Madhavikutty
My story
As told by you
Delves into the infinite;
Hisses at the serpent temple
And aroma of the literary scent
Vanished into the oblivion;
In the lamp of love
Kindle some desires still
Up above the sensual feels;
Tales and poems written by you fold palms
To pay tribute to your golden hand
Yet, the pomegranate tree blooms….
(Acrostic of MADHAVIKUTTY alias Kamaladas, the late poet)
poem by Prem Nizar Hameed
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The Story Of The Poet
THE STORY OF THE POET
The story of the poet
Is told by his poems
A long long story
Of many small poems.
Can they be read?
Can they be known?
Can they be understood,
As the story they are?
The story of the poet
May forever be unknown-
And die with the poems
Never known.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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On A Famed Poet
Forgive me if his greatness I cannot seem to note
His poems never rhyme but he is a famed poet
By literary experts considered to be knowledgeable and wise
And for his poems he has won many a prize.
Though poetry is not very popular today
The poet of the poetry lovers the experts do say
In University literary magazines students his verses read
And they all agree he's a fine poet indeed.
Of poets and poetry I must confess so little I know
My favourites old rhymers from ages ago
On the poetry I do not like most experts agree
That it is well written and quite good poetry.
Forgive me if the worth in his verse I can't see
His non rhyming poetry does nothing for me
Of reading blank verse I do quickly grow tired
My truth is by such stuff I do not feel inspired.
The experts on his poetry great interest show
And his stature as a poet only seems to grow
Of him great things are written and great things we hear
And good luck to him on his literary career.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Kamala Das
I bought a book written by you,
On whose wrapper your face at sixty,
With a stud on left nostril, the lock
Utter black by dye, in loose knot,
And lips as fleshy as your cheeks,
Stared at me, sultrier than any youth.
How sexier you must have been
A decade ago, two decades back
Or at your thirty, let alone twenty!
How fortunate those must have been,
Who revolved around you then!
How many wooed and how many were voyeurs!
Is it your exceptional intellect
That keeps you alluring?
Is it your matriarchal Clan
That keeps your eyes sensual?
Is it by your sensuous poems
That you look sensual
Or is it by your sensual and sensuous looks
Your writings came to be sensual?
I read your poems sensually
With your sexy figure in thought.
I read your face sensually
With your sexy poems in thoughts.
You or your verses, which tempt more?
‘Age cannot wither her, nor customs stale
Her infinite variety’
8.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Most Of The So Called Literary Experts
Most of the so called literary experts are dismissive of rhyme
They say 'tis the poetry of a long gone time
Yet the poets that they laud the poems they do write
Cannot be put to music and are hard to read and recite
The rhymer of today is not looked on as a poet
Or is not seen as one worthy of literary note
By the so called literary experts with literary degrees
Though their judgement on what is or is not poetry not everyone does please
They never will convince the old style rhyme buff
To him or her well written rhyme is not throw away stuff
In well written rhyme are the words to a song
And good rhyming poetry to music belong
Yet the degreed literary experts who on poetry like to have their say
Dismiss rhyming poets and their poetry as of yesterday.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Beast in Humans
It hisses inside like a serpent
spitting its venom of hate,
giving birth to vengeance
spattered by blood and death.
The serpent of hate, the
birth and rebirth of vengeance,
gives no room for peace,
no room for forgiveness.
And the kingdom of the beast
is recoiled by the serpent
that hisses without rest.
And the venom spreads darkness.
poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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The Poetry Groupies
Where are the poetry groupies
Those girls who’d give their hand for a poem
Who’d lay down for a verse so finely written
In the hope of some poetic dedication
If I write it, will they then come
To pay homage, adoration to my pen
Where are the girls who’d give their all for a poem
Those who are drawn to such a man
A romantic who writes to seduce
To sway the heads of each pretty girl
With poetic tales of a great love
How beautiful the object of all affection
What are all these poems and tales worth
If this question remains unanswered
Where are the poetry groupies
Who’d give their hand to a poem
And their all to a poet
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Carcass Mouse
Below Under mango tree
which me plant three last year
carcass of mouse
shot [by] hunter
of aroma three-day
have the of current,
stinking [of] body of disseminating everywhere
late to each and everyone refrain from
my neighbour sniff that aroma
search for where that aroma come [in] moat,
below/under the tree
of him make cannot sleep
the the hunter pass with the him of impressing
do not do something
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Moments Of Writing Poetry
Draft poems sometimes like
loose ripped off pieces of paper
to be drafted out roughly upon.
Draft poems hang around
in the strangest places waiting
to be written out one day.
Draft poems wait for a poet
to wake at the beginning of day
to be written out, in any
seized moments, sacrificed.
This is now time, shower time, eating time,
reflective time, conversation time, work time;
t.v. time, driving time, riding motorcycle time,
going to sleep time, cooking time, or any time.
Draft poems can only be written
in spared moments of seized time.
Draft poems can only be written today,
they will not wait for fair weather like hay,
which lays around waiting to be harvested.
Draft poems will not wait for a clear sunny day to dawn,
and then mature slowly, over a perfect golden summer.
Draft poems are ever now or never
if they are ever to be swiftly written.
A draft may possibly be perfected
upon any future day of favoured writing;
but a draft never written is a poem
never written, never completed, never known.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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In The Air
Like fresh blossoming flowers on a spring day.
Her scent is in the air.
Like the smell of rain right before it pours down.
Her scent is in the air.
Like the aroma of a hot apple pie cooling on the window seal.
Her scent is in air.
I try to cover my nose with my shirt
but her scent seeps right through it.
It is in the air.
I try fanning it away
but the more I fan the stronger her scent lofts in the air.
I decide not to fight it anymore and I inhale her scent.
It first suffocates me but then it sustains me.
To me her scent is love and it is
In the air.
The Poet’s Prayer
Lord forgive me
That I have chosen to become a poet
Forgive me for what I write
The poems of my life
Grant me such devotion
To write the poems that I love
Grant me the love of poetry
That must not distract me
From tenderness
Make my desire last long
Make my disillusion short
Uproot from me these impure desires
From those poems that trouble me
Let not some images confuse me
Let not some metaphors numb me
Let not my dullness sadden me
Let your radiance descend upon
The modesty of my poems
As you once gave radiance
To the prophets who cannot speak
For themselves
Let me be a strong poet
Able to love and defend
the poems for the
women and children and land
Grant me the talent to make
The poems that they may still
Recite and remember
Even when I am gone
In my weakness as a poet
Make me strong
To scorn the poems that are not pure
To shy away from the fires
And flames that do not light
The lives of other men
And women too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0240 The Poet and the Tree
Tenderly
under the tree's shade
the poet wrote;
wishing
that his poems
might have the grace
of the tree.
the tree heard
the poet's wish
and gave itself,
to share his book
leaf for leaf
for as long
as his poems lived
and so it was
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Hulk
You are very beautiful my love and,
We are meant to be on this love;
And, your sweet scent of aroma baths me all year round.
I am Hulk and your flower of love is all that matters to me,
But, with the 63 degrees of euphoria to meet your love;
For, your sweet scent of aroma baths me all year round.
Deeper contractions in the kingdom of love,
And of the sensations ever felt before;
But, the angle of your elevation is to unfold your precious petals.
it is never too late to learn from you always,
So bring forth the beautiful bud out from you!
Form you are blossom fair flower of love.
Pleasure and satisfaction always comes from you my love,
And like the muse of your love which elevates your sexual wellness;
For, i am now sailing across the ocean blue like Oliver Twist.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Destiny Decides
Destiny decides
Don't be deceived
But destiny decides
You nailed me in the head
You short me in the heart
Ignoring all the fact
Let the clouds get fold
Keep secrete the truth
But the story is yet to be told
That a glory of a man
Is purer than gold
The old may refuse to reason
But a tree bearing fort fruit
Means it is in it season
What is happening
Is that which is to happen
What is written is written
poem by Matt Ancient
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The Ethereal Bard
“ Of what these bewitching calls,
whistled long from a tree? ”.
Waking up at five in a Spring-morn
I sought an answer from the watchman
of a school near the Eastern Coast.
“The cuckoo is vocal here sir”,
he said and fell to his sleep.
What a mystic note of the bard
sending into oblivion the banal cries
of the birds, we often see!
“Is the melody tragic or merry? ”
A pensive poet will be inspired with
unwept tales of sorrow so much.
A blithe poet will slip into wonder
tasting the tunes of the songster.
I waddled towards the tree
to have a glimpse of the bird.
But the music came now from a mango.
I raced towards that tree a little away
but the call now was showered from a tree afar.
Till the mid-June, I relished from its bounteous songs
but repined at not glimpsing that black warbler.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Love story
Love story
~
And somewhere it may be written
a love story not of fairy-tales
or a Hollywood blockbuster
neither the best selling novel
of some highly respect author
or a poetic sonnet which sings
odes to sweet undying passion
it is more simple, honest
a love story of modern times
which bypasses the ageless classics
and clichés of romance
it may not make you cry
but it still remains a love story
lacking high drama or duels fought
mistakes are made and learnt from
and the happy ending still awaits
to be realised and celebrated
but somewhere it is written
in diary or letter form
the love story to this poem
poem by Matthew Holloway
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I Have Written Too Many Imperfect Poems
I HAVE WRITTEN TOO MANY IMPERFECT POEMS
I have written too many imperfect poems
This is another one.
Years have gone by,
Where are the perfect poems?
A handful of true poems
And the poet does not die.
Where are mine?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Three Dog Night
Chuck Negron
who I did meet
is really sincere
and really sweet.
I told him I wrote
'Poems of
Inspiration
and Recovery'
People who
read them
can feel
better with discovery.
My poems have
words in them
like the word
“pray”.
These poems
where on
display
in Hazelden Ctr.
that very
same day.
Now he did
sign my book
writing to my
alias Suzae.
The book he
wrote is
“Three Dog Nightmare”.
describing
his life which
is almost like
one of Razel’s
“Frightmares”
It’s about
his drug
addiction
& his word
of hope,
for anyone
addicted to
or strung out on dope.
Now buy it on
Amazon or at
your local bookstore,
it’s worth every penny
and then some more.
Written on April 2nd 2011 by Christina Sunrise
www.christinasunrise.com www.purplepoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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To Be An Anthology Poet
To be an anthology poet whose work
Children hate to read in school
And re-discover in later life as meaningful and beautiful-
To be an anthology poet
And have generations know one’s poems
As part of the eternal canon-
To be an anthology poet
One of the few names
That has survived
When thousands of one’s contemporaries’ have not-
To be an anthology poet
To have written a few of the great and the memorable poems-
To be an anthology poet
To be what I am not
And most likely never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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In This World Of Infinite Words
IN THIS WORLD OF INFINITE WORDS
In this world of infinite words
So many poems have already been written,
Infinite poems in infinite words-
Therefore any new poem simply seems to cry out its own non- necessity-
Yet in a word in a voice
A whole world can be born and transformed-
A new poem a real poem
Can make us forget all the others
And make all the others live through it-
Yet who in this world of infinite words
Can write this poem?
And when will the next set of strangers names come
To show me that my words are nothing?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Which Poems Are True and Which Poems Only A Story?
WHICH POEMS ARE TRUE AND WHICH POEMS ONLY A STORY?
Which poems are true
and which poems only a story?
There are poems I have to write
They are the heart of who I am-
And other poems that tell a story my mind makes
And takes me where I do not know I'll ever really be-
There are real poems and there are imaginary poems-
And there are poems-in- between like this one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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