This Morning/ I Wait To Hear A Poem In Me
THIS MORNING / I WAIT TO HEAR A POEM IN ME
This morning/
I wait to hear a poem in me
The only sound the sound of the seem
Words and words
Empty and free
Nothing true
Nothing believed.
I wait to hear a poem in me
And whatever I hear
Is only me
And nothing is true
And nothing is real
All I am writing
Only a dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Can Sense It Coming
I can sense it coming
I hear it from within
The words are here
A poem-
But whether what I feel as a poem
Is a poem
Is another question-
Words come
Perhaps they are only prose -
Not every sound which comes from within is beautiful
And not every word I wait to hear is a poem-
Should I stop here
Or is this already enough for now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Wait For A Poem
WAIT FOR THE POEM
Wait for the poem
Let it speak in you
Let the words come as they come
Feel if they are real
Check them as they are written
And afterwards
When the poem is done
Look with a critical eye
Listen and hear if within
Its rhythm is true -
Then rest and wait
And read again
And feel if it is something
Others may listen to-
And then pretend
You have no doubts,
And tell yourself
You have done
What it is for you to do
And can now
Shut down.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wait To Hear The Lines Come
I WAIT TO HEAR THE LINES COME
I wait to hear the lines come
I try to listen only to what has the melody and rhythm of poetry
I wait-
I hear-
But in me deeper than myself some Silence stops my soul -
The words are the words and they can come
'But what this Life is and what I have done in it? '
Is still a question-
After all these years
And old –
Still a question-
I listen to myself
But it is not enough-
Some one else, others must want to listen also
And perhaps they never will-
I have a poem, you have a poem
But do we have Poetry?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Try
I TRY
I may have no poem today -
And perhaps no poem tomorrow-
And perhaps no real poem at all ever-
I have the desire for
And the love of poetry,
And the writing of my words
The telling of my soul
With whatever music and meaning I can give-
I try-
But is ‘Trying’ good enough?
I hear the poem within myself
Do you hear it at all?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Every Morning I Listen To Myself Thinking
EVERY MORNING I LISTEN TO MYSELF THINKING
Every morning I listen to myself thinking
And hear another sound
And wonder whether it is real
And when I hear it singing in me
Wait and rewrite it
Until it becomes
A poem.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Don't Hear A Poem This Morning
I DON’T HEAR A POEM THIS MORNING
I don’t hear a poem this morning
I hear nothing but a computer hum
A silence which has no beauty in it
A fear which has no name.
I hear loneliness and sadness and doubt and trouble
I don’t hear ‘kindness’ and ‘love’
I hear ‘worry’
I hear Fear.
I hear nothing of Beauty or Kindness or Love
I hear a poem which once again
Says how difficult it all is.
What a troubled person I have always been
Even as I calmly write this now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Thought To Begin The Day With A Poem
I THOUGHT TO BEGIN THE DAY WITH A POEM
I thought to begin the day with a poem
But inside myself I hear only my own slow emptiness
Word by word I try to hear
And there is some small motion now
But still
A real poem
A poem of beauty
A poem of light
A poem of love
A poem that makes the dreamer long to dream-
And the lover long to love-
A poem that moves-
Well it is very very dark outside
And the world straining to give
Small rain to a dry land
Seems to say,
‘There may be a poem today
But it is not the poem you dream
Not the poem others will love
As you have loved
True poetry.’
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Wanted A Poem In The Early Morning-Even Before The Darkness Had Gone
I WANTED A POEM IN THE EARLY MORNING
I wanted a poem in the early morning
Even before the darkness had gone-
I wanted to hear words
That meant music
That said I was alive and could write-
I wanted a poem in the early morning
So that I could be justified
For the rest of the day-
Time and again I have written that poem
I write it now -
How wonderful when it flows as if it is real
I may never know that it is
But in writing it, thank God, I feel alive and blessed
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Hear My Own Poems Rushing In Me
I HEAR MY OWN POEM RUSHING IN ME
I hear my own poem rushing in me
Despite my sadness and my despair
It tells me I am still alive-
I hear it rushing in me now
As these lines wonder too,
What will be next?
And if I will end it right?
And whether or not it is a true poem?
A rushing in me now-
Like words written and forgotten
So many times
Not so long ago-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Strive Against The Silence Of The Night
I STRIVE AGAINST THE SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
I strive against the silence of the night
Against my own inner emptiness
I wait to hear some song from inside myself -
Nothing is written.
I go back to where I am
And begin again.
There is always a poem if one is patient enough.
But what poem?
And for what special meaning of this night?
I write again and again
A poem which is about writing a poem
And when I come to end it
I question again and again
Whether it is real.
This night is already deep in darkness
And yet I have almost broken its silence
One more line
One more writing about writing a poem -
Perhaps Memory will come back to me
And I will write a more real poem
Than this strained effort now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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What Is A Poem?
WHAT IS A POEM?
What is a poem?
Where is a poem?
Once there were poems
Now there is only dreaming
In diverse directions
Far from home.
What is a poem?
Where am I?
Words once were lights
And now the darkness decides
That the morning can come
Only if I hear myself say to you
‘Blessed is this day now’
I
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Music Is Gone
THE MUSIC IS GONE
The music is gone-
What is a poem without its own music?
There is no melody in me.
I hear these flat words form on the flat page.
There are no dimensions to me
I hear no singing as I write.
This poem is words with little feeling
A flat poor poem written by an old man
Who this morning
has not yet truly woken up.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Hear The Music Of My Own Poems Again
I HEAR THE MUSIC OF MY OWN POEMS AGAIN
I hear the music of my own poems again
I am grateful for this
Quietly and more quietly I listen -
When I wait
When I know how to wait
The poem is written for me
From somewhere deeper in myself
God has given me.
Why I have a name
And need a name
And need to own the poem
I do not know.
The poem is not mine
And I am not mine
And nothing will be mine.
All belongs to where it has come from
Beyond me
God of Israel
Be quiet and kind
To all of us
Who love You.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Nothing Much Means Music Now
NOTHING MUCH MEANS MUSIC NOW
Nothing much means music now
A poem has to hear itself be said.
I wait and I listen
And I hear-
This poem now is just another,
Thrown on the pile of words.
My wealth is millions of words
Even I cannot truly listen to.
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wait For The Poem
WAIT FOR THE POEM
Wait for the poem-
Wait-
Let the Breeze go through you
The heat of these past days has been long.
Wait
Let your mind
Begin to move
With the wind.
Lines
More lines
A poem?
Writing now
The breeze.
Thank God
For the Breeze
For the Poem
For Now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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He Walks Without A Poem
HE WALKS WITHOUT A POEM
He walks without a poem
There is no poem in his mind
No poem in his heart.
But the idea of a poem
The dream of a poem
The daily task of a poem
The justification given by a poem-
He stops and writes these words down.
All around him
the morning light sings songs
of the things
of this world.
A poem perhaps?
Perhaps not?
I
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Benediction
Read this poem only aloud
read it as slowly and with such solemn dignity
as if it were the whole great human race
declaring itself to be truly great
read it as if it were
as indeed it is
not words but a great sounding bell
and you are that great bell
so large a bell so low its boom
that it is more vibration than a sound
struck in a temple courtyard
by a robed monk so full of love
that he merges into love itself
every time he sounds the bell
and as its sound now travels up
into the clear mountain air
the goatherds and the goats hear in its sound
the meaning of their life
and in the fields the workers raise themselves
and know what blessing is
and in the valley the silence after each stroke
becomes more real
as the echo fades
and the air knows itself
this poem is the sound of the human heart
listening to itself beyond all words
hearing praise and gratitude and love
knowing themselves in stillness for what they are
this poem is what is beyond all words
smiling sorrowing as it seeks for words
as it vibrates out into the silence
the wonder of the unspoken
the magic of all that’s yet unmanifest
the thoughts yet to be thought
hear in this bell the sound that tells to all
that there is enough love
in one single human heart
to nourish the whole world
hear this bell sounding aloud
sound out eternal in your soul
* * *
[work in progress]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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