En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Letters From Ed

Upon reviewing your lovely
type-written letters
safely placed in a three-ring binder
it is almost like having you here
your rasping voice insisting i
please consider your few minor
changes in my lines followed
most often by your asking me
not to be angry with you please

i am sure you were sure
i never listened to you-
my mentor and friend
for so many years
but i learned more about writing poetry
from you than you will ever know
mostly because your sudden passing
robbed me of the chance to
tell you just exactly how i felt

poem by Faith Elizabeth Brigham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Real Poetry Always Waits to Be Written

The real poetry always waits to be written-
While we are laboring inside
Someone else somewhere else
With a voice unlike any other heard before
Is writing it in a true way.

And all our dedication
And all our diligence
Years and years of effort
Mean only that we are not
That new voice someone else is.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reviewing music or reviewing anything is a writing job. It's nice if you are experienced in the field you are writing about, but writing is what you are doing.

quote by Virgil Thomson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Morning I Rebel Against Myself

THIS MORNING I REBEL AGAINST MYSELF

This morning I rebel against myself
Without enthusiasm I approach the page
I do not know where I should go right now
Empty as I am I am afraid.

Yet hearing echoes of a greater voice
And knowing Inspiration real through you
I laugh and wonder if your Greatness makes
A mockery of all I’ll ever do.

Dear Shakespeare in whose most casual lines
Poetry beyond all I strive to seem
I hear you through my minor reverie
Undermine the rhythm of my dream.

So in poor imitation I now write
Lines that won’t survive this angry night.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Just Another One Of Those Poem Thingies...

Well as you can tell,
This is just another one of those poem thingies.

But I ask you,
'What is poetry? I mean,
Do people just write words in wierd orders.'

Well, poetry is an expression,
An opinion, well I guess it could be,
Anything,
From a very 'sensitive' piece of writing
To an essay that you wrote three years ago.

The definition that you find in a dictionary
Has nothing to do with poetry.
It is just a summary,
No an assumsion of what those fools writing the dictionaries
Think it is.

Poetry is whatever you want it to be.
So next time some person who thinks that they're too cool,
And that your so stupid because you like poetry,
Weather it's writing it or just reading it,
Tell them that they write it too,
Weather or not they consider it to be poetry,
It's their opinion and anything,
Can be poetry.

I have a love for poetry,
That can not be described.
I know,
That sounds obsesive.
But I really do love poetry.
I feel like I can say anything and,
It doesn't have to be serious,
I mean it can,
But it is not required.
Nothing is required of you when you write poetry.

It is relaxing,
A chance to step aside from life,
Even if it's just for a few minutes.
I do it for my own enjoyment an relaxation.
Why do you?

poem by Maddy Macleod
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An act of poetry

Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry

A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art

Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation

Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:

The pen be our salvation.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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In Loving Memory

A long time ago,1976 to be exact
a friend said I should go along
to a writing class he had joined.
Therefore, I did and met someone,
who was to change my life.
However, I did not know it at the time.
For the first couple of years he was simply my tutor.

However, as the years rolled on,
he became my mentor,
and most of all my friend.
For every year, we knew one another
the friendship grew stronger than before.
Before I met Maurice,
he had published four novels
and I have every one.

He started with A City Called Holy,
next came The Splendour and the Havoc,
and then The World and the Flesh,
and finally Across the Frontier.
He also wrote plays,
produced, directed and acted
in them with his wife Peggy.
When I met him his books
were out of print,
but through the years,
I found them one by one.

After a friendship that lasted
over seventeen years Maurice died.
However just before he passed away,
he told me how his local library
had approached him, wanting to know
if he had any copies of his books,
as they only had one left.
He did not and felt sadly about that.
As he told me, I made a promise to myself.

Not matter how long it took,
or how much it would cost,
his local library would have,
those books of his they did not have.
More than ten years passed from the time of his death,
until I was finally able to fulfil my promise.
I collected through the years
the books the library was missing.
In January 2006, I presented them to his local library.

It was a way of saluting a special friend,
helping keep his name alive.
I did it because of the special gifts,
through the years he gave me.
His friendship, his knowledge and help
with my writing no one had ever given before.
Therefore, any success
that I may ever achieve
can be contributed to him.
A gentleman of words,
my tutor, my mentor,
and lastly a very kind and special friend.

(For the late Maurice Callard)

poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Totally Biased

I do not often write free form
to me it is not poetry.
Freely admit my prejudice
I think it’s just a passing phase
Although I can appreciate
poetic and well written prose
This does not make it poetry
When I consult my dictionary
it makes it very clear to me.
All writing must be one of those
It can’t be both at he same time.
Prose poetry cannot exist
an obvious oxymoron
Though modern writer still insist
that what they write is poetry
.It may be really beautiful
and well presented on the page
but definitely not poetry.
Why can they not be satisfied
with their well written thoughts in prose.
Why do they call it poetry
a dandelions not a rose.
Its meter defines poetry
it doesn’t even need to rhyme.
Even free verse had its rules
but writers seem to think today
There are no rules anything goes.
I nail my colours to the mast
Not afraid to let my bias show.

31-Jan-08

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.

But why should this mean anything to anyone else?

The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.

The poem I am writing now
is written.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Always The Poems In Me

Always the poems in me-
Saying themselves over and over
Returning to lines learned long ago
Or lines learned with more difficulty in old age-

Always the poems in me-
While my own poems written
And forgotten
As if only
Poems of a single occasion
The time of their writing-

Always the poems in me-
The poems which others will have in them after me
Poems not my own.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Man Became Addicted To Poetry

A MAN BECAME ADDICTED TO POETRY

A man became addicted to poetry-
Wherever he went he read or wrote a few lines-
Poetry became much of what he did-
Poetry and poetry and poetry-
As if that alone could give meaning and pleasure to his life.

A man became addicted to poetry
And so lost at times
What true poetry is –

Now he writes without knowing
Whether he is truly writing
Or merely using the ‘idea and world of poetry’
For his own peace of mind.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Anger With A Friend

Today I was angry with my friend
And I decided everything came to an end
I was irate for no reason
I acted as if my choice was treason

He sat with me like everyday
But today we did not talk or play
I avoided him as much as I could
Because I was angry with him, my friend

He tried to solve things out
By having a little spout
I turned my face away
Because I was angry with him, my friend

All his tries were in vain
He was true but I took it feign
Whatever so, I shunned him
Because I was angry with him, my friend

A friend or foe, now I thought
It baffled my mind, a doubt
But I bored him, ignored him
Because I was angry with him, my friend

What if I heard him through out?
Wouldn’t our fury be hindered?
Then we would still be friends
I should listen to him, my friend

He said words of fret and regret
He said of defense and confusion
He was a sad, mad lad
I forgave him all at once
He was my friend after all!

(WRITTEN FOR AND ABOUT MADDY....FOR A REASON I KEEP TO MYSELF)

OCTOBER 24,2008

poem by Sania Harris
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His Call

That evening
I sat down to write
My very last mail
To him.

And while I was writing
I could feel
My aching heart
Throbbing so loud
I could hear
Every beat of it
Pulsating with pain.

And still I kept writing
My very last mail
To him.
Though my eyes
Felt blurred
With all the tears
That rushed asunder
Streaming through my cheeks
And yet I brushed them aside
And wrote
My very last mail to him.

And when I had done
All the writing
I took a long, last look
At that letter of mine
Re-reading every word of it
That I had written to him
With all my heart...

Those precious moments
Were so endearing to me
For I felt that
Once this mail goes
I won't be able to
Write to him anymore
No more of those
Diary mails of mine
I used to write to him
Everyday.

For I had made a Promise
Never to go back
To him.
And that promise I had made
To him and to myself
With all the pain
And the agony
That had shrouded me.

Yes - that promise has stayed Intact
And I would abide by it.
And I haven't faltered...
Though my tender heart feels
So very Bruised.

And even though
The other day
He called me up
And I heard
His broken voice
Over the phone
Saying that
He had read my mail
Explaining himself
How he was...
How very dear to him
I have been
How very close
To his heart.

I just listened
And yet his garble of words
Were beyond me now
And more than his voice
His words of care
I could hear -
The waves of silence
That had engulfed me.

He did all the talking
And I -
All the listening...
And yet,
Today - when I look back
I don't feel like going back
To him anymore.

And I know he might call again
Asking me if I am cross.
In life's such delicate
Situations -
Being angry doesn't help
So why should I be?

It is just that
I don't feel like
Writing to him anymore
The pain is just too much
And so are the scars of the past
Like scabs on the skin
Bleeding every now and then.

And so that was my last mail
My very last mail to him
And his call for a truce
I had to choose...
Truce with him
Or truce with my silence.

And I looked back
At all the hard times
He had given me -
All the pain of the past years
That kept reverberating inside
Like the Tinnitus of being Deaf.

And I thought
I would call it a truce
A truce of realisation
A truce of acceptance
No - not with him.
But - A Lifetime's Truce
With me and my Destiny.

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Nothing Is Being Done

NOTHING IS BEING DONE

Nothing is being done-
Time is passing-
What will be?
Will I do nothing for the rest of my life?

A small poem is being written-
Am I alive again?
Any lines even bad lines are better than none
When one can do nothing-

Am I writing a poem?
Is something being done?
Or am I simply fooling myself
And doing nothing as I have always done
And always will do?

Or have I really done something?
Is this nonetheless a small poem?
Perhaps I have written something real in my life
Perhaps

poem by Shalom Freedman
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It Is A Habit

writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry

and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Written

Written
12: 03: am
I begin between these black lines-
white spaces blinking back-
my two hands outstretched
crafting nothing;
I cannot write;

crossed;
blocked, stoppages,
tea cup emptied,
usual tricks limp-
my muse bereft,
I am alone with
the fulsomeness of it.

12: 15: am
My Gods are all adrift.
My well's dig down
out of reach;
my mind's fount's dry-asleep.
Panic now
in this chronicling.

12: 20: am
Poetry's realm from me retreated
a cruel feeling;
that which came so easily before
is now silhouetted dimly.
I cry
a dry uncryable tear.

12: 53: am
I cup
a new cup of cold tea.

1: 03: am
Whatever this is
come to me
gradually curiosity
now feels greater than
my writer's grief.

I want to see
the outlines the specter is
to write nothing when nothing's there
no face
no driven ideas
no words span
no creativity transformed or fixed....

1: 33: am
Hushed
I lie down with it;
exhausted on my bed of paradox-
it's experience embraced.
I am swept to the surrender
of writing about the nothingness
at my pen, now shaking.

2: 53Lam
three drafts;
a small epiphany:

Ample is all experience
no blank lines will ever reach
or witness.

By this
my last lines written
after
2: 53: am
from listlessness and nothing
to expressions of same-
poetically-
minor miracle this.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Poem Can Be Written Anywhere, Anytime

A poem can be written anywhere, anytime-
A poem can be written too early in the morning
While waiting in Talpiot for ‘Rami Levi Supermarket’ to open-
It can be written in one’s head in a frozen Army barracks in Beit El
Or in a small room on Rav Berlin St on an old Smith- Corona
In the first happy years of one’s marriage-
It can be written for years from Haganah St. in French Hill
In the family years and the lonely ones
It can be written walking by the sea in Tel Aviv
With small children in hand-
It can be written on the same shore years later when one’s life has been broken
By Love’s desertion-
It can be written in old age on Rehov Shahal in Givat Mordechai
As one takes joy from the birth of one’s first grandchild-

A poem can be written anywhere anytime-

I have been writing my poems in Israel
For more than half a lifetime-

May those too
Who come after me
Read and Write Poetry here.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Muse for Me

My poetry doesn’t rhyme or flow
My poetry has no meaning and no feeling
My poetry has sex and violence written into it
My poetry cares for no one
My poetry is lost without you in it
Save me from my angry thoughts and schemes
I don’t want to be lost in a void where all write is uninspired
Become a muse for me, my poetry

poem by Double A P SS
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry...Poetry...

Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.

Poetry...Poetry...

Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.

Poetry...Poetry...

Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.

Poetry...Poetry...

Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.

Poetry...Poetry...

poem by Akash Agrawal
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A Poet Became His Own Poetry

A POET BECAME HIS OWN POETRY

A poet became his own poetry
And all he could be
Was lines and lines and lines
Inside and outside
Lines and more lines
Off- rhymes
Finding a phrase
A metaphor
Hearing listening
To sounds
His own mind made.

A poet became his own poetry
And went into the long sleep
Of being only what he wrote.
No one can know how
Reading these lines now
The poet and the poetry live
without themselves.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Journey Of A Poet

A journey begins with
A thought in our mind
Words are chosen and formed.

Lines of poem
Well Written with meanings
With words of emotions and expressions

A poet starts with
An inspiration of mind,
An aspiration in soul mind

With reflection
On our life experience
We start to
Compose some
Wonderful poetry

Expressing our innermost thoughts
With deep contemplation
To put them in poetry words

A journey begins when
A poet takes his imagination
To a place where
No one ever dream or imagine before.

A poet's journey ends by
Writing another lovely poem
And deep reflection

A poet remains
As a poet
When he or she
Continue to
Write and Share
lovely poems with the world.

poem by Lawrence Hiung
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