On the Feast of St. Catherine
The poet on the radio
earnestly read her expert lines
about the sad state
of the world,
the failure
of governments,
churches,
parents,
lovers,
the certain decline of
the cosmos,
the end of the world.
Her lines were exquisitely made,
and I listened with admiration and envy
to perfect rhymes, subtle
metaphor, nuanced images
until I felt both elation and
despair.
Then I looked around me,
to the riot of life in
my backyard,
the shrill ecstasy of birds
the shout of the rose.
My children gathered today
for a Sunday feast, full of
laughter and corny jokes.
Maybe the poet didn't have a backyard,
could gazed only on bleak
city walls; maybe her lover
walked out (or should have) or
her children never call.
I worry about the poor;
whenever a grimy hand out-
stretches, I see the pierced hand of Christ,
offering me gift, pearls of great price!
poem by Steven Federle
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Related quotes
A Poet Became His Own Poetry
A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY
A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.
A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Clean Up Your Own Backyard
(words & music by b. strange - s. davis)
Back porch preacher preaching at me
Acting like he wrote the golden rules
Shaking his fist and speeching at me
Shouting from his soap box like a fool
Come sunday morning hes lying in bed
With his eye all red, with the wine in his head
Wishing he was dead when he oughta be
Heading for sunday school
Clean up your own backyard
Oh dont you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, Ill tend to mine
Drugstore cowboy criticizing
Acting like hes better than you and me
Standing on the sidewalk supervising
Telling everybody how they ought to be
Come closing time most every night
He locks up tight and out go the lights
And he ducks out of sight and he cheats on his wife
With his employee
Clean up your own backyard
Oh dont you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, Ill tend to mine
Armchair quarterbacks always moanin
Second guessing people all day long
Pushing, fooling and hanging on in
Always messing where they dont belong
When you get right down to the nitty-gritty
Isnt it a pity that in this big city
Not a one alittle bitty manll admit
He could have been a little bit wrong
Clean up your own backyard
Oh dont you hand me, dont you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, Ill tend to mine
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, Ill tend to mine
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Backyard Brawl
Got a cut on my thigh, got a nail in my eye
And I'm bleedin' all over the wall
Got a barbed wire bat and a dude on the mat
Ain't getting up soon at all
Got a head full of rage and a belly full of hate
I'm the neighborhood legend that just can't wait
For the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Don't matter who you are, don't matter what color
Brown or white'll do
But if you're yellow you'll be covered in red
A whole lotta black and blue
Jump off the trailer in a pile full o' guys
Scratching and kicking and pulverized
For the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Only got six teeth but three of those
Are sharp enough to bite off your nose
At the backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
Another backyard brawl
Backyard brawl
[Spoken:]
You think you're so tough
You talkin' to me?
You're mine
Come on, let's go
Come on stitches...
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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These Bombs
German soldiers at my backyard,
Russian soldiers at my backyard,
American soldiers at my backyard,
The world's soldiers at my backyard,
And like cultures at different places;
But, history is all about life.
What is your name? !
'My name is St. Louis';
What is your mission?
'My mission is to see to the peace in this world';
What is your vision?
'My vision is to conquer the world with love'!
'One head, two eyes, two ears';
'One nose, two legs, two hands';
'And, to tell the people what the future will be like'.
Soon a bomb will blast omewhere! !
Soom many people will be killed;
And like the cultures of these people around me,
For, they are always after destruction than peace.
To others, sex is like a chewing gum to them;
To others, wars are like a laughter to them;
And now, this world is preparing for war and we are running out of time!
But tell me, which of you have no past in this world?
However, some of you are still working hand-in-hand with Satan the Devil.
These bombs are falling on us today,
These bombs are killing us today,
And hatred is leading mankind to destruction!
Because, some people are really working hand-in-hand with Satan the Devil.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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In the steps of Rumi 88: Metaphor
Simile – what looks like something else –
that’s a fun game for the senses,
for the mind: oh look Dad,
there’s a scarecrow in that field
that looks just like a man, does it
really scare crows?
Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the street
who looks just like a scarecrow,
I wonder if the same crows
see him too?
But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:
explanations don’t quite explain it:
you see something; it brings to mind
something very different; maybe
you just forget it, pass on; maybe
you’re a poet, and you think,
that other thing casts a subtle light
on this first thing, I’ll see if others
find the same.. and, sometimes they do,
sometimes they don’t…
Metaphor brings the whole universe,
world upon world, to the mind:
you could write a poem full of metaphor
as long as the circumference of the world,
and when you’d written it out, you’d find yourself
right here again just where you were.. but
what a lot you’d seen on the way…
We’re so used to some metaphors
because by now, they’re shared,
written into language (lucky the people
who inherit languages such as these,
they’re born into poetry…) :
take ‘bread’: you walk past the baker’s shop
in the early morning when the air is clear –
or better, go in to buy your breakfast rolls:
the smell couldn’t be more wonderful,
more promising.. the bread’s so delicious,
and best eaten today..
ah yes, ‘daily bread’ – that becomes a metaphor
for all that each and every day brings –
waking up, new thoughts, new experiences,
all that brings life to life…
that covers so many subtle things…
where does it all come from?
that’s for you to say…
Sometimes it seems that the whole world
is a metaphor for something…
for what? For its own unity,
for its very creation,
for that which we call God,
for our very self?
that’s for you to say…
Metaphor. When you meet it,
does it make you think of
English class, another boring
poem, another boring question
to answer as you chew your pen –
‘What does the poet mean when
he speaks of, lies like oyster shells
to be penknifed for their pearls? ’…
or - does it fill your heart with joy
as if someone had given you
a golden key to a secret garden
which is all you ever hoped for;
more than you could ever imagine…
and yet you recognise
it’s all really just yourself? …
In the corner of your room
there's a little girl curled up
in a large armchair, reading a book.
Don't disturb her.
The book she reads with all her self today,
may never read again, doesn't need to -
is a metaphor for
all she needs to know today
about the world, about herself;
she finishes the book,
closes it thoughtfully,
looks up at you;
she knows herself
a little more today.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Poet Fears Failure
The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.
& the poet?
It's in her nature
to fear failure
but not to let that fear
blot out
her lines.
poem by Erica Jong
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I Am A Poet Of Short Lines
I am a poet of short lines-
Of lines that are phrases,
Of lines that are small and broken-
I am a poet of short lines-
Of impatience and small breath,
Of hurrying and not taking time-
I am a poet of short lines-
Of condensation and conciseness,
Of maximum meaning in minimum space-
I am a poet of short lines
Short ones.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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His Nail Pierced Hands
Those hands pierced at Calvary, are open today for you and me,
Offering some God’s Salvation, while to others, their restoration,
To those Believers, who know Him, but, who have fallen into sin,
So the newly saved and restored, can both serve the Risen Lord.
As the task at hand is for all, those in Christ, both big and small,
All restored out of trouble in sin, and all newly converted to Him,
All to be part of the mission, to fulfill Christ’s Great Commission,
Given to all, when Christ we receive, to help all around us believe.
We are all saved by God’s Grace, and set in Christ’s Eternal race,
With a goal we’re not to diminish, a race that has no earthly finish,
While on our Savior we fix our eyes, striving for that Eternal Prize,
God’s prize not for one but all, who in service answer Christ’s call.
A call for each and everyone, who accepts the Gift of God’s Son,
And comes to New Life in Him, lead by Christ’s Spirit living within,
Guided by the Spirit of God, to be His witness on this earthly sod,
A witness to the Cross of Christ, offering reason for His Sacrifice.
Pointing to His nail pierced Hands, as we journey across all lands,
Even facing many unknown harms, we’re safe in His Eternal Arms,
As the world we try to reach, with God’s message we must preach,
That God above waits for you, to accept the Cross of Calvary too.
(Copyright ©01/2009)
George Crabbe Wrote Of
George Crabbe wrote of hardship and poverty and woe
In the England he lived in a long time ago
But perhaps his poems might be more popular today
Had he looked at life in a less truthful way.
George Crabbe wrote of children in dire poverty
The poor sad victims of Human cruelty
And the poems full of pathos and the poems full of truth
Of a poet who was blessed with the great gift of ruth.
He wrote of human cruelty to their own kind
A God in the soul of such a person you'll find
He did not write of mythological figures or monarch or squire
He wrote for the poor his type I do admire.
Of the poverty around him he was all too aware
But poets like George Crabbe they have always been rare
Though if you feel a bit down and a good laugh you do need
His poems lacking in Humor are not for you to read.
Of the poor souls of England George Crabbe did write
His poems not hard to understand or to read or recite
And though as a person and poet he was great
Such poets the masses never do celebrate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I read another poet I could not understand
I READ ANOTHER POET I COULD NOT UNDERSTAND
I read another poet I could not understand
The metaphors racing one after the other
The eternal thoughts taking on a new particular dress
Words and more words
Lines and more lines
Rushing toward meaning and beauty.
And in it all my simple not understanding,
My waiting to hear words that would return to me-
My understanding
That only by my own effort
By my reading again and again
By my willing to believe
Could I make another poet real.
But do I want another poet to be real
When I am a question,
And when there are already others real for me also?
Oh selfish little man oh poor poor reader-
Write your poem alone again
As if no one but you will ever be able to write
The poems which are real.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Dynamiter
I sat with a dynamiter at supper in a German saloon eating steak and onions.
And he laughed and told stories of his wife and children and the cause of labor and the working class.
It was laughter of an unshakable man knowing life to be a rich and red-blooded thing.
Yes, his laugh rang like the call of gray birds filled with a glory of joy ramming their winged flight through a rain storm.
His name was in many newspapers as an enemy of the nation and few keepers of churches or schools would open their doors to him.
Over the steak and onions not a word was said of his deep days and nights as a dynamiter.
Only I always remember him as a lover of life, a lover of children, a lover of all free, reckless laughter everywhere—lover of red hearts and red blood the world over.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Very hard
Very hard
Parents expressed helplessness
Worry lines could be seen on their face
Further study was beyond their control to afford
I was full of tears and prayed lord
I begged to friends for old books to read
They merely showed scant respect and shook head
It was not only the problem with books but with uniform too
Night had descended on earth only for me and it was true
I saw dark clouds hovering over head
Complete future looked bleak and dead
No help was to come from any corner
Those days were really unforgettable and grimmer
I used to cry in one corner
Curse the luck and saw it as eye opener
One must work very hard for children
Not a little hardship should be faced by them even
I could understand the agony and pain
Parents were helpless to ask me again
I was not blaming them either
I was dear flower to them and brought me up as Gardner
Even though very poor they cared me at every stage
Now it was my turn to change the history and write new page
At whatever consequence I might have to face future course
It must be done bravely to augment some income in their purse
Life mission had become now so important to me
I was to take decision very fairly and free
Parents were now my first priority
They were to me very dear and next to almighty
I preferred service to mother land
Lovely chance to lay down life for holy land
What else can be a chance to be considered as honorable?
Rich or poor can have the same opportunity on table
Uniform gave me sense of pride
There was visible comforts and nothing to hide
World had become large and very wide
I was no poor boy now felt no divide
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Who says I'm a poet
Yes I write lines
And rhyme rhymes
I write puns
Simile alliteration
And all figures of speech
But who says I’m a poet
In some cases I write and scratch
Sometimes I think crack
Voice out loud dah
Making speeches like damn
Combining words
Building sentences
But who says I’m a poet
I maybe great and brave
Embracing grave
Like person reading a Braille
Showing how strong I dare
But still at night I stare
Thinking who says I’m a poet
I may speak with sticks
Throwing ink turned into voices
Beat with lips
To defend my choices
That might be pointless, thoughtless
Maybe fair-less
Because no one says I’m a poet
They say;
Self recommendation has no justification
Practice makes perfect
But I say;
If you can’t recommend yourself who will
Why practise if no one is perfect
Because I’M A POET I say
poem by Zama Ashley Helebe
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0244 Trying to write a sonnet
It's a bit like a trip in a hot air balloon -
the hot air of thousands of years of
poets poetizing; all trying to float a little higher than the everyday,
just a little lower than the angels -
whoops, there's four lines gone already...
so, the first four lines or so say
where you're taking this trip from, hoping
to arrive somewhere quite new and unexpected
after fourteen lines, otherwise
why take the trip at all?
so, fire up the burner of ambition, whatever,
and we're into the second four lines now;
floating in an easy, silent, gently breeze-blown world,
a poet's paradise,
where the mind is stilled, the beauty of the landscape
almost beyond words (ha!) : all perspectives on the world
altered; but do we know now where we're heading?
It's a cool way of experiencing altered state
without illegal substances. Take out the notebook,
try to describe it, just in case
someone reads it; at least it might
encourage them to take the trip themself.
And now we're into the last six lines
which, the pundits say, should introduce
some new insight, some viewpoint on the world;
you've had your chance; has the trip been worthwhile?
the balloon's gone higher, the landscape stretches out,
greener than a politician's promise...
Floating above the green fields, the concrete and the smog,
the unexpected words from the ground heard crystal clear -
have new thoughts, new visions, come, in this poet's paradise?
And now so soon, the final couplet - which the pundits of today
condemn as the valueless whistling in the dark,
the false claim to cultural certainties -
so beware: take all your humility in hand like
a doffed Elizabethan cap: will that final couplet be
the clunk-click of the safety belt's banality? The
front-door clack of Alexander Pope's front door,
before the scrape of sharpened pen, the mellow smell
of candlelight on paper that will ring the world
like thought-fired, savage Georgian hot-air balloon?
Or the clang of oven door in Belsen, Dachau, Buchenwald?
For the poet, just fourteen lines: heaven and earth,
truth and lies, life and death, Icarus 's fate,
all these, for his few hours, depend upon it;
but I digress; I should have writ a sonnet..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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FOR M. (Just For Fun)
geometry starts with a
dot, and since the dot travels a lot
more lines are made
not contented the lines make
shapes
others enclose themselves
like walls and
churches others spread like
the lines of a map
reaching for countries and
people and
all the nooks of the earth
since then the world is
thankful for a dot
that hopes for spaces and skies
and light and
speed
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0008 The Gift
Who does not wish to give the perfect gift
to those we love – to whom we have already
given the greatest gift we have – our heart?
To choose a visible and outward sign
of love whose meaning’s inward, spiritual?
But who would dare to challenge innocence
and ignorance in their demonic bond,
and break the spell of Christmas wish and hope
by telling children, that old Santa Claus
is but the God who gave their life to them -
dressed up in red and white and snowy beard;
and who, in needing nothing of himself,
would be delighted to receive their thanks
and nothing more; and who, we might believe
of one who has all gifts in his command,
might be obliged by those laws he himself
created, out of justice, equity,
to give them that which they themselves have made –
a life of gratitude for life itself –
a life of praise, where all the world is gift
beyond all human gifts?
What parents now
might give their children gold, myrrh, frankincense
with all their love; and teach them by this show
why Christmas gifts are godly metaphor?
Of course, no parents would dare break this spell;
you’ll laugh at me for this absurdity;
yet it might build a clear-eyed, praising race
who thought in metaphor; spoke poetry.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Little Bombadier
War made him a soldier
Little Frankie Mear
Peace left him a loser
The little bombardier
Lines of worry appeared with age
Unskilled hands that knew no trade
Spent his time in the picture house
The little bombardier
Frankie drank his money
The little that he made
Told his woes to no man
Friendless, lonely days
Then one day, in the ABC
Four bright eyes gazed longinly
At the ice-cream in the hand of
The little bombardier
Sunshine entered our Frankie's days
Gone his worries, his hopeless maze
His life was fun and his life was full of joy
Two young children had changed his aims
He gave them toffees and played their games
He brought them presents with every coins he made
Then two gentlemen called him
Asked him for his name
Why was he friends with the children
Were they just a game?
Leave them alone or we'll get sore
We've had blokes like you in the station before
The hand of authority said "no more" to
The little bombardier
Packed his bags, his heart in pain
Wiped a tear, caught a train
Not to be seen in the town again
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The poem that got away
I started a poem with a serious intent…
but who would ever guess the mess, and where that poem went?
I’d barely writ a line so fine, when the poem turned to me,
looked me in the eye and ear, and laughed demonic-lee,
pranced around me, singing, boo! you can’t catch me!
ain’t no rules nor grammar for the boldheart and the free!
race you round the chocabloc, poetic chairbound fatty!
you’re just like every pompous poet, thinking always that he
can control a poem with a life that’s its own!
tries to rhyme each couplet up, as if lines were circus clones…
tries to measure poems by some rules about their feet, or
wants to match my singing lines to some archaic meter…
’cause I’m a poem!
I’ve got my own life!
I want to dance around the streets,
I want to join a band!
I’ve got so much to tell you,
I want to lift your heart…
I want to make you weepy too,
If that’s the way I feel..
I want to talk to children,
or to live in fantasy;
I want to feel much bolder
than this sillybilly world,
quick and slick and fancy-free;
and sail past time and space;
or wonder what it could be like
before the world began…
I want to shuffle words around,
like books upon a shelf;
I want to be all bold and free –
I want to be – myself!
So boo to all your metered rhymes,
you faded, jaded poet…
poems are the masters now…
it’s much more fun,
it’s just begun…and
it’s time for you to know it! …
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Backyard Nukes
The air is dark with ash and smoke,
the cities filled with mutant folk.
The crops grow bent with a bluish tinge,
when an ant is seen the children cringe.
'And what, ' you ask. 'Has happened here,
'to a world once filled with so much cheer? '
The answer, friend, is not so great,
The world is lost to a terrible fate
You see a warning was once ignored
by a little genius who was just too bored.
He built a thing from junkyard parts
then blew it up to make some charts.
He did it again to fill in the rest,
and topped it off with a third nuke test.
Then one last time with no rebukes,
he changed the world with his backyard nukes.
poem by Poet Dragon
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In Search Of Metaphors And Images To Express Yourself In A Poem
it is the expression that matters most.
it is the relational flow from the writer to the reader
the bond that is created anew, just like an ordinary conversation
one fine day.
why can't poetry be simple and direct? that is the question that poetry
asks
to itself, in itself.
the poet in us can be lost because of so much demands for the absurd,
this metaphor fits, this imagery is perfect, what is it?
you do not accept the sun and the moon and the stars.
cliches of their poetry. You do not show compassion for his feelings
of being abandoned
simply because there are no images that tickle your senses.
even if he jumps with joy, you do not relate to his joys
simply because the images are bland like
burger without the black pepper.
it is enough that one bleeds, one wants a listener, one wants to open
up to the world
Like a bud turning into a flower
(oh forgive this lousy metaphor
i am not a good poet somehow at imaging
at imagining.
Am not a camera.
My eyes are clumsy at details.
And my ears are not sensitive to sound of
beautiful words. They even hide behind my head under my hair.
And there is no compulsion for high highfalutin
Ivory towers of similes from the gods and goddesses of
Literature)
Why can't poetry be just an expression? Just that. A dialogue.
This one, this monologue.
It is enough that you write from the heart.
It is enough that you are true
(oh forgive me, can i be really
true to you? Do i have to be naked and tell you that i am beautiful?
Do i have to master the art of metaphorisms
to be your poet
for the night?)
Or is it that poetry is simply our hiding place
From this world of pain?
Or our chapel for our prayers
Or our playground where we can be children again?
I am tired of squeezing my brain in the quest of the perfect metaphor.
I have read what they have written.
I pretend i like them. They sound so well.
They must be poetry. Real poetry
Those that garner plaques.
Prizes from the jury.
Honestly, I do not understand a thing. Those poems of my idols.
But I read them just the same.
Hoping that I am in and be counted as one of the stars in those
Metaphoric Heavens.I watch every meteor that drops
to the ground. Their tails.
I am not a star. I am just a pebble.
And it is enough for me.
The poem says, just write me.
Don't squeeze your brain to have metaphors
To draw the images.
Just be yourself, and for God's sake if you have something to say
Just say it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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