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I Walk And Lines Come To Me

I WALK AND LINES COME TO ME

I walk and lines come to me-
Then I stop somewhere
And wait for more lines
To complete them-
Then when I am at home
I rewrite them-
Then I listen to them inside me
Again and again,
And when I hear that they are not right
I try to find what is missing for them,
Write and write again
Until reading it to myself
It sounds as it should be.

And when I am done
I am quiet inside,
As if all the Hope in the world
could be reborn
through a poem.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Are Those Who Wait Years To Write A Poem

THERE ARE THOSE WHO WAIT YEARS TO WRITE A POEM

There are those who wait years to write a poem
The fruit slowly ripens inside and then as with Rilke
It suddenly falls -

There are those who write a few lines
And come back time after time
And find the poem after many efforts-

There are those who cannot wait to write a poem
And once conscious of it must write it down as fast as possible
Before it is lost-

And there are those who only in the present writing
Find the poem -

The page suffers many methods and modes

But what truly makes a poem worthy
Is another question.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Listen To The Line I Wait To Write

I LISTEN TO THE LINE I WAIT TO WRITE

I listen to the line I wait to write
I hear myself speaking the poem to myself.
What I write
Comes from somewhere else
Inside myself
Perhaps beyond.

I take these words down
Which appear right before
I say them
Which appear
As I say them.

Is what I am doing ‘Poetry’?
Or is it merely my own illusion
Of what I am
And what Poetry is?

God gives and God takes.
Will God make these lines too
What they are not now,
And yet?

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No Poem In Me/Everything Irritates and Angers

NO POEM IN ME

No poem in me-
Everything irritates and angers
Even the beauty of the morning light-
Says nothing to me.

Walk, walk, walk,
Try to get the Impatience out.

Write a few lines,
To come back to a better Self.

Try.

Despite these lines
I am not there yet.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind

I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND

I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”

The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Hard

I try to write about my feeling
Though for others they don't have meaning
First few lines I can write easily
But those last ending lines are silly

To write it takes a lots of time
Hours to just complete last line
My few poems are not even complete
I try and try but cant, so I omit
And move to next poem
And finally complete
I now know to write it's too tough
So to all, who pour their feeling on paper "hats off"
The end

poem by Sushanta Rokka
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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.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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In The Darkness

In the darkness
Waiting for the day to be begin
Perfectly alert and awake
I write these lines
That have no message
Except their own existence.

We want to be
Not only for ourselves
But for others -

We need our voices to be heard
Not only by our own dreaming
But by those who respond to our sounds-

You are with me as I write these lines
Whoever you are reading this
You are with me-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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It's Late To Write A Poem

It’s late to write a poem-
It’s almost time to go-
And yet now as I was about to leave
The spirit of poetry came to me
And I feel in me lines that want to be written-

So as I quietly calmly surely write these lines down now
I know
The world can wait a long time for a real poem-
But when it comes
Oh how the sky opens up and the dreams go on happily on their journey.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Invincible Companion

Sometimes, you feel possessed…,
You hear voice whisper verses to your ears,
You pick your pen and write.

Sometimes, you want to add your line,
But, the voice will say; ‘No, it is not that way,
Listen very attentively, and, write’.

Sometimes, you will add your own line, and the voice
Will say, “Fine, it is alright”…,

Sometimes, you write before you think,
Sometimes, you omit some lines, then, you will have to wait
Long-temporally to get them back.

Sometimes, you get just the sketch, it becomes
An assignment to complete….

Sometimes, you argue with the voice for days
Before you turn out a piece; you listen, you think,
You write, cancel, and rewrite.

Sometimes,
When you become,
You look at the piece, and, you say, what a beautiful
Verses 1 have written.

Then, you will look back and say,
I never wrote that, I am just a tool in the hands
Of supernatural conspirators,
I am been used to respond to events,
Sometimes…
©2001

poem by Akachukwu Chukwuemeka
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If I Write A Few Lines

IF I WRITE A FEW LINES

If I write a few lines
My mind will open
My heart will take heart
I will begin to believe in myself again.
If I write a few lines
I will say that I still somewhere am alive,

Writing these lines
In such deep deep sadness and trouble,
I try
And word by word
Squeeze out a bit of Hope.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poem Of All The Places I Have Never Been

THE POEM OF ALL THE PLACES I HAVE NEVER BEEN

The poem of all the places I have never been
The poem of all the dreams I have not seen
The poem of others poems written in lines I have never imagined
The poem of the infinite – what-is- not and ‘what- will- never- be
The poem of seas and suns and sounds and Shakespeare’s sonnets,
The poem of words and only words whose sounds do not mean what we feel
The poem of all I would not and cannot write
The poem that is not and never will be in me
The poem I do not write
The poem I am not
The poem lost
The poem which itself is not a poem
The poem of the last contradiction and the first
The poem beyond the poem hidden within the poem
The poem which will never be a poem
The poem which is not
The poem I cannot dream.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Walk Without A Poem

WALK WITHOUT A POEM

I walk without a poem-
It is a time without poems-
I am tired -
The world is beating me down-
The older I ache
The more I grow cold-
I write these lines in the deep heat of summer
They are incidental and small
A poem perhaps-
But they cannot lift my soul
I do not know how now -

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Walk And Wait For A Poem

I WALK AND WAIT FOR A POEM

I walk and wait for a poem
What else do I have but a poem?

The schoolchildren by the side of the road
Are helped by their father into the car.

Yeats had ‘schoolchildren’ in his poem-
But I am not Yeats.

I stop and write these lines down
A poem is not enough
A small poor poem
Is not enough.

But what else do I have but a small poor poem
And the memory of my children
The children I love so much-
When they were schoolchildren
So long long ago?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Night Is Deeper Than I Am

THE NIGHT IS DEEPER THAN I AM

THE NIGHT IS DEEPER THAN I AM
The night is deeper than I am
Sleep will soon come
I have no lines I need to write
The words are only what they happen to be now
I wait and try to listen to myself.
I do not have much to say.

The poem written in this way
Will always suffer its own hesitations.
I write because this is who I am and who I need to be
These lines too another proof to myself of who I am
But are they a true proof or just another dreaming?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Along A Path

When we walk along a line,
The retreat is a loving gesture;
Inside we have entrails, only to love,
So that enticement reduces us.

Open the winning races,
Beginning is like ending,
I face the enemy with speed
As the next life queries us.

Lines and more lines produce
Internal doubt, for more shouting
Incites me to write a perfection,
One finds it again and again.

poem by Naveed Akram
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I Wait To Hear The Lines Come

I WAIT TO HEAR THE LINES COME

I wait to hear the lines come
I try to listen only to what has the melody and rhythm of poetry
I wait-
I hear-
But in me deeper than myself some Silence stops my soul -
The words are the words and they can come
'But what this Life is and what I have done in it? '
Is still a question-
After all these years
And old –
Still a question-

I listen to myself
But it is not enough-
Some one else, others must want to listen also
And perhaps they never will-
I have a poem, you have a poem
But do we have Poetry?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Have Been Many Opening Lines Tonight

THERE HAVE BEEN MANY OPENING LINES TONIGHT

There have been many opening lines tonight
But none has been followed by a convincing poem -
Why is this evening one of trying and failing?
Why can't I at least write one small poem
That seems to me worthwhile?

I am doing better now-
There is a stanza,
And perhaps these lines will be a stanza too.

I have two small awkward stanzas
When I finish this one
I will try to feel I have a poem.

Nothing I do tonight is good enough
Is it better to have a poor poem
Or none at all?

I answer by posting these lines.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Write A Few Lines

I WRITE A FEW LINES

I write a few lines,
I try to tell myself
They are a poem.
But what’s a poem
In a Universe of trillions of poems?

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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10 Lines

How can i profess my love for you in just ten lines
when i could write a million rhymes
how can i say all that i feel
in so little space, i must fill the world with my love
It's hard to believe, but what i am saying is truth,
but i want to write my love for you everywhere yet protect it as a precious dove

in only ten lines how can i make you see
all the love I've bottled, inside of me
waiting to spill out all over you
hoping that you love me too...

poem by David Knox
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