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The Love Sonnets Of Proteus. Part IV: Vita Nova: XCV

HE IS NOT A POET
I would not, if I could, be called a poet.
I have no natural love of the ``chaste muse.''
If aught be worth the doing I would do it;
And others, if they will, may tell the news.
I care not for their laurels but would choose
On the world's field to fight or fall or run.
My soul's ambition will not take excuse
To play the dial rather than the sun.
The faith I held I hold, as when a boy
I left my books for cricket--bat and gun.
The tales of poets are but scholars' themes.
In my hot youth I held it that a man
With heart to dare and stomach to enjoy
Had better work to his hand in any plan
Of any folly, so the thing were done,
Than in the noblest dreaming of mere dreams.

poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet

I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET

I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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Being A Poet

being a poet
is not an ambition

it is ironic
that i do poetry and

yet i do not want
to be called a poet

nor be identified with
any movement in poetry

nor take the challenge and opportunity
of being crowned by laurel leaves

and be dragged on the stage of
an island of light focusing my head and body

and they shall all clap and say
this is the poet, this is our poet

not in the figment of my imagination
not an ambition not a profession not a career in the field of literature
to be a poet on a certain degree

you see, i live in a crowded universe
i am a fish in the sea of people

and i, never imagine once in my whole life
that i will be swimming so meaninglessly in the corridors

of this vast ocean of men and mice and snakes
and goats and pigs and eagles

poetry is what i do but i am not a poet
this poet, that poet
their poet

the reason is here inside my heart
this is my place &
this is my only chance to be alone

to be myself to be human again for out there
i, we, you have become pillars
and dams.and walls and continental shelves

it is only here in this spot
that i become my island

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not

The poet I am, and the poet I am not

‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Goodbye Poet! ! ! !

Very sad when a Poet close your book
leave his pen and left us
So we say: There goes, Aphrodite, Apollo, Hades
find your ethereal Muse and make peaces with God

Because
The Poet goes different

He goes taking all of us with him
He goes but leaving your scrolls, hymns
His Ilíadas, Odisseias
For ever and Never

Because
The Poet let us different

He dare to be absent without a motive
confront dead and write the more beautiful Poem
Poet's heart now beats alone!

So go Poet
Go, because you are different

poem by Mirna Morgan
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A Scientist and A Poet!

Strange are these men,
people can enjoy their work,
one can't compare these,
but let us try end enjoy!

Scientist and Poet,
One studies the worlds,
And another studies words,
Both can be above human mind,
One play with his logic and another plays word magic!

Both scientists and Poets,
Meditate,
One upon his experiments,
And another upon mind,
One studies cause and effect in this world,
Another studies love and affectaction of world!

One take pains work for some purpose,
Another can lie under the nose,
Both stumble on luck,
Scientist discovers a truth,
Poet always plays with so many of them!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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God's Poets, Love & A Good Poem

GOD'S POETS

The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it's God who makes them so smart.

Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.

Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.

One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.

God sent His poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.

EVERY OTHER NIGHT

If it was left to me and my desire
I would seek satisfaction every other night.
I would enjoy your divine, God given love
And hold you forever close and tight.

Every other night would be Heavenly for me
Though I must respect and honor what you do and say.
My need for you is far greater than your need for me
As I patiently wait for our time of play.

I will always remain watchful, loving and caring
Not to hurt, destroy, mistrust, dissatisfy or offend.
Out of all God's blessings from Heaven to Earth
You're my greatest treasure, passion and friend.

A GOOD POEM

A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.

A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.

A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can't help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.

A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.

Tom's 465 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!

Tom Zart www.internetvoicesradio.com/t_zart/

poem by Tom Zart
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World view

Come to poet
And enjoy life.
Come to poet
And see beauty.
Come to poet
And know truth.
Come to poet
And have patience.
No non-sense can
Disturb you
And you have
At your hand
World view.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Before a Poetry Reading

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!

'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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A Poet's Mind So Sweet

Easier said than done,
Of the pros and cons of life;
But you are financially numerated to buy the air.
No means no! Don't pester;
And yes means yes! Don't laugh;
But to enthuse with your muse matters to me like,
A poet's mind so sweet to the world.
About life and love, is it worth the trouble? !
Since, cartoonists are born and not made.

Rumour upon rumour and disaster upon disaster!
The King will mourn for the lost;
And like the frame of the mind to respect the poet.
Your beautiful jewels are the earth's own minerals,
And like a poet's mind shared by many to learn from;
But with the very muse of love so sweet all!

Of flour, honey and oil;
The writer will always write for many to learn from,
But i am naked in the eyes of many with my views.
A poet's mkind so sweet is like the muse of hope and,
Like the days of someone very useful at hand;
But the muse of life is always shared with the tune of love.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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My Castle In The Sand

I held on tightly to my child
Tightly i held on
The waves were crashing overhead
But still i did hold on.

The waters drove us up the street
Past where friends and i would meet
Dashing down their houses
And leaving not much there
But i held yes i held on
And on my lips there was a prayer
That these torrents would not make me weak
That somehow i would find
Some calm some peace some easiness
And the earthquake left behind
I held on god i held on
To that tender little hand
She was now my sole ambition
And my castle in the sand.

I caught my breath
A hundred times
A hundred times or more
All that i was grasping was
Her clothes and nothing more.

poem by David Keig
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry

THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY

The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.

And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?

Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I never said I was a poet just a man

dear francis,

do not call yourself
'just a man',
do not deprive yourself
the laurels of
'a poet'

you are a man, and a man is more than a poet
the man with the urge to write is more than a man without an urge
even just to write
and be this 'poet'

the poets (those taking the top charts) either have died
(and take the fame posthumously) or they have rested
on laurel
leaves, or they have confined themselves on
some
writers' block

but you francis
behold the stars and the other suns

has written more
and toiled more, your fruits are many
and more have eaten them
tasted how sweet what wisdom you have

i crown you the true laurels
these living laurels of poetry
moving, alive, toiling, working, always thinking
about those that must come
next for generations to come

i crown you,
Francis Duggan
the true laurels of working, moving, living poetry
i give you the title,

the true, living poet.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poet and The Angel

The poet woke up in his bed, he dressed and faced the day,
Not knowing what lay just ahead, he paused as if to pray.
Then suddenly, the angel came, right there within his room,
So how could things then stay the same? For that none could assume.

'Write down the words that I impart! ' the angel told him straight
And thus the poet made a start, in fact, he couldn't wait!
'Repent and mend your ways on Earth! Repent and start again!
Repent for every soul has worth. Repent for God not men! '

The poet nodded his consent, the words now on the page,
For this was always God's intent, as seen from age-to-age.
'The choice is yours and yours alone! The same for every man!
And Jesus waits the ones who've shown they wish to serve God's plan! '

How true, the poet sagely thought, there's no excuse at all.
We ought to do the things we're taught, or else we're bound to fall.
'You still have time to do what's right! Repent and serve the Lord!
Arise, stand fast, walk in the light, or else lose your reward! '

Of course, the poet's heart agreed, for that made perfect sense
To each lost soul that saw the need and each one that repents.
He asked the angel, 'Who's this for, lost Gentile or lost Jew? '
The angel shook him to the core, 'These words are just for you...'

poem by Denis Martindale
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A Tale

(_Epilogue to 'The Two Poets of Croisic.'_)

What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
--Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile 'In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!'

When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music--flew
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy!) our singer
For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending,
Cricket chirps at need,
Executes the hand's intending,
Promptly, perfectly,--indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges
Cry with one assent
'Take the prize--a prize who grudges
Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!'

Did the conqueror spurn the creature
Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent
For aiding soul development.

No! This other, on returning
Homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning:
(Sir, I hope you understand!)
--Said 'Some record there must be
Of this cricket's help to me!'

So, he made himself a statue:
Marble stood, life size;
On the lyre, he pointed at you,
Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application?
Somebody I know
Hopes one day for reputation
Thro' his poetry that's--Oh,
All so learned and so wise
And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket
When his statue's built,
Tell the gazer ''Twas a cricket
Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

'For as victory was nighest,
While I sang and played,--
With my lyre at lowest, highest,
Right alike,--one string that made
'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain
Never to be heard again,--

'Had not a kind cricket fluttered,
Perched upon the place
Vacant left, and duly uttered
'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass
Asked the treble to atone
For its somewhat sombre drone.'

But you don't know music! Wherefore
Keep on casting pearls
To a--poet? All I care for
Is--to tell him that a girl's
'Love' comes aptly in when gruff
Grows his singing, (There, enough!)

poem by Robert Browning
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The Broken Sun

I held up the broken sun
Through another dreadful day,
It burned my skin and my eyes
But I couldnt look away,
The clouds were nowhere in sight,
No rain was going to fall,
And I held up my sins,
And waited for the curtain call.
And when night fell
The moon was glowing red,
As I tried to sleep
The memories filled my head,
Dreams of wanting to fly,
And to hold my loves hand,
But I was shot from the sky,
When the sun took over the land.
I looked around the world
To see if I was the only one,
The only cursed soul
To hold up the broken sun,
If your out please tell me
I'm so tired of being alone,
Holding up this broken sun
Everyday all alone,

I dreamed I no longer,
Had this burden on my soul.
I was carried away,
By something thats never shown.
I felt the heat on my face,
In my dreams I started to run.
When I awoke the next day,
To hold the broken sun.

poem by Blaine McCanless
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From A Poet To A Poem

From a poet to a poem
These hands performed artistic ink work
So delicate and flexible like a plastic fork

From a poet to a poem
These hands deciphers my mistress inner beauty
And her magical physical appearance
With these hands her intellect was portrayed
While the tears of ink resembles
The gentle flow of her tender, love and care

From a poet to a poem
Through the work of my hand,
The notion of love from the top of my head
Is wandering amid the lines of my page

From a poet to a poem
A heart to a page,
From emotional to physical
Hands made it possible
And now she knows
That through these hands I'll continue to love,
Care, speak and embrace her

poem by Leonard Webber
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Morning Sunshine

This poet is so seductive
This poet is now strange to me
This poet is so bold
This little girl doesn't want to see

The little girl has known this poet
ever since
But the little girl is already
tired of this poet
She just wants to play.
Not any passing minute
She hasn't have
any word of
allegory
metonymy and
simile
Take me away from this poet yet
the little girl must empty first
the words of this poet
Before she is free to play
in the morning sunshine
and go away from this busy poet

Do you think I'm too young to see?
Do you agree?

This poet won't let me
play out in the middle of the rain
This poet won't let me
see the afternoon sway
This poet won't let me
see the morning gay
Let me see the Morning Sunshine
Let me see!
But this poet
Won't let me

I'll just watch t.v
and sing
her poetry

poem by Mary Jesusa Villegas
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A Creative Dream!

Kaleidoscopic dreams are beautiful
As the architectural beauty here!
Beauty of Nature reflected in art
A wonderful dream it is to muse!

Nature, art and dreams are colourful
With the imagination enhancing scope
To see a wonderful creative process
Materializing into great master piece!

Dreaming in Nature mind of art finds
Wonderful pasture to enjoy unique joy
Leading the poet to compose poems
Artistic, natural and fantastic forever!

Mind full of artistic ideas engrossed
In Nature poets dream great wonders!

poem by Ramesh T A
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The Heart of a Poet

The heart of a poet is too soft
more soft than petal of any flower
the heart of a poet is too mild
more mild than water of any spring

The heart of a poet is too melodious
so melody springs out from heart of a poet

The heart of a poet too genius
so, he picks up jewels from deep ocean of wisdom

The heart of a poet is more transparent
more transparent than any crystal

So, the poets are!

poem by Ramesh Rai
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