The Feeling Of Poetry Is Lost
THE FEELING OF POETRY IS LOST
The feeling of poetry is lost -
Lines are written,
But they are without poetic feeling.
Dutiful lines which do not inspire.
I try
Line by line
To restore my soul.
I do not feel I am doing this.
Can a poem be written without poetic feeling inside?
Is what I am doing now
A poem?
Or is it simply one more small delusion
Through which a life is gotten through?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Do Not Feel Very Poetic Today
I do not feel very poetic today-
And now I make that feeling the ‘subject’ of a poem-
Once Poetry seemed to be confined
To certain more sublime subjects -
But in our time
When every Form seems to expand to take into itself its opposite
Poetry makes itself of the non- poetic also -
There is no subject apparently
Which is non- poetic
Once a poem is written about it-
I do not feel very poetic today
And these plain and unbeautiful lines
This awkward presentation
Is what I am capable of
Poem or not,
I have written it now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wanted A Poem/But There Was No Poetry In Me
I WANTED A POEM/ BUT THERE WAS NO POETRY IN ME
I wanted a poem
But there was no poetry in me
I said to myself from outside,
‘Write the feeling of a song'
But I had no song within me-
Poetry did not flow
No music moved me
I was alone with a Mind
That had no heart or song-
And then I writing
Simply tried to listen to myself
And what I heard
Was these awkward non- poetic lines
That make a poem
Which is not true poetry
And yet here now
proclaims its own rhythm as this page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Paradox Of Poetry
The Paradox of Poetry
Is that every poem contains its own questions-
And that each question it asks
Is answered in another question
Raised from somewhere else-
The paradox of Poetry
Is that its meanings
Cannot be contained by themselves-
And so each paradox too
Bears within it its own ambiguity-
I call this a poem about Poetry
But in Paradox
It is a statement of Love
Which abstract as it is
Lacks poetic feeling
A non- poetic poem
Aspiring to be poetry too-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Something so ordinary can be poetic
Something like
NO PARKING
Is poetic to me
You are a soul
Lost to this
Town of indifference
And you have
Been roaming
Around in your
Old car of a
Soul and you
Want to rest
And think
And what they
Say is
NO PARKING
That is actually
Poetic
Or shall we say
THIS WAY TO THE RESTROOM
Oh that is really
Poetic signifying
Relief that in this country
There still exists A WAY TO
A way a path a footpath
for someone lost
someone wanting to empty
Himself like a heavy cloud
Wanting to empty
Its accumulating heaviness
Like your urinary bladder
Looking for a restroom and
Oh heavens
This is the way to the rest room
This is the way to the heavens
Where I can just
Have the freedom of pursuing my happiness
Of a simple poetic pee
So this way to the rest room
Is a feeling of relief
It is a feeling of relief and poetry is just like that
You look for a way to unburden yourself
A way to this and that of relieving your
Urinary bladder your poetic urinary bladder
Discharging a discomfort
A heaviness of unwanted liquids
Which you have accumulated
In time
And you hold your thing in the manner that you
Want it held and in the process that you want it done
Without anybody looking
Without anybody saying you this is the proper way to pee
And no other else that can make your pee wholesome
To prescribed rules
And you point it to the big basin of a bowl
You pee
You have just discharged a discomfort
With all the images of
THIS WAY PLEASE TO THE COMFORT ROOM
To your comfort zone
Because you have been in such a discomforting fit
In complete release
You feel relief
And that to me is very poetic
THIS WAY TO THE COMFORT ROOM PLEASE
when all you want in life is to pee
On that instance
that moment is the best poetry
To the lines and verses of a person
simply peeing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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.
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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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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Nothing Is Being Done
NOTHING IS BEING DONE
Nothing is being done-
Time is passing-
What will be?
Will I do nothing for the rest of my life?
A small poem is being written-
Am I alive again?
Any lines even bad lines are better than none
When one can do nothing-
Am I writing a poem?
Is something being done?
Or am I simply fooling myself
And doing nothing as I have always done
And always will do?
Or have I really done something?
Is this nonetheless a small poem?
Perhaps I have written something real in my life
Perhaps
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Spirit Of Poetry!
when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove
When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?
Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself
Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way
When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner
On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications
Future of poetry is in heaven
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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I Wanted A Poem To Break The Silence
I WANTED A POEM TO BREAK THE SILENCE
I wanted a poem
To break the silence
Of my own inner emptiness-
No thought no feeling
Blank inside-
These words too flat and emotionless
Strive to move me back to myself-
But there is nothing in me now
But the waiting to be ‘real’ again-
I am alive now
But I am nothing inside-
Blank words trying to be a poem-
And lines written as if I were only
A slave of the idea
of my being somehow
a writer of Poetry.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Are Days No Poem Can Be Written
THERE ARE DAYS NO POEM CAN BE WRITTEN
There are days no poem can be written
Grief and worry frighten the poem away
Yet the poem lives hidden
For our darkest moments our loneliest fears
Too need their poetry.
Poetry is a way of saying all we need to say
It is our deepest feeling most deeply expressed
It is all we are
The whole of our being
In words.
When a poet dies
Words die
When I will die
All I am will no longer be able to write
One more poem.
How afraid I am in the night
And how dark in the early morning before I rise
But now that I am here
Writing this
A bit of hope begins in me
And I can dream that
When I walk out the door
a few minutes from now
A new day will begin.
How many days I have left
How many poems to write
I do not know.
It is not light yet
And the darkness is still here
But I will feel the morning again
This morning
Thank G-d
You have given me so many poems.
A few small words
help me believe
I truly am alive.
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Dead To My Poem
DEAD TO MY POEM
Dead to my poem-
Dead to the poems of others-
Dead to poetry
In any way at all-
Into another way of feeling:
Dry- nervous- anxious- fearful.
Prose is my soul
Empty small literal flat prose.
Flat prose
Lines too flat to even need paraphrase
No poem no poetry
Prose.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Almost A Poem
ALMOST A POEM
Almost a poem
The lines are there
But they do not come together-
There is no music in them
And no pleasure-
Awkward, they cannot express the feeling they wish-
Almost a poem- too literal too much a cliché-
I wonder how many ‘almost- poems’ I have written
And if this is another one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What Make A Poem A Poem?
What makes a poem a poem
Is it the story it tells
The feeling it sells.
what makes a poem a poem
is it the history it shows
or the letters of word flow
do the lines mater it they rhyme
or not, can it be free verse of
abcabc line schem,
What makes a poem a poem
is it the words i repeat
Or the emotion they cove.
What makes a poem a poem
I sleep Poetry
Last night I wrestled with poetry
As if a lion wrestling with its prey
I sleep poetry
I dream poetry
I walk poetry on thin line ropes
binding together steeply slopes
I make love to poetry like a new catch
On heat waiting to be let loose from its latch
So out of ten if I am bad, take a pen
And give me a score of five or a four
I constantly make love to poetry
With dramatic grammatical metaphors
The root of my poetic hunger
Is I starve myself a bit longer
In sleep I twiddle my poetic lines
Sharpen them to be as fine as a riddle
I sleep poetry
I drink poetry
Not just to quench my thirst
But to differentiate amongst
Good, Better and Best
There shall come the day
I have to say
When I will definitely call it a truce
When I have run out of poetic juice
2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Temethos, Antiochian, A.D. 400
Lines written by young Temethos, madly in love.
The tile: 'Emonidis' -the favourite
of Antiochos Epiphanis; a very good-looking young man
from Samosata. But if the lines come out
ardent, full of feeling, it's because Emonidis
(belonging to another, much older time:
the 137th year of the Greek kingdom,
maybe a bit earlier) is in the poem
merely as a name -a suitable one nevertheless.
The poem gives voice to the love Temethos feels,
a beautiful kind of love, worthy of him.
We the initiated
his intimate friends- we the initiated
know about whom those lines were written.
The unsuspecting Antiochians read simply 'Emonidis'.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Before I Sleep Tonight
i have written many poems
and you have been reading
perhaps all of them and you
even remember what i have
written and left there, i always
tell you i am busy, for i am,
doing anything, reading and
writing each poem, each
feeling, but before i sleep
tonight, as i will write this as
my last poem, let me tell you
given the choice between
poetry and you, you know too
well, that i will choose you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Worst Day Of My Life
My Heart Has Now Shattered
I Should Feel Angered
Watching You Walk Down The Aisle With Her
Is It Because She's Brighter?
I Try So Hard To Hide This Feeling Inside
The Feeling I Died
The Feeling That I Should Be The One Marrying You
You Said That Your Feeling For Her Were True
Is It Because She's More Beautiful Than I?
Please Just Tell Me Why
She'll Never Know You The Same Way I Do
Don't Even Try To Argue
We Both Know Who's Right
I Know This Is Supposed To Be The Best Day Of Your Life
The Day She Became Your Wife
But With All Respect
I Must Say I Object
She Doesn't Love You
Not The Way That I Do
The Day That You And Her Became One
The Day That I Lost And She Had Won
The Day That She Gained Your Last Name
The Day I Lost What Made Me Tame
I Lost You
I Can't Say That This Feeling Is New
For I Have Lost Everything That I Ever Called Mine
No, I'm Not Fine
Not That You Should Care
Life's Not Fair
Especially Because Everything That I Have Ever Lost...
It Was All Because Of Her
The Cheater
The Day She Became Your Wife
Will Forever Be The Worst Day Of My Life
poem by Ivy Strife
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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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