There Are Times When Only By Hearing The Poems Of Others
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN ONLY BY HEARING THE POEMS OF OTHERS
There are times when only by hearing the poems of others,
Can one begin to write one’s own-
One needs the rhythm of poetry
And once one has it
One can perhaps begin.
This morning I have not listened to anyone else-
And I write these lines
Into the bare space of the page
With a tremor of doubt
At whether they are ‘poetry’.
I hear myself as a poem
But what others hear
May be something else entirely-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poems Became The Story Of My Inner Life
THE POEMS BECAME THE STORY OF MY INNER LIFE
The poems became the story of my inner life-
A series of confessions-
Often simple and direct
They seemed to lose their poetry-
I wrote them and I write them as I need to
I do not know if their rhythm is real
Or only prose-
I write them as poetry
Because this is what I am and have now-
Still the overwhelming anxiety I have now suggests
I always in them tell only a small part of the story
As if the feeling inside
Is always more than any poetry that pretends to express and represent it –
If I doubt the value of this poem and doubt the value of all my poetry and doubt my own value, poetry or not, and doubt and doubt-
Then certainly ‘doubt’ is one keynote of my inner life and story.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The History Poems Have Not Been Written
The history poems have not been written
The poems after Milosz
The Wallace Stevens poems will never be written
I can’t come close
I have tried the Blake poems
But of course I am not near them either
I would like to the ironic intellectual poems
I might be able to do them
I could do a kind of surrealistic association mind poem a prose poem
But I don’t like that very much
The poems of Jerusalem have not been good enough
Poems of propaganda are awkward and unacceptable
The small poems that tell of my life
They are for me the chance at real poetry
And I will continue as best I can with them
The American poems I have not yet found the idiom for
I can be epigrammatic in Emerson Thoreau fashion
But not with the hard New England observing eye
Borges poems I love
And the stories of mind and literature
Making the drama of a life of a storyteller
Interest me
But I doubt I could truly do them well
Imitation can only take one so far
And through it one may lose one’s way entirely
I can really do only what I am
Not the Dickinson poems nor the Hopkins poems nor the Wordsworth poems nor the Keats poems nor the Amichai poems nor the poems of many others whose poetry I love
The Biblical poems have been tried
The poems of cosmic and scientific reflection
I could try to improve them
There are too many different kinds of poems to write
And I cannot write almost all of them
This is another poem about poems and poetry
I have written many for a long time now
Perhaps I need to go elsewhere and write in a new way
A way I have not dreamed or even remotely understood possible before.
The poems of the unknown poetry await me
I will go on but I am not sure now I know in which wa
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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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
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I Write Poetry
I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,
I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,
I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,
I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,
poem by Saranyan Bee
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem Is Restless In Me
THE POEM IS RESTLESS IN ME
The poem is restless in me-
It waits to be heard-
Now that it comes
It does not feel especially happy about itself.
It knows it is not real-
It is not much-
Just because it is called a poem by me
Does not make it a poem -
The mind has its own place-
My mind also -
I am always thinking poems are with me,
And poems waiting to come-
But who am I and what do I know?
These lines are written in the still of the morning
When the light outside still brings hope
That a new day is possible.
But so many poems have been written in the early morning
And I am so old from hearing them said to me by myself-
And what does it all mean anyway in the end when God is the Only One?
And who am I to know what God is, or invoke the name of God
In such a small thing as my own poetry?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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To A Friend Who Died As A Poet
i have seen the power of your poems
those that
make the blind see
the mute finally speaking about beauty
the deaf hearing the songs of love
and the crippled finally dancing to the
rhythm of your
lines
i am amazed and so convinced
about the magic of the poems that you wrote
when you were once alive
before they buried you on a shallow grave
with their anger
and hatred
they were not able to cut your tongue and tear your mouth
and break the bones
of the body of
your poetry
now let me ask you
if these poems come from the deepest chamber of your heart
are its roots your pains and unfathomable sorrows
or is it grown from the seeds of
your bliss
that when summer comes they bloom into
sunflowers?
i see you in your images smiling and i can hear that suppressed laughter
on the lake on a clear morning
what is this all about my friend?
tell me,
for they do not like
my sadness
neither do they share
my joys and
happiness
for what i write is nothing
but air.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Morning I Rebel Against Myself
THIS MORNING I REBEL AGAINST MYSELF
This morning I rebel against myself
Without enthusiasm I approach the page
I do not know where I should go right now
Empty as I am I am afraid.
Yet hearing echoes of a greater voice
And knowing Inspiration real through you
I laugh and wonder if your Greatness makes
A mockery of all I’ll ever do.
Dear Shakespeare in whose most casual lines
Poetry beyond all I strive to seem
I hear you through my minor reverie
Undermine the rhythm of my dream.
So in poor imitation I now write
Lines that won’t survive this angry night.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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If You Want To Write A Poem For Me
IF YOU WANT TO WRITE A POEM FOR ME
If you want to write a poem for me
It must go beyond poetry-
I do not know if you can do that
I am not sure I am capable of perceiving it-
Perhaps I am already too old
And hearing a truly new poem
Is something that is left for others-
Perhaps too all I ever wanted after all
Is to hear my own poem-
And perhaps listening to you
Even if your poem is real
Will be far too much for me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poems Bring Me Back To Myself
THE POEMS BRING ME BACK TO MYSELF
The poems bring me back to myself
I begin to live again –
Without the poems
I would have to make a new life-
I do not know if I am capable of it-
A life without poems without poetry
With other words perhaps-
I am too old to slowly write the long narrative
I never was capable of before
Little poems
Little lines
What I am capable of now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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These Little Poems Are All I Can Write Now
THESE LITTLE POEMS ARE ALL I CAN WRITE NOW
These little poems are all I can write now
The rest is gone.
But these poems too question themselves
Doubt their own value and reality.
After such a long road
I am still uncertain.
Nothing I have done
Resonates with recognition of its worth.
Old and alone still
I write on.
Sisyphus had a rock
Which grew so heavy with the years
He could barely begin
To roll it up the hill again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
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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Poetry by Meena Mustafa
My brain is a recorder
It stores all black and white
Each time I write a poem
It throws a different light
It makes the reader happy
At times it makes him sad
The love of poetry
And the poems that I have
Words pour like fountain
Imagination takes its place
On a journey to knowledge
Poetry we must embrace
Poetry is my refuge
And keeps me on the path
Expressions take new meaning
And words pour out at last.
Poetry is a song that sings to the soul
The rhythm of the words that a pen can hold.
poem by Meena Mustafa
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The commandments of poetry
I shall love poetry
For it is the conversation of God
Over my world
This is not a godless art
Though I name no God
I am bearing witness
To Him creating these
Poems
I do not write poetry
To excite myself
I write them
To sustain
My soul
I shall never use poetry
As a pretext
For fame and glory
It is my spiritual
Devotion
Poetry is pure
Virginal
It is not found
In conformity
I shall bring forth my poems
As a mother brings forth
Her children
Out of my own flesh
And blood
This poem shall not be
An analgesic to kill the pain
But it shall be the wine
That puts me to action
Each poem created
Shall leave me humble
It can never equal my dreams
And always inferior
To God’s marvelous
Creations
Always second
To Nature.
Poetry rises from my heart
In these words
And they have no purpose
But to purify
This poetry shall grow
The flowers of compassion
To console
The hearts of the lonely
And those who are lost
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poetry Has Its Own Music
POETRY HAS ITS OWN MUSIC
Poetry has its own music-
A mind empty of it
Wonders where it is.
Poetry has a rhythm of its own
Without that rhythm
Dead words dead lines dead pages.
Seeking the rhythm the music of poetry
Flat lines come
And the poem is a parody
Of true poetry.
How many flat and false poems
Have I written
In order
To help me try
To come alive?
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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