Shape Shifting Words
without pause
without stopping
poet prose wrote...
entire poem concept
out complete
final finished
perfect form irregular
Michelangelo minds...
scan depths swift
chop away dross edges
swift writ
work revealing
original shape...
image mind
figure seen
into physical
reality speed world
true x-ray artists...
must ever dice work this
clay marble way fast
image craving out
solid marble blocks
from rich mind...
quarry form shape
shifting words
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Dedicated to Hesse's Goldmund
The old master sat,
withering like winter’s flowers
as he shrank -
from encroaching onslaught of creeping death.
He had watched many shapes and faces, so held
shimmering vision on virile edge of his mind.
Afterwards thoughts never ceased to plague
in every shape, a certain form repetition of line.
I think matters not what one thought or speaks.
but what we shape with willing hands before time.
So from fetal dream began careful drawing
with loving fingers, clearer its shape defined.
To picture wondrous root of image making; grief transmuted -
seeking to formulate thoughts; the sharper to bind.
Envisaged image was a perfect whole
without flaw, symmetry
sprung from life, from sacrosanct depths,
he held it within his mind.
Then cast it forth like a radiant jewel
many faceted,
even in darkness,
in faintest light it will shine.
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0313 Every poem's an adventure
Reader, if it’s the first time that you hit
this site, stretching out like a landscape
as far as the mind may reach – just, we ask,
remember –
every poem’s an adventure;
- not, perhaps, for you, scrolling fast in case there’s
something better round the corner -
but for these writers – Frost-sparkling, or first-born …
tune in if you must, to those
discerning poet-critics, poet-teachers, with
their ‘one of his least successful’…
‘in this early work, she has not as yet…’
‘marks the slow falling-away of the early promise…’
those distant, serious, inconsequential voices like
twirling a radio dial across the stations –
but remember –
every poem’s an adventure;
all we here, know so well, that
one day we set down what there was to say
and then, we realise - without a shape to it...;
another day, some passing angel touches it
and like some shake of the kaleidoscope,
there it is in perfect form,
touched with immortality…
we – we’re not fooled; they’re failures in some degree, never
quite what we hoped of them;
but we don’t delet them, for
they’re our children, and we love them;
we’ve learned from bearing, rearing, shaping them;
and when they leave home and roam around the world,
someone may love a part or all of them…
they’re here because, even if they’re
‘hackneyed, trite, unambitious, banal’
to those that shit in judgement on your work…yet
every poem’s an adventure.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Shape Me Like A Man
Spark my body into existence
Breath your life into me
Fill these eyes with temptation
Work your mystery
Make me in the image you desire
Raise me up from the earth
Let me be your creation
Women, give me birth
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Put this broken body in motion
With a strong and natural drive
Fill my flesh with sensation
Women let me know Im alive
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Take me in your hands
And shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Like a man
Shape me like a man
Make me like a man
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Just a Dream
The entire world was silenced
And from the darkness emerged, Truth;
Lost since the paradise garden
Abandoned for cupidity;
And out of Truth the advent poet
Appeared with imaginative
Zeal and clarity of purpose:
To rhythmically shape our hearts
And minds with eternal verses
Instilled with His intuitive
Enlightenment from the cosmos
Taking the form of a poem.
Although pleasant it may have seemed
In reality, just a dream.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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No Poem Is An Original
No poem is an original
everyone who writes
poetry thinks their poem
was an original, it just so
happens that their poem just
surfaced to the top
of their mind first, so they
were able to write it.
Everyone has love, hate
compassion buried deep
in their soul.
Poets are able to bring
all of this to the surface,
to construct, add the words,
but it is not an original
idea, for the poet because
they wrote it now, it
becomes an original for them.
Who has not heard a song,
read a poem, story or book,
seen a movie and said,
to themselves, hey I had
that same idea.
Only thing is, someone else
brought it to the surface
of the mind, and wrote it first.
Even this poem I'm writing
now is not an original
someone out there
has this idea buried
deep in their soul.
So if you have an idea
for a poem, get busy
write it, don't wait,
or you won't write an original
start today,
don't delay.
wrote 2-2-07
The greatest artist has no conception which a single block of white marble does not potentially contain within its mass, but only a hand obedient to the mind can penetrate to this image.
quote by Michelangelo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Lost The Poem I Wrote In My Mind
I LOST THE POEM I WROTE IN MIND
I lost the poem I wrote in my mind
When walking to Shul this morning-
I can only try to recall its thoughts;
‘Walk too fast and the mind cannot hear itself
Walk slowly and listen to the poem inside yourself.
The road ahead the trees the sky
Has a beauty too great for you to write
Thank God for your sight.”
The best lines are forever gone-
A poem to replace a poem
Is not as good as the original-
I wish I had the words for all the beauty God gives me in my life
How wonderful it is to be alive- sometimes
And to be able to write poems – even if somewhat poorly.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The marble not yet carved can hold the form of every thought the greatest artist has.
quote by Michelangelo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We stayed jaded
Like perfect marble green stones of the mind
And perfect stones never cut their ribs
Life it is life it is you said
Like you said it was
And it would be
Lived and shared through the splinters of time
We stayed shaded
Time jewels focused within a moment
Like a definition proof painting
Colour resistant freedom
And perfect shades never seek the form
Except an oblique smile
Gliding down the final shift
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Mystery of Mind Poem - the mind has a mind of its own
the mind
has a mind
of its own
the mind
possesses
a life of its own
a personality
of its own
an intelligence
of its own
give it a
chance
to talk to you
be quiet
and you will
be surprised
and bewildered
at what you
could hear
the mind
it longs to
talk to you
communicate
with you
all your life
a timeless
formless,
shapeless
machine
shoved into
a sanctum
to work with
time, shape,
form and
You
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The best of artists has no conception that the marble alone does not contain within itself.
quote by Michelangelo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Extrardinary Girl
She's an extoraney girl
In a ordinary world
And she can't seem to get away
He lacks the courage in his mind
Like a child left behind
Like a pet left in the rain
She's all alone again
Whipping the tears form her eyes
Some days he feels like dying
She gets so sick of crying
She sees the mirror of herself
An image she wants to sell
To amyone willing to buy
He steals the image in her kiss
Form her hearts apocalypse
Form the one called whatsername
She's all alone again
Whipping the tears form her eyes
Somedays he feels like dying
Somedays its not worth trying
Now that they are both are finding
She gets so sick of crying
poem by Xanadu Trevino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vital Signs
Unstable condition,
A symptom of life,
Of mental and environmental change.
Atmosphereic disturbance,
The feverish flux
Of human interface and interchange.
The impulse is pure;
Sometimes our circuits get shorted
By external interference.
Signals get crossed
And the balance distorted
By internal incoherence.
A tired mind become a shape shifter,
Everybody need a mood lifter,
Everybody need reverse polarity.
Everybody got mixed feelings
About the function and the form.
Everybody got to elevate from the norm.
An ounce of perception,
A pound of obscure.
Process information at half speed.
Pause, rewind, replay,
Warm memory chip,
Random sample, hold the one you need.
Leave out the fiction,
The fact is, this friction
Will only be won by persistence.
Leave out conditions,
Courageous convictions
Will drag the dream into existence.
A tired mind become a shape shifter,
Everybody need a soft filter,
Everybody need reverse polarity.
Everybody got mixed feelings
About the function and the form.
Everybody got to elevate from the norm...
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sign-Board
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother's pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile,
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses to chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him-
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard-
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathsome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling's side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin,
Labeled with one word-'lost,'
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know.
But I'll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Signboard
I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.
I will paint with the skill of a master,
And many shall pause to see
This wonderful piece of painting,
So like the reality.
I will paint yourself, rumseller,
As you wait for that fair young boy,
Just in the morning of manhood,
A mother’s pride and joy.
He has no thought of stopping,
But you greet him with a smile
And you seem so blithe and friendly,
That he pauses a chat awhile.
I will paint you again, rumseller,
I will paint you as you stand,
With a foaming glass of liquor
Extended in your hand.
He wavers, but you urge him –
Drink, pledge me just this one!
And he takes the glass and drains it,
And the hellish work is done.
And next I will paint a drunkard –
Only a year has flown,
But into that loathesome creature
The fair young boy has grown.
The work was sure and rapid.
I will paint him as he lies
In a torpid, drunken slumber,
Under the wintry skies.
I will paint the form of the mother
As she kneels at her darling’s side,
Her beautiful boy that was dearer
Than all the world beside.
I will paint the shape of a coffin
Labelled with one word – ‘Lost’
I will paint all this, rumseller,
And will paint it free of cost.
The sin and the shame and the sorrow,
The crime and the want and the woe
That are born there in your workshop,
No hand can paint, you know
But I’ll paint you a sign, rumseller,
And many shall pause to view
This wonderful swinging signboard,
So terribly, fearfully true.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sound Familiar? for Bill Smith
I dreamt I wrote but I had not.
My pad was empty when I woke,
the poem was gone. I had forgot
but in my head a small voice spoke.
Don’t try so hard you won’t succeed
though it’s recorded in your mind.
It will return at its own speed.
There is no way that you can find.
The key with which you gain access.
It simply doesn’t work that way.
You brain needs some time to process
The information stored awa.
I got on with my daily chores
switched my mind to here and now
I knew this was the only course
that my sub conscious would allow.
My chores all done a coffee break
seemed like a good idea to me.
I sat relaxed just half awake.
The floodgates opened suddenly.
My pad and pen were close to hand
I always keep them close to me.
A habit you will understand
if you too write some poetry.
The words flowed freely from my pen
I did not need to think, just write.
I had recalled the words again
and writ them down in black and white.
It doesn’t always work that way
some poems are lost beyond recall.
Never to see the light of day.
I’m glad to say that’s some not all.
6-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Glass
Words of a poem should be glass
But glass so simple-subtle its shape
Is nothing but the shape of what it holds.
A glass spun for itself is empty,
Brittle, at best Venetian trinket.
Embossed glass hides the poem of its absence.
Words should be looked through, should be windows.
The best word were invisible.
The poem is the thing the poet thinks.
If the impossible were not,
And if the glass, only the glass,
Could be removed, the poem would remain.
poem by Robert Francis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unintelligent Design
An hour a day,
sometimes more,
I chipped away
with mallet and chisel
on a block of marble
I found in Carrara
and shipped to New York
on the deck of a trawler.
I offered the marble
to a famous sculptor
who told me he works
in granite only
so I grabbed his beret
and one of his smocks
and said I'd sculpt
the block myself
with whittling skills
picked up as a kid
from a drunken uncle
named Whittling Sid.
Several weeks later,
to my surprise,
I finished the bust
of a chimpanzee
simply by wielding
mallet and chisel
the way I wield
pencil and eraser
when hewing a poem.
Working with marble
or working with words,
a sculptor or poet
proves less is more
by chipping away
until something emerges
upright and walking
with a soul of its own.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Sign On The Wall
There's a sign on the wall and I wonder what could it mean?
there's much in the world that people do without explaining.
Is it a symbol of hope and joy just another person's dream?
a message of love and peace or someone's silent scream?
Is it a sign of the times that the whole world now is facing?
a mark of gloom and despair perhaps well worth noticing?
There's a sign on the wall that has just appeared lately
something never before seen and yet which seems stately.
Is it some kind of warning by an unknown human hand?
a script or note for all concerned to see throughout the land?
Or is it an omen of great significance heralding the times that are coming?
a signal of change conveying special tidings of what we'll be all undergoing?
There's a sign on the wall which has suddenly appeared everywhere
a work of an unseen hand that's showing as black and white on there.
Is it a piece of art perhaps being of some extra-terrestrial origin,
a souvenir left behind reminding us all that they're genuine?
Or is it just one more puzzle to figure out baffling to the mind?
another addition to those mysteries of the ages that beset mankind.
There's a sign on the wall that's evident for anyone to see
an image of some sort representing for many a secret key.
Is it a shape or token conceived in one's transcendent mind,
a depiction in form of our ultimate freedom - a blissful kind?
Or is it then a divine inscription which means but only one word,
that which was in the beginning and now also again can be heard?
.AUM.
poem by George Krokos
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Living the words
i pluck out all those gigantic
words in a dictionary with the wish
to write a high brow poem
it turns out a fruit i do not even know how to call
neither sweet, nor sour, nor a pearly shape
nor anything that you can find in this world
the final poem glaring at me like a stranger
one bumps into in a foreign town
all the words beg me for the reason
to grace my poem, they say they
are not even my friend for i know them not
that they have never interacted with me
and i have never caroused with them
they dont mind, they say, standing in
for the verses as new friends do for formality
but frankly tell me we are not yet in such spirit or
company as to perform a dynamic act
i reread the poem to find indeed they are mere words
friends that got thrown together without knowing
what to expect from each other
they bow out and the whole poem just got lost
in the wilderness of my mind
i seek those friends out anyway, to share a part of their life
so that i can if needed be, belt out a proper song with them
to impress the world, to throw the audience out of their seats
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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