Poetribute
Poets are few
But the pens are plenty Is like the world is running to his end
With no minute and hour paused to rest
Running as if to fulfil long-told revelation
Poets have all gone beneath the sand
The pregnant graveyards
Where they sleep with the hope to be born
To another world hereafter
Death be not proud
You can only claim the flesh
But not the soul
O the poets are few
And the pens are plenty
Hard are the words out.
To combat untruth in men
poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the world of poetry there are would-be poets, workshop poets, promising poets, lovesick poets, university poets, and a few real poets.
quote by James Broughton
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Good Poets and Bad Poets
Some poets get awards and think they are good poets.
Some poets never get awards and think they are bad poets.
Some poets think they are good poets only in their own mind
Some poets think they are bad poets in somebody's else mind.
Some poets think they are good poets in somebody else mind.
Some poets think others think they are good poets but they don't in their hearts.
Some poets think they are good poets in their hearts but not in anyone else's mind.
All are insecure, except those who get security from the opinions of others and that, alas, doesn't last and isn't real.
Some poets have left the entire scene and live only in their mind.
Some poets take criticism and don't mind.
Some poets avoid criticism and do mind.
Some poets write poetry to get love.
Some poets love to write poetry.
Some poets are ahead of their time, in their mind
Some poets spend a lifetime feeling like failures in their mind
Some poets live only after they die.
Some poets have much to say but can't articulate
Some poets retreat, believing others don't understand
So which one of these am I?
I guess I am all of these and none of these
and no matter what my description
I intend to keep doing what I do:
Write. Right
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Tribute To All Poets
Poets in awe
beauty of the sea
swimming the ocean
begging to be free
Poetry in motion
Walking the land
Carving out each word
Deep down in the sand
Poets hungry
Devour each page
reach for each meaning
put on a stage
Poetry screams silence
during blackened night
with the glow of the moon
shining silvery white
Poets asleep
thinking each new rhyme
Waltzing the floor
Running in time
Poetry Forever
neither alive or dead
remembering the words
that get stuck in your head
poem by Linda Racaniello
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When Poet's Weep
with the monsoon
came the rains
which flooded
waiting landscape
with infinite words
swift rivers of life flow
from excalibur poet's pens
water thirsty souls
with seasons monsoon
comes regeneration rains
poets take up parchment pens
weep oceans of written tears
let compassion flood hearts
battle hard inspire lost souls
with life awaited monsoon
came soul cycle of rains
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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If I Knew What Poets Know
If I knew what poets know,
Would I write a rhyme
Of the buds that never blow
In the summer-time?
Would I sing of golden seeds
Springing up in ironweeds?
And of rain-drops turned to snow,
If I knew what poets know?
Did I know what poets do,
Would I sing a song
Sadder than the pigeon's coo
When the days are long?
Where I found a heart in pain,
I would make it glad again;
And the false should be the true,
Did I know what poets do.
If I knew what poets know,
I would find a theme
Sweeter than the placid flow
Of the fairest dream:
I would sing of love that lives
On the errors it forgives;
And the world would better grow
If I knew what poets know.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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I Write Poems For Poets
I WRITE POEMS FOR POETS
I write poems for poets
Our situation as poets-
The longings the feelings
We so need to express-
The love of language-
The hunger for recognition-
The frequent rejection-
The kind word of a reader that moves-
Poems for poets
We as we each are
All so different-
And we as we share
Words and worlds
We hope to have read.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Peace Poets
We are a bunch of peace poets
We hate war and sing songs of peace
Poets of the planet, come and join us
Our pens are now much stronger than weapons
It roars more than a gun.
Planet belong to peace lovers
Warmongers have no place on this planet
Days of warmongers are over
We are a bunch of peace poets
We sing songs of peace.
Oh poets of this planet
Come and join us
We shall make our planet a heaven
Warmongers are dead forever.
poem by Devil Poet
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Oh These Poets And Their Sounds
OH THESE POETS AND THEIR SOUNDS
Oh these poets and their sounds
Their distant rhythms
Which take your soul away-
Oh these poets and their sounds
And the longing to be
One of them-
Oh this poet
And all his cry of loneliness-
Oh these poets and their sounds,
And he in his own small voice
Crying out lonely words
Before his own lonely page.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.
quote by T.S. Eliot (1920)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Versatilty
I think that I can claim to be
a poet who is versatile.
I try to write my poetry
in varied form and varied style.
I emulate and imitate
styles of great poets of the past.
To show that I appreciate
poets that time has over cast.
Although long dead their words live on.
A source of inspiration to
poets today.Though they’re long gone
and I give credit where its due.
Although some things I write are new
I cannot trace their origin.
I trust my muse as poets do.
She prods me until I begin.
She tells me there is no such thing
as writers block there cannot be.
A poor excuse for not writing
I’m not allowed to be lazy
That’s something she won’t tolerate
and drags me from my bed to write.
Though I protest the hour is late.
She is insistent that I write.
If she should choose to stay away
I’d seize the opportunity
to simple have a lazy day
Without my conscience pricking me.
11-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0005 Totally Boring Poem
I’m totally bored by:
poems that sound like other poems
poems that try to sound unlike any other poems
poets who never take risks
poets who think that taking risks
makes them good poets
poems with 'meaning'
poems with no meaning
poets who slag off other poets
as if that achieves something
poets that tell you that rhyme
is not for an age but for all time
poets that tell you that rhyme is outmoded and boring
poets who think that the poetry of 'the past'
is greater than that of 'the present'
poets who think that the poetry of 'the present'
is greater than that of 'the past'
poems that tell you the poet's the first to discover sex
poets that tell you they’re the best sex you’ll ever have
although you’ll never meet them to find out
poets that tell you they’ve been dumped
poets who've never known love and being dumped
poets who are ambitious
poets who are unambitious
poets who tell you all about higher things
poets who reject higher things
poets who think life’s just a joke
poets who think life’s no joke
poets who sit on the fence
poets who have no sense of balance
poets who despise 'the middle ground'
poets who talk about technique
poets with no technique
poets who just throw down their thoughts
poets who 'work up' their poems to a self-satisfied polish
poets who list what they like (who cares?)
poets who list what don’t like (who cares?)
poets who write about extreme states
poets who think they’re immune to extreme states
poets who tell you why they’re bored
poets who have opinions
poets who seem to have no opinions at all
poets who have boring opinions to air - why choose poetry?
poets who comment on others' poems
as if it's the last word
poets who never bother to comment
on others' poems
poets who don't love poetry passionately
poets who tell you they 'love poetry passionately'
poets who – oh I’m too bored to go on reading this,
how about you?
I suppose you have boring opinions too?
another time perhaps
and oh yes I'm most of all bored by
those who waste their precious time on this earth
being bored
well I feel better for that.
how about you?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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We As Poets
We as poets must command a sacred accent over a language of our choice,
We as poets must gift the minds of a failing generation,
We as poets must demand a clear explanation and a fair occupation,
We as poets must dissolve into particles and dust if we have not known enough,
We as poets must destroy the living standards of low quality,
We are to be the poetry of utmost perception and suffering.
poem by Naveed Akram
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For All The Poets
FOR ALL THE POETS
This is a poem for all the poets who have no name,
For all those who have written and failed,
And for those who have not written,
And failed.
This is a poem for all the poets who dreamed themselves poets,
And were never, and will be known as poets
To the world.
This a poem for all those
Who after years of effort
Still live in an oblivion
They will die in.
This is a poem for all those
Who whether they have poetry in them or not,
Will never be heard or read,
For what their hearts must tell
Someone else.
This is a poem for all the silent poets
Those who live in silence
And whose silence is eternal
For all those whose only poetry
is the poem they have lived within themselves.
This is a poem for all those who would- be poets
And a poem for those
Who despite their efforts
Did not make their poem known.
This is a poem which may be for you,
And I know is for me
A confession
To make us less alone.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The First Poets
The First Poets hunted game in the forest and on the plains-
inventing signs and gestures; guttural sounds and mime-
and ultimately Words.
The First Poets wrote words and drew pictures
on the walls of caves
stamping their feet to drum-beats;
learning to dance.
The First Poets invented music for their words
religion, books and counting-conjuring up
in each instance-new things.
The First Poets imagined names for plants,
animals, birds and creatures of the sea;
sang songs about them-wrote poems and hymns.
creating sentiment, vows and promises-
marriage ceremonies.
Poets invented the idea of the Idea, of kindness, and visions.
Poets invented hope and the future, love of the past, community.
Poets invented the rhythm of our lives.
Poets re-invent themselves and civilization each generation.
They peer into the gauzy dream and dream what is not yet;
they peer inside themselves
reaching in
with-drawing something new
from that which had not been
there
before.
The First Poets invent and re-invent civilization each generation.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The End of the World
Here, at the end of the world,
the flowers bleed
as if they were hearts,
the hearts ooze a darkness
like india ink,
& poets dip their pens in
& they write.
"Here, at the end of the world,"
they write,
not knowing what it means.
"Here, where the sky nurses on black milk,
where the smokestack feed the sky,
where the trees tremble in terror
& people come to resemble them. . . . "
Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.
Write us a letter!
Send us a parcel of food!
Comfort us with proverbs or candied fruit,
with talk of one God.
Distract us with theories of art
no one can prove.
Here at the end of the world
our heads are empty,
& the wind walks through them
like ghosts
through a haunted house.
poem by Erica Jong
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There Are A Few Poets
THERE ARE A FEW POETS
There are a few poets
Beyond the poetry you and I know
And are capable of –
There are a few poets
Who seem to write a poetry
Which is Poetry itself,
A Poetry which is everything Poetry should be-
Those poets are somewhere else
On a level far beyond any we can hope to reach-
They are Poetry –
And we we are the little listeners and readers
Who can in awe and praise worship
What we ourselves will forever be incapable of.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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A poor pen
Pen is
Not great...
On the paper...
poet write at
Moon+ sky...
Stars...
Earth and sea...
All are in poets
Hand only
At poets hand...
Poets is think...
Poets dream...
Thats all
pen is very poor
Noock out...
undrestad to try...
Try too under stand....
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Poet Tree
Rustle, little leaves above, rustle in the breeze...
Rustle, little leaves of love, rustle mid God's peace!
Rustle, every night and day, rustle every hour...
Rustle, rustle, come what may, rustle mid God's power!
Rustle, for then wise words are formed,
Great expectations made!
Through such as these, men's hearts are warmed
And children's prayers are prayed!
Rustle upon the Poet Tree,
Above the poets' ears,
So they may learn each melody,
These God-picked volunteers...
Rustle sweetly, and gently on,
Persist from age to age -
Let all God's poets write upon
Their separate nearby page...
Rustle until all humans die
And no more poets live!
Until no soul would question, 'Why? '
And there's no cause to give!
Rustle until God tells you stop,
'Dear friends, at last, be free...
'Tis time for you to fall, to drop...
Beneath the Poet Tree...
I've loved each poem, every one...
And Jesus loved them, too!
You've blessed the world! Your task is done!
Your rustle days are through...'
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Real Poets
THE REAL POETS
The real poets are few in number and largely known by name
The rest of us are endless frustration in aspiration
Words upon words upon words
Dreams upon dreams upon dreams
Getting and going nowhere forever unheard
The real poets find their anthologized place
And we know them over and over and over again
The rest of us just appear this only once
If we appear at all
And our words and our hearts and our minds
Do not encompass and inspire the endless rereadings
Time and Time’s Wounds make again and again and again
We are once only always forever losts
Nothing will save us
These words too coming in the wake of a long night’s reading
Of the poems of others
Cannot sustain and redeem
Cannot be what they would be
Cannot help and cannot save
Me or you or anyone we love
Even as poetry.
God Who Knows All
And in the End Decides on Everything
Has made us smaller even than the Angels
And our place in the Divine Song
Is not as far as we know
Anywhere heard at all.
Goodbye world
We are going
We have done what we could
We have written and written and written
Oxymandias’ poet will remain
And we will not
The lone and desert sands will stretch away
When we are not even a single grain.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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