If I Had Words/ For The Colors Of Leaves
IF I HAD WORDS
If I had words
For the colors of leaves
Then I might be
The poet of trees-
But all these shades
Beyond my means-
The wonders of God’s world
Must be seen
To be redeemed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Related quotes
If You Are a Poet
If you are a poet it means so much
as others souls you often touch.
Your own soul you cruelly cut
petting the others with your blood.
To be a poet means to sing of beauty
and it’s the main poet’s duty.
Rhyming the words to tell the truth
and it has to be quite smooth.
To be a poet means to burn with passion,
to treat the others grief with a compassion,
to love the others as yourself,
to hear the voice of kind elf.
To be a poet means to dream,
to tell the world a touching theme,
to speak sincerely and frankly
but not just rhyming poems blankly.
Rhyming words is not the main,
there’s no need to strain your brain.
If your heart has nothing to tell
rhymed words will look like hell.
To be a poet means to write
as if your blood gushes from vein,
to write the rhythm of living breath,
the rhythm of life that seethe.
Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)
30/9 2010
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Unused, but perfectly good words
Lonely words, in need of some usage
Perfectly good, yet almost unknown
Let’s take a quick look in my dictionary book
Let’s not leave these words all alone
For example, under A: The word “Abscission”
It’s quite usual to say “leaves fall from the trees”
But we could also say, with utmost precision
We could use a word that we very rarely see
When we say “leaves fall from trees in abscission”
That’s probably the first time… in quite a long time
That word, that means “the natural parting of a leaf from a tree”
That that word, has now… seen the light of day
could become quite common, if used by you and me
I can just hear people exclaiming, as they peer up above
As the fall’s colors fill their vision
“We’re amazed, we’re agog, we’re simply in love
At the trees…in the Fall… in abscission”
We can do it, you and I, we can set this word free
But in our mission, must not show indecision! ! !
We must casually let it drop, in daily conservation, you and me
And this Fall will become filled with “abscission”
poem by David Whalen
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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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Poetry and Poet
Poetry is poet's inner world,
Churnings of Self in distinct words;
Poetry is not black and white,
Grey, nuances of diverse hues
In kaleidoscopic word-networks
That capture all formless clouds
In the deep sky of the poet's world.
Poetry is poet's outer world,
His expressions in proper norms;
Bare thoughts, his rogue fights within
Dressed well for the popular nod;
Poet's world, a messy snake-pit,
A burrow of rats, snakes, insects,
Fighting to spring in riotous words,
Filter'd for world in elegant words.
Poetry is never a judgement,
Sheer whispers from heart to heart
Beyond what words do transport;
Words in lilt and dance, poetry,
Links they bond, cadence they ring,
Makes a poetry, a true poetry,
A mirror of poet's inner turmoils,
His hopes and strengths in right words,
Indecisions he suffer, his deeper Self.
Poetry is release from inner cauldron,
Steams from within in guise of words,
Quiet flames of the inner hearth
That flared for long finding a vent;
Poetry, a relief, a joy of sharing,
Sharing the Self with the world outside,
Back to the source from where all came;
Poet is the priest, poetry, his hymns,
Offered to the world for peace and grace.
Poetry sprouts from the morass of soul
And grows out of poet like pipal tree
And outstays him;
Fleeting is poet, but not his poems,
Poetry is the poet universalised;
It sucks his thoughts, sucks his force,
Spreads outwards to enrich the world
And leaves the poet richer and strong
Like fire and good deeds always are,
How much you share, so richer you are.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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In Our Silence....
for nude images
we may put some words
for further flesh
for the nudes before us
the beauty of the curves and bold colors
shades of dim and pale and twilight
whispers of the unrequited longings of dawn
gasps of the possibility of fulfillment
no words are ever enough
let the hands do it for the body
let the body free
do not restrain the use of words
lick whatever silence offers.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Illiterate Poet
The illiterate poet
Painted his passionate ballad
With the colors of the rainbow
Both happy and sad
Without using a pen
He wrote
Without making words
He spoke
People braced themselves
For a miracle to happen
Waiting as the mute delves
For words to say
As the clock ticked by
And no words came out
As the people waved goodbye
He stood to shout
Inaudible words
Because he was
Nothing but
A mute
poem by Poetic Kadri
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Over time, I have come to see the work of literature less as narrating the world than 'seeing the world with words'. From the moment he begins to use words like colors in a painting, a writer can begin to see how wondrous and surprising the world is, and he breaks the bones of language to find his own voice. For this he needs paper, a pen, and the optimism of a child looking at the world for the first time.
Orhan Pamuk in Other Colors: Essays and a Story
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lightning Rod
A poet is merely a lightning rod,
For passing through him the words of God!
He opens up his mind, receives,
Then passes on the message, grieves!
The words erupt from deep within him
That God has stored before, verbatim.
Line upon line of schemes, ideas,
When left to man, left man in tears.
Words left in trust at the Creation
Mankind would waste in dissipation.
Before, when Adam walked with Eve
In Eden's den of make-believe
Were knowledge trees and friendly serpents
As God composed the Ten Commandments!
And every verse of every poem
Was writ before the truth was known;
That nothing is ever achieved by man
Without the seal of God's own hand.
So laud me not, the poet's in me,
But deep within, the poet's empty.
A poet is merely a lightning rod
For passing through him the words of God!
9 November 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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You Do Not Have...
you do not have to
read me
for me to become
another poet
i am
and i can be
and i will be
even without you
and you are
and you can be
and you shall be
even without me
i am a poet
because i have decided to write the poems
and the poem shall be there forever
until the right reader comes along
the one who loves
a poem even without me
even without you
even without the world
this poem and that poem shall be
even without us
for these are words
and words shall be words even without the world
for it was the word which came first
and shall remain
till eternity.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'm A Poet
I'm a Poet
A twister of words
I open a world unseen to others
I bring meaning to the meaningless
I use words as my weapon
It's a double edged sword
I can bring beauty to a slum land
Horror to a smile
I can give life to the dead
Immorality to a flower
Then destroy it in the next line
I'm a poet
A rhymer of words
I see the unseen
And create new worlds
I am an artist of the written
A magician of the pen
I can make words rhyme
Or go free verse
It all depends
On how I feel in that moment
I'm a poet
To the end
poem by Rachel Dowd
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To Recapture That Innocence Of Loved Missed
To recapture that innocence of loved missed,
May be easier done by a poet doing it.
But when a poet isn't sitting to compose words of love...
The wish for it may be stronger than words can express.
Since words may touch emotions.
But to caress one's flesh...
In an anticipated mutual acceptance,
Is what the poet envisions as best.
For those who are poets,
In a loneliness desired to forget.
Or deny to mask in alibis.
And a poet can decide,
Whether to expose this or hide!
'So what have you chosen to do? '
Lie.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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As I work with my words as medium
I want to be profound
Deep, deeper than what i
Can possible swim
But I have seen
The limitations
Of words as medium
Of my thoughts
How can I put the
Color red
Of an apple
In words
Or the scent
Of lavender
In syllables
Here you are
Reading me
And I do not want
To disappoint
You, my reader
I want to create
A world of sensations
For such is the
World of poetry
I have long wanted
You to feel
My sadness in
Letters
My loneliness
In a single
Letter
This
i
Or...... ............................... me...................................
I want you to listen
To me
In the hush of the wind
In syllables
I want you to
Read my joys
In my phrases
Sometimes
I have given
You sentences
stanzas
I want you to
Be at home
With my words
But these are
Just words
And I must
Have failed
In bringing
Back to life
Your senses
Hopelessly
They have long
been dead
words, words, words,
And
Even this whole
Poem
Is not enough
Let me try
Again
On some
Coming
Illustrations
Birds falling
Their wings clipped
Leaves blown
Detached from
Their stems
Trees threatened
About the news
Of the coming storms
Oh I am so sorry
Your senses are sleeping
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The novelist and the poet
the difference between
the poet and the novelist
the former invites you
straight into his world
a canvas that takes
words for paint
humour for techniques
realism for images
the novelist
on the other hand
flatters you with
his intelligence
but takes the liberty
to hide behind
each of his creation/character
hard it would be to
find the man in
the maze of his words
you would gain more
hunting for him in town
the novelist is a
calculative trader
seizing any idea that could
help him sell his words
the humble poet though has
to sniff out his real self, his own god-instilled rhythm,
to let us share his adventures, colours, dreams
the novelist craft words for money
the poet craft words - to find himself and shares it with those -
who wish to find their own selves
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Broken heart
Poets have broken hearts
My wife Tapaswini alleged
And without broken hearts
No one would be a poet
My wife Tapaswini clarified.
The poet wonders in his world
The poet work wonders through
His words and sentences
And my wife Tapaswini left
No space for my replied.
My wife Tapaswini left the place
Where I was and my wife Tapaswini
Could not reach me where I am
And the sparrow the crow all
Arranged their feast with joy
Where I am writing poem.
Where I was writing I was there
Where I am writing I am there
My wife Tapaswini always with me
I was not with my wife Tapaswini
While writing and the allegation
Of my wife Tapaswini I certified
And I attested One can take it granted.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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A Poet Talks To Himself
A poet talks to himself
And hears his own praises
And does not believe them.
A poet talks to himself
And hears a critical word
And knows he is right.
A poet talks to himself
And imagines others are listening
And love his dreams as if they were their own –
A poet talks to himself
And in the talking plays
In many voices -
A poet talks to himself
And in talking to himself
Feels more and more alone -
Where are the holy listeners?
Where is the love which is not absurd?
A poet talks to himself
And prays he is secretly being overheard-
And wonders why God should want words
From a mortal so small.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Picture Of Colors
A picture of colors
A purple forest of colors
A balloon of colors
A blue fantasy of colors
This is what our planet should be
A whirlwind of colors
A white world of colors
A resting place of colors
A red hideaway of colors
This is what it should look like
A ‘yes' world of colors
A yellow rainbow of colors
A graced hill of colors
A green meadow of colors
An overflowing basket of colors
An orange bowl of colors
This would be a perfect place
Letter To A Young Poet Revised
Letter to a young Poet
Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.
So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Letter To A Young Poet
Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent’ it never starts a war
nor finished it. Should a poet write something that resonance with,
the sentiment of a nation, you can be sure it will be used by politicians
and interpreted for their dubious plans.
So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the people a poet is regarded as a figure of fun
who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make sense
of a world they don’t understand. As my father said when I published
my first poem: “How much did they pay you? ” So if my words have not
scared you off you’re a poet. All you need is intellectual honesty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To Be Content About What Is Missing
i rush to pluck words
from the twigs of memory trees
lining on the avenues
of my mischief
words are flowers
and thoughts are colors
my lips are hands
with open fingers
i think of you
as always
i feel you like air
inside my lungs
i see nothing but
i am content about what is missing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem Is The Poet
THE POEM IS THE POET
The poem is the poet
It tells his story even when he does not intend it to-
It bears his signature even when he forges it-
The poem is the poet-
It reflects his mind his soul-
It cannot be written without what he is
Though he denies what he is to himself-
The poem is the poet
And the poet's contradictions-
It is the mask of his self - expression
And his ultimate definition in words-
When he writes he becomes himself
And when he finishes it
He leaves a part of himself in it for as long as it exists.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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