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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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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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
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The Last Poem I Came To
The last poem I came to
Was not my own-
It came from other voices elsewhere
And had a thousand broken signatures written in it -
It was all my reading and all the voices of others I had heard-
It sounded like a mess,
And it frightened me by its mixed- up- ness -
But I have been reading and listening too long
The voice was of the others
But it had become mine also-
And now when I try to sound like myself
I hear them calling me by their own lines and names
And writing these words as I write them.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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You ask me who am I really?
You have seen my face
You have seen the way I smile the way I bend my back
My shoulder leaning on the door
As though greeting you
A nice day a promising future
The glow of sun
The coolness of the moon
The splash on the clear blue waters
By the pool
By the sea
The sail boat passing by
The ship on anchor
By the wharf
And the cotton clouds hanging
By the green mountains
The poems I write are sad
You read them and you cry
You say you relate
You say you feel
The sadness of my lines
Now you ask me
Who am i?
Was I the butterfly dreaming about the sad man?
Or was I the sad man dreaming about the butterfly?
You are confused
I am not; I choose what I want to be
I am what I am
This moment,
And the moments that you imagine me to be
I write what I want
I am what I am
The lines may be lying
But read them again
I may be somewhere in the lines between
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beating The Blues
You have seen my face
You have seen the way I smile the way I bend my back
My shoulder leaning on the door
As though greeting you
A nice day a promising future
The glow of sun
The coolness of the moon
The splash on the clear blue waters
By the pool
By the sea
The sail boat passing by
The ship on anchor
By the wharf
And the cotton clouds hanging
By the green mountains
The poems I write are sad
You read them and you cry
You say you relate
You say you feel
The sadness of my lines
Now you ask me
Who am i?
Was I the butterfly dreaming about the sad man?
Or was I the sad man dreaming about the butterfly?
You are confused
I am not; I choose what I want to be
I am what I am
This moment,
And the moments that you imagine me to be
I write what I want
I am what I am
Some lines may be lying
But read them all over again
I may be there
between those lines somewhere
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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344
You have seen my face
You have seen the way I smile the way I bend my back
My shoulder leaning on the door
As though greeting you
A nice day a promising future
The glow of sun
The coolness of the moon
The splash on the clear blue waters
By the pool
By the sea
The sail boat passing by
The ship on anchor
By the wharf
And the cotton clouds hanging
By the green mountains
The poems I write are sad
You read them and you cry
You say you relate
You say you feel
The sadness of my lines
Now you ask me
Who am i?
Was I the butterfly dreaming about the sad man?
Or was I the sad man dreaming about the butterfly?
You are confused
I am not; I choose what I want to be
I am what I am
This moment,
And the moments that you imagine me to be
I write what I want
I am what I am
The lines may be lying
But read them again
I may be somewhere in the lines between
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Why Does A Poem/ Not Want To Begin
WHY DOES A POEM /NOT WANT TO BEGIN
Why does a poem
Not want to begin?
Why does Silence say
It should be all and all?
Why against this
Must ‘Will’ and ‘Ambition’ come?
And force lines
As these lines forced now?
Because I am a lonely man
Who has nothing to do with himself?
But write poems
Which he dreams
Someone someday
Will read.
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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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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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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I read another poet I could not understand
I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND
I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.
And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.
But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?
Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-
Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Fear Does Not Write Happy Lines
FEAR DOES NOT WRITE HAPPY LINES
Fear does not write happy lines-
Anxiety does not sing -
The soul is not uplifted
With the next medical test.
Life is a song
But it is not just a song-
Happiness is real
But it is not the only reality.
Now for the days ahead
The quiet fear and waiting
And the poem that becomes a troubling question.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Why Do I Need These Few Lines So?
WHY DO I NEED THESE FEW LINES SO?
Why do I need these few lines so?
I write and I write
Wherever I go.
Nothing I am
And nothing I’ll be
But writing is what
Makes me-me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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For Those Who Still Dream To Write The Best Lines Of Their Lives
you wish to write the best lines of
a poem, something that they will remember
for a lifetime, you want to put the best metaphor,
you like to be deeper than the deepest ocean
(or the bluest sky ever, or the tallest peak
of a mountain with snow caps, you want to
put the gentlest sound of the wind
on top of the Tibetan monastery, you like
to have your lines sound like a tinkering bell
of the meditating monks, you want it holier
than the saints, you want to make an impression
with the moon and the stars, before you die,
before you embrace the darkness and then
take on the glowing robe of light)
you wish to write the wisdom of the ages
in some few lines, you want to put your name
at the bottom, so they may remember you
how human could you still be!
divinity shuns this waste of words!
come to think of the paradox
the best poem is not written at all
it is not even spoken
not even the sweetest song of the bird
not even the flute or the lyre has that note
it is not here, not even in the hearts of men
or of the wise, it does not exist here,
it is not even heard yet, the metaphors still unseen
the rhyme unrevealed, the rhythm unfathomed...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All The Poems Remain Written Where They Once Never Were
ALL THE POEMS REMAIN WRITTEN WHERE THEY ONCE NEVER WERE
All the poems remain written where they once never were
The grass and the skies of Whitman form lines in the mind of Baudelaire
The trees and dark cities of the distance form single sounds in the heart of the poet who cares
Night is more than darkness and day more than an early setting out
Each thing influences the other and calls back its own origins and end
We are going somewhere we will never know whether we write eternal lines or not
Over everywhere can be heard in the morning light the selfsame sound that through the heart of Ruth burned the alien corn
Keats is not dead, and Borges is not dead and Kafka is not dead and Wordsworth and all those who wrote great lines are not dead
Poetry is the last first eternity of the living word
And those who can hear the sounds of others greater than themselves in their own lines know
We are all writing down this last poem for ourselves and no one else
Though as we go to pray each morning the minyan tells us secretly
All our prayers together are more than any single poem can be alone
In the grey long distance where no one hears any poem at all
God writes and rewrites for us all the book of the stars in which dread is no longer a name
And beauty bright bright beauty is heard and reechoed as more than we will ever be
God is the only Poetry in the End
God is the Only One who never will be dead..
poem by Shalom Freedman
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That Spot....
this is a blank slate.
when i write some words on it
and you begin to read each
something really happens
though you do not know it
because you are too busy with
the reading of the word
either a part of me dies or lives
it depends on where you stop
and when
tomorrow i shall write again
you must learn where you stopped and
when.
it is that precise moment
that you make me begin to write again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It...
IT IS everyday
like everything that you do: waking up
washing the face
brushing the teeth
combing the hair
defecating on the
throne
in the comfort room
taking breakfast
reading the news
watching tv
waiting and going
and coming back
on the table
searching for words
to mark your day
above all those
rantings
take the cure: write, write,
write
they follow you and
read and say something
about you
perhaps it will matter
that your existence
is being confirmed
by all
you too stalk as they
stalk you
it is fair then.
They are your ITs
And you are their
It too.
but actually it would have been
a better world
if we did not write at all.
simply because
we have chosen the
right course:
talking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Two Word Lines
I write
my pain
and its
just another poem
its just
the same
all the heart ache that goes onto this page
only takes me back to the place where I await
behind the curtains of an empty stage
the pain
I write
I wrote this
I locked my own cage
I threw away the key to he that did see me rage
and still
I write
yes still
I fight
hoping that I might find something you feel
because these two word lines are just rhymes
when I say them back they aren't real
I'm sick and tired of talking about better times
forcing things like a relationship two people don't really want
a mum and dad staying together for the sake of the kids when the love is really gone.
Look at this back and see my two word lines
see my two word lines
are one.
poem by Daniel McCann
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I write a lot, and very often I write a couple of lines that are particularly revealing in some kind of way. And then as a few more lines get added and a piece gets added, eventually the song pretty much takes over and you can't really find a way to change those things.
quote by Nick Cave
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