I Have Given My Life To Writing
I HAVE GIVEN MY LIFE TO WRITING
I have given my life to writing
And forgotten almost all of it
Why should others remember
What I do not?
Lines of great beauty are rare
And poets of greatness more so
Why remember my little lines
When billions beat on forever emptily?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My Mind Becomes The Lines I Remember
MY MIND BECOMES THE LINES I REMEMBER
My mind becomes the lines I remember
I repeat them over and over
I hear them inside myself
Again and again.
My mind becomes the lines I remember
Until
I can no longer bear to be still-
And I hear other lines
Writing themselves within me
And calling themselves ‘My poem’.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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I Am An Old Man Writing A Poem
I AM AN OLD MAN WRITING A POEM
I am an old man writing a poem
I have been writing a poem all my life
The lines seem somewhat blurred now
But what I have written
Will say I hope
Something of what we are
And what we have been
And what we will be.
I am an old man still writing a poem
And I love with all my heart all those
Who have lived their lives-
in one way or another – with me
I do not know how to thank you-
I write these lines to thank you
And pray for the goodness and blessing
Of your lives and the lives of those you love-
And will love-
Now here
And in all your time to come.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Writing The Words
I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.
I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.
I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.
I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.
I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.
So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.
poem by Rachel Brewer
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I Come Alive In Writing
I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -
I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-
I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Fear My Own Silence
I FEAR MY OWN SILENCE
I fear my own silence
I fear the end in life in writing
Before my life has ended-
I force myself to go on
I feel my own inadequacy
I feel I am writing poor lines.
I sense it would make more sense to stop
I should stop
I can’t stop
I need to write
Even if my writing is only the scribbling of an amateur fool who has wasted his life in words and more words
I write this now in the darkness before the morning has begun
Will I walk to Shul this morning justified?
Or do I know these lines now too
More of the same self- indulgent nonsense
No one needs but myself?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Have Been Writing For All My Life
I HAVE BEEN WRITING FOR ALL MY LIFE
I have been writing for all my life
And soon I will be done
And when I am done
What will be with it all?
You live and you try and you try and you try
And you live as long as you can
And you try, or so you tell yourself, as hard as you can
And what it all amounts to
No one knows.
It is a very very large universe
And I am one small one among the billions who have been here
And the more billions that may be here
And in all the sounds and all the furies
My little words may be quiet as a song that has only the melody of death.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I like writing better. Because I don't have to wear makeup, I don't have to be thin, and I don't have to remember lines.
quote by Fran Drescher
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Poem about Poetry - what is not poetry
writing lines
not like a child
writing lines
robotlike
hitting at keys
rather than own heart
writing lines
throwing words
which are yet
our friends
words picked
from thesaurus
dictionaries
for word's sake
an alley of prostitutes
we treat as our wives
godless
writing as if
the world
possesses
no soul and
god, the real poet
who spares symbols
for his creation
trees, lightning,
thunder
for poets
to colour their world
to see the other side
of the world
how the trees, lightning
thunder
are a part of men
themselves
described,
the trees - spring of youth
lightning - rage
thunder - warning
the warming effect
god's verse to men's uncaring verse
misinterpretation of his symbols
god the leading poet
the world a repository of symbols
for his masterpiece
a masterpiece
we could only admire
the real poet leaves us
something to ponder about
and to add a verse or two
to his work
like the almighty poet
who when he likes
answers us back
in riddles
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I Am Only One Small Name In A Universe
I AM ONLY ONE SMALL NAME IN A UNIVERSE
I am only one small name in a universe,
Of billions of names-
I am only one small bodily being
Where there are billions of billions-
I am a beginning and an end,
As all living things-
A speck in vast spaces whose specks are uncountable-
No one or nothing need save me
No one or nothing need remember me
No one or nothing billions of years hence
Need smile because I was here.
I am so small I need never to have existed-
I am not even here now,
Whoever is writing this
Lost me a long time ago.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In Between The Lines
In between the lines
as we go about our lives
we often seem to think
no one loves no one cares
In between the lines
we drag our weary feet
and often think who cares
and shuffles mindless
to the beat
In between the lines
we search for gloom & doom
we come up with outrageous stories
that we plant between the lines
In between the lines
we throw caution to the wind
making out the lies
to be a bitter truth
so just bare in mind
what’s just been said
we always learn life’s mystery’s
in between the lines
poem by Kaila George
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Remembering the future
The Greeks said, those great Muses
who civilise us, grace our dance of life,
were once, before they were nine,
just three; and before that,
only one was named: and she was, Memory.
Does that make poets just regurgitators
of what’s already been oft said -
and better, too, some would aver…?
No, it’s more subtle than that; ask a poet:
a poem that comes warm, hot, from the human heart
demands a summary birth; won’t hang around
while you go out to buy more toys and frills
to hang around the cot…
it is indeed, more like remembering:
as if you step into a timeless place
where all that’s needful is to remember
what the future poem shall, will, have said..
write it down; and maybe sleep on it;
when you wake, you may remember
two lines somewhere which you’d forgotten,
but know exactly where that is…
That Muse of memory will then decide
whether a poem that has a timeless birth,
may have a timeless life... or not...
How can a poet claim a poem as his, or hers,
when such a Muse? and yet, so close at hand?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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Remember.
Remember your hope not your blue
Remember your share not your dues
Remember your laugh not your tears
Remember your courage not your fear
Remember your gain not your vain
Remember your joys not your pain
Remember your smile not your cross
Remember your victory not your loss
Remember and listen to what i say.
Remember i don't want you to lose faith your self along the way! ! ! !
Writing by salma torrez.
Copyright.
poem by Salma. Torrez
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Lines
I asked
Happiness
To give me
Some lines
To write
Happily…
It grimaced
And said -
There was
Nothing
In its booty.
It felt so empty.
So to help me
It went out of the way
To borrow some lines
From sadness and gave
Those to me.
So here I am
Writing some lines
To you, borrowed
From my friends -
Messrs. Happiness
And Sadness who
Were kind enough
To lend some lines
To me....for thee....
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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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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Writing Saved My Life
WRITING SAVED MY LIFE
Writing saved my life
It makes me who I am-
Without it,
I do not want to be.
Writing is me.
But what I have written
Will it say a word to the final Forever?
Does God want or need it?
Has it really helped anyone?
I can be forever the being I am
But what will this mean,
If it does not help you?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Paper Rose
Each time pen and line
brush the page
it is with you in mind;
all these years
you've been
reader to my writer-
you and I
giving life
to what starts as
mere blank pages-
and end as
our shared experience.
I can feel you;
hear you breathing
and lay
down each
night
renewed
for you have
read
between my lines
written and
I
received
your resonances
come back
to my ear-
these reciprocities
tracking
the journey
we each
together
have taken-
our lines entwining.
No greater bond
than the bond
of reader and that written;
no love more timeless
than that shared
in the missive
shaped
by two
interchanging
in this journey
through
life's space.
No gratitude greater
than mine.
Capture here then
to be clear
the
paper rose
this writing
is
because
its lines form
a rose
which will
last
down the years
forever read
forever written.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I Walked With The Lines Of Others In My Mind
I WALKED WITH THE LINES OF OTHERS IN MY MIND
I walked with the lines of others in my mind
Greater lines by far than my own -
But they were the lines of others
Hearing them I could not hear myself -
I walked and let my own voice tell itself
It knew it was a lesser thing
But it was my voice
And hearing it
I know I am alive.
There are a few great poets
But there are many small poets too.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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T h e R e m e m b r a n c e r s
and it’s difficult to say exactly
what they do, or
how useful that task really is
for like the ideal rulers
of ancient China,
the better they do their job,
the less we notice that
you could say, they are
remembrancers:
they hold memories for millions of people:
they remember people, good people, poor people,
and honour them as we should wish to honour them;
they remember heroes and the dead;
they remember history; and how
things used to be done, when they were done well;
it is their duty, over a whole lifetime,
to remember what is so deep in all our hearts
that we have forgotten that we know it;
that we could hardly express it;
yet, as those stories of every nation tell,
as King Arthur is said to arise from the sleeping soul
in times of need – this is what they remember for us;
they remember what it means to be a nation
when others have forgotten
but as they have no executive power
they can only advise and consent
when asked
they draw to themselves, good and wise people
who help them to remember
to remember for the rest of us
and such is the mystery of what they really do
that we laugh about their private lives
over our morning newspapers
while they set out for another day
full of official engagements
of being seen to remember something
and we remember having seen them
and how we waved our flags and gave them flowers
but may or may not sense
what they remember for us
and as they move around,
in and out of cars and sometimes planes each day
receiving flowers from children awed by the moment,
shaking hands, receiving in a few seconds our clumsy response,
respect; admiration; recognition for duty done; even, love;
they must remember all that is unspoken, unformulated,
in those clumsy moments of the heart and soul
and that great mind which makes of human beings
families, tribes, nations, humanity
in those we walk with, through our life
for memory is not visible
and what they hold for us, we seldom think about
and we shall never know how much we owe to them
unless they were no longer here for us
they are sometimes called to be called kings and queens
and some are great,
born great, achieving greatness, or greatness thrust upon them
in the holy oil with which status is anointed;
but our gratitude is seldom shown
until their jubilee,
or in time of war
or at their funeral
when we, wearing black,
may celebrate their life, their light,
the remembrancers
poem by Michael Shepherd
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