Variable Worlds Elastic
Contrast images spin
never write destinies
cast down before sudden
need infuses in written
passion transcendent
into fresh written thought
wormholes rapidly flood
mind cells surrealistic
dimensions in string
theory reality decisions
made unmade differing
timing reshapes endless
variable worlds elastic
in civilizations infinite.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Hand Of The Infinite
aeons ephemeral beauty
balancing beautiful thought
contrast from gifted mind
to hand that gives bestows
images of an embellished infinite
sharing rare beauty perception
the hand of passion infinite
written into indelible patterned nature
written into seasons lessons
through years flows eternity
across life seasoned minds renewal
are sight sound felt senses
images spoken through whisper
whisper creation through eve receptive
serene cosmic harmony beautify
in spoken crystal moments
creation nature kaleidoscopic infuses
sparkles divinity personified
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Meditation Infused Medium Minds
written faith
hooked in words
rapidly writes
write your poems
straight out,
line by line,
no themes,
no plans,
complete as written
written words
written souls
infused medium minds
poem by Terence George Craddock
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As you say, the way string theory requires all these extra dimensions and this comes from certain consistency requirements about how string should behave and so on.
quote by Roger Penrose
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Losing
Oct 2012
Losing
My love for you inspires me to write poems of love, yet mixed with sadness and sorrow.
Loss and gain of finding and losing, of regret and fulfilment,
happiness and the denial of enlightenment in reality, that I was ment to write for you.
Love, yet not to posses, or to touch.
Only to write of loss and to live in reality, to write of what I may of had...
To write how I sabotaged love.. yet still.. and how I'm too hard to like never mind to love.
Its all written down on paper, in my mind scarred and seared into my heart, im just too out of reach
for anyone to want to....
Loving you, allows me to see this... I have failed...and I thank you for this...
I hope, I'm sure, love will never come my way again.
I write it all down for you,
using red ink.
poem by Jill Laughlin
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Albert Einstein
unified field theory
They say I did not reach my destination, that I was wrong, still I went on, our intent, our wisdom, folly, determination, steadfastness, passion are parts of our soul. You should see my discoveries in the other worlds I was born into, worlds far grander, more interesting in endless positive ways than the one you are in now.
poem by Michael Kavuoti
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Technically you need the extra dimensions. At first people didn't like them too much, but they've got a big benefit, which is that the ability of string theory to describe all the elementary particles and their forces along with gravity depends on using the extra dimensions.
quote by Edward Witten
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Best Poem
when you plant a seed
in the ground, and
water it, work it, weed it
till it grows... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
when you make a baby,
waiting and planning for birth;
and you raise this child to adulthood
with respect... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
when you live your life
working honestly, giving
all that you are and can be,
never holding back... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
when you go to death openly
with no regrets, not clinging
to dreams that were not real,
owning no one... you've written
the best poem you'll ever write.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Civilizations In Transition
Read a few ancient words written
meaning to inspire souls to slay?
Who makes these decisions?
What is kept what is thrown away?
Civilizations in transition?
What perishes passes what ultimately stays?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Never Written
to write
hungry to write
and over
a lifetime
to have written
so little
less than
two years
writing
if compressed
into full time
writing
to have said
to have written
so little
when thought
so much
deep thoughts
never written
never recorded
never achieved
never expressed
never articulated
never illuminating
what a waste
modern sibyl
only whispered
briefly
self paid time
a fireflies flight
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Poem of the Ageing
A simple poem I wanted to write
The words were so clear in my mind
But my fingers were numb and sore
Lift a pencil they can't at all
Before a few lines write I could
With my signpen wrestle I should
I tried to read what I've written
And asked my self how did I fare
The words I saw were all in blur
And were in badly crooked lines
I have but lost my metering
And all my lines did hardly rhyme
My next poems shall not be written
And in my thought will just remain
Be unrecited as they may
Till in my mind they fade away
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those' Images Made
People love to treasure those images made.
Those images created to help them escape,
From depictions of reality.
And the way the displaying of it is portrayed.
People love to treasure those images made.
People love to treasure those images made.
The ones flowered to sugar without a bitter taste.
Those images glammed up to spotlight,
On a public stage.
But behind the scenes indignities can be mean.
Yet...
People love to treasure those images made.
And their minds are affixed to them to defend...
Every blemish that is openly seen.
Since people who love their images made...
Have not been conditioned on reality to feast.
People love to treasure those images made.
Those images created to help them escape,
From depictions of reality.
And the way the displaying of it is portrayed.
People love to treasure those images made,
With an excusing of detrimental flaws and pain shown.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Physical Poetry
The physics of poetry
is best explained in a mind experiment
in the construction of this very poem.
As I write the question becomes
what is the word-next and its origins?
Now what word-next can be
is a question of probabilities;
since if I choose rhyme as my scheme
and since the words which will rhyme are finite
and not infinite
the only question then becomes
which one of these will I choose.
Now if I choose a word-next outside
rhyming
then I risk not making poetic sense
since writing a gibberish word,
or one not related to the whole,
would be judged word-next nonsense.
Now we ask who or what in the brain
is making these two decisions
is it me or is it something mysterious;
is it drawing upon the past and memory
or from an instantaneous present
or even perhaps from my future?
Or is it just random choices I make
without even understanding them?
But suppose it is something we call
consciousness which exists
in the brain-cloud of cells which
can with millions of possibilities
produce a entirely new idea
which by definition
can come to exist
like language itself
and produce something never before said;
and now is being compiled in the brain
in this very instant and brought into existence.
That is humans have with language
the ability to create sentences
which have never before existed,
spoken or written because some languages have
enough words in them to make these permutations
near infinite and hence new ideas possible therewith.
Suppose the same is true of the human mind
and human senses make possible from this
this exercise we call
the idea.
So beyond the physical aspects of the brain
there must be a non-physical aspect we call
consciousness, the spiritual, or whatever
word we choose as its name.
Now the other half of the transaction
is even more amazing:
I just made up a new idea
never been expressed before
and can talk to you about it
and given enough clues
it becomes something you understand
and you yourself can write
a poem about.
This must be trans-consciousness
which is now a double miracle
nobody understands.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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What Poem Can Be Written/To Break The Silence Of Infinite Sadness?
WHAT POEM CAN BE WRITTEN/ TO BREAK THE SILENCE OF INFINITE SADNESS
What poem can be written
To break the silence of infinite sadness?
An infinite poem?
A sad Poem?
A poem that knows no one’s name
Including my own?
A poem that comes suddenly
Like the freshness of these winter breezes
And sweeps the mind free
Into a new world
Of Light and Dreams
So cold?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Seashore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead
and the restless water is boisterous.
On the seashore of endless worlds
the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand
and they play with empty shells.
With withered leaves they weave their boats
and smilingly float them on the vast deep.
Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets.
Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships,
while children gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with children,
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
Tempest roams in the pathless sky,
ships get wrecked in the trackless water,
death is abroad and children play.
On the seashore of endless worlds is the
great meeting of children.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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On the Seashore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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I Have Not Written A Poem For Days
I HAVE NOT WRITTEN A POEM FOR DAYS
I have not written a poem for days
For days I have not written a poem-
And my heart and my soul
My whole being
Longs for a poem.
But is this a poem?
Or am I nothing
But an unending babbler?
A word- struck fool?
A maniac in endless search of meaning?
While all around me,
This sunlit winter green Jerusalem Beauty,
I cannot say -
And as I stop to write,
Do not even now behold.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Pages Of My Mind
Faces from my past flicker
through the pages of my mind
along with shadowy figures
I wish I had left behind.
Old loves and new loves
smile and say hello as they pass
through the pages of my mind.
They come in quiet moments
when I am at peace with the world.
Reflecting images of times left behind.
There are no future images,
as those pages haven’t been written yet,
only ones from a distant past.
They stroll across with happy moments
written on the pages of my mind.
11 January 2009
poem by David Harris
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I Wrote A Poem I Could Not Write
I wrote a poem I could not write-
And then when I tried to write it again
Could not write it again -
Poems written and not written
Words and more words
What do they mean?
Paradoxes and games with words
What do they mean?
If there is Beauty in the language
It is one thing
But words just to hear themselves think,
Why should they mean ‘Remembrance'?
Oh Words oh Questions oh Darkness oh Life-
Let me write myself to the grave
Believing at least
That poems too even when they can be written
Have their small unhidden meanings.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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