Advice
TO write as your sweet mother does
Is all you wish to do.
Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose!
Let others write for you.
Or mount again your Dartmoor grey,
And I will walk beside,
Until we reach that quiet bay
Which only hears the tide.
Then wave at me your pencil, then
At distance bid me stand,
Before the cavern’d cliff, again
The creature of your hand.
And bid me then go past the nook
To sketch me less in size;
There are but few content to look
So little in your eyes.
Delight us with the gifts you have,
And wish for none beyond:
To some be gay, to some be grave,
To one (blest youth!) be fond.
Pleasures there are how close to Pain,
And better unpossest!
Let poetry’s too throbbing vein
Lie quiet in your breast.
poem by Walter Savage Landor
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Related quotes
To Germany With Love
I am an emigree, I write to germany
In foreign words, a tongue of actuality
Hands in grey gloves
To germany with love
A war between the wars
A war between the wars
Triumph over bygone sorrow
Can in unity be won
Let them all persue this purpose
Till reality is gone
I am an unexpected spy
From the outside of my eye
Translate it first then comprehend
Im here indeed but there I stand
I write to germany, I write to germany
To germany with love, to germany with love
This is the turn of colours
All real, some still unseen
There is no more decision cause theres too much in between
Let us build a nightmare nation
Learn and work as never yet
That this cold new generation faith in its own fears beget
Here comes the modern rat, here comes the terror squad
Ours is the salt of wisdom, here we come all dressed in black
From the ruins risen slowly to the future turned we stand
Flourish in this blessing glory
Flourish german fatherland
I write to germany, I write to germany
All quiet in germany, all quiet in germany
Gold/1983
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
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In the Lead
My pencil’s charged with poetry.
It can write verses fluidly
and inscribe them on the sheet
in rhyme and perfect metric feet.
It’s such a simple artefact
but filled with magic that’s a fact.
A pristine page is quite enough
to make my pencil do it’s stuff.
My pad, my pencil and my muse
can’t see a challenge and refuse
A blank page they can’t bear to see.
That why I’m writing poetry
I have a pad I have a pen
which forces me to write again.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Poetry?
what is poetry
a bunch rhymes
or just simple words on paper because you have to much time
poetry to me isnt all about rhyming
poetry to me is a way to get out emotions or things that happen in the past your to scared to say so instead you write about it. poetry can be sweet, bad, naughty, nice poetry is how your feeling poetry takes on the tone of voice your to scared to explain. poetry is that voice deep down inside that voice that takes over when your typing or writng. to me people are poetry people are the voice, people are the future, but poetry is the key that on locks us all. to stand up and use that voice that we write with when were writng poetry.
poem by Jerrell Frazier
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All That
I write
Without
Pain
I write
Without
Grief
I write
Without
Shame
How can I
Write ~
Without
All that?
For when
I write…
My poetry
Sucks -
All that
Out of me.
It's called
The
Writing
Therapy.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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My Vision
Wherever my feet may wander
Wherever I chance to be,
There comes, with the coming of even' time
A vision sweet to me.
I see my mother sitting
In the old familiar place,
And she rocks to the tune her needles sing,
And thinks of an absent face.
I can hear the roar of the city
AAbout me now as I write;
But over an hundred miles of snow
My thought-steeds fly tonight,
To the dear little cozy cottage,
And the room where mother sits,
And slowly rocks in her easy chair
And thinks of me as she knits.
Sometimes with the merry dancers
When my feet are keeping time,
And my heart beats high, as young hearts will,
To the music's rhythmic chime.
My spirit slips over the distance
Over the glitter and whirl,
To my mother who sits, and rocks, and knits,
And thinks of her "little girl."
And when I listen to voices that flatter,
And smile, as women do,
To whispered words that may be sweet,
But are not always true;
I think of the sweet, quaint picture
Afar in quiet ways,
And I know one smile of my mother's eyes
Is better than all their praise.
And I know I can never wander
Far from the path of right,
Though snares are set for a woman's feet
In places that seem most bright.
For the vision is with me always,
Wherever I chance to be,
Of mother sitting, rocking, and knitting,
Thinking and praying for me.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Poetry inspired
Poetry is inspired
The sweet melody in my ear
the last word he whispered in my ear
the way i feel when he is near
The touch on my spine when we connect
his chin
his lips
his strength
Culture
past and present too
Tears and fears
Joys and triumphs
births and deaths
Love and hate
Poetry inspires poets
Poets inspire poetry
emotions inspire poetry
every angle of the shape of my nose
when i examine myself closely
sensitivity
attention to detail
simple words on a piece of torn paper
a scent from a rose
cologne
birds singing morning blessings
sometimes it's as sweet as mom's sweet potatoe pie
or sometimes it's deep like
being a woman
from my fingernails to my breast
from my tears to my laughter
from my burdens to my spirituality
poetry is brought alive
it's the little things that make the pen write notes
to the melody that my emotions sing
that being all a poem need
poem by kora O'neal
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Quiet Life
Somethings happenin but Im just gonna turn a blind eye.
If I see no evil, ask no questions, and I hear no lies.
Cant communicate with minds that are small,
With some people its like talkin to the wall
And a fellow who walks away,
Lives to battle another day.
And Ive really got no appetite
For a fight,
Not tonight.
All I want is a quiet life.
Anything for a quiet life.
No ambition to rock the boat
When I can just stay afloat.
Be content with a quiet life
All I want is a quiet life.
Anything for a quiet life.
Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil at all.
Confidentially, between these walls,
Im on top of it all.
Id rather have em think Im deaf, dumb, and blind
Than aggravation every time I speak my mind
Keep _________ at a quiet life.
Anything for a quiet life.
I could easily blow my top,
Start a row,
But why start now?
Give your daddy a quiet life.
Give your mother a quiet life.
Anything for a quiet life.
[instrumental section]
Give your daddy a quiet life.
Give your mother a quiet life.
Anything for a quiet life.
Confidentially, between these walls,
Im on top of it all.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The time I discovered myself a Poet
I wouldnt say I was patient
but I have an interest in poetry
Is it the dawning of a new error
or will the sky be grey
I write how I see life and it is not always pleasant
I like to write abou experiences that I have been through
my poetry has changed as I ave changed
I see it as a hobby as I write in my grange
My poetry is mainly fiction but I also write about things that are true
I am not a person that would share alot of enthusiasim
poetry is a work of art
on each sheet of blank paper
I put my mark
Poetry is simple in this world of sin
I am not into shakesphere
what I write is authentic
the imagination on paper creates magic
a poem can change an atmosphere
I would like to say my poems mean something
my poems are meant to sting a mind
I want my poems to create pictures for people who are blind
poem by Natasha Browne
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Nursery Rhyme (UNKLEsounds Edit)
Badly Drawn Boy :
Does it mean I never let you know
Each time I turn inside
When I fully grow I'll outsize you
But I won't let you fall in love
You know it flows over me
And you won't let me drown inside
Sing a nursery rhyme to keep me quiet
Sing a nursery rhyme to keep me quiet
Woman please stay close to me, close to me
Carried through your ecstasy
You can't stop me breathing
Even when you're on fire
Know that you're weaving
With my emotional wires
Flows through me, in through me, out through me
Over me, feeling me, feeding me electrically
It's electric ballroom love X7
Do do do do, do do do do
I have to breathe the air you breathe
I'm inside you
In a room inside a room, I'm inside you
The colour changes follow your emotion
I can see when you're feeling desire
I feel him close to you
While I just walk around inside you
Don't let him close to me
Not when you know it's not the one
The one X6 that you love
It's electric ballroom love X7
Keep me quiet
Won't you sing me a nursery rhyme
To keep me quiet while you're on fire
X3
Please just sing me a nursery rhyme
To keep me quiet, while I'm inside
X2
I won't let you fall in love
You know inside, the baby knows
X4
Your baby knows X4
You're on fire, you're on fire
Keep me quiet, keep me angry
song performed by by Unkle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From – Twenty Poems of Love
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
Write for example: ‘The night is fractured
and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’
The night wind turns in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like these I held her in my arms.
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.
Hear the vast night, vaster without her.
Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.
What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.
The night is fractured and she is not with me.
That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,
my soul is not content to have lost her.
As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.
My heart looks for her: she is not with me
The same night whitens, in the same branches.
We, from that time, we are not the same.
I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.
Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.
I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.
Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.
Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,
my soul is not content to have lost her.
Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,
and these are the last lines I will write for her.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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A Part Of My Life
People write poetry for diverse reasons,
as in poems that describe the yearly seasons.
Poem's can show the love for our mother and father
and you can vent against the boyfriend of your daughter.
You can express your feelings about a day at the beach,
nothing is out of poetry's reach.
Beautiful poetry can make your heart soar
and bring alive days of yore.
It can make king's of old come alive
or make you sad enough to cry.
Poetry can describe angel's performing a celestial dance
or some other circumstance.
Poetry can help a relationship to mend
and it can also help it to end.
I have used poetry to describe a summer day's ice-cream cone
and to express feeling's of being alone.
Poetry will always be a part of my life,
to write of the good and write of the strife.
06/01/07
poem by Barbara Haskell
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The Voyagers
HOW was it with the Genoese,
What feeling filled his heaving breast,
When far across the morning seas
He saw the island of his quest?
Perchance beyond the forest crown
And shining sands of that new clime
He saw a light of long renown
That blazed across the Seas of Time.
Or maybe, in that hour grown wise,
He would have bartered there and then
His life for some sweet life that lies
In utter peace unnamed of men.
For what is Fame, however brave,
Beside the charms of endless peace —
The cool, sweet quiet of the grave,
To be, and having been, to cease?
We quest not like the Genoese;
But, after sailing under skies
That bend and brood o'er lonely seas,
We light at last on some surprise.
Our eyes grow large, we stand amazed,
The past is past, our youth is gone,
The fronting hope that boldly blazed
Before our eyes grows pale and wan.
For every man must come to this,
With aching heart and eyes unsealed
That he shall know the thing he is,
And wonder at himself revealed.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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All The Things Which I Would Be
ALL THE THINGS WHICH I WOULD BE
All the things which I would be
And am not
Fade into my eyes
The Distance calls me
But how can I know
How far the distance is
From my fear of homelessness?
Others may roam the earth wildly
But I am a quiet soul
Always seeking a deeper stillness
In which I can dream.
Let me know the longings of other eyes and hearts
But be as I am
Quiet and still and happy and at peace
As my mother was
So surely beside me
Through all my long childhood.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Why Do I Write Poetry?
Why do I write Poetry?
The answer is not plain to see,
As a Legal Cashier I earn my Living,
For me and my family.
Why do I write Poetry?
Thoughts come to me in rhyme and verse,
They have to be worked on continually
To make those lines seem terse.
Why do I write Poetry?
One day HE’ll answer me,
Hopefully while I’m on this Earth,
Before I reach Eternity.
Why do I write Poetry?
Why must my lines scan and rhyme?
Not only on this occasion,
But forever, and all the time.
Why do I write Poetry?
Why put them on your website?
To leave my Thoughts and Visions of Life,
To you all and posterity.
© Jonathan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 9 April 2005
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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A Not a Poem Poem
A Not a Poem Poem
I will not write a poem
For I am not a poet
I cannot makes things rhyme
I’ve tried for quite some time
So will I write a poem?
NO!
I can’t write poetry
I’ve tried to all my life
Once, I tried to write a poem
About a husband and his wife
It sounded really silly
So I crumbled it up into a ball
That’s why I decided
That I couldn’t write poetry at all
Am I gonna write a poem?
NO!
Well, I’ll try to write a poem
But it will be really bad
It will be absolutely lousy
It will be completely horrible
It won’t be up to snuff
People will say, “Who wrote this stuff? ”
Will my poem be good?
NO!
Can I write a poem?
NO!
Will I write a poem?
NO!
Well, what do you know! ? !
I wrote a poem!
And it’s a pretty good poem, too!
I guess I can write poetry if I try
The next time I’m asked to write a poem,
Will I say no?
NO!
A Parody Of Donec Gratus Eram In A dialogue Between M--- & His Wife
He. When first my Biddy love profest
My rapture ran so high
Not Gentle S---s fondly prest
To beautious G---s panting breast
Was half so blest as I
She. When first my bard you taught my name
To sound in Song divine
Not S---s exalted fame
Tho S---s a P--- aim
I wishd instead of mine
He. But now the Muse thy late delight
You See thy rival prove
For night & day & day & night
To write & read & read & write
Is all ye life I love
She Forlorn yet senceless of ye pain
I to the Mirrour fly
Survey my self am Justly vain
And but I know my self again
For that dear face coud dy
He. But shoud thy Bard no longer pore
Wilt thou forsake thy glass
If I admire my works no more
Wilt thou to court thy shade give o're
And all be as it was
She Since none but we our rivals are
And none the lovers too
Be fond or void of am'rous care
I fond or vain of being fair
Yet both are ever true.
poem by Thomas Parnell
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To My Son
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother’s in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father’s heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father’s name—
Ah, William, were thine own the same,—
No self-reproach—but, let me cease—
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger’s breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—
A Father’s heart is thine, my Boy!
Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature’s claims disown?
Ah, no—though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
Oh,’twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o’er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen’s form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy!
poem by Byron (1807)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Poor Excuse, but our own
(Why don't you ever write any child poetry?
-A MOTHER.)
My right-hand neighbour hath a child,
A pretty child of five or six,
Not more than other children wild,
Nor fuller than the rest of tricks-
At five he rises, shine or rain,
And noisily plays 'fire' or 'train.'
Likewise a girl, _aetatis_ eight,
He hath. Each morning, as a rule,
Proudly my neighbour will relate
How bright Mathilda is at school.
My ardour, less than half of mild,
Bids me to comment, 'Wondrous child!'
All through the vernal afternoon
My other neighbour's children skate
A wild Bacchantic rigadoon
On rollers; nor does it abate
Till dark; and then his babies cry
What time I fain would versify.
Did I but set myself to sing
A children's song, I'd stand revealed
A bard that did the infant thing
As well as Riley or 'Gene Field.
I could write famous Children Stuff,
If they'd keep quiet long enough.
poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Sweet Wild April
O sweet wild April
Came over the hills,
He skipped with the winds
And he tripped with the rills;
His raiment was all
Of the daffodils.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April
Came down the lea,
Dancing along
With his sisters three:
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
On pastoral quill
Came piping in moonlight
By hollow and hill,
In starlight at midnight,
By dingle and rill.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Where sweet wild April
His melody played,
Trooped cowslip, and primrose,
And iris, the maid,
And silver narcissus,
A star in the shade.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Dipped down the dale,
Pale cuckoopint brightened,
And windflower trail,
And white-thorn, the wood-bride,
In virginal veil.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
When sweet wild April
Through deep woods pressed,
Sang cuckoo above him,
And lark on his crest,
And Philomel fluttered
Close under his breast.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Wherever you went
The bondage of winter
Was broken and rent,
Sank elfin ice-city
And frost-goblin's tent.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
Yet sweet wild April,
The blithe, the brave,
Fell asleep in the fields
By a windless wave
And Jack-in-the-Pulpit
Preached over his grave.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
O sweet wild April,
Farewell to thee!
And a deep sweet sleep
To thy sisters three, -
Carnation, and Rose,
And tall Lily.
Sing hi,
Sing hey,
Sing ho!
poem by William Force Stead
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