Inkling
Tell me, o dilettantes,
And august savants,
Of your natural urge,
And not so this purge
Which in itself, after all
Hides thy vanity, a pall
Writing, believing that on the looms of time,
You will cogitate beyond this mortal crime.
Wherefore thou discerns progress,
From sage duress to wickedness.
There are many, among those,
Whose musings on paper propose,
To either define the world,
Or themselves, hurled,
Into a mass of such language,
For which they claim to engage,
Believing to judge by inception and intuition,
Rather than form, substance and conception.
Disharmony, injustice, religion, chance,
Naivete: innocence in innocent parlance.
Is this really the drink,
These claims to think,
Or flights of fancy gain'd,
By thy lungs' hope stain'd?
No. Nefas. Nada. Nein.
What follows this wine,
If not a dullened mull,
Is the scientific consul,
Of a million savage definitions,
All of whom lack true intentions.
There is yet another sort,
Who paint in glorious retort,
Themes of what in our ego,
We destroy, and evolve, lo!
At the expense of elements
That form, for sure, our contents:
Earth, water, fire, fell air,
Chaos to them all foreswear,
And this, my son, is that vast lee,
For magick, superstition and fantasy.
Down in this deep, dark world of words,
And old tongues, festering in limbic herds,
There is, in that tiny corner, above your eyes,
And that most primitive of tracts, smell besides,
A calm reason not to reason,
But seek a journey: Treason
To many, atavism to gregarious some.
When words fail, and opinions mum,
Then alone could winters see the sun,
And the summer welcome icicles spun.
So, me fellow wanderer,
Withhold thy pen, and err:
So that the wieght of consonants
And alphabets, their adjutants
Far from twist and compel
Thee to thyself repel;
But bring to light that need
Which fuels thy crucial greed
To seek the feel of this ink and feather
Suspending impulse, and a logical weather.
poem by Lucius Sulla
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Related quotes
And I'm writing
The purpose of writing poem
Is not known and I'm writing.
Excuse me, I'm writing
And writing
And writing is natural
As natural as wind
As natural as light
And I'm writing
Writing and pervading
Everywhere.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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To relieve the urge is the urge.
You feel relieved
when the urge to eat is met.
You feel relieved
When the urge to drink is met.
The same relief you get,
When the urge to purge out
And the urge to pee are met.
Releasing the urge is the pleasure.
24.03.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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To Purge Evil From The Land!
To purge evil from the land!
Purge, urge, surge;
With words of the truth than words of profane! !
For, many are now lost in the name of the lust of this world.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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What Will I Do Today And What Will I Do Tomorrow?
What will I do today and what will I do tomorrow
And what will I do for the rest of my life?
Write and write and write
Until I can no longer write –
And even if this writing is never known?
And even if this writing is wholly lost?
And even if this writing is not really worth very much?
And even if it is known only a little?
And even if others are highly critical of it?
And even if it seems vanity of vanity and only vanity?
Write and write and write
To the end of my life.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Uncontrollable Urge
Got an urge got a surge
And its out of control
Got an urge I wanna purge
cause Im losing control
Uncontrollable urge
I wanna tell you all about it
Uncontrollable urge
Makes me scream and shout it
Its got style its got class
So strong I cant let it pass
I gotta tell you all about it
I gotta scream and shout it
And I say yeah
song performed by by Devo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Night Will Soon Be Lost
THE NIGHT WILL SOON BE LOST
The night will soon be lost
Another night of so many already gone
Who knows how many left?
I have seen far more nights
Than I will ever see again
Mostly it’s done
I have some nights left
But not so many
That I should waste it wholly
On frivolity
I’ll try now
To write a poem down
So this night
Will not have been wholly in vain
But who knows
Vanity of vanity of vanity
Perhaps for all nights and all poems- vanity
I am writing this poem down nonetheless
It flows as if it knows it has real life within it
I don’t know now how long this night will last
Or how many nights I have left
I have written a poem
Will G-d save it as if it were not vanity to vanity?
I do not know.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The urge to purge the material I come up with is, I guess, an ongoing process.
quote by Kathryn Bigelow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Beauty Hides
my beauty hides behind walls and lies.
she calls out but quites as the blade presses against my thighs.
my beauty hides behind mistakes and tears.
she smiles and pretends but she cant awake from her worst fears.
my beauty hides behind regret and envy.
she screams and claws because she wishes she was anyone but me.
my beauty hides behind broekn promisesand never.
doesnt she know i will always hide her forever?
my beauty hides behind never ending darkness and blame.
time flies but she wont ever be the same.
my beauty hides behind long shirts and tired eyes.
she use to be able to fly high and touch the skies.
but now my beauty hides..
poem by Julie Lopez
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Toy Soldiers Leaden Eyed - Acrostic Mata Hari
TOY SOLDIERS LEADEN EYED
My life foams fast, spurts sudden surge,
Appraise past fancy, sullen urge,
Then see toy soldiers leaden eyed
Attest failed flight, time, grace denied.
Here at my post I’m posted, tied,
And no-one dares to act as guide.
Right, tight, where Hell’s four streams converge:
I stand and wait... serve on lead’s purge!
5 December 1990 revised 10 January 2009
robi03_0360_robi03_0000 AXX_DJZ
For previous version see below
Toy Soldiers Leaden Eyed
My life foamed fast, in sudden surge,
All passing fancies, sullen urge, -
The child’s toy soldiers, leaden eyed,
Attest failed flight which Time defied.
Here at my post I’m posted, tied,
And none now dares to be my guide.
Right, tight, where Hell’s four streams converge:
I wait awhile, .............. how lead does purge!
5 December 1990
poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Keep On Believing
I woke up in the quiet dark
Fed the cat and hit the park
Cutest chicest chocolate queen
Look and smiled right at me
Keep on believing, keep on believing
Keep on believing, keep on believing
She said "hi" without no sound
Made my head go Iight and 'round
She was dressed to kill tne pope
Ard what she did she gave me hope
I smiled back without no sound
I said "hi" and left the ground
Keep on believing, keep on believing, keep on believing
Life won't leave me alone
Trouble won't leave rne alone
Strenght don't leave me alone
Truth don't leave me alone
She looked so bright in pixie hair
She made me know how much I cared
Her brown eyes gave me butterflies
Sho towed my soul up to the sky
Keep on believing, keep on believing
Keep on believing, keep on believing
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The natural urge when running a distance is to push harder and finish sooner - to race against time. Every second behind a deadline is a little defeat.
quote by Joe Henderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Vast Vanity
The vast vanity
Of what I have done
All these years-
All these words
All this writing
And who wants it?
No one.
Like a slave to myself
I continue-
What do I have but the freedom and self- definition
Given by my own writing?
Like a slave to myself
And my own conception
Of what I am
And who I must be
I continue
Writing these words.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Vanity Kills
Have you heard the latest? (you love you)
Have you seen who just walked in (vain vain vain vain)
(uh huh, you love you) right over there
Shes so vain vain vain vain
Vain vain vain vain
Im glad youve found someone who loves you
But sad to say that someone is you
And now perhaps youll both be happy
Guess that makes two just you and you
Someone who cares so much about you
But does that someone have to be you
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, it kills
So glad I found you glancing in the mirror
Gazing deeply at loves patron saint
Admire the frame, survey the scenery
Or are you just inspecting the paint
Temptations strong modestys so weak
High on yourself humble you aint
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills (no way)
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, it kills
So vain, vain vain vain
You love you (yeah)
Give it, give it us, give it us
So vain, so vain, so vain
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, if the blast dont get you
Then the fallout will
You love you
song performed by by Abc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hide-And-Seek
Someone hides from someone else
Hides under his tongue
The other looks for him under the earth
He hides on his forehead
The other looks for him in the sky
He hides inside his forgetfulness
The other looks for him in the grass
Looks for him looks
There's no place he doesn't look
And looking he loses himself
poem by Vasko Popa
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Keep On Belieiving
I woke up in the quiet dark
Fed the cat and hit the park
Cutest chicest chocolate queen
Look and smiled right at me
Keep on believing, keep on believing
Keep on believing, keep on believing
She said hi without no sound
Made my head go iight and round
She was dressed to kill tne pope
Ard what she did she gave me hope
I smiled back without no sound
I said hi and left the ground
Keep on believing, keep on believing, keep on believing
Life wont leave me alone
Trouble wont leave rne alone
Strenght dont leave me alone
Truth dont leave me alone
She looked so bright in pixie hair
She made me know how much I cared
Her brown eyes gave me butterflies
Sho towed my soul up to the sky
Keep on believing, keep on believing
Keep on believing, keep on believing
song performed by by Iggy Pop
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Urges of lust
Sexual urge meets with the coitus.
Carnal urge meets with the bites.
Bio-urge meets with the impregnation.
Psycho-sex urge meets with the child-care
And socio-sex urge meets with self welfare.
Lust is the force behind.
Lust is the source for all forces.
25.12.99
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Letter
Lying in bed this morning, just a year
Since our first days, I was trying to assess --
Against my natural caution -- by desire
And how the fact outdid it, my happiness:
And finding the awkwardness of keeping clear
Numberless flamingo thoughts and memories,
My dear and dearest husband, in this kind
Of rambling letter, I'll disburse my mind.
Technical problems have always given me trouble:
A child stiff at the fiddle, my ear had praise
And my intention only; so, as was natural,
Coming to verse, I hid my lack of ease
By writing only as I thought myself able,
Escaped the crash of the bold by salt originalities.
This is one reason for writing far from one's heart;
A better is, that one fears it may be hurt.
By an inadequate style one fears to cheapen
Glory, and that it may be blurred if seen
Through the eye's used centre, not the new margin.
It is the hardest thing with love to burn
And write it down, for what was the real passion
Left to its own words will seem trivial and thin.
We can in making love look face to face:
In poetry, crooked, and with no embrace.
Tolstoy's hero found in his newborn child
Only another aching, vulnerable part;
And it is true our first joy hundredfold
Increased our dangers, pricking in every street
In accidents and wars: yet this is healed
Not by reason, but with an endurance of delight
Since our marriage, which, once thoroughly known,
Is known for good, though in time it were gone.
You, hopeful baby with the erring toes,
Grew, it seems to me, to a natural pleasure
In the elegant strict machine, from the abstruse
Science of printing to the rich red and azure
It plays on hoardings, rusty industrial noise,
All these could add to your inherited treasure:
A poise which many wish for, writing the machine
Poems of laboured praise, but few attain.
And loitered up your childhood to my arms.
I would hold you there for ever, and know
Certainly now, that though the vacuum looms
Quotidian dullness, in these beams don't die
They're wrong who say that happiness never comes
On earth, that was spread here its crystal sea.
And since you, loiterer, did compose this wonder,
Be with me still, and may God hold his thunder.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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Collected Poems (1994)
Lying in bed this morning, just a year
Since our first days, I was trying to assess -
Against my natural caution - by desire
And how the fact outdid it, my happiness:
And finding the awkwardness of keeping clear
Numberless flamingo thoughts and memories,
My dear and dearest husband, in this kind
Of rambling letter, I'll disburse my mind.
Technical problems have always given me trouble:
A child stiff at the fiddle, my ear had praise
And my intention only; so, as was natural,
Coming to verse, I hid my lack of ease
By writing only as I thought myself able,
Escaped the crash of the bold by salt originalities.
This is one reason for writing far from one's heart;
A better is, that one fears it may be hurt.
By an inadequate style one fears to cheapen
Glory, and that it may be blurred if seen
Through the eye's used centre, not the new margin.
It is the hardest thing with love to burn
And write it down, for what was the real passion
Left to its own words will seem trivial and thin.
We can in making love look face to face:
In poetry, crooked, and with no embrace.
Tolstoy's hero found in his newborn child
Only another aching, vulnerable part;
And it is true our first joy hundredfold
Increased our dangers, pricking in every street
In accidents and wars: yet this is healed
Not by reason, but with an endurance of delight
Since our marriage, which, once thoroughly known,
Is known for good, though in time it were gone.
You, hopeful baby with the erring toes,
Grew, it seems to me, to a natural pleasure
In the elegant strict machine, from the abstruse
Science of printing to the rich red and azure
It plays on hoardings, rusty industrial noise,
All these could add to your inherited treasure:
A poise which many wish for, writing the machine
Poems of laboured praise, but few attain.
And loitered up your childhood to my arms.
I would hold you there for ever, and know
Certainly now, that though the vacuum looms
Quotidian dullness, in these beams don't die
They're wrong who say that happiness never comes
On earth, that was spread here its crystal sea.
And since you, loiterer, did compose this wonder,
Be with me still, and may God hold his thunder.
poem by Anne Barbara Ridler
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I Come Alive In Writing
I come alive in writing
Even if the writing means nothing to anyone else-
I come alive in writing
Even if I am totally deluding myself as to its value-
I come alive in writing
Even if at times while writing there is an underlying hopelessness and despair -
I come alive in writing
As if writing is what God has given me to do-
I come alive in writing
As if through it I can truly give to and help others-
I come alive in writing
As if life has meaning through it-
I come alive in writing
Even when I sense the writing is not good or great
As I would wish it to be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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