Buried in Poetry
Dodging deadly ditches
Dressed as luxurious divans
By the dashing dubious
To entice and entrap
My fortunate feet
I ditch the fastidious flesh
The bane of man
Dragging one backward
Like a century old fox
Full of wiles but senile and hobbly
And make poetry my own grave
Comfortable and copious
With pen and paper
Burying myself alive deep inside
Desiring no farewell nor funeral
And crave no resurrection
In this cacophonous earth
poem by Chris Jibero
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Good RiDDance
some wondered
why i
smiled so much
at “Bully-Boy’s” funeral
and brought my laughter
to his burial.
as if… i enjoyed
some humorous moment
inside myself
from his early passing.
well… i did.
and i wasn’t the only one.
i was real about my feelings.
if you had known him
like i knew him
you would have known
or questioned
how did he live
so wrong
so long.
six feet
wasn’t even deep enough
“dirt”
for somebody that
“no good.”
especially when… you’re burying trash! ! !
poem by Ronald Stroman
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Hope
I would not deny
That I could not
Dream or swim
But it was in my dream
Slipped in a deep of ditch
My hands were tied
Legs were not working
I was drowning and drowning
From deep to deeper I felt
Suffocated and strangulated,
As I would not be alive, I would
Be dead, this gave me a cry!
I had had a strong desire to be alive!
A gust of energy in the form of help
Entered in me as if it was dragging me
With a help of a rope of hope
To the shore of life, I jerked in joy
I found myself alive and awake
I gave a big thank and a tight hug
To the rope of hope.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Iris Of Poetry
Introduction: We don't really think deep enough about 'What A Poetry Actually Is', the obvious question which we all know but don't think how to really elaborate on. We mostly see the story, depth and the purpose it delivers. Well, here's one a little bit different this time...
Poetry is the reflection of our lives like in the mirror,
It is something we can relate to and share.
It's our memories written in jumbled words,
It's like a song, with a meaning it holds.
A mere idea of our mystical lives,
Expressed in a way from deep inside
A way which only the heart can see,
A place where the eyes get cold-feet
The earnest truth and the sweetest lies,
It's all the irony that makes poetry so alive.
poem by Aqeb Benazir Ibn Minar
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Psalm 49
The rich sinner's death, and the saint's resurrection.
Why do the proud insult the poor,
And boast the large estates they have?
How vain are riches to secure
Their haughty owners from the grave!
They can't redeem one hour from death,
With all the wealth in which they trust;
Nor give a dying brother breath,
When God commands him down to dust.
There the dark earth and dismal shade
Shall clasp their naked bodies round;
That flesh, so delicately fed,
Lies cold and moulders in the ground.
Like thoughtless sheep the sinner dies,
Laid in the grave for worms to eat:
The saints shall in the morning rise,
And find th' oppressor at their feet.
His honors perish in the dust,
And pomp and beauty, birth and blood:
That glorious day exalts the just
To full dominion o'er the proud.
My Savior shall my life restore,
And raise me from my dark abode;
My flesh and soul shall part no more,
But dwell for ever near my God.
poem by Isaac Watts
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After All Hymn
After all I am human
And I get mad sometimes
Sometimes it is hard for me to think of something else in
Order to get rid of my anger
But I think I have to replace it with poetry
Poetry is my life
And I live writing poetry
Is poetry just a scribbling that doesn't make sense?
No
Poetry are feelings that are wrtten on a piece of paper or in the computer Scream
Poetry makes sense because every word I carefully select
And there are other words that might pop out of my mind
That I connect with the words in my heart
Do I use strong words in my poetry?
Yes I use strong words
Do I offend my readers with the words I pick?
That Is something that I try not to do
AAafter all
I am human and I do make mistakes
But after I make mistakes I try to move to the next step so I never get Stuck with my mistake
Yes poetry is my voice that is a message that I am trying hard to give to My readers
There are so many different styles of poetry
Haiku, rhiming, and free style
But I always stick with the free style of poetry
I find that it is the style that sooths me just fine
After all
I try very hard to live a modest life that is very plain and simple
From the one I lived 16 years ago
What is wrong to live a life of luxury to me?
First I need to have the money to live a luxurious life
The second part is that I don't want anything to do with a luxurious life
Because I am happy living my simple life
And I hope to live that simple life forever
I want to have dreams only and I don't wish them to turn into reality in My Life
Because I know that my dreams will be dreams
No I can't sell my dreams
Because my dreams are only fantasies that I face every night when I sleep In my bed
And after all I will always be human
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Shallow Grave
When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that I'll be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another Joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
and leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
I won't lie, I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor 'cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I won't lie in this poor shallow grave
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Shallow Graves
When I fall in endless sleep
I hope that Ill be buried deep
Let me be the one that fortune favours
Even good children got shallow graves
Throw another clown to the lions
Throw another joan on the blaze
Cast me away on the cruel calm ocean
And leave me for days and days and days and days and days
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
I wont lie, I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Bless the poor cos like the rich
They all end up in a ditch
In this world of fools and knaves
Even good children got shallow graves
The tinker, the tailor, the fabulous five
Nobody gets out of this alive
Chorus
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down deep where the dead men sleep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
Dig me down, dig me down, dig me down deep
I wont lie in this poor shallow grave
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poor Paddy
[the pogues version]
-----------------------------------------
In eighteen hundred and forty-one
The corduroy breeches I put on
Me corduroy breeches I put on
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-two
From hartlepool I moved to crewe
Found myself a job to do
A working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-three
I broke the shovel across me knee
I went to work for the company
On the leeds to selby railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-four
I landed on the liverpool shore
My belly was empty me hands were raw
With working on the railway, the railway
Im sick to my guts of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-five
When daniel oconnell he was alive
When daniel oconnell he was alive
And working on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-six
I changed my trade to carrying bricks
I changed my trade to carrying bricks
To work upon the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-seven
Poor paddy was thinking of going to heaven
The old bugger was thinking of going to heaven
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im sick to my death of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
I was wearing corduroy breeches
Digging ditches, pulling switches
Dodging pitches, as I was
Working on the railway
[paddy works on the railway]
---------------------------------------
In eighteen hundred and forty-one
My corduroy breeches I put on
My corduroy breeches I put on
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-two
I didnt know what I should do
I didnt know what I should do
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-three
I sailed away across the sea
I sailed away across the sea
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-four
I landed on columbias shore
I landed on columbias shore
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-five
When daniel oconnell he was alive
When daniel oconnell he was alive
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-six
I made my trade to carrying bricks
I made my trade to carrying bricks
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-seven
Poor paddy was thinking of going to heaven
Poor paddy was thinking of going to heaven
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
In eighteen hundred and forty-eight
I learned to drink my whiskey straight
I learned to drink my whiskey straight
To work upon the railway, the railway
Im weary of the railway
Poor paddy works on the railway
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Egoism of Poets
We don’t write poetry,
Poetry writes us.
How can we make poetry,
If we are part of poetry.
The world around us is poetry.
Poetry is already defined.
Calling ourselves poets.
Selfishness in every line.
Egoism in every word.
Stealing poetry from the world.
That already exists in every form.
It’s written in every mist,
Every tree, every bliss.
Who are we to write?
Calling ourselves masterminds.
Trapping ourselves in believe
That we are creating something unique
The world at our feet.
Just too full fill our need.
Even this poem is an act
of a selfish deed.
Every letter in ink.
Created through love and sin.
Writing on a paper
But it’s the world’s skin.
Pressing on the surface.
To see blue blood is our purpose.
Thinking poetry is ours.
Poetry devoured
By poets every hour.
Poems all around us.
Turning grey to dust.
Turning brown to rust.
We have captured the most
But there is still so much.
Bleeding away in disaster, poverty
And war.
Ink to us all.
A poet’s only lord.
His only norm, his only home.
His precious and beloved poem.
We should be ashamed.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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Sparky's Inside Your Cat
My dad bought me a goldfish,
Of him I was really fond,
His jar was really far too small,
So my dad built me a pond.
I called my goldfish Sparky,
In honour of my dad,
Full of life and boisterous,
He really was quite mad.
My neighbour used to say to me,
I don't want you to fret,
But if you don't watch your goldfish,
He'll make a meal for my nice pet.
She said her cat liked real fish,
That really made me worry,
I'd have to buy a safety net,
I needed it in a hurry.
Despite all my precautions,
I felt really put upon,
For when I checked on Sparky,
I found that he had gone.
I really did my best for him,
My God how hard I tried,
Yet despite all my best efforts,
My Sparky had now died.
When My neighbour heard me crying,
She asked me what was wrong,
When I told her what had happened,
She said you must be strong.
It's what nature had intended,
The cat has got its wish,
My feline friend has won the day,
It has ate your little fish.
I said to her well such is life,
One cannot tell a lie,
Everything alive on Earth,
Including cats must die.
It was then I knew the answer,
For my pain to be relieved,
If I dug a grave for Sparky,
I'd feel that I had grieved.
When I prepared his resting place,
I put in all his toys,
My neighbor then peered over and said
Who's making all that noise.
I said I was burying Sparky,
To ease my awful pain,
I explained he'd gone to Heaven,
But one day we'd meet again.
My neighbour burst out laughing,
She said don't be so absurd,
You don't even have his last remains,
She hadn't listened to a word.
She laughingly then asked me,
Why dig a grave as big as that,
I told her the reason was simple,
‘'Sparky's Inside Your Cat''
The Death of Poetry
Poetry is dead and God is alive.
I heard these words and began to cry.
Without poetry what would become of me,
Drowning in a sea of Christianity?
Poetry is dead and long let it lie
With its Thee and its Thy and its Thou and its Thine
May we never see another line
Of iambic pentameter with end-stopped rhymes.
Poetry is dead, and so it shall lay,
Mouldering at the pit of its shallow grave.
And no longer will they give a hoot
For the quatrain stanzas or the metered foot!
Poetry is dead at the bottom of the sea
With its anapests, dithyrambs, dactyls and spondees.
And also eight to sixteen lines
On your innermost feelings or the meaning of life.
Poetry is dead but how long will it stay
Before they resurrect it for another day?
Has it not been just a few years time
Since they said it was God who was dead—
-and poetry alive?
poem by Theresa Haffner
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Digging A Grave
It would be wrong to ask you why
Because I know what goes inside
Is only half of what comes out
Isn't that what it's about ?
To remind us we're alive
To remind us we're not blind
In that big, black hole
Comfortable
Digging the grave, I got it made
Let something in, or throw something out ?
You left the door open wide
I know you have a reason why
That knot is better left untied
I just went and undid mine
It takes some time
And the shadows so big
It takes the sun out of the day
And the feeling goes away
If you close the door
Comfortable
song performed by by Faith No More
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Digging The Grave
It would be wrong to ask you why
Because I know what goes inside
Is only half of what comes out
Isnt that what its about ?
To remind us were alive
To remind us were not blind
In that big, black hole
Comfortable
Digging the grave, I got it made
Let something in, or throw something out ?
You left the door open wide
I know you have a reason why
That knot is better left untied
I just went and undid mine
It takes some time
And the shadows so big
It takes the sun out of the day
And the feeling goes away
If you close the door
Comfortable
song performed by by Faith No More
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wayfarer of Earth
Up, heart of mine,
Thou wayfarer of Earth!
Of seed divine,
Be mindful of thy birth.
Though the flesh faint
Through long-endured constraint
Of nights and days,
Lift up thy praise
To Life, that set thee in such strenuous ways,
And left thee not
To drowse and rot
In some thick-perfumed and luxurious plot.
Strong, strong is Earth,
With vigour for thy feet,
To make thy wayfaring
Tireless and fleet.
And good is Earth–
But Earth not all thy good,
O thou with seed of suns
And star-fire in thy blood.
And though thou feel
The slow clog of the hours
Leaden upon thy heel,
[Page 52]
Put forth thy powers.
Thine the deep sky,
The unpreëmpted blue,
The haste of storm,
The hush of dew.
Thine, thine the free
Exalt of star and tree,
The reinless run
Of wind and sun,
The vagrance of the sea!
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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Murrow Turning Over In His Grave
All the sainted sinners
They pay handsomely
And eventually?
They make the weapons
And they run the prisons
And they sell the justice
Cause being guilty is
Just good business
And well be standing on
The borderline
Aint no one there gonna
Stop it now
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
Half-closed eyes
And the countrys deadly
Do you feel the ooze as your brain drains out
From your pneumatic drills and sharpening knives
Blood in the sky
Are you dead or alive?
All the restless people and the bitter green
Well it fakes this gold, makes the spirit mean
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna turn wild
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Murrow turning over in his grave
Better watch out
Murrow turning over in his grave
Hes gonna run wild
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Idealism
I know the woman has no soul, I know
The woman has no possibilities
Of soul or mind or heart, but merely is
The masterpiece of flesh: well, be it so.
It is her flesh that I adore; I go
Thirsting afresh to drain her empty kiss.
I know she cannot love: it is not this
My vanquished heart implores in overthrow.
Tyrannously I crave, I crave alone,
Her splendid body, Earth's most eloquent
Music, divinest human harmony;
Her body now a silent instrument,
That 'neath my touch shall wake and make for me
The strains I have but dreamed of, never known.
poem by Arthur Symons
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At Deaths Door
When they have a short time to live
And you’ve given all you can give.
When there s nothing more you can do.
Then you make the last days of their lives
Seem like it’s been paradise.
Show all the love that you’ve had locked up inside
This is something that you should not hide.
Bring up happy memories of times
gone by, and of moments shared.
These are things in their mind that last.
Make their lives as comfortable as can be
For this is the last thing that they will see.
For some it is not easy to pass to the other side
Because fear makes them blind.
But it is a place of love and light
They will not see the darkness of night.
Don’t show your love when they are dead
Show your love while they’re lying in that bed.
They need to be loved while they’re here on earth
This is what we crave from our birth.
If the brain still functions on its own
Then so does the heart.
And from you they do not wish to part.
They are thinking the same as you
When they’re gone, what are you going to do.
Any bills that may be left behind
On your shoulders they will climb.
these same thoughts may race through
Your head, and it’s something that you both do dread.
But these are the first thoughts that
Should be put into that grave
Give them happy memories that they can save.
Let them go to the other side comfortably
And on their face- that smile you’ll see.
We’ll all be going to that other side
And will need someone to welcome us there
And the love that you showed on earth
Will now be shared.
poem by Louis Rams
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Upon this paper my life is written
Upon this paper my life is written,
a tree doubled over in pain.
The red ink flows over the skin,
full stops and commas are hair and stars:
eyes of sea left on ships,
destroyed houses, rusting girders.
This paper is as black as the storm,
destroyed villages where there is no fiesta.
This paper burns as reason does,
lightning in the sky flashes in its millions.
This paper is a sky where there is no God,
this paper is alone…
this paper does not fly…
this paper… it is I.
poem by Menotti Lerro from The Poetry of Menotti Lerro (2011), translated by Andrew Mangham, Maria Rosaria La Marca
Submitted by anonym
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A Funeral Note
Life on a lonely pillow,
The thoughts of the morrow to sleep at last;
Not a drum was heard at his funeral.
Of a funeral note,
Darkly as the dead of the night;
But its deep heart is full of dead men bones.
Fruits,
Sweet rejoice;
The flowers of that garden say it all.
Of error, ignorance and strife;
Like the barbarians at play,
Where the earth takes the dead away.
Of error, ignorance and strife;
Like a corpse within its grave,
Ready for the earth to swallow it.
Hear and hail,
Wear and wail;
Like the earth's decaying leaves where,
Life's lonely pillow shares the funeral note.
To all the overgrown sons,
To all the overgrown daughters,
With flowers and azure moss;
The impulse of your strength is like,
The Atlantic's level powers at sea.
Uncontrollable!
Like mourners with sad songs;
Their eyes are heavy and dim,
Broken with remorse like that orbed maid;
Where the moving-star shines dead,
And the thoughts of man die easily.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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