My Claim To Honour!
I’d been thinking
To be a very great man,
My attribute being poetry,
And my poems highly rated.
I had genuinely believed
That poetry is great gift,
Poet is a superman
And he was venerated.
I had discontentment
That I didn’t get the credit
Which I truly deserved
For my superior poetry.
Poets much junior
And close to political bosses
Got awards and honours.
For, they wrote base flattery.
So, when I died I wrote
An elegy on myself,
A long narrative poem,
Superb in its contents.
Carrying my dead body
I went around the city
Reciting my elegy
To my heart’s full content.
From gate to gate I moved
From street to street I went
At road junctions I stopped,
To drum up support in my favour.
I was firm in my resolve
To get my rightful honour
Which the state had for long
Overlooked to confer.
Sans any modesty
My elegy compared me
With many other poets
And stated my claim.
The elegy eulogized
And compared my talents,
Exalted my skills,
And extolled me to the brim.
“…………………………………………………..
Internatio nal poet …………………………….
……. Multilingual Poet ……………………..
…………….. Mystic, epic poet ………………
……………………. People’s eternal poet…
……………………………………………………
“In the untimely demise
Of this truly great genius,
An irreplaceable asset
The country has lost …”
I strongly recommended
To embalm my body
And preserve it well
In a befitting memorial!
And stoutly stated that
My body deserves to become
A global exhibit.
So, it’s foolish to do burial.
I told the spectators
That future generation
Will not brook the failure
To preserve this poet’s body.
This will indeed become
A tourist attraction
And a topic of research
For those in higher study.
People mostly ignored
None had time to listen,
with their own weight to carry
And wail of woes to recite.
Some mistook me as ghost.
They raised alarm and fled.
Ladies slammed their doors.
Urchins followed with delight.
A few said “schizophrenia”.
The kind said “poor man’s corpse
With no money for burial”
And offered alms in cash!
One let loose his dogs.
I ran with the load on head.
The urchins came to my rescue
Stopped the dogs with lash.
A scientist followed saying
“It’s an unusual phenomenon
To carry one’s own corpse.
A big case for research! ”
“Poor scientist! ”, I said,
“A poet’s ingenuity
Is beyond the scope of research
My realm you can’t reach”.
Jeering crowd couldn’t stop
My mission to assert myself
I went afar with the corpse
Singing and speaking aloud.
Determination impelled.
Ridicules couldn’t deter.
I talked to many a man,
While most tried to elude.
My wife and children came
Running to me and said:
“Your act is ridiculous
Money alone makes man great.”
I didn’t listen to them.
I said I deserve honour
For my fight against the unjust
And the great poetry I wrote.
At last came a trader.
Evinced interest. Asked:
“What is it all about?
Is it new ad for a trade?
“What’s this new product?
Is this a sample piece?
What’s your selling price?
Is it locally made? ”
“It’s a poet’s body.
One and the only piece.
Very special creation.
Invaluable indeed.
Spend a million dollars
Embalm it and display.
Viewing fees yearly
Could exceed tenfold”
“Poet? What’s that thing?
Is it human or beast?
In shape it looks human.
I buy human corpse.
That’s one of my trades.
I harvest and sell organs.
Act fast if it is human
Time you shouldn’t lose.”
I couldn’t control rage.
“Unlearned man”, I said
` “Dogs prefer stool to diamonds.
You flesh merchant, get lost! ”
The trader retorted
“Foolish dreamer, you
Don’t know the worth of money! ”
He spat in my face and left.
An old religious leader
Heard my talk and stopped.
He understood my claim
And then, gently said:
“Vyasa and Valmiki
wrote enough of poems,
which, for many millennia
All of us can read.
“Till now I haven’t read
Even a half of their works.
The same is the case
With every learned priest.
Hardly has any laity
Ever opened those books.
Then where is really the need
For more poems or poet?
“Embalming? We didn’t do
Even of great Vyasa’s body.
How will then we embalm
a minor poet’s corpse?
It makes good sense to bury
Both, the body and your poems.”
Saying much to my dislike
The priest slid back to his course.
Inwardly I rebuked
The fat religious leader
And went ahead undeterred
To realize what I wanted.
The next to look at me
Was an English language scholar.
Hopefully I called him
And my case I recounted.
He heard and sympathized,
Looked at me with pity,
Took my hand in his,
Heaved a sigh and said:
“Your claim is reasonable.
My good wishes to you.
Owing to lack of time
I can’t help dear bard.
“I’m a Shakespearian
I did research on him,
The self-styled litterateur
And arrogant versifier.
He’s been keeping me
Burdened all the time
As I do reviews of
Writings on this rhymester.
“Honestly I haven’t
Read any of your works.
Unless there’s pressure
Anything I don’t read.
Romantic young girls
Do read poetry books.
Approach some of them”,
While leaving, the scholar said.
The next to intercept me
Was a local politician.
I beseeched him to help
As a noble social cause.
Shaking his pot-belly
He scornfully laughed at me.
For settling old scores
He talked in filthy words.
“Oh, you dirty pig!
The so-called radical
Who incited a tirade
On senior political leaders!
Good, you stinker died
Prior to being killed.
You acted very smart.
I remember your lectures.
“Fool! You get buried,
Body and soul together.
How could you ever expect
This state to give you honour! ”
As he started his car
He spat on my body
In the shape of a wreath.
It evidenced his culture.
Next I met a poet.
He lamented my death.
He praised my poems
And hugged and kissed my chin.
“Why only you? ”, he asked.
“All poets have to be embalmed.
Go ahead and fight.
I’m sure you’ll win!
“I can’t join you now
My wife’s alone at home.
If I return late
In high pitch she will yell.
She is one person
Whom I really fear”
The poet said while leaving,
“We’ll meet in heaven or hell”.
All these couldn’t change
My firm determination.
I went ahead with vigor
And steadfast conviction.
Amused police said:
“For a frugal funeral
A good and simple style.
We OK this procession! ”
I met the Minister
For education and culture,
Forced him to hear my elegy
And asked for honour by the state.
“Sorry, my dear poet,
The state has no provision
For what you have in mind”
He said and left in haste.
People of all walks of
Life and vocations
Stopped, watched and heard.
None showed any concern.
“This is a dementia
That afflicts the weak victims
Even after death”
Was the general conclusion.
My walk went deep
Into the dark lonely night
Till I became weary
And the body heavier.
Refusing to admit
Failure of my mission
I went to the beach nearby,
To stretch out for an hour.
While in deep slumber
An unseen hand awoke me.
I saw none around.
But heard these soothing words:
“God is pleased with your
Conviction my boy.
You’re selected for
The highest of heaven’s awards.
“Not being a stooge,
It’s not easy to get honour
In this world mostly
Ruled by selfish men.
God had a purpose in you
You lived true to that.
You have honoured Him
So His honour for you is certain”.
The unseen hand raised me
A grave opened in front
My dead body fell into it.
Soon the grave got closed.
The unseen made me sit
Saddled firm on his back.
Then he rose to the sky
And flew fast through the clouds.
Grasping the unseen body
I fell asleep again.
I woke up to find myself
In a scintillating hall.
I was bathed and dressed
In glittering suit and gown.
Noble men and angels
Filled the ceremony hall.
In a resonant voice
I heard this announcement:
“God is honouring Joy
For good work done in the world.
His tirade against wickedness,
And growing inequities, and
Pursuit to ennoble men
Have greatly pleased the lord.”
Angels came to me
And escorted me to God.
He rose, embraced me,
And seated by His side.
A citation was read out
That praised me for my work.
The way it was written
Gave me much delight:
“…………………………………………………
The creator had a purpose.
You lived up to it very well.
You obeyed God’s command
And honoured Him everywhere.
For obeying God’s command
Men don’t give you reward.
Noble Man’s Award
For you by God is here! ”
God rose from His throne
And placed a crown on me
Shook my hand and said:
“Reward for honouring me”.
Fragrant flowers rained,
Drums and music rose,
Angels danced and sung:
“The Lord is honouring thee! ”.
Related quotes
George Crabbe Wrote Of
George Crabbe wrote of hardship and poverty and woe
In the England he lived in a long time ago
But perhaps his poems might be more popular today
Had he looked at life in a less truthful way.
George Crabbe wrote of children in dire poverty
The poor sad victims of Human cruelty
And the poems full of pathos and the poems full of truth
Of a poet who was blessed with the great gift of ruth.
He wrote of human cruelty to their own kind
A God in the soul of such a person you'll find
He did not write of mythological figures or monarch or squire
He wrote for the poor his type I do admire.
Of the poverty around him he was all too aware
But poets like George Crabbe they have always been rare
Though if you feel a bit down and a good laugh you do need
His poems lacking in Humor are not for you to read.
Of the poor souls of England George Crabbe did write
His poems not hard to understand or to read or recite
And though as a person and poet he was great
Such poets the masses never do celebrate.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Poet is free
Poet is free
No grammarian can guide the poet
Do not tell before a poet you are dare
And I know there are so many grammarians
With so many grammars
The poet is one with truth with love
All the grammars old middle modern
Are of no use for a poet
At the time of poet's thought
Poet's love poet's poetry
Nobody can search research poet's history
Nobody can dare to described poet
Poet can create his own language
His own grammar and it does not bother the poet
Whether you like it or not
Leave the poet on his own way
It is better you to read him love him
If you are alive.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Poet's Soul
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
I read the poet's inner world.
Pulse beats louder, then duller,
And all my doubts are just hurled.
The sadness sometimes a kiss cover,
Then suddenly curled at my feet,
Giving the whole body a heat,
The warmth of a true lover.
Fever passes through nervous points,
Chill runs through the whole body,
I read the poet's souls in the poems,
And feel that the soul is haughty.
I delve into the words and their nature,
Understanding destroys the walls,
Now I would like to capture
The main idea and the poems calls.
I read and my joy is in full swing,
My own soul gets the wings,
I am ready to fly with the singer,
Like me the poet is a swinger.
I am with that one who dared
To plunge into the holy spring naked,
I am with that one who shared
An inspiration and was not faked.
I read the poet's souls in the poems.
But do I read the souls of reality or dream?
Let's deem that no one here and there lies,
And the law of poetry is always precise.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 4th of April,2012
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The Lake Poets
You have heard of William Wordsworth he was bard of Cockermouth
And he truly was a great poet if that ever was in doubt
And with Southey and With Coleridge they became known as the lake poets
And they made the Lake District famous and some famous poems they wrote.
Robert Southey was a fine poet he was slave to poetry
And he was for awhile Poet Laureate proves the great poet he must be
And though he is not well known as Coleridge and Wordsworth's is a greater name
He tends to be under rated and deserve a better fame.
And as for Samuel Taylor Coleridge a name verse critics celebrate
His works were born of genius a poetic all time great
The Rhyme Of The Ancient Mariner his masterpiece and some say
Is even greater than the famous elegy of Gray
And as for himself Will Wordsworth his fame seem to grow and grow
He has fifty times as many readers nowadays as he had one hundred years ago
When one talks of poets and poetry Wordsworth's name can't be left out
A testimony to the greatness of the Bard of Cockermouth.
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth geniuses all three
Their names inscribed in glory and poetic history
They lived in the Lake District that beautiful English country side
And due to the fame of these men the Lake District is known World wide.
poem by Francis Duggan
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This Poet Is Always Beside You
You are reading my poem but,
This poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
I am on your lips and,
I am in your mouth;
I am in your heart and,
I am in your mind;
Because, this poet is always beisde you.
This poet writes and others read,
This poet speaks and others listen,
And this poet is always beside you;
But, this poet is never known.
The works of this poet are on the internet,
And, they are being read by many! !
But, this poet is never known;
However, this poet is always beside you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Professional Poet
and of course it was wrong
to label him as that – in just that tone of voice;
a touch of envy there, no doubt
implying a comfortable life,
a smart careerist, older poets youthfully
cultivated, poems in the right magazines,
editors gently kept in touch with;
keeping on the right side of his peers,
'interesting' reviews of their poetry skilfully woven,
professional favours quietly exchanged;
academic posts gracefully filled, and
moved on from; leaving grateful ex-students
recommended for the vacancy;
and an acquired ability
to write just enough, but not less;
so it should be rather, a lifelong devotee of poetry,
and when he started to read to us I felt mean
for assuming him to be some artificial thing
a professional poet;
I wanted to inhabit his poetry, the
house of his poetry; but some doors
to rooms were open, some were shut;
would I give the time to find and love the key?
He read his own poems
as if they were step-children –
proud to show them off, and yet, not really his;
the audience, taken aback by this,
hesitated to applaud.
But when he read the poems of others,
he read them as though they were miracles
to stun and to admire, yet he was, we were, barely worthy of;
dropping as fine mercy, as the gentle dew of heaven; he read like
an amateur would read the great, in awe; as -
a lifelong devotee of poetry. He shone.
In each of us, a poet was born and lived.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Elegy of a poet
I do not understand
as to why the people
are weeping,
crying,
mourning
and
to exhibit their sympathy
to match
or exceed with the compassion
of other in the same pursuit,
shedding the tears
for a poet
who died
writing poems
on everything
which even
the sun could not see
or imagine,
but could not
spell a few words
for whom
he lived,
he tried everything possible,
everything impossible
by making it possible,
and died
and
before the last collapse
entered the endevour
of writing poetry
on the walls of solitude
and confinement
leaving behind
the belief that
he might write
something
on his own epitaph
once everyone
pays the final tribute
and leaves the graveyard,
to show her that
he can write his own elegy,
an elegy of a poet
by the poet.
poem by Sandesh Shinde
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A Poet Of Our Time
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Poet Of Our
He doesn't like non rhyming poetry ignore what he has to say
About your fashionable writing you are the poet of the day
Your thoughts on paper are as deep as the ocean you are a wise one indeed
You are an emerging writer as a poet you will succeed
Everyone has their opinions no two exactly the same
He doesn't like modern poetry but he has not sullied your name
It only means you are a good writer when others your works criticize
You are a poet of the future you've won a literary prize
At poetry nights you read your verses and always for you there's an encore
You feel so proud and so happy when the audience they beg you for more
People love you for your poetry see you as a poetic great
But not everyone as you know your success will celebrate
He is a man of the fifties he only likes poems that rhyme
So many do love your poetry you are a poet of our time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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
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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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The Poet I Am', And 'The Poet I Am Not
The poet I am, and the poet I am not
‘The poet I am’ says
To ‘the poet I am not’,
‘Why can’t I be more like you? ’
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Because you are not good enough’
And ‘the poet I am’ begins to cry,
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Real poets cry for more meaningful things’
And ‘the poet I am’ says ‘I am who I am and what I will be means so much to me. But still I am not the poet I wanted to be’.
And ‘the poet I am not’ says
‘Exactly. Were you less concerned with who you are and more concerned with others you might be a bit more of a poet than you are now.’
And ‘the poet I am’ is silent.
And ‘the poet I am not’is somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Being A Poet
being a poet
is not an ambition
it is ironic
that i do poetry and
yet i do not want
to be called a poet
nor be identified with
any movement in poetry
nor take the challenge and opportunity
of being crowned by laurel leaves
and be dragged on the stage of
an island of light focusing my head and body
and they shall all clap and say
this is the poet, this is our poet
not in the figment of my imagination
not an ambition not a profession not a career in the field of literature
to be a poet on a certain degree
you see, i live in a crowded universe
i am a fish in the sea of people
and i, never imagine once in my whole life
that i will be swimming so meaninglessly in the corridors
of this vast ocean of men and mice and snakes
and goats and pigs and eagles
poetry is what i do but i am not a poet
this poet, that poet
their poet
the reason is here inside my heart
this is my place &
this is my only chance to be alone
to be myself to be human again for out there
i, we, you have become pillars
and dams.and walls and continental shelves
it is only here in this spot
that i become my island
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Retrieved Poetry
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
But the inspiration that befell the poet,
But the gods that cursed the poet
Would never allow him grow weary.
It keeps pouring out like morning dew
From sundown to cock crow.
Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
Those would get paid
That wishes it out of this world.
Judgement day, the pay day, even today
,
Memories linger of what the gods inspired.
Only poetry has survived a worldwide flood.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
But the inspiration keeps coming,
But the memory keeps living.
Poetry lives on even when the world is dead;
It dies only if it is not poetry
And there is only a good few poetry.
Poetry is dead,
Some have said.
Until we start seeing poetry as poetry
And nothing more, until that day,
Until we start thinking he is inspired,
Until we stop thinking for the poet;
He is possessed he is innocent.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument.
Even as we cut from the same tree,
Even as we speak same universal language,
You cannot cut deep if your axe's blunt.
We can never speak from same mouth.
You can only say your own thought.
Poetry is dead,
So goes the argument,
If poetry is dead killed by death,
If poetry is dead swallowed by death,
The corpse should be in our front.
We should know how to bury it.
We should dig not cover it with dust.
Poetry is dead,
If poetry is really dead,
There is cause to weep bitterly,
There is cause to think deeply
For the world has been stripped naked.
For poetry is great, ageless, timeless, bottomless
At the burial we must remain emotionless.
poem by Chime Justice Ndubuisi
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Letter To A Young Poet Revised
Letter to a young Poet
Dear Raman, so you want me to read your poem and state my opinion.
Well, you are fond of words and you are stacking them up in your poem.
That is a good thing; clearly you are a man who reads a lot.
So you want to be a poet, poetry is self indulgent pass time it doesn’t
change anything, no one reads it, other than cranky people. Should
a poet writes something nationalistic that resonance with, a nation’s
pride, like: “my country is the best in the world.” He will get a medal.
So why don’t you become an engineer or failing that, a cook. The world
doesn’t need, anymore academic poets who forever repeat what poets
of yore have said. For the common man a poet is regarded as a figure of
fun who spends valuable time putting useless words together to make
sense of a world he doesn’t understand. As my father said, when my first
poem was published: “How much did they pay you? ” If my words have
not scared you off, you’re a poet. The only tool you’ll need is honesty.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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John Masefield He Wrote Long Stories In Rhyme
For many years England's Poet Laureate but that's going back in time
John Masefield he wrote long stories in rhyme
True genius of him none could deny
His great poems to his greatness testify,
In the Literary World John Masefield held in high esteem
Of his era perhaps the poet supreme
As a young man as a deck hand he spent some time at sea
And much of the bigger World out there he did see
His Saltwater Ballads his ticket to fame
And in poetry his became a household name
His last remains in Nature's bosom lay
But his long narrative poems are read and enjoyed today
Far from England's shore by many a Masefield fan
He lives in his poems the great Ledbury man.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The aged poet. For Kealan if
When he was young
and life was poetry
and poetry was life
and girls made poetry
in his heart
he’d showed his poems to
an aged poet who
was quiet a while then
nodded his head and
smiled and
said ‘keep writing’
and he swore that day
as long as he could hold a pen
he’d write some sort of poetry
and so he did and so he did
and when he was
too old to hold a pen
he spoke his poetry
some say in an Irish pub
and people came from miles around
and said sure it was a t’ousand times
better than to read his poems on the page
which was itself worth –
and that last phrase was poetry
for who is not Irish and a poet
and when he was too old
to walk down to the pub
they came and listened
at his door and at his window
and when he was too old to speak
they came to see his silence
and left as poets
for their head
had joined their heart
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Work That Body
Drive my car wear my jewels
Make me feel like the king of fools.
Work that body
Work that body
Try not to hurt nobody
David loved Bathsheba, Samson loved Delilah
I love you and your name is Twyla.
Work that body
Work that body
Try not to hurt nobody
Life without love is empty and cruel
Without God's grace I remain a fool.
Work that body
Work that body
Try not to hurt nobody
After death I pray to go to Heaven
For I've been saved since I was eleven.
Work that body
Work that body
Try not to hurt nobody
Life can be short, life can be long
God sees all we do right or wrong.
Work that body
Work that body
Try not to hurt nobody
By Tom Zart
Most Published Poet On The Web!
Tom's 465 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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