Dottie Writes and Cries
Sunlight settles on the
table where Dottie writes.
Her journal records the days
since Willie left, the effects
it has had, her migraines,
the sickness, the stomach
pains, the blood loss.
She writes slowly, neat
and lucid, the pen tight
between finger and thumb.
She pauses, looks at the sunlight,
how the beams seem to dance
upon the cloth, she sucks the end
of the pen, her tongue sensing
the smoothness and plasticness.
She will write of the roses,
how they have grown, the red
like blood, the blood like that
on the sheet before the wash.
She misses her brother, his
departure to fetch Sammy
has pained her, causes her
loss of sleep, despite sleeping
in his bed, caressing his pillow.
She writes again, the pen nib
moving over the journal's page,
her eyes watching the flow,
the words settling on the paper,
the words holding the images,
the images for him, for Willie
to read and have on his return.
A bird song, she cocks an ear,
outside nearby, a robin, she
closes her eyes, grasps the sound,
turns it around in her mind.
She will write that down,
he likes birdsong, loves the
songs, the call of the wild.
She opens her eyes, begins
to write once more, she wants
to cry, pushes her eyes tight
to stop tears hitting the page.
Through teary eyes sees
the sunbeams dance on
what seems like water on
the patterned cloth, she
remembers Willie laying
his head down there once
side ways on and gazing at
her as deep fond lovers may.
She puts down her black pen,
she will write no more today.
poem by Terry Collett
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Related quotes
The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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After Willie Had Gone
Dotty lies in Willie's bed,
he's gone to fetch Sammy
his poet friend and will return
in a few days. She sniffs
her brother's pillow, smells
his hair oil and aftershave.
She snuggles into the bed
for warmth, pulling his duvet
tight around her, imagining
it's him holding her, his arms
about her. She has a headache,
a coming near the edge, migraine.
Feels sick, light leaking through
the curtains makes it worse.
She puts her head under the
duvet, shuts out the bright light.
She smells him better here, his
love of scent, his personal choice.
She hears birdsong from the garden,
a blue tit, great tit, unsure which.
Willie'd know. She squeezes her
eyes tight keep out whatever light
might intrude. Willie's left her some
of his poems to type up and file away.
Later in the day, she muses, once
the sickness and migraine's gone.
He had a good day yesterday with
the poems, she recalls, him reciting
over and over as they walked, her
scribbling down, pencil and pad,
her finger and thumb holding the
pencil tight until they felt numb.
After they returned home and sat
by the fire and he spoke them out
one by one. She loved the one about
winter dawn. She turns over, faces
the wall, her head buried into Willie's
warm indentation. In the darkness
she recites the poems one by one,
the words pouring from her lips,
following each other like children
out to play. She shuts out the dawn
chorus of birds that celebrate the day.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Poem Explodes In This Poets Mind
flying flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down
his shovel, and writes, writes
and writes.
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me the muddled spirits,
and write your own words
with your own blood.
flying flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up with her friend
plath, and they both write, write,
and write with their own blood.
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me these muddled spirits,
and write with your own blood.
Flying flocks travel in flight, and
a poem explodes in this poets mind,
and i write, and write, and write,
and on this white paper, my blood.
poem by David Gerardino
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Swim Submerged
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down his
shovel, and writes, writes, and
writes,
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me muddled spirits,
and write the words with your
own red blood,
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up, with her freind
plath, and they both begine to
write, write, and write, yippee,
says the words, for these words
will end up in a paper back book.
poem by David Gerardino
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Dottie Waits for Willie.
Dottie wishes Willie would
return home. All night she
had twisted and turned in
his bed. She looks out of
the window of their cottage
for the postie to come with
a letter from her brother,
but there is no sight or sign.
She sighs. Later she will prepare
one of his favourite pies. He'll
bring Sammy and they'll go
for walks and talk and smell
flowers and hear the birdsongs
and sit beneath trees and study
the sky. She moves to the kettle
and switches it on and prepares
a cup of tea. One teabag, two
sugars, a small spill of milk.
She sips and thinks. If Willie
were here now he'd lay his head
on her shoulder and read her
one of his poems. She likes it when
he reads her one of his poems.
She knows them because she
scribbles them down as he recites
them as they walk along. I can't
write sitting down, he often told her.
I need to walk and breathe the
air and hear the songs of birds.
She sits and imagines him there
beside her, his head on her
shoulder as if a pillow, his
vibrating voice moving inside her.
She senses a headache coming,
feels the tremors along her nerves
like a coming storm. It is a time
of bleeds. The moon's pull drags
her down. If Willie were here he'd
say, Go lay down and I will come
bring you pills and water and kiss
it better. But her brother is away
bringing Sammy. The clouds are
gathering, dark grey and heavy,
the sky becoming black, oh, she
says, if only my Willie was back.
poem by Terry Collett
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Dottie Stirs at Dawn
Dottie stirs as dawn light seeps
through the bedroom curtains;
Willie breathes deeply in his sleep.
Sammy, who had arrived with
her brother Willie the night before,
sleeps in the guest room along
the passage. She listens to the birds
singing from the garden, watches
as the seeping sunlight plays on
the duvet covers like mischievous
children. She is happy; Willie is back,
Sammy has arrived with his talk of
the city, his books, the poems, but
nothing of his wife or son or daughter.
They had been up late with talk and
laughter and she had studied Sammy,
and was, she admits to herself, a little
envious of his wife to have one such
as he, when maybe it ought, she feels,
to have been her. But she has Willie.
She will always have him. He stirs then
turns over. She watches his breathing,
how his hand lies on the duvet, his
fingers still, the nails just so, neat
and trimmed. She had missed him;
missed him being there, reciting his
poems, and she writing them down,
their walks, their laying under the trees
watching the sky, or by their small lake
studying the birds, the ducks, swans
or occasional dragonfly. She looks at
the bedside clock. She will make them
breakfast and a pot of tea and go
breathe in the morning air, remember
the night. Willie had kissed her eyelids
shut to help her sleep. She can still
feel his lips there. She runs a finger
along his arm, making a snail like
move as if along a leaf or flower top.
She has missed him so. The tears she
had shed. The laying awake those nights
he was away. The headaches, the bleeds,
the monthly curse. She pauses her finger.
She has reached his hand; she rests her
hand on his, lets it lay. Oh for a fresh
morning, she whispers, oh for a new day.
poem by Terry Collett
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After Sammy Left.
Dottie has the made the
bed where Sammy slept,
bakes a cake, picks flowers
from the garden to put in
the small vase on the table.
Sammy has gone away
after his three day stay.
Willie's asleep in bed,
his window open to catch
dawn birdsong, smell of
flowers, air's heavy scent.
She pops a pill that Sammy
left; will help you sleep he
said, during their late evening
walk in the nearby woods,
as Willie recited his poetry.
She puts two teabags in
the pot, pours in water,
lets it stand, hot steam
coming out the spout.
They have the house
to themselves again,
no more having to keep
the sounds down, no
need to whisper anymore.
She pours the tea
into Willie's cup,
adds milk, sugar and
stirs, pours tea for herself
with no milk, or sugar, sips
slow through pursed lips.
She climbs the stairs to
Willie's room, teacup
and saucer on a small tray,
few biscuits and a pill.
She watches her brother
sleep, his head facing
the window, his arm
outside the duvet, his
hand open, a finger
pointing unwittingly
towards the pillow
where she had lain
the night before.
He breathes slowly out,
a gentle exhalation, no
snore, as she studies
him as he sleeps and
wonders what he thinks
or dreams; what poems
are born there, what
worldly wants or care.
She leaves the tea beside
the bed, she'll not disturb
his dreams or thoughts;
she gives a final look and
goes downstairs; the pill it
seems has begun to work, she
has no worldly wants or cares.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Perfect Perfect Poem
Imagine that God asked you to write the perfect poem.
You sat down at the table, pen and paper at the ready.
You let your mind drift, as if in gentle wholesome prayer.
You wait for some guidance as to the main theme.
Into your mind came the title. How? You could not say.
Yet there it was, as if it were your destiny... your duty...
You write the title down and pause to think about it...
Into your mind come images, unbidden, unrehearsed.
Images unfolding, as from some midnight dream.
You think you should write down the first line.
You force the first verse to fit your new desire.
The words work well and you are warmly pleased.
With a faithful heart, you press on with joy.
The images continue and more words flow...
Who is the writer now? Who is leading the pen?
You are puzzled as the images stop suddenly.
You are given time to catch up, so all is well.
The words become eloquent, bold and fanciful.
The story becomes more than what is first known.
A hidden meaning has yet to be revealed.
You sense it is on its way and you strain to know it.
What can it be? Is it a secret from the Lord?
Is it a precious prophecy, is it a holy revelation?
And you tremble, with eyes closed tight, waiting.
'Tell me! ' you plead with God... 'Tell me! '
Then the secret comes and all you see is light.
White hot burning light, the essence of God's glory.
It is fitting to kneel in the presence of Christ.
Behold the Son of the Most High, the risen Lord...
And all that was written before means nothing.
Now is the time for revelation, for the Lord speaks.
And you are truly ready, for now is the time to write.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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She Is Sleepless, She Is Probing
They read your lines
They perhaps like you
They try to read you
In between
she is sleepless
And she pities you
she is probing
And she writes for you too
And you feel so honored
Comes our arrogance
You say you write
Only for yourself
For art’s sake
You say you cannot
Write for no other
You say you cannot
Stop writing
Your essence is just that
To write for no other
To write or you die
Be kind
Let them read you through the night
Let them follow you
Warn them though
They may have followed
A blind man eking his way through
His darkness
Without even a cane to feel his way.
The Virgin Mary
And Veronica
The crying mother
And the cloth to wipe a bloody face
Don’t stretch further
There is no Christ in me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ballad Of ‘Memo’ Roy
For JoAnn
Who in conversation inspired this little ditty.
This is the Ballad of ‘Memo’ Roy
the fastest memos in the world.
Roy writes a memo every minute
just to remind himself what to do.
He even writes one to tell himself
he must visit the loo.
It all started many years ago
when the doctor told Roy
he was suffering from
short-term memory loss.
Now he writes memos
to remind himself to write a memo
for everything he must do.
He writes one late at night
to remind him
to get up in the morning
and one in the morning
to remind him to go to bed at night.
It is estimated he writes
quite a few hundred memos everyday.
His house is filed with little bits
of yellow paper stuck up here and there.
He couldn’t watch TV
even if he wanted to.
There are s many memos on it
you can’t see the screen.
One day his pen ran out
and no memos he could write.
He couldn’t even write a memo
to remind himself to buy a pen.
Then he found a pencil
and shouted that will do.
Now he is able to write memos to himself
to tell himself what to do.
As far as I know,
he hasn’t written a memo
to remind himself to sharpen
the pencil once and a while.
28 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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Kissing Willie
Breaking hearts in a market town. she eats filet of sole
And washes it down with sparkling wine.
Nice girl, but a bad girls better. qualifies in both ways
To my mind. but now shes kissing willie.
She shows a leg --- shows it damn well. knows how to drive a man
Right back to being a child.
Well, shes a --- nice girl, but her bad girls better. I can read
It in her cheating eyes and know that in a while --- well,
Shell be kissing willie. (my best friend, willie.)
Willie stands and willie falls. willie bangs his head
Behind grey factory walls.
Shes a --- nice girl, but her bad girls better. me and willie
Just cant help come, when she calls.
Now shes kissing willie. (my best friend, willie.)
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There Was Nothing Left To Write
THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO WRITE
There was nothing left to write
Everything had already been written
And was being written over again and again
By thousands elsewhere-
There was nothing left to write
And nothing new to say -
And no need for anything he had to give-
It was over for him as a writer
Whether he accepted it or not-
No one would ever need or want anything he could do again-
And so when he despite all this still wrote
It seemed to many simply pathetic-
The obsessive reflex of an already lost soul-
Who wrote and wrote and wrote
Who writes and writes and writes
Who cannot stop
However senseless all he does, is.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Poet To Be
A poet I claim not to be,
For words are never there.
In all the years I've tried to write,
I have no words to share.
I sit and think but nothing comes,
No inspiration here.
I want to write of anything,
But still no words I fear.
I read the works of other poets,
I wish I were like them.
How do they write such beautiful lines,
A poet, I'm not him.
I try to write from the heart,
From deep within my soul.
I try to write of the love I have,
But cannot reach my goal.
But why I ask, why can't I write,
Of love so pure and true.
Why can't I write about her eyes,
A mix of green and blue.
I want to write about her smile,
It brightens up my day.
I try to think of anything,
But words I cannot say.
I wish I knew how to write,
A poem with such bliss.
I wish I knew how to describe,
Her soft but tender kiss.
I cannot even begin to write,
How she holds me tight.
How her arms around me,
Makes everything just right.
A poet does not have to think,
The words flow right out.
When I sit and try to write,
I want to scream and shout.
I mean come on, how hard can it be,
To write about her hair.
Such long beautiful natural blonde,
That flows in the air.
I try to write about her laugh,
The words will not fly.
Time passes and finally,
I say it's soft and high.
It's been an hour and a half,
I'm here on verse twelve.
I had to go to Rhymezone,
To find out the rhyme is shelve.
A poet does not do that,
Go online to find a rhyme.
A poet has it in his head,
And can write at any time.
But a poet I am not,
For I cannot write of love.
How the girl I am with,
Is an angel from up above.
How I love her with all my heart,
And want to spend my life with her.
How her love for me is more,
Than I can ever be for sure.
As I draw near the end,
My mind is not so numb.
I realize I've just written of love,
A poet I have become.
poem by Adam McKim
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I Write The Songs
Ive been alive forever,
And I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together,
I am music,
And I write the songs.
I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special thing s.
I write the songs that make the young girls cry.
I write the songs, I write the songs.
My home lies deep within you,
And Ive got my own place in your sole.
Now, when I look out through your eyes,
Im youg again, even though Im very old.
Chorus
Oh my music makes you dance
And gives your spirit to take a chance,
And I wrote some rock n roll so you can move.
Music fills your heart,
Well, thats a real fine place to start.
Its from me its for you,
Its from you, its from me,
Its a world wide symphony.
Chorus
I am music, and I write the songs.
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Blank Page Blues
I know we have all done it,
sat in front of a pristine white sheet of paper
and got ready to write something down,
and then we are confronted
with the blank page blues.
The words of inspiration
then scurry and hide away.
You are left with pen in hand,
scratching your head
wondering what to say.
There is no cure for this syndrome;
writers get it all the time.
Some call it a writer’s block,
when nothing comes into your head.
You sit in front of a blank page.
You know what you want to write,
then someone disturbs you
and the words disappear out of sight.
How many times have we had that?
We sit down to write our masterpiece
and the telephone rings,
or someone shouts your dinner is getting cold.
You feel like screaming,
but you take it on the chin.
You lay down your pen,
answer the phone or have your dinner,
and when you come back,
the blank page confronts you.
Still you cannot write anything on it.
You stare at it for hours,
until finally you get tired
and journey off to bed.
Hoping and hoping tomorrow
a little peace, it will bring
and your words on that blank page
will really begin to sing.
10 May 2008
poem by David Harris
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Write Me
Aerosmith
Write Me
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
I said, the ways of the night are evil with eyes that love the day,
but I'll never never never never never get so far away.
I said write me, write me, write me.
I said write me, write me, write me.
Well there's nothin' I can see that'd ever make
me want to be without her she's good, she's good to me.
Said there's no way to explain the kind of feeling
that you get out in the rain she's good, she's good to me.
See this emptiness inside it makes me scream
it make me crawl out of my high, she's good, she's good to me.
I love her.
Write me a letter, write me a letter, write it today, I'm goin' away.
Well I've been away forever, suicide's crossin' my mind,
But I'll never never never never never get so far behind.
Well I've been so many places hidin' from the wind and the rain,
But you could write me a letter for to save me from a goin' insane.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write.
I said write me, write, write, write me.
Write me, write, write, write me.
Don't write me baby.
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Message Here For All You Poets
The love poet writes of lovely things like true love and flowers in bloom
And the roses in the poet's garden scent of a sweet perfume
And the gentle hearted applaud him saying what a marvellous poet
He surely is a child of God and one worthy of note.
The love poet writes of love of God and the God fearing say
He's a fine poet one of the best love and respect to God he pay
He hear no evil speak no evil only write of God and love
And there's a place reserved for him in God's Kingdom up above.
The social issues poet writes of the poor and few his verses read
They say he writes such morbid stuff sob stories we do not need
He keeps highlighting the downtrodden and those in poverty
He ought to put more trust in God and in Humanity.
A message here for all you poets don't write of the downtrod
But write of affairs of your heart and write of your love of God
And some will say how great you are and your praises they will sing
And they will pay respect to you and call you their Poetic Queen or King.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Shall Not
I shall not think of you today.
I shall quiet my heart again.
I shall shut my eyes to the memory of you
And return to the solace of my pen.
I shall not let my mind wander.
I shall not wonder where you are.
I shall keep a tight rein on my fantasies
And write of a midnight star.
I shall not become depressed today.
I shall create my elated side.
I shall watch the sunlight filter down
And pen how I have lied.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Dotty and Willy.
Dotty screws the pen lid,
puts the pen down, folds
her hands in her lap. Willy
has finished his poem, he
is now silent, his muse has
gone. She watches as her
brother sits back in his chair,
pushes his fingers through his
dark hair and sighs. That makes
her almost cry, that poet muse
going like that, him sitting there,
face empty, sighs leaving him
instead of words. Tonight she
will enter it all in her journal,
after cocoa and a biscuit and
Willy's kiss and him gone off
to bed, humming to himself.
She will sit by lamplight, take
out her pen, and write on the
clean page, how he wrote,
what he wrote, the words,
the muse, the leaving of him.
She will leave out the kiss,
the embrace, the seeing each
other face to face. Willy hates
writing things down, he just likes
to sit when the words come and
he can speak them and let Dotty
write the words in the air floating
there. He gets up from his chair,
paces the room, his hands behind
his back, his words gone, his mood
dark, becoming black. Dotty looks
at her hands, entwines her fingers,
makes a church, makes a steeple,
looks inside, sees ink stained people.
poem by Terry Collett
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