Errors Are My Sin
ERRORS ARE MY SIN
Errrors are my sin
Carelessness my vice-
I have written too many un-blotted lines
I will never be able to reread
And correct them all again.
Can I now in my old age
At least do this,
Make certain
That any new line
Is without error?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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To Correct An Error
an error is an error
and errors exist for the main reason that
they are meant to be corrected
it takes the eyes of the loving person
to correct the errors
of his beloved
gently and
carefully away from the mob
and the crowd that love
the mockery
of errors corrected in the middle
of the public halls
inside a closed door
i hold your hand
caress your face
and your hair
and kiss you and then tell you
you taste like a rotten apple.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Did You Understand It?
You've written something with several typographical errors.
And I question the correctness of your language usage.
Plus it had been written in mixed tenses.
I read it more than once.
And after the third reading it finally dawned on me,
You may have done this intentionally.
'Did you understand it?
What it was I tried to do? '
I'm not sure.
'How would you critique it? '
I don't know if I can.
'And you read it three times? '
At least.
'Why should I bother to correct it?
If 'you' read something I wrote...
THREE times?
And you have never expressed any interest before?
In anything I've ever done?
Why should I correct it?
This is the first time you and I have communicated,
In years.
Who knew...
All it took was a few errors,
To get you to give me what I have been wanting.
Here...
Read this! '
Your first and third lines rhyme.
But the rest of it...
Well,
I think this is a bunch of garbage.
'Thank you.
And all this time,
You had me believing...
You didn't care.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Error
this is not an ordinary error that one corrects
like a grammatical mistake
that with a slight stroke of the pen
everything becomes correct
and acceptable
this is repeated error
one knows it is an error but one does not correct it
it plunges and pushes and pulls
back to the same error again
something delicious
so sweet to the tongue
the mouth salivates
and the heart pounces upon
a thousand breathings
this is the error that one always looks forward to see
one evening and another
in a room the two of you sharing it
you kneel and pray and soar to heights
without so many words wasted
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Intended With Love
I've made so many errors and typos in my work,
To leave uncorrected.
They've become looked upon,
As clarifying those suspicious about this...
That I am not perfect.
And...
If I should correct those errors and typos,
The attention intended to give the message...
A comprehensive clarity,
Gives one then an opportunity...
To see something more between the lines,
Not there as had been intended.
This writing business,
Becomes more theraputic than one can believe.
Self analysis AND with feedback?
It just seems convenient to leave typos where they are,
And errors in language useage alone.
I find this procedure more effective.
It gives the reader a chance to bestow empathy.
Believing what is observed is unintended.
However...
The writer knows typos like fingers and toes.
If there are many as it is to be noticed.
And,
It is...
Intended,
With love.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Internet Immortality- I Am More Immortal Than I Want To Be
INTERNET IMMORTALITY- I AM MORE IMMORTAL THAN I WANT TO BE
I am more immortal than I want to be-
Old error-filled works of mine
Will never be erased-
Every line I would have rewritten
Remains somewhere else
In many different ways-
Erase me please
Quickly-
Let me die less known
And not with a name
So needing
To be blotted and corrected.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Typographical Errors
Typographical errors,
I try to avoid.
Some I leave,
To create their own noise.
And something suspected,
To be out of place...
Usually gets more attention,
Than something correct...
One wishes to say.
And there are times it takes me,
All day to imperfect what is correct.
Especially if I want to emphasize,
My own perfection has defects.
I know! I know, that's hard to believe...
That I would take 'all' day to imperfect what is correct.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Errors
there will be always errors
my errors
not yours, even your errors
shall be mine
for there will always be errors
that is too normal
for our lifetime
too short to be erroneous
but always real
too real to be touched
too exciting
to be always noticed
and too numb to be affected
by their
hypocrisies
you too? oh my, why?
don't you like to be the most normal
bird with only two wings
to fly?
how can you use a third wing?
to see with the third eye
aren't you funny to see
on this third
excess?
come, let us feast on these errors
drink these glasses of errors
be filled and vomit with errors
defecate these errors
and be empty again
after having learned so much
to become the
newest genius in this town
of errors.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It's Not Perfect.
Sometimes the artist makes a fools mistake.
A contract that demands plenty for so little.
Me personally I do this for free currently because I have a job that pays the bills.
It is a hobby to me, always has been.
I work with my back, shoulders, arms, as well as my hands.
Time limited sticks me behind so many others.
Yet I don't care, for I do not desire fame and fortunes.
But instead actually enjoy what I do.
I feel as if I making glue that holds a painting together.
The creation of something all in ones mind.
A satisfying feeling envelopes me as I write them one at a time.
A victory upon this paper, this is something I indeed savor.
I do reread and reread trying to perfect each and everyone of them.
But for the sake of being correct.
Even though I know each one has its own flaws.
That is what make it really unique.
Even when the favored critique tells I'm wrong.
Sometimes thats the way I still want it.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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A Rectification
the randomness of them all
entering your mind too preoccupied
with what must be
and what ougth to be,
the mind blunders
with timorous thunders,
and what becomes so evident
is this error protruding like
a tail from a body
like rabbit ears from your face
you feel like a fraction reduced
to its lowest terms
but you cannot be subdued by the
urge of sweet dishonesty
the self pretending to be right always?
to err is to be human
and to be most human is to accept
the errors of all errors,
yourself....
you take the correct decision
you expose your tongue and show
them your rabbit ears that
you have such a funny long tail
you laugh at yourself and you laugh
with all of them
the room is filled with laughter
there is no chatter
and they all clap at you
for on this day
you have become a great man.....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In Search Of Aphrodite
A Sideline Sonnet
(letters on the left side of the poem make the 15th line, which is also written out in parenthesis at the end of the poem) This poem, instead of being displayed with either 12 lines on the left margin, with the 13th and 14th lines indented in modern format, or with the first 8 lines on the left margin, a line skipped and then the next 4 lines on the left margin with the couplet indented in the style most commonly used in the days of Shakespeare, will be posted in 4 line stanzas to make it easier to read the side line, which will be three 4 letter words, and one 2 letter word.
May I behold a girl this fair:
A girl whose presence makes a light;
Kindles a flame that burns so bright
Eclipses it the moon. With hair
Lost stars that from the heavens fall –
On falling do submit their glow,
Vile stars, on one I cannot know.
Enraptured though, I make the call.
While all my starving total seeks,
In endless hunger, for the dear
Temptation that, though hov'ring near,
Hears not my voice: yet not she speaks.
May I but see her, then will I
Entreat her, listen to my cry…
(make love with me)
poem by James Walter Orr
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An Exhortation On Some Lines....
something is missing in your lines.
i regret to tell you that.
it does not speak well of yourself
or the world
or any moment, it is like a desert and all we have is space and
a horizon
there is even no wind to blow the sands away
i do not expect rain in the desert
but i could have seen a camel or a line of trucks or a
caravan
or even a Bedouin riding on his black horse with a scimitar
here i am again
in my worst self trying to tell you what to do so that you can be what you are
your lines are straight and too clean and that make them appear
dishonest
people love crooked lines and those that move in free directions
lines that are cold like the wind
and yet vibrant at night
not really dead, but simply grieving in silence for the loss of
someone so loved and missed.
i do not want you to change your lines, they are yours to
show,
i may be unfair wishing that your lines may be like mine
but mine are too sad and always sounding like a lover abandoned.
the beautiful lines are not clean.
they are imbued with our errors, erasures, blasting in our faces
like explosives
where shattered as we are on the fields of our disasters
only in a few seconds
we become silent spaces again.
mine are sad, and lonely and abandoned.
they are the only ones i have now, and so i must be compelled to
have them and love them
just the way they are.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Read and Reread/ The Poets I Love
I READ AND REREAD/ THE POETS I LOVE
I read and reread
The poets I love-
I seek new poets
To love poetry more with-
I write my own small poems
And read them again occasionally-
Sometimes I find in them lines
I want to return to
And remember.
If only I could be such a stranger to myself
That I in reading a poem of my own
Would know it belongs to Literature.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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It is the highest form of self-respect to admit our errors and mistakes and make amends for them. To make a mistake is only an error in judgment, but to adhere to it when it is discovered shows infirmity of character.
quote by Dale E. Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Feeling Of Poetry Is Lost
THE FEELING OF POETRY IS LOST
The feeling of poetry is lost -
Lines are written,
But they are without poetic feeling.
Dutiful lines which do not inspire.
I try
Line by line
To restore my soul.
I do not feel I am doing this.
Can a poem be written without poetic feeling inside?
Is what I am doing now
A poem?
Or is it simply one more small delusion
Through which a life is gotten through?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem Of Yesterday Reread Today
THE POEM OF YESTERDAY REREAD TODAY
The poem of yesterday reread today
No longer is a poem-
It is not enough to live in the moment-
What will remain is what we need to return to again and again-
This poem now
Will it be here tomorrow?
Or will no one
ever need
To reread it?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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No consensus of men can make an error erroneous. We can only find or commit an error, not create it. When we commit an error, we say what was an error already.
quote by Josiah Royce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I often reread books I have written.
quote by Taylor Caldwell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Printer's Error
Fellow compositors
and pressworkers!
I, Chief Printer
Frank Steinman,
having worked fifty-
seven years at my trade,
and served five years
as president
of the Holliston
Printer's Council,
being of sound mind
though near death,
leave this testimonial
concerning the nature
of printers' errors.
First: I hold that all books
and all printed
matter have
errors, obvious or no,
and that these are their
most significant moments,
not to be tampered with
by the vanity and folly
of ignorant, academic
textual editors.
Second: I hold that there are
three types of errors, in ascending
order of importance:
One: chance errors
of the printer's trembling hand
not to be corrected incautiously
by foolish professors
and other such rabble
because trembling is part
of divine creation itself.
Two: silent, cool sabotage
by the printer,
the manual laborer
whose protests
have at times taken this
historical form,
covert interferences
not to be corrected
censoriously by the hand
of the second and far
more ignorant saboteur,
the textual editor.
Three: errors
from the touch of God,
divine and often
obscure corrections
of whole books by
nearly unnoticed changes
of single letters
sometimes meaningful but
about which the less said
by preemptive commentary
the better.
Third: I hold that all three
sorts of error,
errors by chance,
errors by workers' protest,
and errors by
God's touch,
are in practice the
same and indistinguishable.
Therefore I,
Frank Steinman,
typographer
for thirty-seven years,
and cooperative Master
of the Holliston Guild
eight years,
being of sound mind and body
though near death
urge the abolition
of all editorial work
whatsoever
and manumission
from all textual editing
to leave what was
as it was, and
as it became,
except insofar as editing
is itself an error, and
therefore also divine.
poem by Aaron Fogel
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