Related quotes: WHY DOES A POEM /NOT...

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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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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Is There A Poem For Me Today?

IS THERE A POEM FOR ME TODAY?

Is there a poem for me today?
Is there in this vast universe
One poem for me?
Will G-d who has given me
so many poems
give me a poem today?

I try to write
across this page
I try to say
I have been given a poem today.

I do not know
The lines here now say:

“You in vain and in vanity write
lonely to hear your own name.”

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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Poem As Conversations

a poem for ramona
and a poem for jean and a poem for candice
and a poem too for yuri
and a poem too for emma and another poem for hannah
and another poem for allan
and the rest of the clan
they are but
conversations sticking to my mind
and through these poems
i replay them
and you think these are not poems at all

precisely, these are conversations of the living
the living word
the word that still cohabits with us
we let them out from our mouths
but you do not wish to recover them

did you mean them all to be said
with the terms and conditions of truth?
i am recording them
and i am replaying them through these lines
i look where truth
lies
i find some and keep them
and these are these
on these lines

a poem for you a poem for the world that we all make
what we say is what we get

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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 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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I Don't Have A Dream Today

I DON’T HAVE A DREAM TODAY

I don’t have a dream today
Is a Poem a dream anymore?
One poem? ten poems?
Even a real poem?
Without a dream
The person can’t live
What is my dream now?
Where am I now?
So I write and write
As I have all my life
And it is so small a part
Of everything that is
Even in my own life-
I don’t have a dream today
And yet writing these lines
Somehow makes me begin to feel
A bit better.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Write A Few Lines

I WRITE A FEW LINES

I write a few lines,
I try to tell myself
They are a poem.
But what’s a poem
In a Universe of trillions of poems?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Why Should I Have A Poem?

WHY SHOULD I HAVE A POEM?

Why should I have a poem?
Who am I to have a poem?
Who is anyone to have a poem?

But then again
Aren’t we all poems?
Many poems
And each one of us many voices
And who knows how deep feelings
We ourselves cannot understand
And lingerings of beauty
We can ourselves barely decipher?

Who knows what a poem is
And what life means
And why we write and read
And what words move us
In the middle of the night
Or at the end of the day
When even our dreams are asleep?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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111

The useless poem

He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness

His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins

And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end

Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody

Nobody really cared

Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem

Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness

(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)

Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Grey Grey Morning

GREY GREY MORNING

Grey grey morning
Purim again
Where to begin?
A poem is not just any words-
A poem needs a music of its own-
A beauty-
Lines that are memorable.
A poet cannot just be
What one happens to see and feel
At the moment
A poem must have lines which others will remember.
Grey grey morning
Purim again
Another poem about a poem
Is there one line here worth remembering?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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There Have Been Many Opening Lines Tonight

THERE HAVE BEEN MANY OPENING LINES TONIGHT

There have been many opening lines tonight
But none has been followed by a convincing poem -
Why is this evening one of trying and failing?
Why can't I at least write one small poem
That seems to me worthwhile?

I am doing better now-
There is a stanza,
And perhaps these lines will be a stanza too.

I have two small awkward stanzas
When I finish this one
I will try to feel I have a poem.

Nothing I do tonight is good enough
Is it better to have a poor poem
Or none at all?

I answer by posting these lines.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Irritation Is Not The Best Feeling To Begin A Poem With

IRRITATION IS NOT THE BEST FEELING TO BEGIN A POEM WITH

Irritation is not the best Feeling to begin a poem with
But the great heat, the great humidity
The slowness of my mind on Motzei Shabbat
The many errands that must be done tomorrow
The inability to begin true work,
The news of another anti- Semitic utterance by the Nobel Prize winner Gunter Grass
Above all the worry over the health of a family member
All these irritate and disturb-

And I can at best write a few plain lines
Begin to work
To make myself feel better
But not really influence what is outside myself-

And too the irritation that my poem and my words
Will reach a few at best
While the mendacious former Waffen SS member's poem
Has already made its hateful way to headlines in the world-

Oh it is wonderful to be an obscure nothing in writing
When it is only my own name and reputation which are involved,
But when it means I cannot really help the people I care about
This irritation this frustration anger so-

Oh how I just pray that my loved one
Will be after the doctor's visit
Better tonight.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This poem

This poem
is friendly:
see, it’s wagging its tail,
it will follow you anywhere,
run off and come back,
a perfect companion;

this poem
loves fun:
you want to play dressing up,
it’ll laugh and rush off to the attic,
the basement, the dressing-up basket;

this poem
is serious:
you want to be silent awhile,
rest your head on its shoulder,
it will wait for you in
sympathetic stillness;

this poem
is humble:
turn it over, write
a love poem on
the other side,
it will glow with your love;

this poem
is disposable:
write a few lines, be angry
with yourself, scrumple it up,
throw it on the pavement,
someone may pick it up,
someone may tutt and place it
carefully for recycling;

this poem
is an origami:
you can make any shape you like:
a paper boat on
the waves of destiny;

a ladder to reach to where
you always wanted that fruit;
a crown; a dunce’s hat; a witch’s conic;

this poem
is elastic:
a tablecloth for a picnic,
a sheet to cover two lovers,
a ground plan for a new world;

this poem
knows where
nothing meets something,
nowhere meets everywhere,
no time meets all time,
anyone meets everyone,

this poem
has a bright eye
whether you read it or not;

this poem
likes you though it
hasn’t met you;

this poem
is impervious to scorn;
it knows who it is,
and where things begin and end.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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This poem (says)