No Poem Can Save

NO POEM CAN SAVE


No poem can save
From the infinite sadness
That suddenly comes
And destroys everything.

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What Poem Can Be Written/To Break The Silence Of Infinite Sadness?

WHAT POEM CAN BE WRITTEN/ TO BREAK THE SILENCE OF INFINITE SADNESS

What poem can be written
To break the silence of infinite sadness?
An infinite poem?
A sad Poem?
A poem that knows no one’s name
Including my own?
A poem that comes suddenly
Like the freshness of these winter breezes
And sweeps the mind free
Into a new world
Of Light and Dreams
So cold?

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Only A Poem Can Save Me

ONLY A POEM CAN SAVE ME

Only a poem can save me
Only a poem can take me home
And make me be what I truly am,

Only a poem can save me
And make each moment of my life
Its own song.

Only a poem can save me

And nothing I do
And nothing I will live
And nothing I write
Can be any more
than these words
This poem is now.

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There Is No More

There Is No More-

There is no more-
‘The poem that will save the world’
That will save my people
My family
Me.

A poem at best
May save the time
In which it is written.

Or perhaps a bit more
A day.

But to save
To really save
There is no poem –
Anymore.

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To Really Save- There Is No Poem

There Is No More-

There is no more-
‘The poem that will save the world’
That will save my people
My family
Me.

A poem perhaps
May save the time
In which it is written.

Or at best a bit more
A day.

But to save
To really save
There is no poem –
Anymore.

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A Poem Is Just A Poem

a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem

a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about

anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's

poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be

a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice

thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist

on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,

need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem

it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so

this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.

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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.

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The Poem About The Poem

The poem about the poem
And what is a poem?
And what is a poet?
And will the poem
Save me?
Help you?

And is writing the poem
The best I can do?
Or is it only words and more words?
Is the poem about the poem
For the poet only?
Or for each one reading and speaking and hearing it?

The poem about the poem
On this sunny spring Jerusalem morning
Peace and happiness in me -
The poem about the poem
For now.

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This Poem

THIS POEM

This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.

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Poem.

I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,

I like the story.

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Poem.

I do not like the silly poem,
I do not like the angsty poem,
I do not like the ridiculous poem,
I do not like the damned poem,
I do not like the cheesy poem,
I do not like the random poem,
Or the epic poem,
Or the dandy poem,
Or the long poem,
Or the short poem,
Or the stupid poem,
Or the rude poem,
Or the useless poem,
Or the wordless poem,
Or the poem poem,
Or the poem poem's daughter,
Or the word, Poem,

I like the story.

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The Poem Started To Be One Thing

The Poem started to be one thing
And became another -
It lost its way
And became mixed up-
To save it was to divide into two or three
But this was to lose it also-
Perhaps the mixed- up poem is the true poem
And the poem pure in one theme is only an abstraction no one needs -

The poem whose subject is its own writing
Is a minor poem
And one of lesser feeling-
I write this poem now as if I know
Even within myself
There are better, if less or more pure poems elsewhere

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This is a poem....

This isn't a poem of one direction,
This is a poem about perfection.
This isn't a poem about who won the election,
This is a poem about correction.
This isn't a poem of getting it right,
This is a poem of standing up to fight.
This isn't a poem of being lost like a kite,
This is a poem about trying to find the light.
This isn't a poem of running tears,
This is a poem about chasing your fears.
This isn't a poem of love and hate,
This is a poem of destiny and fate.
This isn't a poem of the end,
This is a poem of a heart unable to mend.
This isn't a poem of cruilty and pain,
This is a poem of a thng i need to gain.
This isn't a poem of shame,
This is a poem of fame.
Thsi isn't a poem of the life i let loose,
THIS IS A POEM OF THE TRUTH.

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Desperation Is A Lonely Poem

DESPERATION IS A LONELY POEM

Desperation is a lonely poem
And what I have to say
And have said so many times before
Will not save me
From this situation.

Desperation is a lonely poem
And a helpless poem
And a difficult poem
And a painful poem
And a poem I do not know how to get out of.

Desperation is the silence of all these words
And the nothingness of endless not hearing
When I cry with all my soul aloud.

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The Poem I Did Not Write Today

THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY

The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.

The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.

It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come
It is the poem which believes too that poetry will help save the world.

It is the good poem
The happy poem
The poem I did not write today
Is the poem my life is writing now and always
And with you it says
‘What a miracle it is that we are here
reading and writing
and loving life as we do’.

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Only A Poem Can Save Me Tonight

ONLY A POEM CAN SAVE ME TONIGHT

Only a poem can save me tonight
The heat has been too much
Also the feeling of illness.
I cannot move my mind very much
But a few lines I can write.
Are they a poem?
Is this a poem?
Long ago I began to hear the words which came from within me
As poetry.
They had a real music of their own
Even now I suppose I can hear them
I write to make my life meaningful
Is this a poem?
The heat and the feeling of illness do not matter-
I am writing this down
As if it were Poetry.

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There Was A Poem Long Ago

THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO

There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.

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The Only Poem Is The Poem/ At The Moment Of Its Writing

THE ONLY POEM IS THE POEM

The only poem is the poem
At the moment of its writing
The poem being lived now
The poem I am trying to make
The poem of these lines.

The only poem now is this one-
And this poem is so small and so self- reflexive
That it is not much of a poem at all.

The only poem is not much of a poem at all
This one
And me now? .

But what about everything else I have not done?

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The Poem The Poem And The Poem Again

THE POEM‘ THE POEM AND THE POEM AGAIN’

‘The poem the poem and the poem again’
Isn’t there any life without poetry?
Why is it always ‘The poem the poem the poem’?

Let it be some other dream
Or some other small facet of our endless realities
Why always ‘The poem the poem the poem? ’

The poet who lives and dies for the poem
Is only one kind of poet
And perhaps not even a good one.

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There Is A Poem Somewhere

THERE IS A POEM SOMEWHERE

There is a poem somewhere
No one knows
It is written in a language
No one understands
Yet it soothes the soul
And gives hope in life
And tells us that we will live in love forever
There is a poem somewhere
No one knows
Waiting for you and me
Written by a stranger
A poem that will save us.

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Anger' Is Not Always A Poem

'Anger' is not always a poem-
It does not always bring us to the rage of literature,
Lear on the heath
Macbeth bereft -

Other dreams of death
Spoken in hissful silence
Which move us suddenly
To incredible feeling
Also live in us-

We are not what we are
And not what we will be-3
And ‘Nothing' is spoken of us
As if that too will pain away -

'Die Die Die' they say to you
As if all is forever dying in us
Oh the rage will not save either
Nor the poem nor the anger -

Who are we after all?
Dust of dust of dust in all our voices and all our outraged silences-
Except God save us.

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