn't be planned
There's a chapter on god that I don't understand
There's a promise of Heaven and Hell but I'm damned if I see
Though the pages are numbered
I can't see where they lead
For the end is a mystery no-one can read
In the book of my life
Now the daylight's returning
And if one sentence is true
All these pages are burning
And all that's left is you
Though the pages are number

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Who says I'm a poet

Yes I write lines
And rhyme rhymes
I write puns
Simile alliteration
And all figures of speech
But who says I’m a poet

In some cases I write and scratch
Sometimes I think crack
Voice out loud dah
Making speeches like damn
Combining words
Building sentences
But who says I’m a poet

I maybe great and brave
Embracing grave
Like person reading a Braille
Showing how strong I dare
But still at night I stare
Thinking who says I’m a poet

I may speak with sticks
Throwing ink turned into voices
Beat with lips
To defend my choices
That might be pointless, thoughtless
Maybe fair-less
Because no one says I’m a poet

They say;
Self recommendation has no justification
Practice makes perfect
But I say;
If you can’t recommend yourself who will
Why practise if no one is perfect
Because I’M A POET I say

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World Poetry Day

In the starry darkness of the night sky
The inspired poet’s rhymes fly.
They are quietly dreaming to live in a book,
For everyone to see the poet’s outlook.
Poet’s stanzas freely fly as rhymed constellation,
Spreading the light of the poet’s inspiration.

So, today, on World Poetry Day, my congratulations
To all those who know the sense of trochee and pentameter,
Who would like to see our Earth as a safe shelter,
Who are married to the muse and are never confused
To write and to show, even in a gloomy day, the bright way.
I therefore wish to all the poets:
Do not lose your inspiration!
Lyric is your revelation!
Let the round dance of words
Live with you as a favor of Gods!
Express yourself for Humanity
In the moments of creativity.

©Larisa Rzhepishevska
The 21st of March,2011

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The poem that got away

I started a poem with a serious intent…
but who would ever guess the mess, and where that poem went?
I’d barely writ a line so fine, when the poem turned to me,
looked me in the eye and ear, and laughed demonic-lee,

pranced around me, singing, boo! you can’t catch me!
ain’t no rules nor grammar for the boldheart and the free!
race you round the chocabloc, poetic chairbound fatty!
you’re just like every pompous poet, thinking always that he

can control a poem with a life that’s its own!
tries to rhyme each couplet up, as if lines were circus clones…
tries to measure poems by some rules about their feet, or
wants to match my singing lines to some archaic meter…

’cause I’m a poem!
I’ve got my own life!
I want to dance around the streets,
I want to join a band!
I’ve got so much to tell you,
I want to lift your heart…
I want to make you weepy too,
If that’s the way I feel..
I want to talk to children,
or to live in fantasy;
I want to feel much bolder
than this sillybilly world,
quick and slick and fancy-free;
and sail past time and space;
or wonder what it could be like
before the world began…
I want to shuffle words around,
like books upon a shelf;
I want to be all bold and free –
I want to be – myself!

So boo to all your metered rhymes,
you faded, jaded poet…
poems are the masters now…
it’s much more fun,
it’s just begun…and
it’s time for you to know it! …

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Floral Poems of Delight

A famous poet and artist
~~Cicely Mary Barker~~
born in London eighteen ninety-five
died in London age seventy-eight
produced a very beautiful book
~~The Flower Fairies~~

Unable to attend school because
of ill-health, Cicely worked from
home, taught by a Governess...
A copy of this book was given to
me on my fifth birthday, and was
a first introduction to floral poems.
My young life was absorbed with
Flower Fairies...the Song of the
Poppy was my favourite. I recall
the words until this day. I am sure
that Cicely Mary Barker would be
delighted to see her Poppy Flower
poem brought to light after so
many years...and I quote:

The green wheat's a-growing
The lark sings on high
In scarlet silk a-glowing
Here stand I.

The wheat's turning yellow
Ripening for sheaves
I hear the little fellow
who scares the bird thieves.

Now the harvest's ended
The wheat fields are bare
But still red and splendid
I am there.
by C.M.Barker

Many thanks to the one and
only...the Late Poet and Artist
Cicely Mary Barker.

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A Poet To Be

A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.

I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.

I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.

I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.

But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.

I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.

I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.

I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.

A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.

I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.

I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.

It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.

A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.

But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.

How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.

As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.

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To God Give The Glory (Monchielle)

To God give the glory
Is a treasure to read
Christina R. Jussaume
Is great poet indeed
Her poems vanish gloom

To God give the glory
Her love for Christ is pure
It reflects thru poems
Her words are wise and kind
Uplifts the soul is true

To God give the glory
I'm glad I got a copy
You'll enjoy what you see
She writes witty and nice
Happy her book I read

To God give the glory
Poet tells some funny jokes
She writes of God and life
Of Christ and all she knows
Poet shares loves and strife


November 25,2009


Author's note:

'To God Give The Glory' is a wonderful
and very uplifting poetry book written by
the great poetess Christina R. Jussaume

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Green Book

My coat is black and the moon is yellow
Here is where I get off
As you can see for yourself old girl in the Green Book
I tango down to the smoky lobby
My eyes adjust to the light
The new cashier looks like Jill St. John
Can that be right?
I'm rolling into the bar at Joey's
They're getting ready to close
Here she comes very Kiss Me Deadly
My life, my love, my third hand rose
Flash ahead to a yummy playback
Just you and me in a room
Double dreaming a page at a time in the Green Book
The torso rocks and the eyes are keepers
Now where'd we sample those legs?
I'm thinking Marilyn 4.0 in the Green Book
I like the neon I love the music
Anachronistic but nice
The seamless segue from fun to fever
It's a sweet device
I'm so in love with this dirty city
This crazy grid of desire
The festive icons along the way
The boardwalk, the lovers, the house on fire
She's kind of cute but a little younger
She's got the mood and the moves
It's kinda scary to dig yourself in the Green Book

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Patrick Colum

He penned 'The Old Woman Of The Roads' and 'A Cradle Song'
And to Ireland's best lyricists he surely belong
And his haunting ballad 'She Moved Through The Fair'
With any song ever written is one to compare.

And though to the reaper the poet has long gone
His best poems and lyrics will always live on
He sure was a master of the wordsmith trade
Poets like him are born they cannot be made.

The name of Patrick Colum is a memorable name
Even in his own lifetime he did know great fame
The beauty in his verses is for all to see
A man of great talent who penned great poetry.

Many of his poems are good but his best poems are great
And with the best of Eire he is one to rate
And even in death his fan club does grow
Most lovers of poetry a song or poem of Colum's know.

A legend in death and in his own lifetime
Patrick Colum one who penned quite memorable rhyme
His wonderful gift with the World he did share
A poet of the people and his type are rare.

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Ibrahim II

You are better off today than yesterday,
But tomorrow comes and it will be worst off!
Oh Ibrahim my lover! ! This is how the world is,
And we have to face the realities around us at all times.

Of the water which was turned into blood!
Of the River Nile which was turned into frogs!
But, there is One Law for us all;
Yes, One Law for the native born and for the stranger.

The book of war!
The book peace,
The book of joy,
The book of love,
The book of romance,
The book of rivers;
And like the first moon of the year! !
However, all the rivers that flow ends up to the sea.

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What Would Shakespeare's Beloved Say?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Please do and let me have my say.

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
First time I hear this and tend to believe it

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
Your words do shake my heart a lot today.

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
I wish I could say something as great.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
How nice the words, how lovely the signs!

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
I wish these nice words were untrimmed.

And every fair from fair sometime declines,
And when we die our memories will be shrines.

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
How bright the day how beautiful and undimmed!

But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
For in your poetry I will be remade?

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st.
I'm happy to play your temperate host.

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
But we will die and our bodies fade.

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.
I will die and be covered with too much dust.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long my poet, because I shall not be

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
So long again, for thou will soon forget me.

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Book Of Life

Is my name written there on those pages bright and fair
Is my name written in the book of life
If you want to be up there then down here you must prepare
And your name must be in the book of life
Get down on your knees and pray you from sin must turn away
Or your name won't be in the book of life
If you'll turn to Jesus now at his feet just humbly bow
Then your name will be in the book of life
Don't you know that Christ was sent that from sin you could repent
So your name could be in the book of life
You will have a great surprise if you fell to recognize
That your name must be in the book of life
Get down on your knees and pray you from sin must turn away
Or your name won't be in the book of life
Don't delay and don't forget that from sin you could repent
Then your name will be in the book of life
Is my name written in the book of life

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