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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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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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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Kaleidoscope and Harpsichord
As I've told my wife too many times,
the meaning of any poem hides
in the marriage of cadence and sound.
Vowels on a carousel,
consonants on a calliope,
whistles and bells,
we need them all
tickling our ears.
Otherwise, the lines
are gristle and fat, no meat.
Is it any wonder, then,
my wife has a problem
with any poem I give her to read
for a second opinion, especially
when the poem has no message
and I'm simply trying to hear
what I'm saying and don't care
if I understand it.
The other night in bed
I gave her another poem to read
and afterward she said this poem
was no different than the others.
She had hoped I'd improve.
'After all, ' she said,
'you've been writing for years
but reading a poem like this is
like looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
Point well taken,
point well said.
But then I asked her
what should a man do
if he has careened for years
through the caves of his mind
spelunking for the right
line for a poem
only to hear his wife say
after reading one of his poems
that it was like
'looking through a kaleidoscope
while listening to a harpsichord.'
What should he do-quit?
'Not a chance, '
she said this morning,
enthroned at the kitchen table,
as regal as ever in her fluttery gown
and buttering her English muffin
with long, languorous strokes
Van Gogh would envy.
'He should write even more,
all day and all night, if need be.
After all, ' she said, 'my line
about the kaleidoscope and harpsichord
still needs a poem of its own.
It's all meat, no gristle, no fat.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Voices In The Sky
Bluebird, flying high
Tell me what you sing
If you could talk to me
What news would you bring
Of voices in the sky
Nightingale, hovering high
Harmonize the wind
Darkness, your symphony
I can hear you sing
Of voices in the sky
Just what is happening to me
I lie awake with the sound of the sea
Calling to me
Old man, passing by
Tell me what you sing
Though your voice be faint
I am listening
Voices in the sky
Children with a skipping rope
Tell me what you sing
Play time is nearly gone
The bells about to ring
Voices in the sky
Just what is happening to me
I lie awake with the sound of the sea
Calling to me
Bluebird, flying high
Tell me what you sing
If you could talk to me
What news would you bring
Of voices in the sky
Voices in the sky
Voices in the sky
Voices in the sky
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Only Voices I hear Are On The Inside
I was born not being able to hear
Born not hearing my mother tell me I'm dear
Born never listening to anyone who spoke to me
Born not enjoying music
Born without the ability to gauge sound, unable to hear the clock tick
But since the day I was born
Since before I could talk, I could scorn
There was one thing I always did hate
And that was the thing deepest inside of me,
The thing for which I cursed fate
Worse than deafness or being unable to see
Since the day I was born I heard voices
Not when loved ones talked, but voices that weren't my choice
To hear, voices that were inside my head
Voices that nobody else heard, but I didn't know if they were lying
Because my hearing has always been dead
I'd hear screeching or dying
When none was there
Those voices they'd tell me what to do and how could I deny them?
They were, they are, and they will be the only ones who care
Because they're the only one that speak to me, I can't find the sin
That I committed to be born like this, to be born broken
I've heard more conversations than any other man
And yet I've never heard man utter a word, through my whole lifespan
The only voices I hear are on the inside
And it's the greatest torment that I hide
They'll just tell me I'm crazy, well in writing
But these voices, they accept me, they sing
These voices they know because they've talked to me
These voices are the only I've ever known the
The first voices I've ever heard
Like a mother, I've never listened to a singing bird
But I've listened to a cacophonous symphony of arguing inside my head
These voices are like the woman I did not choose, but wed
I can't separate myself from them
The only time I hear anything, it's torment to condemn
Me, it's funny that I could never speak to anyone but myself
But I guess I've never, ever, been lonely... not ever.
I
Have
Never
Been
Alone
W ho could save me from myselves?
poem by David Knox
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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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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’.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Hear The Voices Of Others In Me
I HEAR THE VOICES OF OTHERS IN ME
I hear the voices of others in me
It does not mean I have a voice of my own
I feel their lines and their poems their melodies and their harmonies
I feel the beauty of what they say
Each one in his own exceptional way-
I hear the voices of others in me
And wait to hear my own voice
And stumbling fumble these lines and more lines and lines
And I do not know
And only hope
That I am me
And I am real
And I have a voice of my own.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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His Call
That evening
I sat down to write
My very last mail
To him.
And while I was writing
I could feel
My aching heart
Throbbing so loud
I could hear
Every beat of it
Pulsating with pain.
And still I kept writing
My very last mail
To him.
Though my eyes
Felt blurred
With all the tears
That rushed asunder
Streaming through my cheeks
And yet I brushed them aside
And wrote
My very last mail to him.
And when I had done
All the writing
I took a long, last look
At that letter of mine
Re-reading every word of it
That I had written to him
With all my heart...
Those precious moments
Were so endearing to me
For I felt that
Once this mail goes
I won't be able to
Write to him anymore
No more of those
Diary mails of mine
I used to write to him
Everyday.
For I had made a Promise
Never to go back
To him.
And that promise I had made
To him and to myself
With all the pain
And the agony
That had shrouded me.
Yes - that promise has stayed Intact
And I would abide by it.
And I haven't faltered...
Though my tender heart feels
So very Bruised.
And even though
The other day
He called me up
And I heard
His broken voice
Over the phone
Saying that
He had read my mail
Explaining himself
How he was...
How very dear to him
I have been
How very close
To his heart.
I just listened
And yet his garble of words
Were beyond me now
And more than his voice
His words of care
I could hear -
The waves of silence
That had engulfed me.
He did all the talking
And I -
All the listening...
And yet,
Today - when I look back
I don't feel like going back
To him anymore.
And I know he might call again
Asking me if I am cross.
In life's such delicate
Situations -
Being angry doesn't help
So why should I be?
It is just that
I don't feel like
Writing to him anymore
The pain is just too much
And so are the scars of the past
Like scabs on the skin
Bleeding every now and then.
And so that was my last mail
My very last mail to him
And his call for a truce
I had to choose...
Truce with him
Or truce with my silence.
And I looked back
At all the hard times
He had given me -
All the pain of the past years
That kept reverberating inside
Like the Tinnitus of being Deaf.
And I thought
I would call it a truce
A truce of realisation
A truce of acceptance
No - not with him.
But - A Lifetime's Truce
With me and my Destiny.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Post-Modern Poetry
The post-modern poem is the poet's surprise-
It has no agenda but its own interpretation-
It reads the ‘expressive I' as an infinite longing of the soul
To know and be known-
It writes out of many different places
But finds it difficult to call one its home-
It has many names and voices
But none speaks with an authoritative rhythm -
It is only its own alone home
And so I writing it know
It will not be found in me by those who write it as their own-
Chaos, perhaps, is its signature,
And loss of all the ancient rhythms and forms-
It wants to wander where it will as it does -
But I, I thinking back to what we were
And remembering years of reading others
Know too its voices are many even within the single self-
There is no ‘modern' anymore and no ‘post- modern' either
In the age where everything is accessible
And all is easily found and communicated
The single soul's signature cannot mean a name is real -
Only where all effort is and fails
Only where nobody really is
Only where many write and no one can really read
Perhaps beyond this
Beyond post- modern poetry
This poem too will teach Poetry how to live.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Voices
Words and music by rick nielsen
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
Hey, its me again.
Plain, you see again.
Please, can I see you evry day?
Im a fool again.
I fell in love with you again.
Please, can I see you evry day?
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
Words dont come out right.
I tried to say it, oh, so right.
I hope you understand my meaning.
Hey, its me again.
Im so in love with you again.
Please, can I see you evry day?
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
I remember evry word you said. (word you said.)
I remember voices in my head. (in my head.)
I remember evry word you said. (word you said.)
Your voices. (I)
Cool voices. (hear)
Warm voices. (your)
It was just what I needed to. (voice.)
Cool voices. (words)
Warm voices. (dont)
Your voices. (seem)
But its just what I needed for. (right.)
Warm voices. (love)
Your voices. (is)
Cool voices. (the)
It was just what I needed to. (word.)
Your voices. (I)
Cool voices. (hear)
Warm voices. (your)
It was just what I needed to. (voice.)
Just what I needed to, just what I needed to,
Just what I needed.
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
You didnt know what you were looking for
till you heard the voices in your ear.
song performed by by Cheap Trick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Don't Believe 'You' Wrote This!
I am told I have a way with words.
I am encouraged when I hear that said.
I remember listening to my father talk.
And when he would sing...
He would bring a different meaning,
To each word I heard.
And what his singing to them he would bring.
My mother would play the piano.
Thunderous and loud!
And when I walked through the projects...
I would sing to the trees,
I once walked into one...
Humming to the clouds.
I would make up melodies and tunes with words.
Mocking my dad and my mother's love,
For gospel verse she would rehearse.
I didn't think anything really about words I wrote.
Until my sister read a poem of mine.
And I wanted to choke her by the throat!
YES!
She was the first to read something I wrote out loud.
I was embarrassed by that.
Her nosy grown up butt...
Reading my 'stuff' behind my back!
And then she said to me,
'I don't believe 'you' wrote this! '
I must have been 13 years old...
When I started to make my writing public.
I am told I have a way with words.
I am encouraged when I hear that said.
I remember listening to my father talk.
And when he would sing...
He would bring a different meaning,
To each word I heard.
And what his singing to them he would bring.
Each 'thing' I write now...
Is added to a mixed bag offering!
And reflecting how I'm feeling at the time.
I am grateful for this blessing.
It offers a comfort and a peace of mind!
And when someone says they enjoy what I do...
I must be honest with 'you', the reader!
I-do-too!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Writing Of The Poem/ Seems
THE WRITING OF THE POEM /SEEMS
The writing of the poem
Seems to be more to me
Than its reading.
I do not savor as I should
Each poem.
I do not wait with it long enough
And work on it long enough
And memorize it
Into precious possession.
Too many poems
Kill the singular poem
And as I write one more
I regret
How soon
I will forget it.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I have wisdom
I have wisdom
I am writing poem.
I am not a child of market
I am not calling you to gossip
I am not writing a poem
To divert your attention
From main point of discussion.
I am writing poem for you
And you are reading my poem
With full seriousness.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Voices (acoustic)
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day by day
Hey
I hear you calling, voices are here again
I hear you whisper, taking control of me
Watch the dancing shadows run away
All alone once again, afraid
All these faces, changing their shapes on me
I said laid it in my own world, will it ever be free?
Haunted figures around me, I want em' to stay
There always there to protect me, this is one thing you can't take away
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day by day
Yeah!
I hear you calling, voices are here again
I hear you whisper in my own mind, will it ever change?
Voices
Voices
Voices
Voices
I hear you calling
song performed by by Godsmack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Voices
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day by day
Hey
I hear you calling, voices are here again
I hear you whisper, taking control of me
Watch the dancing shadows run away
All alone once again, afraid
All these faces, changing their shapes on me
I said laid it in my own world, will it ever be free?
Haunted figures around me, I want em' to stay
There always there to protect me, this is one thing you can't take away
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day
Listen to the rain fallin' day by day by day
Yeah!
I hear you calling, voices are here again
I hear you whisper in my own mind, will it ever change?
Voices
Voices
Voices
Voices
I hear you calling
song performed by by Godsmack
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Voices Cryin Out
Voices cryin out, voices cryin out
Voices cryin out in the night hear them call
Voices cryin out hear them call
Its a night
Like no other night
Its a day
Almost turning grey
Its a heart
Like a broken heart
Its a wheel
At the end of day
Its the plight
Of a boy whos scared
Of the waves rushing out
And the wind in the air
Its the sight
Of one longing to taste
Of life
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Visions that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices crying out hear them call
Its a song
Of a love unsung
Its the pain
Of just being young
Its a cry
Of a voice unheard
Of a face
Speaking silent words
Its the hope
That the time goes by
Take you upon a wing
Teach your soul to fly
Its a wish
That youll live your experience life
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Vision that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices crying out hear them call
Oh do you know how it feels to be free
Walking your path of life
Embracing destiny one day at a time
Voices cryin out...oh cant you hear them
Voices cryin out...listen please, listen to the future
Voices cryin out...millions and millions and millions of voices
Voices cryin out...oh oh oh oh
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Vision that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices crying out hear them call
Voices crying out in the night hear them call
Voices from some foreign shore
Vision that seem an incredible dream
Echoing for more
Voices cryin out
Voices cryin out
Voices cryin out...
song performed by by Donna Summer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Life Art
Life Art
I want to write you a poem.
One that contains no verses
no words
how long it will be
I cannot tell.
It will be a poem that you can see through
yet it will shade you from the sun
a simple lyric
as complex as a crossword
I want it to be something
that you carry through your day
every day
I don’t know if I can write that poem
Or if indeed that poem can be written at all
So instead I am with you
Of you
And slowly together
we are writing our very own poem
Not on a page
Or in a lost notebook
But in the café
and in the street
At a table
In our bed
Every day we add another line
another image
another verse
and I know that with every word that we write
I want it to be the longest poem
That has ever been written.
poem by Andy Houlihan
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Old Black Joe
1 Gone are the days when my heart was young and gay,
2 Gone are my friends from the cotton fields away,
3 Gone from the earth to a better land I know,
4 I hear their gentle voices calling 'Old Black Joe.'
5 [Chorus] I'm coming, I'm coming, for my head is bending low:
6 I hear those gentle voices calling, 'Old Black Joe.'
7 [Solo] Why do I weep when my heart should feel no pain
8 Why do I sigh that my friends come not again,
9 Grieving for forms Now departed long a go?
10 I hear their gentle voices calling 'Old Black Joe.'
11 [Chorus] I'm coming, I'm coming, for my head is bending low:
12 I hear those gentle voices calling, 'Old Black Joe.'
13 [Solo] Where are the hearts once so happy and so free?
14 The children so dear that I held upon my knee,
15 Gone to the shore where my soul has longed to go.
16 I hear their gentle voices calling 'Old Black Joe.'
17 [Chorus] I'm coming, I'm coming, for my head is bending low:
18 I hear those gentle voices calling, 'Old Black Joe.'
poem by Stephen C. Foster
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