Poet
Darkness,
behind the cloak.
Random words spewed
Subconscience thought,
so obscure their meaning
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
Eerie blackness
within a wretched,
reckless soul
reveals the heart of men
but you,
eyes open, don't blink
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
The day of light
when darkness passes
Brilliant stars
hide beyond the heavens.
But all you know is hell
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
Be anything...,
a janitor,
a carpenter,
an accountant,
a fry cook.
Never become a poet.
Stay numb. It's easier.
Unless you want to feel.
Than be prepared for
internal turmoil.
Turmoil, most common
men could never bare.
'Why would anyone want
to be a fuckin' poet? '
I ask.
God knows, I'm not one.
They're all fuckin' sissy's.
Everyone knows that.
T. Labbe`
Related quotes
Just A Random Poem
These words have no meaning to it
Yet we're typing it anyways
It's not about love, happiness, or sorrow
Yet it's about all those things
Love is not a game, but people still play
Happiness is all we want, but only few of us have it
Sorrow is in all of our hearts, but there is always someone out there to help us out
Like life these words have no meaning to it, yet it still does
Everyone is random in there own way, but thats okay
We see other peoples randomness, but we fail to see ours
But like everything, these words have no meaning,
Because this is Just A Random Poem
poem by Callum Tabone
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Wandering Star
Please could you stay awhile to share my grief
For its such a lovely day
To have to always feel this way
And the time that I will suffer less
Is when I never have to wake
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
... those who have seen the needles eye, now tread
Like a husk, from which all that was, now has fled
And the masks, that the monsters wear
To feed, upon their prey
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
(always) doubled up inside
Take awhile to shed my grief
(always) doubled up inside
Taunted, cruel.... ...
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
song performed by by Portishead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wind
The wind is hard.
Quite sharp and fierce.
To the very core I'm pierced.
Inside I fear I'll soon be forced.
To get away from this horrid host.
The gusts cut me so very coarse.
The blackness spewed is so verbose.
I hate it for it's pushy boasts.
I'll now escape before I'm toast.
It pushes me madly this wicked ghost.
I'll hide inside until it dies.
Away from all these wretched lies.
Only then will I realize.
Freedom from it's killing cries.
poem by Michael McParland
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Some Silence, Some Words
Today somewhere a mirror broke
And a music of end splashed in the pages of time,
Someone lost his meanings in the broken mirror..
And an unending silence flowed
Many things happen silently, , ,
How the silent weeping of the lost meaning wander in the depth of the night, , ,
I unveil the sea of darkness...i find only silence
And the music of the end keeps on splashing around
Life is all about some silence and some words…
Far away a poet was looking for words, .
And a poem was seeking for its understanding, ,
for the heart where words dwell with meanings, ,
As long as they both were away everything was all right...
And when they met, , ,
the poet lamented on the end of words of the poem, , ,
and the poem on the unending silence of the poet, , , , ,
poems are not about understanding....
poet is not about words, , , ,
0176 Letter to a Well-known Contemporary Poet
I wanted to write to you about your poems,
that is, about something I couldn't quite put my finger on
so I didn't write in case it sounded inconsequential
and it's silly to write to a poet who handles words so expertly,
inconsequentially..
Inconsequential. That's it. I appreciate that you want to stress
life's inconsequentiality - this happens, that happens, but
we're none the wiser - that's a modern concern, I appreciate,
no neat wrapping life up with a brisk end-rhyme...
but how can I put this tactfully, inconsequentiality
or is it tangentiality
can seem to the reader eager to extract meaning
that is, the poet's meaning, as near as can be...
inconsequentiality can seem...obscure...
for this very reason, since it's difficult
to share the same inconsequentiality
if you see what I mean
and this unintentional obscurity
can sometimes seem
of course I know you wouldn't
but let's say to an uninformed superficial reader -
like pretension?
I hope you don't mind my mentioning this
it's only because I do admire your writing so much
and I know that the prizes and awards you've won
proves that no-one could possibly accuse you of pretension
it's just that I thought I should say how it seems
to a very ordinary reader. I hope you will read this
in the spirit it's meant. And I do look forward
very much to reading your next book
now the library stocks them.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Lunch With a Poet
I had lunch with a poet, just the other day.
A poet who has written fine and lofty verse,
Conveying his experiences, emotions and his ideas, in
Vivid, imaginative ways, condensed in simple language,
Choosing words for sound and power,
Rather than impressing readers with poetic adulterations.
Almost apologetically, he said he uses 'nickel words'
To write his inner thoughts. It was as if he were at fault,
As though he thought those simple sounds
Had lessened the intent of his poetic worth.
I emphasized how wrong he was, and tried
To make clear, a poet writes in sympathy with his reader,
Overleaping the barriers of understanding by the simplicity
Of his language, and of his words.
To write with words of misty meaning does not make
A mystic.
To write with vulgar words does not lift up the poem
On wings of song, it only floats as high as the poet's
Commonality who, mistaking flatulence for inspiration, becomes
Enmeshed in a literary byproduct of the foulest of excretion and Smells.
My friend failed to intellectually understand,
But spiritually Accepts, as his writings reveal,
That clarity of thought and mind is the poet's
Highest point of the poet's integrity.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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The Landscape So Obscure
The mists that linger across the moor,
Drifting and swirling above the ground,
Are eerie as they travel around,
Making the landscape so obscure.
But as they rise up sleepy slow,
So gradually the world appears,
Taking away those phantasmic fears,
When recognising the place you know.
With this curtain spread wide, over the land,
Dense space is linked with soundless time,
The cloak released then starts to climb,
Raised up by God's almighty hand.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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On Poet A.K.Ramanujan
No way I'm noted..
Perhaps behind him at the most farthest
Or just one foot up the poetry stairs..
A bhuddist child of Hinduism
With his own ism of words
Interestingly I treasure-hunt repeatedly
On his obscure zone of meaning
And I slap my folly each time..
A stylish poet to word-wit
Even pain to be 'put into a white tunnel'
And death metaphorically..
The scorpion to burst its back
To give birth to multiple dying
A poet
By a parable of five brahmans
Yet to declare 'No fifth man'
As for him'poetry too is a tigress
Except there's no fifth
Man left on a tree
When she takes your breath
Away'
A poet
Whose mind can beg his hindu-body
To go with it'to rise in the sap of trees'
To 'feel the weight of the honey-hives
And the burlap weave of weaver-birds'
And
To my poems..
He inscribes his stony words and throw
For me to expiate my flaws
No way I'm noted
For he'll not look behind
But he can look down on me
For he's high in the skies
And me, just one foot up
The poetry stairs down
'I salute you sir'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Words Sometimes Take On A Own Meaning
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
and sometimes they are sharp and painful
as if there is much more to words
as if a kind of secret knowledge hides in them
that are sometimes something moving.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
but somehow words can at times miss things
and are sometimes dependent on feelings
as if there is much more to words
when through it all love brings a kind of bonding
and so you and I are attractive to each other.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
and daily a bond develops between us,
while you become more considerable to me,
as if there is much more to words
you constantly live in my thoughts,
while love becomes real through words.
Words sometimes take on a own meaning
as if there is much more to words…
poem by Gert Strydom
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From the throes of inspiration and the eddies of thought the poet may at last be able to arrive at, and convey the right admixture of words and meaning.
quote by Eyvind Johnson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm A Poet
I'm a Poet
A twister of words
I open a world unseen to others
I bring meaning to the meaningless
I use words as my weapon
It's a double edged sword
I can bring beauty to a slum land
Horror to a smile
I can give life to the dead
Immorality to a flower
Then destroy it in the next line
I'm a poet
A rhymer of words
I see the unseen
And create new worlds
I am an artist of the written
A magician of the pen
I can make words rhyme
Or go free verse
It all depends
On how I feel in that moment
I'm a poet
To the end
poem by Rachel Dowd
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What Is...?
What is the meaning of hate?
Is it the dislike of someone different than you?
Or is it the loathing of something simple like broccoli?
What is the meaning of discrimination?
Is it the hatred of someone of a different background?
The hatred of skin color;
Or is it the bitter taste of being different from everyone else?
What is the meaning of uniqueness?
Is it the purpose of being odd and unusual?
The adaptation to your own life and style;
Or is it the stereotypical clan that society has put you?
What is the meaning of life?
Is it that time keeps moving; leaving us in the dust is leaves behind?
The endless stream of consciousness that everything has;
Or is it the meaningless and indefinable thing we give every day?
What is the meaning of death?
Is it that grim reaper knocking at your door?
The inky blackness of nothing;
Or is it something that can’t be defined only experienced when it is time?
Many questions are asked everyday without even meaning to ask them.
They are hidden within the minds of those who are too afraid to speak out;
To let THEIR voices be heard.
So I ask you these questions in hope that you will ask them yourself;
To find the meaning of it for yourself and not what others say it is.
One final question is all I leave you with.
What is the meaning of everything that you thought you knew?
poem by Regan Meade
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148
Long ago I guessed
a simple 'no' or 'yes'
preferable to words obscure and teeming,
obfuscating meaning.
However accidently
words, like men, are good at seeming:
more than four's palaver;
any more, you're dreaming.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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A Poem Whose Meaning The Poet Does Not Know
A POEM WHOSE MEANING THE POET DOES NOT KNOW
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Is a question only its readers can answer.
But if in the silence of endless absence
There are no readers
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Becomes a poem which does not exist.
And a poem which does not exist
Is not the poem the poet dreamed
When he heard in the night or the early morning
That rush of music that sequence of sounds
Which seemed to say more than he would ever understand
As he wrote it down in haste
For fear it somehow would be lost.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Facing a Blank: Part 1
I sit here facing a blank
and it is perhaps one of the hardest things I do
to see before me an expanse of blank things
to decide how I should fill them in
there is everything to encompass
for all the world to see, itself looking back
a mirror wouldn't do,
because the truth merely hides behind mirrors
it does not look out through them.
every random thought that I notice out of the corner of my eye
has its own appeal and appeals to me
to use it to fill the blank spaces.
To every random thought I look and in them I see the world
every one of them looking out at me and crying
for recognition and redemption
and the blank spaces agree that this is not what I should put down.
So I sit here still, facing a blank.
poem by Poet Dragon
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A touch of Frost for Friend Thad
From my library shelf I took
by random choice a poetry book.
I thought to while some time away
to brighten up a boring day
It chanced to be by Robert Frost
and I was hooked completely lost
I finished the anthology
and found his words inspired me
I had to try and see if I
could find the words to satisfy
the need I felt to emulate.
This poet who could clearly state
in his own style of poetry.
His own home spun philosophy.
28-May-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poetic[piers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Obscure
How obscure
To heal a heart full of hatred
Through the light of forgiveness...
How obscure
To cure blindness
Through the light of open-mindedness...
How obscure
To cure deafness
Through the light of consciousness...
How obscure
To cure dumbness
Through the light of intelligence...
How obscure...
To heal a hand of hostility
Through the light of kindness...
How obscure
To cure a paralytic
Through the light of liberty...
How obscure
To cure sickness
Through the light of benevolence...
How obscure to understand
To heal physicality
Through the presence of spirituality
poem by Mary Joy Lumanog
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A Desire To Know Deep Meanings
Dictionary!
My Dictionary!
Raise it high in your right hand!
We shall use it
we shall use it to explore
to seek out...
the meaning of words
the meaning behind words
the multiple hidden meaning of life.
Amen.
Because modern computer dictionaries
really blow... they do, not, contain,
varied rich poetical meanings of words...
as some of my youthful dictionaries did
stimulating imagination, thought, wonder,
stimulating a desire to know deep meanings...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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