I Am Not A Nature Poet
I AM NOT A NATURE POET
I am not a Nature poet,
And the trees and the skies I see
Are more than my eyes can name
And my mind can write.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Related quotes
Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Arguably John Clare
In the English language the greatest poet of Nature is arguably John Clare
Many of his bird and animal and insect poems are gems beyond compare
Yet he died in Northampton mental asylum where he had lived for many years
He penned such marvellous poetry though his life was full of tears.
His Nature poems of the nineteenth century are relevant to today
The Badger and The Landrail, The Fox and Clock a Clay
The Pettichap, The Cuckoo and The Thrush's Nest
When Writing about Nature Clare was at his best.
In death the poor shepherd poet from Helpston has come into his own
His poems poetic classics around the World are known
The greatest Nature poet of England as many would agree
A poet for the ages from a life of poverty.
As a boy amongst Nature in the fields of Helpston he knew of happiness
But sad to think one like him in life did not know of success
With any English Nature poet he favourably does compare
The legendary one of Helpston the reamarkable John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Do Love The Goddess Of Nature
I do love the Goddess of Nature though to her I never do pray
Her beauty it is all around me I learn from her every day
Yet the more that I've learned about her the more I have come to realize
That there is more far more to Nature her secrets she hides from our eyes
Were I a poet to the Goddess of Nature a poem worthy of her I'd write
A poem that a lover of poetry would feel happy for to recite
A poem extolling her great beauty a beauty none with can hope to compare
But we do not resprect her as we ought to and of that we ought to be aware
We pollute her oceans, waterways and air what we do to our Earth Mother to our own selves we do
Of others I should not be judgemental since I disrespect Nature too
Many humans are environmentally unfriendly we cut down mature and beautiful trees
And we foul the air with carbon emissions pollution is blowing in the breeze
We may disrespect the Goddess of Nature but the Goddess of Nature rules on
And she will be ruling the World when to nothingness we are long gone.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Poems Of John Clare
For years in Northampton mental asylum he battled his ghosts of despair
His Nation's finest poet of Nature the marvellous wordsmith John Clare
So many of his poems are relevant today
The one who loved Nature with words had a way.
The Helpston he grew up in not a cultural place
And though in that old Village his was a known face
They little realized the fame to them he'd bring
That poetry lovers World wide his praises would sing.
Without him less people of Helpston would know
The great poet of Nature of centuries ago
He died in Northampton mental asylum in dire poverty
Yet is there one greater Nature poet than he?
His flora and fauna poems have passed scrutiny's test
And as a Nature poet he was surely the best
Into the soul of Nature it seemed he could see
And his verses have outlived his mortality.
He never did enjoy his literary renown
And he died in the asylum in Northampton Town
But he was a true poet and his type are so rare
And old Helpston lives on in the poems of John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Silence Vavroovahana Patra
Silence provides peace;
Poet desires Divine Bliss.
In deep silence prays mother;
Surrenders in the lap of Nature.
Mother attracts, adorned with flowers;
In the lap of Nature provides pleasure.
Blesses poet affectionatinely;
Derives peace divinely.
Profound silence takes mind to Divinity;
At night through silence mind enchants with gaiety.
Poet beholds mother reverentially;
Mind remains in the world of peace delightfully.
Mother Vinapanee blesses poet with affection;
He enjoys the beauty of creation.
Her blessings tranquilises mind daily;
Singing her songs mind derives peace gaily.
The shrine in the dense forest allures the poet;
Mind enchants with delight.
The serene shrine is a Brook of Delight;
Poet drinks the nectar from the Brook of Gaiety.
Silence of the shrine provides profound peace;
Poet surrender on the rosy cosy feet for Divine Bliss.
Hymns breaks the silence of environment;
Poet chants hymns with merriment.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Tis Of Nature I'd Write
Were I born a poet 'tis of Nature I'd write
Poems that Nature lovers would feel happy to read and recite
Of the song of the lark singing o'er the brown hill
And the distinctive babble of the mountain rill
That scurries downhill by ditch and hedgerow
As to the great river it quickly does flow
Though many of her ways a mystery to me
In Nature there is so much beauty to see
And the voice of Nature is carrying in the breeze
In the songs of the birds on the bushes and trees
The soughing of the wind and the huge ocean waves roar
As they crash against the stony cliffs of the shore
In Nature there's so much to see and admire
And of singing her praises could one ever tire.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Nature And Poet
Nature is the diet of a poet,
from natural beauty
poet derives immense pleasure,
drinks the nectar from the flowing down
Himalayan hilly stream, fulfils the long cherished
desire, translates into reality
the sweet lovely dream;
The tiny brook dazzles with the morn’s Sun beam.
Oh Lord Siva! Ye reside on ‘Kailash Mountain’;
Beside Ye flows down the magnificent
alluring mysterious
transparent water of the fountain.
Devotees pray thee for a bliss;
from the ‘Abode of peace’
Ye fulfil their desire and wish;
they sleep in the lap of Nature,
receive Nature’s kiss.
Poet is a worshipper, preacher
in the temple of Nature;
With indomitable enthusiasm
pens verses with tranquillity,
serenity, sanctity, being pure.
Man comes and goes;
poet’s verses remain for ever;
As a brook flows down eternally
in the lap of Nature.
Poet’s poem dazzles in golden letters
on the pages of history;
Depicts the Eternal Truth of Earth,
the beauty of Nature,
and the mystery.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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The Poet Fears Failure
The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.
& the poet?
It's in her nature
to fear failure
but not to let that fear
blot out
her lines.
poem by Erica Jong
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The Poet Who No Longer Believes In Himself
THE POET WHO NO LONGER BELIEVES IN HIMSELF
The poet who no longer believes in himself
And writes on anyway-
The poet who is too weak to stop writing-
The poet who has died as a poet,
Before he has as a person-
The poet who may never have lived as a poet-
The old old old schnook,
Still trying to write a poem
And believing he has done it once again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Allen Ginsberg
Allen Ginsberg, I love you
You have inspired me to be a poet
Your creation “Howl” and other writings have stimulated me to write
You are a real poet
A poet of your own
Your life, your philosophy all
Mandate you to be the ONE
As I go learning you
I find something new in you
You have moved the west and the east together
And have stirred all new things
Specially when you write “September on Jessore Road”
And utter “Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes”
I, as a Bengali feel proud
poem by Kazi Ahmed
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Silvery Beauty Vavroovahana Patra
Innocent silvery beauty passes on the way;
Poet beholds the beauty of Beauty with gay.
The creation of Nature is alluring;
Innocent Beauty is dazzling.
Beautiful face allures passes by;
Allures lovers with gay.
Beauty is the creation of Almighty;
Beholding, poet derives gaiety.
Beauty tranquilises poet's mind on the way;
Poet derives profound peace with gay.
Curly crisp wavy long cloudy hairs entice the poet;
Mind remains in the world of peace with delight.
Innocent beautiful face allures the poet in evening;
Poet's mind is delighting.
With a little conversation mind is peaceful;
Her sweet talk is delightful.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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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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A Pleasant Autumn Day
A pleasant Autumn day of wind and sunshine
And yellow leaves depart their trees and fall
To Mother Earth who silently receives them
And wattlebirds on flowering gum trees call.
On this quiet side street of inner suburbia
The leaves are dying on the deciduous tree
But were i a poet I'd put my pen to paper
And write of the great beauty that i see.
For Nature's beauty can be found in strangest places
Far from the countryside it can be seen
Deciduous trees are golden brown in Autumn
And gums and wattles rich and evergreen.
And many urban people too love Mother Nature
And of workings of Nature there is much to know
They love to hear the birds sing in their gardens
And take pride in plants and trees they helped to grow
I respect those who respect Mother Nature
The damage done to her they try to mend
For Nature brings her beauty to all Seasons
And to every Nature lover I'm a friend.
In quiet side street in inner suburbia
Deciduous leaves to Mother Earth drift down
And wattlebirds are calling on the gum trees
And Mother Nature too lives in the town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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0011 How Rilke might have translated Bashó on poetry
Be solitary.
Love solitude, and don’t look for poetry;
don’t seek what former poets sought;
see what is still and changeless;
see also what is changing;
be filled with the true nature of things – mountains, rivers, trees, grasses, falling blossoms, the scattering leaves,
and, yes, humanity too, its true nature –
and the universe will become your companion.
So your solitude will be full of the universe;
and you will watch, unmoved, the reality
and the vacuity of the world.
Concentrate your thoughts, in solitude,
on an object, on each object;
in this concentration,
the space between oneself and the object will disappear,
and the essential nature of the object can be perceived.
Then be quick to express it, while it lives for you;
say quickly what is in your mind;
as a woodcutter fells a tree, or
a swordsman leaps at his enemy, or
as you cut a ripe watermelon with a sharp knife,
or take a large bite at a pear;
this immediacy will be the life of your poem,
for nature will write the poem for you.
The language may be untrue;
but it will live with the truth.
You may feel that writing so quickly,
you may always fail; but pay no attention;
know no other thing than writing poetry;
let it make you penniless, if that is
what it needs, to speak itself.
Then, in your solitude,
which is so full of everything,
the poetic spirit will lead you wherever you must go,
make you a friend of nature,
and every form of existence will reveal
its individual feelings to you –
which are similar to those of men;
and all things, you will know, have their fulfilment.
In this solitude, your mind will be undistracted;
and then, enlightened by nature itself,
you may return to the world,
with a lightness of being, and poems
as light as looking
at the sandy bed of a shallow river;
as a tree untouched by the axe,
seemingly useless,
vulnerable to wind and rain,
at ease in itself.
Like a poet.
(This text is Bashó's advice to a poet. But the medieval Japanese poet and the modern European poet seem to be so close in their search for essence, for being, that some of Bashó's phrases have the same ring as Rilke's own advice to a young poet. I have tried to bring this out discreetly..)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Poet and Chivalry
Poet, an industry not of mankind
An era that poet’s in awe to partake a rite
Poetry belongs to the ancient tribe
An era that poet’s dissolute and roaming
Poetry ascribes to nature and wildness
An era that poet a jester praised in comic to entertain the king
Poetry is the plaything of an empire
The era that poet yields to the media, pursuing fame and fortune
Poetry is a consuming product
Poet holds in awe since the heaven and earth are vast
Poet’s degenerated because of his nature
Poet’s comical because ironical the self derision
Poet capitulates because of human’s weakness
Although poet hasn’t always been an industry of mankind
Its luster would shine upon the darkness that poet ever survived
Lighting a light in darkness of history and showing its courage
Lighting a light in darkness of future and proving its foresight
Compromised the life
But allows not to compromise of poetry
The spirit and vitality of a chivalry is the case
Poet, still not an industry of mankind
Today
The chivalry has sealed his sword and pen
The page of poetry gradually stained and spotted yellow
The sharp sword conceals a smoked silver flash
poem by DePen Chang
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Poet Is A Poet/Wherever He Goes
A POET IS A POET/ WHEREVER HE GOES
A poet is a poet
Wherever he goes
He can stop and sit on a bench anywhere
And write a poem
The poems come from without often
But what is within is the poetry-
Like a dream like a fire like a small light
That never goes out
A poet sits anywhere and writes his dream-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Autumn in the Northerm Hemisphere, Spring in the South..
It’s autumn here: the leaves fall brown,
the nights are cold and frosty,
the days are shorter and shorter,
there’s snow on the way…
is autumn asking you to be sad?
Go take a walk: fill your lungs with air –
isn’t that good? Don’t you feel the air
singing of everything that nature needs
to keep things going the whole year round?
Llisten as you walk
to all that goes on in silence;
secret movements pretending to be stillness:
the trees are making plans for Spring,
the plants, the flowers too; the earth
is bubbling secretly with thoughts of Spring..
If on an autumn walk
a Persian poet met a Japanese poet
they might write
a Persian haiku:
This autumn evening
my mind is full of endings;
trees smile as they plan.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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