Sanity
Being alone,
writing poetry
to meet the infinity
on paper.
The words will not come
to me. I am trying
to catch the moment.
One by one-
I light the candles,
watching you slithering.
A transient truce
with my hands.
Collecting the broken
light years. Enter
into the eyes. O river. The hunger
to trap you is increasing.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
Infinity
Standin' on a trap door, there's a hole in the ground.
Underneath the door there's a hole and it goes to infinity.
Standin' on a dark street, there's a light in the sky.
Followin' the light through the night as it goes to infinity.
How can I avoid infinity? How have I annoyed infinity?
I'm movin' slow in infinity. I even glow in infinity.
Chorus:
It's hard being' small, (hard bein' small)
Shrinkin' into space, (shrinkin' into space)
The world is just a ball, (world is just a ball)
It was my fav'rite place (it was my fav'rite place)
Lookin' for the blue skies, watchin' for the sunrise.
One thing you can bet, you won't see it set in infinity.
Gonna take a light beam, on the wings of the Jet Stream.
Gonna take my place in the infinite space of infinity.
How can I be friends with infinity? Can I make ammends with infinity?
How can I complain to infinity? What'll I explain to infinity?
(Chorus)
Give me just a time shield before the world has it's fate sealed.
Protect me for a while before they turn my dial to infinity.
I hope I can contribute, oh, but I don't want a tribute.
Hypocrites will come and say somethin' really dumb in infinity.
I can't hear you sing in infinity. I can't change a thing in infinity.
The absence of light in infinity gives me a fright in infinity.
(Chorus)
song performed by by Don McLean
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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School report
You stood behind me
Watching, looking over my shoulder
I saw you writing
'Could have done better'!
I screwed up the paper
It missed the bin
My destination.... to write? ? or
There was more poetry in watching you
Unravelling the argument from your eyes
Burning still
So much passion lost in trying
So many paintings in the making
I make a sketch
Without true features
Passed blurring
Life is moving just below the windowsill
Shapes and bodies swimming
Pools of light ripple on the water
Barely visable
But not for want of trying
Crowds full of paintings
Shaken petals on a black wet pavement? I Pound a quote out!
[badly.......]
Words barely visable
Losing their way
Returning to nothing
I can see you watching
I watch you writing
'Could do better'
Barely visable
Not for the want of trying
I laugh and give myself an A for 'effort'
An A? What the hell does that mean?
In this world something has to make sense,
Survival after all must be 'worth surviving for! '
Not for the want of trying,
The want, of 'trying!
magnolia Turtle Bridge
'SCHOOL OF PROFOUND ISMS'
poem by Yvette Smith
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the poem that N A M E D itself
it crawls out
slithering snake
onto the paper
spread like the Bible
out before me
and I think:
what shall I write?
and it seeps out
bleeding black
onto the paper
words that form
from the hollow
places inside me
that sometimes
I can’t find
and it calls forth
emotions that
deserve the words
I can’t give
—except
I give them
my pen is sharp
and my hand aches
the words are
pouring out onto
the face
of blank paper
and I am staring
outside myself
not writing the
words but merely
a vessel for them
to contain themselves
when it is done
and the hollow places
are silent I ask:
what shall I
call it?
but it is already
N A M E D
poem by Elizabeth Rebel
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I Could Have Stopped Writing
i could have stopped writing
some letters on my wall
some words on a clean sheet
of paper, i could have stopped
many years ago, when things
lack the luster of meaning
the shining hues of explanations,
steps do not traces steps
on the floor, and what the windows
see sometimes are so untrue
and my eyes are blinded
with so much light from the
slits of light coming from the
noonday roof,
i could have stopped writing
and tell myself: oh, there are more
important things in my life
to do, and there i may take
some colors for meaning
blue for peace and red for love
and violets for remembrances,
i could have stopped writing
but how could i? my throats dry up
my hands shrink, my heart grow holes
of hollowness, my lungs collapse,
my head falls off from my neck,
my body freezes, my ears close
inside its lobes,
i die without it. It is my life,
so how could i ever stop living?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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18 Definitions Of Poetry
1) Poetry is what is Beautiful in words –
2) Poetry is the deepest feeling words can tell
3) Poetry is the soul of each one of us
4) Poetry is the morning light after the longest night
5) Poetry is a dream of dreams in a world that needs dreams to be
beautiful
6) Poetry is the Search for God and the Love of God in all holy writing
7) Poetry is Reality itself when it is doing what it should
8) Poetry is you and me and all of us when we are kind to each other
9) Poetry is more than we can say or know- deeper than the deepest
silence and quieter also
10) Poetry is the place we go to in ourselves when we need to cry out loud
11) Poetry is Love words of love and the first spring of the young lovers first
song
12) Poetry is all we are when our minds are right and strong
13) Poetry is what saves us from all the other words
14) Poetry is what ceases to exist when Cruelty comes
15) Poetry is Love and Blessing and Kindness again
16) Poetry cuts through the icy sea within and sends chills down the spine
17) Poetry is what is recollected in tranquility but also tried and tossed in
tempest on the most difficult seas
18) Poetry is open to more than what it has been It is what others have not yet created and will so long as we are human and in search of the Sublime
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Problem
the problem with us is that when we open the computer and begin
to read poetry we cannot stop, we do not know when and where to stop
we get carried away like a paper boat on the river and we do not know
where we shall be taken
and not only that
in some mysterious ways we too assume the hands of the poet his mind
his emotions contaminating us
and we (oh let me just talk about myself)
and i begin to write myself some lines
honestly not knowing where these line come from
and like ants they invade me and begin to eat me like a chunk of chocolate
or a broken biscuit or a grain of rice that they all carry like a good catch
and then i pride myself with the belief that i must still be sweet
as chocolate, crisp and tasty like a biscuit, and white and unblemished
like a grain of rice
not because i am writing poems
but because the ants too, like the river have carried me away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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His Call
That evening
I sat down to write
My very last mail
To him.
And while I was writing
I could feel
My aching heart
Throbbing so loud
I could hear
Every beat of it
Pulsating with pain.
And still I kept writing
My very last mail
To him.
Though my eyes
Felt blurred
With all the tears
That rushed asunder
Streaming through my cheeks
And yet I brushed them aside
And wrote
My very last mail to him.
And when I had done
All the writing
I took a long, last look
At that letter of mine
Re-reading every word of it
That I had written to him
With all my heart...
Those precious moments
Were so endearing to me
For I felt that
Once this mail goes
I won't be able to
Write to him anymore
No more of those
Diary mails of mine
I used to write to him
Everyday.
For I had made a Promise
Never to go back
To him.
And that promise I had made
To him and to myself
With all the pain
And the agony
That had shrouded me.
Yes - that promise has stayed Intact
And I would abide by it.
And I haven't faltered...
Though my tender heart feels
So very Bruised.
And even though
The other day
He called me up
And I heard
His broken voice
Over the phone
Saying that
He had read my mail
Explaining himself
How he was...
How very dear to him
I have been
How very close
To his heart.
I just listened
And yet his garble of words
Were beyond me now
And more than his voice
His words of care
I could hear -
The waves of silence
That had engulfed me.
He did all the talking
And I -
All the listening...
And yet,
Today - when I look back
I don't feel like going back
To him anymore.
And I know he might call again
Asking me if I am cross.
In life's such delicate
Situations -
Being angry doesn't help
So why should I be?
It is just that
I don't feel like
Writing to him anymore
The pain is just too much
And so are the scars of the past
Like scabs on the skin
Bleeding every now and then.
And so that was my last mail
My very last mail to him
And his call for a truce
I had to choose...
Truce with him
Or truce with my silence.
And I looked back
At all the hard times
He had given me -
All the pain of the past years
That kept reverberating inside
Like the Tinnitus of being Deaf.
And I thought
I would call it a truce
A truce of realisation
A truce of acceptance
No - not with him.
But - A Lifetime's Truce
With me and my Destiny.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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The Living Torch
Those lit eyes go before me, in full view,
(Some cunning angel magnetised their light) -
Heavenly twins, yet my own brothers too,
Shaking their diamond blaze into my sight.
My steps from every trap or sin to save,
In the strait road of Beauty they conduct me,
They are my servants, and I am their slave,
Obedient in whatever they instruct me.
Delightful eyes, you burn with mystic rays
Like candles in broad day; red suns may blaze,
But cannot quench their still, fantastic light.
Those candles burn for death, but you for waking :
You sing the dawn that in my soul is breaking,
Stars which no sun could ever put to flight!
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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The Young Poet
Poetry was something else
written by others
somewhere else
and came from
somewhere else
but the poetry
which he did not know
called one day
in a language he did not know
so he put down words on paper
and threw the paper away
but the words did not go away
and he did not know what poetry should do
until he wrote the words
which told him
what poetry could do
for only poetry can teach you poetry
*
Gertrude Stein stood behind me while I wrote this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Concisely
in clock precision
words come out from the lips of a man
who just survived a broken heart
in all those silent
slow running years
like drops of water
inside the
light deprived caves
concisely shall sorrow
drip forming the calcite
and magnetite
stealing light from morning
dews
outside the eyes of
cliffs
where the sound of
fledglings still haunt
the clinging bats
sleeping their
hunger away.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Light From The Creator
// light from the creator //
Let there be light
In the inner soul
In the eyes, into the blood
Light, light, Light, light, Light, light
Light every where in the body,
Light, light in the vein,
In the brain, in the present
To enlighten the darkness
In the deep darken hearts,
Light comes Light comes
To cross the light years.
Light comes to align with
The whole Universe.
21 august,2012, bb.
poem by Baki Nasrullah
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Light?
Have you ever wounderd from where light came
If the wondering of light is just a game
If light is playing a trick on our eyes
If light is just a bunch of lies
If light has a tempreture cold as ice
If light is actually hot as rice
If light can run around the room
If light will lead us to our doom
If light can catch a traveling ball
If light can hear our pleading call
If light needs us to see ing the dark
If light can produce a menacing bark
If light can flow as fast as sound
If light is only on earth bound
If light can take a human form
If light can get caught up ina storm
I often wonder what light can do
but its secrets are not for me and you
poem by Samantha Ridley
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Poetry
Poetry.......
Poetry defines me
Poetry.......
A place where you be you and I'll be me.
Poetry.......
We are best friends for eternity.
My Poetry.......
Is the daughter of my emotion,
There I've said it, no need to interpret the connection.
Poetry.......
Where my pen and paper are sealed with a kiss,
So easy to write for my mind is a bliss.
Poetry.......
Poetry has multiple meanings,
An indescribable feeling when I realize others understand them.
My Poetry.......
It just comes natural to me.
My Poetry.......
Is out there, , , , , away from exile,
And style of writing is very versatile.
Poetry.......Poetry.......
P oetry.......
It speaks out to me.
poem by Anita Khelawan
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...
Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.
But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'
Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.
The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.
Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.
I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.
It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?
poem by Maddy Macleod
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I sleep Poetry
Last night I wrestled with poetry
As if a lion wrestling with its prey
I sleep poetry
I dream poetry
I walk poetry on thin line ropes
binding together steeply slopes
I make love to poetry like a new catch
On heat waiting to be let loose from its latch
So out of ten if I am bad, take a pen
And give me a score of five or a four
I constantly make love to poetry
With dramatic grammatical metaphors
The root of my poetic hunger
Is I starve myself a bit longer
In sleep I twiddle my poetic lines
Sharpen them to be as fine as a riddle
I sleep poetry
I drink poetry
Not just to quench my thirst
But to differentiate amongst
Good, Better and Best
There shall come the day
I have to say
When I will definitely call it a truce
When I have run out of poetic juice
2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Candles In My Heart
Beholding yourself in me,
Your filaments all over,
Its dawn in my world
Light the candles in my heart,
Shed light upon thee,
Chase the darkness away
My heart is mirrored along,
Reflections and purity,
You brought a luminous
Who then shall put a spark,
Your hands are worthy beautiful,
Light up my heart beautiful one
There was a fire, they screamed
You and I know ourselves,
Light up the candles please
Love is knocking at your door,
Asking only few not more,
Complete me and make me whole
Upon when shall I be in darkness,
Angiushing in great loniless,
Stretch your arm, i need a caress
My heart want to burn with love,
Behold its a right and perfect move,
Set my heart ablaze my love
I have been waiting for long,
Until when shall you light the candles,
I need a flame my love
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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Poets Of A Feather
From a circle of inner circumstance i came into being-
From many light years ago of time-
Revolved and returned-hopeful-yet concerned...
I set forth on my mission of rhyme;
So many have inspired my writing...
For many and multiple reasons...
Catching my breath and my very words-
I extend them-as a poet for all seasons;
Come read me in the Dead of Winter...
Come pore over my Springtime Prose...
Peruse me in the Heated Summer...
Or read me as the Fall time grows;
All nestled in the fallen leaves...
Blown crisp through Autumns Northern air...
Burnished-Gold influence emulates...
In poetic verse that my muse dares to bare;
From a circle of inner circumstance i came into being-
From many light years ago of time...
Written and erased-edited and chased-
My words are not hidden in mime;
I am a mover and a shaker by nature...
But age and ill health have had their way with me...
Writing now comes from the positive and negative...
That shapes and forms my entirity;
So welcome fellow poets and laureates...
Lets celebrate this occasion most grand...
Coming together as birds of one feather-
With paper and quill in our hands;
poem by Theodora Onken
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Writing (ii)
They look bright
As light falls upon them
They seem statesmen too
As they talk incessant
Let them use pen and paper
They will uncover their
Cleverness of hiding power
Writing is a fight between
The Powers of dark and light
The Difference between an elephant
And an ant.
Writing is the impressive enormity
Among the works of tiny trivialities
Writing is a question asked to realise
The blunt indifference
Writing is like putting the sun
At the centre of life.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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