I Have Become A Poem

I HAVE BECOME A POEM

I have become a poem
And all I say and think
Is read in me
As poetry.

All connects to lines of others.
Read through a lifetime of reading poetry,
and all it means,
all the questions and implications,
resounding in me now
at all
The Poet I am not
And never will be.

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The useless poem

He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness


His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins

And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end

Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody

Nobody really cared

Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem

Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness

(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)

Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You

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Read my poetry

Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.

Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.

Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.

Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.

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The useless poem

He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness


His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins

And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end

Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody

Nobody really cared

Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem

Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness

(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)

Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You

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This Poem

THIS POEM

This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.

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Prosody?

Prosody:
it’s about - it means - what poetry does,
and how. I guess..
In Greek, it just means ‘tune’. That
should give a clue. In Latin,
the word they used meant
‘song added to speech’.

So ‘poetry’ is pretty well
indefinable. It’s – well—
whatever it means to you.
And how the hell it does that. There
are rules but,
it finds its own. For
one thing above all
really matters: poetry is
what it does. What it does. If
it doesn't do anything for you
that's it. No theories –
just that. Be glad.

Aristotle tried to help
with his ‘Poetics’. Good on drama.
But poetry? Let’s fast forward to
Ezra Pound: poetry’s function is, he said,
‘to charge words with meaning
to the utmost possible degree’.

Now put all this together and
I believe it’s saying,
poetry’s not - never was -
shouldn’t be - couldn’t be -
just words on the page, like this, but, it's
me saying them to you, strongly, here and now,
charging them with meaning
to the utmost possible degree..

So if your child comes home with
as homework, ‘Analyse this poem by..’
- Angelou, Silverstein, Neruda,
Hughes of both hues black and white,
Milligan, Budowski, Pralutsky –
tell them, go back tomorrow and say
politely, ‘Teach, Dad’s a practising poet and
he says, why not have a class comp in
reading that poem aloud, and who
makes most sense of it and keeps us
listening down to the
tips of our toes; and by the time
we’ve all had a go and decided
who’s the best, we’ll remember it
for the rest of our lives and maybe, Teach,
not need to ‘analyse’ it much and
only after that? '

So here’s to the next poem
that you read aloud, or write to read aloud,
charging it with meaning
to the utmost possible degree.

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A Poem

i like to read your poem
and i like to say it is a poem
there is a difference
of course
between the two statements
i like to read
it is your poem but i may
after reading
that
saying that i am honest though
and can distinguish a poem
from one that is not a poem
that your poem is one that i only
like to read
and may
say that it is not your poem
but it is yours you are sure of that
but what i am saying is that
i am reading your poem
but i feel that it is not
a poem after all
i can say one when i read one
so i just say i like reading your poem
which could not really be a poem
not even prose
i just like it
but it is not anything about what
i feel i like it to be
a poem or prose
i am reading it, it isn't
like this one for instance
you know that
now.

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Every Poem That Is Not Written

EVERY POEM THAT IS NOT WRITTEN

Every poem that is not written
Sings another poem
That is not read.
And every poem that is not read
Waits in its own silence
Until
The Universe itself
Becomes Poetry
And God sings to us
As if we too
The poet and the poem
Were the singer and the song
Unknown.

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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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The Poem The Poem And The Poem Again

THE POEM‘ THE POEM AND THE POEM AGAIN’

‘The poem the poem and the poem again’
Isn’t there any life without poetry?
Why is it always ‘The poem the poem the poem’?

Let it be some other dream
Or some other small facet of our endless realities
Why always ‘The poem the poem the poem? ’

The poet who lives and dies for the poem
Is only one kind of poet
And perhaps not even a good one.

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There Are Times/ When The Poetry Of The Poem

THERE ARE TIMES/ WHEN THE POETRY OF THE POEM

There are times
When the poetry of the poem,
And the poetry of the poet
Are poetry.

But there are too times
When the poetry of the poet
And the poetry of the poem
Are not poetry.

There are times
When all the poetry,
And all the poets in the universe
Do not make the world a poem.

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The Poem I Cannot Write/ Is The Poem Beyond My Own Poetry

THE POEM I CANNOT WRITE/ IS THE POEM BEYOND MY OWN POETRY

The poem I cannot write
Is the poem beyond my own poetry -
It is greater than what I am capable of -
It surprises in ways my awkward phrases cannot
It is complex beyond my simple simplicity
It has an infectious beauty
That demands to be recited again and again -
It lingers in the mind and memory
As a strange new beauty beyond anything done by anyone else before.

The poem I cannot write
Has been written will be written
By those greater than myself-
I have the great blessing
Of being able to read them
But I cannot join them
Despite a lifetime of trying.

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Sometimes I Read Or Hear A Poem

SOMETIMES I READ OR HEAR A POEM

Sometimes I read or hear a poem
And know there is real Poetry in the world-
Poetry that takes me beyond anything I myself could know or write-
Poetry of a different kind of Beauty -
A language I never thought to hear
But once heard charms and delights me
As never before.

There is Poetry-
And there are real Poets-
And there are yet Dreams to be written-

So write on Stranger
Maybe you are the next one
A real poet
A voice the world truly needs and wants and loves to hear
Beyond any ever heard before.

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As A Child I Loved Poetry

AS A CHILD I LOVED POETRY

As a child I loved poetry,
As an old man I love poetry-
Years of reading poetry are in me,
A lifetime of poetry.

But as a poet,
I am less than what I know from others,
And less than what I would have been-

A small poet
Of small lines
Old and getting older
And still loving the lines
That rhyme inside
And make life more beautiful.

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God is the creator

God is the creator
poem is a creation
Poet is not God.

I am a lover of poem
Poet is my hero
God is hero's hero.

I just read poem
I just enjoy reading poem
I shall continue to read poem
As long as I enjoy poem.

At times
Poems are being written by me.
The credit goes to God
God direct me to write poem
And I write.

God only can explain the meaning
I am just an instrument
And nothing.

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Do Not Read! ! !

Don't read this poem!
Turn back while you have the chance
Or you will regret it
This poem is a poem of darkness
This poem is a devourer of souls
It will destroy you
Consume you
Absorb you into its black depths
I tried to warn you
I told you not to read it
Why are you still reading?
If I had named it 'READ THIS POEM! ! ! '
Would you have even bothered?
This poem is pulling you in
It has your feet
It's eating you
It's shattering your soul
It's never going to let you go
It's murdering you
This poem is a murderer
It is a criminal, it is evil
It is unnameable, unbreakable, imperfect
This poem has you
It's too late for you now
There's no escape for you now
Too bad
This poem has you
This poem's devoured you
Yummm, good
This poem is satisfied now
You should have listened to me
But you didn't
And now the poem's taken you
You're dead.

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I Am Not A Poet 2

When I feel I am really a poet
I see my flesh is poetry
My pleasure is poetry
My pains are poetry
My feelings are poetry.

Poetry protects me
Poetry teaches me
How to fight back and win.

Poetry is my freedom
Poetry is my independence
Poetry is my flag
And an anthem
Poetry is my prophet
And a messanger.

But I am not a poet
Do not read me
Burn me into ashes
Let there be a flower
From the ashes.

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A Not a Poem Poem

A Not a Poem Poem

I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!

I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!

Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!

Can I write a poem?
NO!

Will I write a poem?
NO!

Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!

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Law Of Diminishing Return

in this new on line age
interconnected
interlinked sites
networks websites age

in this new on line age
computer talk talk
click click open read
on line easy accesses means

a new poem a budding poet
only a quick click click away
anywhere in the world in fast
moving computer based world

feedback can be instantaneous
log on site read reply comment
even score the poem grade easy
seek fellow poet comment reply

favour reciprocated communal
friendships established interests
alined stress mutual point of view
new pet poet often read in entirety

yet new law of diminishing return
exists; easily read one or two even
twenty or thirty but not sixty ninety
two hundred to four hundred more?

now your in serious reading well past
short story territory; your in novella; to
novel range; a whole new landscape a
country of vast dimensions not a quick

read; traditional poetry pleasure; swiftly
scanned lines; read at fast leisure pace;
even some poets; lack stamina; for long
insightful complex read; less read works

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There Was A Poem About Poetry

THERE WAS A POEM ABOUT POETRY

There was a poem about poetry
Written by a poet whose name was hidden within the lines-

The poem about poetry
Became a song in the night
And a distant metaphor
For the incomprehensible journey that is life-

It became anything it could be made to be-
Love,
A world of a kind,
A mystery,
The holy sounds of light far far away -

All the poems we know are like this,
In the darkness they say one thing
But in the light in the light
Oh how dark and deep and far and lonely they are-

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On Poetry

1
poetry can be
like a sky filled with wrangling clouds
or as a sky without a wisp

2
in poetry there are no
clichés in thought and phrase;
and what is left there is
the resplendent and the living

3
poetry leaves one
rich inside
and ordinary outside

4
the fool defines poetry
and poetry defies all definitions

5
poetry entertains, inspires;
poetry tickles, distracts, and shapes and frees -
but its true intent, no one knows

6
many lines, and countless lines
many pages, and thick volumes
don’t make poetry

7
if one had no coins
one cannot buy bread;
but not all the world’s wealth
can bring you poetry

8
Oh no!
Not another love poem!
Oh no!
Not another poem about oneself!

9
rhyme, technique and meter
and tricks of prosody
don’t make poetry: passion does

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