Trying Hard
i
I am not a poet, I'm certainly not
I am not like Denise Bekker, though she is my type.
Definitely, I can't be like Dr. Subhendu Kar
a brilliant writer full of love.
But I dream to be like Hasmukh Amathalal
Whose works for me are all five stars
I can't be like them, I'm just a copy cat.
ii
Who am I to be a poet?
I could do no brilliant pieces
English and writing are my weaknesses.
The truth is, with English I've never been clever
I rather close my mouth, lending an ear is better
Than to open my lips and be laughed by many
Is it not so funny? I am no one, but to dream is free.
iii
How can I create a better piece?
Most of the time I run out of words and I can't think
Of flowery words and metaphors that fit.
I just have simple lines, no simile, no idioms in it.
No, I was not born and aged to be like this
When it comes to writing I am nobody, I can accept this.
iv
I can only write out of boredom and loneliness
Seeking for something to sharpen my brain
Or I am just looking for someone to share
Just like Denise Bekker who send me message first
Though my works are simple and full of errors
I feel so delight, she praises me, I must thank her so.
v
I'm aware people has individual core gifts
They have their own area in which they're good at it.
But what's wrong in trying even if I'm in misery?
Hahaha, just give me chance please
Dr. Subhendu, I beg of you if I insist
Hasmukh Amathalal, tell me if I shall have to quit.
poem by Rose de Ramar
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Related quotes
Unaware of the fact
I am totally unaware of the fact
As why it has deserted me to act
Why no words are pouring in as it used to be?
Why do I feel so helpless and not free?
Yes it is God gift to have grip on writing
No reason can be advanced for sighting
Everything is just before the eyes
One may not depict correctly even if he tries
Of course they may be deeply lying in corner
It has to come out later or sooner
But it has got no use if untimely composed
It will be simply rejected and totally disposed
Words can’t flow until it has free message
Water can not flow in river until has the passage
The well has enough of water in the belt below
It will remain there as it is and not allow
As the fingers move on the head in hair rings
It may generate melody and words may try to sing
It will send pulses to and fro and resonance may start
Align all activities in one action with live active part
As the earth has become barren
It may need fall of rain even
Dry words may find new energy in roots
The greenery may come up for good scenes to put up
Find it not hard to come out the songs
They may come at right time and not at wrong
Your heart and mind may keenly exchange
It will have good synchronization and able to manage
It will have full sweetness and melancholy
The depth of it may be felt and enjoyed wholly
Let artificial things cover as pure illusion
Poetry may flow with natural tune without any confusion
Poems are not just free flow of words
They are holy words spoken by lords
Not everybody can pick it with intensity
Only good poet may find its full use and utility
It may face temporary setback sometimes
It has too some lean and bad times
It may loose sometimes rhythms and tunes
The creator (poet) should not worry over it and fume
Give it a full justice to come out with some reason
Nature too functions well with every season
How the flowers boom in different colors?
The spring has quality to offer more flavors
Don’t be upset if some time the door is locked
Don’t lament if it doesn’t come up and try to click
It will find its way when cuckoo breaks morning silence
Your mind will be fresh and free from being tense
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I am not a poet
They say I am not a poet,
I, too, think so,
I am not a poet,
For I dare not turn the truth,
Into falsehood,
Or vise-versa,
I refrain myself from decorating
my verses with words and phrases,
To create sensation.
I call spade a spade,
In the simplest term
I may not be a poet,
But am aware of,
The mysteries of love,
I may not be a poet, But know how to detect,
Imitations in emotions.
I am aware of,
The cavity the society bears,
The thriving double standards,
The artificial claims of love,
I know I am not a poet,
I prefer to remain a simple person, Without being obsequious,
I can accomplish my task,
I just say what I feel,
So what if they do not send
Their inspiring comments,
So what if they take my request for flattery,
I would go on expressing my feelings,
Whether they like it or not
For I am not a poet at all.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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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.
poem by Adam McKim
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I read another poet I could not understand
I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND
I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.
And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.
But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?
Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-
Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poem Came To Me
THIS POEM CAME TO ME
This poem came to me
After I had woken.
It came slowly
It came in simple words
It came without knowing beforehand
What it was and how it should be.
This poem came to me
As I wrote again
To myself and for myself
The simple truth
That far away
There is someone else
Who is a real writer
And a true poet.
While I grope my way through my life
Wondering
How I have given so much time to Writing
And never really done it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Closely guarded
It is closely guarded secret
Thought should not be allowed to let
At improper time and place be
At what ever the case may be
I would not claim it to be God gift
You made little change and shift
You are now on some other plot
The mind is occupied with slot
Here it can be termed as unusual
This can not be developed as casual
It requires tremendous skill and grip
The writing must cut through and make others weep
The mind gives away only when you think of generosity
This is one of the most desired qualities
A poet must feel at heart and his pen must shake
The moment he feels that his thoughts are fake
I weep at the plight of the poor farmers
They are our guardians and real charmers
What we are today is really a recognized gesture?
He is there for us to offer a secure future
My pen shape the words in anticipation
As it has feelings and direct relation
I feel at the close of their hearts
What a lovely belonging through my writing art!
How can I stop any one from gaining access?
How can I show displeasure and other lines on the face?
What would they bring with them for me?
I have thought over it and made them feel free
I feel every beat of their feelings
Their plight and agony is certainly killing
I owe my existence and piece of bread
How can I fail them for their emotions to read?
If at all I have to weep for their cause
It will be purely for their humble guess
One day someone may write and understand the plight
Give whatever is due to them without any struggle or fight
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Srivastav
Electric,
Fornsic,
Genetic;
I know that you are very brilliant and,
I need your muse!
And like the sweet muse of your love.
The serpent,
Carried away!
But, the earth opened her mouth and swallowed the flood;
And the inhabitants didi watch.
Your love is so delicious to me!
Your act is so sweet to me,
Your muse is so lovely to me,
But, i am Srivastav with the muse of love;
And, i have some jobs for you to take care of.
So nice and so delicious! !
My works,
My words,
Your works,
Your words,
His works,
His words,
Her works,
Her words;
And like the sweet muse of love!
But the new ones are like a welcome message to you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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I Am More A Poet
I AM MORE A POET THAN ANY OTHER KIND OF WRITER
I am more a poet than any other kind of writer-
But I am not a pure poet -
And not the best of what a poet could be-
I 'think' in my poetry
And it tells me what I dream and feel-
It is my soul-
God made me a poet
Perhaps not a good one as I would have liked to be-
It is so wonderful to be able to write these lines now
After long long hours of difficult silence.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Tried To Shackle My Words
A poet tried to shackle my words,
as if from every poem
the message was stripped,
as if nowhere there was any mastery
of rhythm and sound to be found
as if I had sold my soul
to masses of people reading my verses,
as if I live in disrespect
to the expertise that a great poet
displays in his work
as if every line of mine
was just a wild cacophony
that I had flung together
in a utter hurry
to shower down on crowds of people.
Yet I while I swam against a tempest sea,
sticking to the truth and integrity,
trying to find answers to life’s mysteries
and problems
trying to expose injustice and oppression
there was boasting about a elitis clique
that totally excludes me
but they were going along the path
of political correctness and maybe indifference,
being far too scared to ruffle some feathers,
writing verses sixty times over and over
before they were becoming poems somehow,
before their words were catching some magic
believing that a great poem,
is like a jigsaw puzzle,
that you have got to unravel
with a dictionary,
where simple words can fuse together
with a own type of magic,
lacking in the ability
to find poetry in ordinary things,
to create poetry in lines
that by themselves fuses together
to create something great
but my words kept on coming,
falling into lines,
as if designed by a divine presence
and by themselves fused
into much deeper meaning
than I could find with my own abilities.
poem by Gert Strydom
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A Poet Of Our Time
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Poet Of Our
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A run out player
That precious time may run out
It may result in complete route
Still so much is left in store
All my works to be admired and adored
I have love for rhyme
Synchronies it with space and time
I shall prefer only sunny side
The horizon is open and wide
Let me what I am
Not to be decided by them
I shall rule the hearts of people
My creation will always tell
It may echo all over
All areas to cover
The spreading of good message
Smooth sailing with clear passage
They are simple words
It has blessings from the lords
They have come as it has to
Each word is clear and true
Who shall come forward and say?
What preference I should have in way?
I shall sing in the way I could
It is always for me thought for food
I have openly advocated
In thoughts also not sugar coated
It is through clear vision and sight
I had seen the path with light
Not all may agree
They are all free
The flowers may boom in spring
Birds and bees may silently sing
It shall ring with music
It may be life time music
I shall vow to come back again
The lost position and pride to regain
I shall watch from distance
Eyes may close at once
Some one may ring in ear
I would love some words to hear
In no time I shall be no more
The poems may remain forever
At some stage they open the page
I shall then come out of the cage
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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I could have done other useful things than writing a poem
Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,
What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips
I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me
Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers
I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers
Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem
This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?
When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem
Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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See what you like
There should never be "what" and "if"
We are only green leaf or leaves
Hear what we feel an act as not deaf
Feel to the pulse and say very brief
Love is to care
Love is to dare
Love is to be fare
Spread the fragrance in the air
Eyes may speak
But legs may feel weak
You may know it well
I have nothing more to tell
I loved it all
Waited for your sweet call
You were there in my dream
I always longed for you to swim
I lack the words
But look always forward
I feel warmth and her gentle touch
I never knew love will be as such
I missed her not for the beauty
But I considered it as my duty
Love demands sacrifice
Not words but with full promises
She may be far and away
But I see in her clear way
She guides me from the distance
What a luck and beautiful golden chance!
I may hold her whenever time comes
Offer all praises and heartily welcome
She may be for me and forever
I shall not doubt it any more
Not all people may be lucky
Whatever they want and get it easy
I must be thankful to her and almighty
Who have blessed me with such a fine beauty?
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Writing Frustrations I've Known
-It would seem, I've run out of words.
Nothing left to say.
I have lost my inner voice.
It's gone, completely astray.
Perhaps I should lay down pen and pad.
Never more write a rhyme.
On this poetry that I love
I shall spend no further time.
... not that I was ever truly a poet anyway
... it's just that, well, I did love it so;
... still, it feels the well is dry
... time to just let it go.
- So now, what of me shall be
Feeling empty in heart and head?
What purpose-without a word-shall be heard
With no way to express both hope and dread?
Where have the words gone
Must they ever stay away?
Who has taken my spirit's song
Why has the music of my soul nothing more to say?
... I try... seems of no use...
My mind torn asunder, literary abuse.
(this next part wrote a couple months later)
Listen, what do I hear?
Something is knocking at my gate!
A few months later now
But, not altogether too late.
A lonesome thought comes strolling in
From whence I cannot declare,
Just that it has arrived
With this simple message to share:
' What's a dime
To a lover of verse and rhyme,
And what's to fear
Of criticism drawing near?
For to write only for income
Would soon turn quite burdensome,
As surely as to not write for fear of ridicule
Would be to deny the voice within you.
The words may never turn a single head
But, don't dare believe they'll ever be dead!
God gives meaning to what he wants
Whether anyone else listens or not.
The way it is all spoke
By darling bards, or simple country folk,
Is well worth hearing
And so oft more than a bit endearing.
Don't worry about the rhyme
The perfect place or time,
Just give your soul in words as best you can
And those who should, will understand.
Those who don't
Just won't,
And that's o.k.
God speaks to them in other ways.
Trust his Spirit in all you do
Yes, this includes writing too,
Remember he promised he'd never leave you alone
Even in the simple words of your poems. '
-Pondering it over
I suppose this I've known all along,
Though thoughts may wander
True words are never gone.
Well, ya know what:
I believe I just might pick up paper and pen,
Good or bad, right or wrong...
Give it a go, once again!
poem by Smoky Hoss
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A regret for ever
women were never in question
they are full of love and passion
they stood for love forever
still doubts persisted however
Why she has been left to dream?
what makes sun light to beam?
why simple thing is misunderstood?
Is it bad for us or good?
why so much is asked in return?
is it bartered in turn?
is the love a commodity?
is it vague in terms for nudity?
Nothing can be given for surety
it will be then simple pity?
everybody know what the woman stands for?
she has everything to give or offer from th store
love is to die for each other
help in distress and come near
why should there be any doubts or fear?
when she is prepared for everything to bear?
it is not give and take
there can't be any retake
once broken means gone forever
there may remain regret ever
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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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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Only Desire Will Not Work
Only desire will not give good start
Feel from inner depth and start
Poetry and emotions start with tears
That speaks of your anguish to bear
Make those feeling to be heard in words
Do nothing and wait for blessings from the lord
Words have powerful impact
That makes you to cry with skill and art
You need no pen and paper
That may be like words on water
It may go away with one fresh wave
Nothing will remain in mind for others to behave
Inject emotions that must look real
Undergone with sufferings while making deal
It may then be felt by others same as you
This is principle when you are writing true
You need not ask how they feel about poems
Let it come in form of few words by them
Simple acceptance of facts may certainly make the space
You may then have satisfaction with bright shine on face
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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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.
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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A Poet's Song
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
I have read
Works of great men and women
Simple poems and stories
I also have written
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I love poetries
So too are stories
They are simple daisies
Filling my fantasies
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
It is my refuge
When in sorrow
My hopes and dreams
In my unknown tomorrow
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I am a poetess
With the dream of sharing
And with my knowledge and skills
Tomorrow, my dreams I will be fulfilling
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I and my works
May never be great
But I will never lose hope
In God, I place my faith
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
I will never surrender to failure
I shall never retire until I reach my goal
I will read and write literature
I will hear the cry of my hoping soul
This is the song of a poet
The song of my soul
~♥ ♥ ♥ ~
poem by Belleza Edella Marian SwanCullen
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