I Have Lost The Poetry Within Myself
I HAVE LOST THE POET WITHIN MYSELF
I have lost the poetry within myself
I am dry and dead inside
Simple words are all I have
And I do not feel them strongly.
The ‘visionary gleam’
What is that?
The chill down the spine?
Where can that possibly come from?
The icy sea within broken?
How can that possibly be done?
Recollected in tranquility?
Where is any ‘tranqillity’?
There is Poetry
But it is somewhere else
And even that
I cannot feel.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry
A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY
A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.
The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Have I Lost The 'Visionary Gleam?
HAVE I LOST ‘THE VISIONARY GLEAM?
Have I lost the ‘visionary gleam’?
Did I ever have it?
Is Death ‘luckier than we’ think
Or ‘lucky’ at all?
How supreme can a fiction be?
And whoever really has drunk ‘the milk’ of paradise?
Why should a rose be sick or dead?
And why should ‘patience to prevent that murmur reply’?
Who said ‘The glory of God is davka in dappled things?
And what kind of fool compares what he builds to what ‘birds build’?
Can a skeptic be a poet in a real way?
Can poetry be read by those who doubt the truth of its lines?
Wasn’t he who said beauty is truth and truth beauty dying and lying at the same time?
What does it mean to steal a line of someone else‘s great beauty
And turn it into one’s own petty gripe?
Poetry is better served by the real thing,
Than by pastiches and parodies
And skeptical borrowers
And fake rivals in anxiety of influence-
One can take from the vast book of the living dead
The most treasured lines
And betray them into irony and silliness-
Yet those lines out-top the little later commentators
And make me wonder why I exercise my mind
In vain exercises like this
Instead of trying to write the true poetry-
‘Life is real life is earnest and the grave is not the goal’
Here he lies where he longed to be, home is the sailor home from the sea and the hunter from the hill’
Master of my fate, captain of my soul?
Do not take the lines literally
Read them with love and understanding
When they say something meaningful and beautiful to you
Hold on to them.
A poem is a poem for a that
Even for the wee slick cowrin beasties.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry
Only place where I feel at home is poetry
Everywhere else I am always lost
Nothing seems proper, when verses of English poems are not present
All that I feel like doing is write and write
Sometimes, I do admit that I do get lost
However, I really belong only with poetry
Still, I always feel that nobody ever does understand my feelings
A blank space is always present within my heart
As sometimes I start to feel that things which I express are not good enough
I do not really know why?
This is just how I feel sometimes
Since, often the mode of being depressed comes to my life
Then, I become a depressed poet who has only past memories
Nothing else I have as remaining to love or care
However, still I keep on penning things, only to still remain alive
Otherwise, I would be dead without words
Only place where I belong is poetry and here I feel being at home.
poem by Rohit Sapra
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There Was A Time / When Poetry Was The Poet's Only Life
THERE WAS A TIME/ WHEN POETRY WAS THE POET’S ONLY LIFE
There was a time
When Poetry was the Poet’s only life-
All that was in his experience
Had its meaning
Only as Poetry.
But when he began to understand
‘Poetry’ had primarily become a ‘means’
For his own Greed and Ego.
Poetry was lost.
But as he was a Poet in his soul,
He and his life too were also lost.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Fails
THE POET FAILS
The poet fails.
And cannot write.
Empty inside
His voice lost
No rhythm no tone
He tries to hear his way back.
Line by line
Simple words
Tries to hear his own feeling
The mind moves
But his heart does not.
The poet writes his own process of failure
Is this a poem?
Or is it merely the broken prose meditation
Of an old man who has lost his voice?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet Got Lost In His Own Poetry
A poet got lost in his own poetry
And could not find his way out
Instead he went deeper and deeper
Into the world of his own self- reflection-
Lost
He nonetheless continued to move
Poem after poem
Deeper and farther and longer and older
More and more lost-
A poet got lost in his own poetry
And never got out-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Lost in everything
Lost in thought
lost in pain
lost in fear
that you can never retain!
Lost in trouble
lost in grief
lost in heartbreak
that you can never relief!
Lost in sorrow
lost in death
lost in misery
That you can never refresh!
Lost in life
lost in words
lost in everything
That you can never return!
Lost in chaos
lost in peace
lost in burdens
that you can never release!
Because these are the things
we think and feel
through the good and the bad
It's a forever done deal!
poem by Katarina Bowman
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The Poet Despairs
THE POET DESPAIRS
The poet despairs,
He cannot write-
All his thoughts and words are confusion.
He has lost who he is,
And does not know why he is in the world.
The poet cannot write
He is no longer a poet
He does not know why
But he can no longer be.
Oh how he loves Poetry
And how he is tormented
By having lost it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poetry is Everywhere
To all my friends who say –
Poetry is not my cup of tea,
I’d strongly recommend that
they watch “Dead Poet’s Society”.
Poetry is in your cup of tea,
poetry is in every wave of the sea,
poetry is in the song of a bird
poetry springs forth from each of your word.
Poetry is in the smile of a baby,
poetry is in the redness of a ruby,
poetry is the union of your heart and mind
poetry teaches you to be soft and kind.
Poetry is the song of your soul,
poetry reminds you of your life’s goal,
poetry is in a game of cricket,
poetry is in the sound of a cricket.
Imagine life without poetry -
What an empty life it would be!
Imagine a world without poetry -
What a dull place it would be!
09 June 2010
! 2: 50 pm
poem by Gita Ashok
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Poetic Revolution
Poetry has no simple explanation,
no words to describe how words can describe
or the evokation it causes of emotion and thought
It is a subtle magic that really does work
to be believed in for its ebbing power
grander than the simple folk, and understood by them
It has changed over the many years
from wit and wonder and vocabularic delights
to simple jest and outpouring, when communication breaks down
Who do you find a poet, or poetic, or Poe?
Is it the one who delights you, drowns you, or drags you down...
Or simply any fool with words and a pen?
Nothing is left of its grand glory, even these departed words
that might mean a subdued salvation, growing up
Poetry waits for the next revolution...
REVOLUTION!
poem by Poet Dragon
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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.
poem by Devil Poet
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Lost To Find My Lot
Lost in a world, that scares me to death,
Lost in a crowd I’m losing my breath,
Lost as a kid, lost as an adult
I feel everything is falling apart and its my fault
Lost as a person, cant find my way
Lost in life every day, Lost in worry
Who am I?
I’ve lived a Lie
Lost to Kindness,
Lost to Love
Lost in the sky,
Like a lonely dove
Lost in thought which I shouldn’t do
It Winds me up,
I can’t get through
Lost to comfort all kind words
Lost to advice that isn’t heard
Lost to those who really care?
All these people always there
Lost in Me, I need a break
Lost in wonder which road should I take?
Lost in a place I don’t know well
Where are you now? There’s no one to tell
Lost here all alone To break these walls
Lost in mind
Lost in soul
Lost memories, there just a hole
Lost family, lost my place
Still yet I’m full of hate
Lost in boredom think I’ll leave
There’s a lot in life I need to achieve
poem by Olivia Braun
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I'm feeling all alone
I've always said this is a big big world
And now I'm lost in this world
Lost feeling...
Lost love...
Lost and confused,
Even broken and used.
Lost everything for love
I'm so lost
Im dying inside
When trus is lost, how can things,
move forward?
I'm feeling all alone
I'm lost in my feelings
I'm lost in everything.
I los him...
I los his heart.
Wanted to write a poem
But lost the words
I've lost everything and I don't,
Know why.
I'm lost in this world
My mind is lost
I cant seem to trust anyone
Thoughts of nothing
No dreams or goals
I'm lost in this world.
poem by Maria Luisa Taylor
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Retrieved Poetry
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
But the inspiration that befell the poet,
But the gods that cursed the poet
Would never allow him grow weary.
It keeps pouring out like morning dew
From sundown to cock crow.
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
Those would get paid
That wishes it out of this world.
Judgement day, the pay day, even today
,
Memories linger of what the gods inspired.
Only poetry has survived a worldwide flood.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
But the inspiration keeps coming,
But the memory keeps living.
Poetry lives on even when the world is dead;
It dies only if it is not poetry
And there is only a good few poetry.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
Until we start seeing poetry as poetry
And nothing more, until that day,
Until we start thinking he is inspired,
Until we stop thinking for the poet;
He is possessed he is innocent.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument.
Even as we cut from the same tree,
Even as we speak same universal language,
You cannot cut deep if your axe's blunt.
We can never speak from same mouth.
You can only say your own thought.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument,
If poetry is dead killed by death,
If poetry is dead swallowed by death,
The corpse should be in our front.
We should know how to bury it.
We should dig not cover it with dust.
Poetry is dead,
If poetry is really dead,
There is cause to weep bitterly,
There is cause to think deeply
For the world has been stripped naked.
For poetry is great, ageless, timeless, bottomless
At the burial we must remain emotionless.
poem by Chime Justice Ndubuisi
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Where Is The Poet That Can Inspire Once Again?
WHERE IS THE POET THAT CAN INSPIRE ONCE AGAIN?
Where is the poet that can inspire once again?
I have heard them all so many times-
Even the great are only familiar lines -
I wait for something different
From another dimension-
But it is not they who are tired
Or limited-
You can find worlds in them if you reread again-
It is I who have lost my soul for Poetry
And not only for Poetry-
It is I who am old and tired –
There can be no new poet and no new poem and no new poetry
When I have gone to the other side
Where listening and hearing are impossible.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Lost poem...Lost love..
Lost poem...
Lost words...
Lost feeling..
Lost love...
Nay, these are not lost, it is a deception
Nay, these are not lost, a false perception
Lost poem...
Lost words...
Lost feeling..
Lost love...
Nay, these are not lost, they exist deep in my soul,
Ultimate forgiveness, a high ideal, and yet a worthy goal.
Lost poem...
Lost words...
Lost feeling..
Lost love...
poem by Chad Fisher
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The Poetry Of Confession
THE POETRY OF CONFESSION
The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-
Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-
The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –
The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-
The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –
A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What i've lost
I've lost my way home
ive lost my friends
ive lost my seenses
ive lost my family
ive lost my heart
ive lost my will
ive lost my soul
but i refuse to lose you
A Muse for Me
My poetry doesn’t rhyme or flow
My poetry has no meaning and no feeling
My poetry has sex and violence written into it
My poetry cares for no one
My poetry is lost without you in it
Save me from my angry thoughts and schemes
I don’t want to be lost in a void where all write is uninspired
Become a muse for me, my poetry
poem by Double A P SS
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The Lost Cause
Lost words.
Lost cares.
Lost memories.
Lost smiles.
Lost tears.
Lost feelings.
Lost worries.
Lost bliss.
Forever I will be your,
Lost cause.
poem by Amber Green
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