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Monologue-5

On that creative night
I had burst into a plethora
Of such fine expressions
That could put a doting poet’s
Erotic prosody to shame.

Trembling to your touch,
In your hands I had become
A novice’s innovative poetry
Slithering in lyric and tune,
When u kissed my cheek, my neck...

poem by Seema Aarella
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There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric' (And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem)

I believe that if you can speak, you can write….,
So almost anyone can be a lyricist or a poet too…! ! !
Of course there’s talent involved…,
And some are blessed to have much more than others do….,
But if you can compose a letter, or hold a conversation….,
I feel you could write a song lyric or a poem….,
Now that doesn’t mean it’ll be top-notch….,
Or for that matter, even mediocre….,
But when you’re in a crowd or all alone….,
Try it…! ! !
Cause There’s Poetry In Writing A Winning Lyric….,
And Great Satisfaction In Writing A Fine Poem…! ! !

poem by Trade Martin
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The Poetry Of Confession

THE POETRY OF CONFESSION

The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-

Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-

The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –

The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-

The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –

A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Am Not A Poet 2

When I feel I am really a poet
I see my flesh is poetry
My pleasure is poetry
My pains are poetry
My feelings are poetry.

Poetry protects me
Poetry teaches me
How to fight back and win.

Poetry is my freedom
Poetry is my independence
Poetry is my flag
And an anthem
Poetry is my prophet
And a messanger.

But I am not a poet
Do not read me
Burn me into ashes
Let there be a flower
From the ashes.

poem by Devil Poet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bill's Son Joe

Bill wishes his son had been a well known Sportsman
My son's a poet you never hear him say
As if that is something to be ashamed of
'Tis a strange World that we live in today.

Young Joe has no interest in sports or football
He'd rather go to the park by the bay
And watch the seagulls by the park bench tables
Squabble for scraps of food the picknickers throw away.

Joe is nineteen he doesn't have sisters or brothers
A fine young poet with words he has a way
His Nature poems original and special
That's what the poetry critics of him say.

The other fathers talk of their sons sporting prowess
My son ran well, my son played a fine game
But Bill he never talks about his son Joe
As if writing poetry is a thing of shame.

As if writing poetry is for women only
The redneck father has a cultured son
He doesn't feel proud that his son is a good poet
And that a prestigious poetry prize he's won.

Bill son Joe is a poet of rare talent
With which the father he is not impressed at all
He'd much prefer that he were a good sportsman
Good at athletics, boxing or football

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Passing Of A Heart

O touch me with your hands--
For pity's sake!
My brow throbs ever on with such an ache
As only your cool touch may take away;
And so, I pray
You, touch me with your hands!

Touch--touch me with your hands.--
Smooth back the hair
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair
That I did dream its gold would wear alway,
And lo, to-day--
O touch me with your hands!

Just touch me with your hands,
And let them press
My weary eyelids with the old caress,
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way,
That Death may say:
He touched her with his hands.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Exotic and erotic

I strongly incline my ears,
My sight i vividly open,
You complete my whole,
Your words and your touch,
Exotic and erotic

Your soft skin i long to touch,
Your tender voice i like,
My heart filled with desire,
Desire to love you more,
Exotic and erotic

Lets make a baby,
The pride of my seed,
So shall it be then,
Your love i desire,
Please rescue thee,
Exotic and erotic

Touch me like that,
Hold me like this,
Kiss me right there
Yes you are,
So erotic and exotic

poem by Gaylord Munemo
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The Poet Becomes The Poetry

THE POET BECOMES THE POETRY

After years of striving to write Poetry
The Poet becomes the Poetry
No word is not poetry in him
And no silence is not the sound
his own writing makes

Wherever he is
Whatever he does
is Poetry
Mediocre or not
Real or not
Loved or not
Understood or not
The Poet is Poetry
Unable forever to escape
what he Lives.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Summer Was A fast Train Without Terminals

I, too, can love you
in my dialect, you know,
punctuated with cicadas
and their eternal afternoons —

To love in a language prised from my wishbone.
To sing a landscape where village girls once burst
the moon with giggles.
To dance through the fattest eye of a rice-grain —
To do all these in peace and war is the wish
embodied in Merlinda Bobis’ poetry.
From her epic poem Cantata of the Warrior Woman Daragang Magayon to lyric reflections on longing,
and finally to an erotic poetry-dance-drama,
Bobis traces the cartography of desire
and its intimacy with death —

I am the mouth remembering
the coupled heaving of women
and men in another passion
called a war.

I am deeply furrowed
by the universal scar.

poem by Merlinda Carullo Bobis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At Play In A Garden of Words (The Problem With Poetry, or, Harvesting the Pea Patch)

I’m put upon to ponder the problem of poetry
& thus, I proudly or, perhaps, perfunctorily,
Ponderously pronounce with a preponderance,
Even a plethora, of p’s:

Poetry is pithy, prankish and perky,
Pertinent and impertinent, too
It’s prophetic, pathetic, pragmatic and proud

Poetry pretends, preaches, points out,
Points to, and down, and under

Poetry’s petals promise purity and peace
Poetry’s pristine, picky and pale

Poetry is practical, prudent, is pregnant,
Gives pause

Poetry’s precise, prayerful, powerful
Poetry’s presence is portentious and playful

Poetry’s a mosaic portrayal, a
Painted portraiture, perfect, profane
Prosaic, it is not,
Preposterous, it is
It is ponderous, political, porous, pontifical
Peripatetic and perennial,
Prescient, pedantic, possessive and puerile
Perfidious, perceptible, perplexing, perfectible

Poetry perseverates, preserves, perseveres

Sometimes perplexing, never perishable,
It pulses it prowls, it probes and it pries

Poetry is a perverse, precocious, pubescent prankster
Presumptuously posing,
Priapic and prudish

It prances, and preens periwinkle plumage
In place of deep purple prose
A persuasive, peculiarly pleasant peacock,
Poetry promulgates poems!

Poetry, dear poet, exists
Poetry, dear poet, persists
Poetry, dear poet, persists and preoccupies
Poetry can never desist

poem by Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry and Poet

Poetry is poet's inner world,
Churnings of Self in distinct words;
Poetry is not black and white,
Grey, nuances of diverse hues
In kaleidoscopic word-networks
That capture all formless clouds
In the deep sky of the poet's world.

Poetry is poet's outer world,
His expressions in proper norms;
Bare thoughts, his rogue fights within
Dressed well for the popular nod;
Poet's world, a messy snake-pit,
A burrow of rats, snakes, insects,
Fighting to spring in riotous words,
Filter'd for world in elegant words.

Poetry is never a judgement,
Sheer whispers from heart to heart
Beyond what words do transport;
Words in lilt and dance, poetry,
Links they bond, cadence they ring,
Makes a poetry, a true poetry,
A mirror of poet's inner turmoils,
His hopes and strengths in right words,
Indecisions he suffer, his deeper Self.

Poetry is release from inner cauldron,
Steams from within in guise of words,
Quiet flames of the inner hearth
That flared for long finding a vent;
Poetry, a relief, a joy of sharing,
Sharing the Self with the world outside,
Back to the source from where all came;
Poet is the priest, poetry, his hymns,
Offered to the world for peace and grace.

Poetry sprouts from the morass of soul
And grows out of poet like pipal tree
And outstays him;
Fleeting is poet, but not his poems,
Poetry is the poet universalised;
It sucks his thoughts, sucks his force,
Spreads outwards to enrich the world
And leaves the poet richer and strong
Like fire and good deeds always are,
How much you share, so richer you are.

poem by Praveen Kumar
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No Shame

See me, I have no shame
Poetry's a losing game
Tongue in cheek, but it's all the same
Poetry's a caring game

My memory could be amazed
Yet it's been erased
I have nothing planned
My Brain could use a hand

Lines cannot be found
Please look all around
I'll get a helping hand
This Poem's a futile stand

Have I lost my mind?
Poetry I'm sure you'll find
Sometimes, can be unkind
By those who are unsigned

Just ignore the sods
Let them pray to their gods
You know I have no shame
Poetry's a funny game.

poem by Gordon David
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Poem Between My Legs

Do you think about something beautiful?

One you can also touch
Something also beautiful

Think of my poetry
That would be pretty

But I can give you more
Than that

Something more beautiful really
Lies between my legs

Greater, stronger
And more beautiful

Than my poetry.

Oh common
Thinking something more beautiful
Beyond that?

Then, grab it with your
Honest hands.

Or your trembling lips

This poetry
Between my legs.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Preciseness

All this talk about ego.
When no one escapes self expression.
Isn't that what composing is?
For a poet.
And the writing of it is what gets done.
For a poet.
Who unlike critics...
Sit and wait for something tart to remark.

That could be said of most!
Certainly not for everyone.
Is this place offered to those who create.
For those who are innovative in thought.
And not scholared in debated...
Seeking to correct self expressions.
And...
Hoping to find a clue what to do with their own.
If that should happen before the ego does arrive.

All this talk about ego.
When no one escapes self expression.
Isn't that what composing is?
For a poet.

I can pretend I know it all and I know I don't.
So you get no entertaining charades from me.
However,
Expect everything you can imagine,
From those who have none!

Their preciseness is overdone.
With an overbite.
And under-rated is their aggravation.
With an unspoken wish they were out of sight.
And they would get it delivered quickly.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Chains On My Neck

Chains On My Neck
I’m black here I sit with chains on my neck
I’m beside other black men with chains on their necks
I’m waiting but while I wait my mind
takes me to my village
There, there is my home
I built it with my hands and my brothers hands
I built it with my sweat and pride
a very, very fine house indeed
But I am here sitting with chains on my neck
Beside other black men with chains on their necks
I see in my minds eye my fine house
I bring in furniture, built by my hands and my father’s hands
Strong furniture made with care from the best trees
But I am here sitting with chains on my neck
Beside other black men with chains on their necks
I see again in my minds eye my fine house
I bring in my spear, ax and shield
Deadly weapons to attack or defend
I mount them on the wall of my fine house
But I am sitting with chains on my neck
Beside me other black men with chains on their necks
I shake my chains and my house is on the other end of my chains.

Copyright 2005

poem by Watchful Steward
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A Poet Loses His Power For Poetry

A POET LOSES HIS POWER FOR POETRY

A poet loses his power for poetry
He can put down words
But they no longer have poetry in them
Something of the feeling of what real poetry is
is gone.
He strives
He writes again and again
He puts words down in the forms and in the shapes his poems usually take
But he has no poetry in him
He has lost what he is
And all he can do
is strive again and again
Word after word
Silence after silence
To hear within himself again
A voice he does not have.

The poet is writing poetry
And it is not poetry
The poet is dead
And he is pretending to be alive
Is this a poem?
Is he a poet
Is he dead?
Is he alive?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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329

you cannot blame me
if i have not touched your
cheek with my fingers
you were too high for my
reach and my hands are
feeling short of that distance
now that i am alone you
cannot blame me if i
touch myself with my own
hands and rub it like an
Aladdin's lamp when
i even have to stretch
myself and giggle and
then something in me
explodes and for all the
the women whom i have
not kissed i am none of
your goddamn business

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On Poetry

1
poetry can be
like a sky filled with wrangling clouds
or as a sky without a wisp

2
in poetry there are no
clichés in thought and phrase;
and what is left there is
the resplendent and the living

3
poetry leaves one
rich inside
and ordinary outside

4
the fool defines poetry
and poetry defies all definitions

5
poetry entertains, inspires;
poetry tickles, distracts, and shapes and frees -
but its true intent, no one knows

6
many lines, and countless lines
many pages, and thick volumes
don’t make poetry

7
if one had no coins
one cannot buy bread;
but not all the world’s wealth
can bring you poetry

8
Oh no!
Not another love poem!
Oh no!
Not another poem about oneself!

9
rhyme, technique and meter
and tricks of prosody
don’t make poetry: passion does

poem by Raj Arumugam
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Poetry Undefined

Poetry is a great many things
to each poet you see,
Poetry even has various meanings
as to what it is to me

Overall,

Poetry is the means
By which my heart communicates,
My mind finds the words
For these feelings and translates

Sometimes,

Poetry is my lover
My fantasies he fulfills
Beckoning me to crisp, white sheets
where my blacks and blues I spill

Or,

Poetry comes as a mysterious moon
appearing softly in the night,
age old secrets of the universe
he reveals to me with his light

See,

Poetry is my spirit
the connection to the Divine,
It lets me see what I am to be,
let’s me soar when I feel confined

So,

Don’t try too hard to define
What poetry really is
Just know that what you get from a poem
Is all a poet had to give

11.25.02

poem by Tamika Stubblefield
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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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A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old

Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.

poem by Eric Graham
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