Wondrous Pen
In my imagination, freely I pen
She receives me, every now and then
Though a poet unnamed
With this pen, a poet is proclaimed
The only one who could speak my mind
For with you, there is nothing to hide
You have been my better tongue
That do not want me to die unsung
You are my strength, pen
You are my voice, pen
The fountain of my creativity
The pillar of my poetic ability
My pen, mightier than sword
Deepest interest explored
My pen, so victorious
Makes me so glorious
My pen, my greatest instrument
Without you, I 'd have been impotent
My pen, my voice
My pen, my strength
poem by Ifetayo Elijah
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Related quotes
What Voice? ...
On this World Voice Day
It's a duty of us all
A pause for reflecting
Thanking the Creator
And all those who gave
And those who keep giving
Their voice for Love
For their wishes for Peace
And for the deepest Lament!
It's the voice of the Humanist
It's the voice of the Actor
It's the voice of the Poet
It's the voice of every Artist
It's the voice of the Scientist
The voice of the voiceless
And the voice of those able to voice it
Yet... they're deprived of doing so
And it doesn't reach us
As it would be fair, though!
April 16,2012
poem by Maria C. Costa
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Before a Poetry Reading
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I'm feeling nervous but I mustn't show it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I hope to heaven that I won't blow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
I mustn't reveal that I'm a second-rate poet!
I'm only a rhymer, but they don't know it!
If you've got no talent you'll have to grow it!
'Poet! Poet! Poet! Poet! '
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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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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Poet vs Poem
Does a poet makes poem
Or poem makes poet?
The eternal war goes on.
The big confusion who will solve it?
Poet fight with sword of pen.
Poem armoured with shield of senses.
Poet tries to rich sky high,
Poem pulls rope of meaning and tenses.
Does poet sketc the poem
Or poem drags him through the invigible gravity.
A piece of paper becomes battlefield.
The war of ink and vocabulary,
Creates a historic beauty.
Poet cages the poem in a book.
Where the world will look.
Praises all to poet 'oh how great'
But the poem is what counts after his death.
poem by Saurav Karki
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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 strong survive lie
Only the strong survive.
We all know, physically this is a lie, for all men shrivel and die.
The only strength that never dies is the strength most men are proud to hide.
The strength I speak of is the only strength that outlasts time.
This is the mind, the spirit, and the soul for survival in the kingdom of man divine.
For therein lies the strength that outlasts time.
poem by Jeff Rushton
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Poet, O Poet
Let not the dog out
The poet cried.
Poet, poet, O poet
Imagine, imagine and imagine
Your imagination is our wealth
Your imagination is our health
Imagine, imagine and imagine
Create things on your own
In your own world my dear poet
That is not known and that is owned.
Let not the dog out
The poet cried.
Poet, poet, O poet
We have no control over anything
We have no control over the land
That is dreamy.
It is only you O poet
Who can control us from that land
Where nothing to be shame
Where no body is there to blame
Where there is only fame and fame.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Poet Fails
THE POET FAILS
The poet fails.
And cannot write.
Empty inside
His voice lost
No rhythm no tone
He tries to hear his way back.
Line by line
Simple words
Tries to hear his own feeling
The mind moves
But his heart does not.
The poet writes his own process of failure
Is this a poem?
Or is it merely the broken prose meditation
Of an old man who has lost his voice?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Who says I'm a poet
Yes I write lines
And rhyme rhymes
I write puns
Simile alliteration
And all figures of speech
But who says I’m a poet
In some cases I write and scratch
Sometimes I think crack
Voice out loud dah
Making speeches like damn
Combining words
Building sentences
But who says I’m a poet
I maybe great and brave
Embracing grave
Like person reading a Braille
Showing how strong I dare
But still at night I stare
Thinking who says I’m a poet
I may speak with sticks
Throwing ink turned into voices
Beat with lips
To defend my choices
That might be pointless, thoughtless
Maybe fair-less
Because no one says I’m a poet
They say;
Self recommendation has no justification
Practice makes perfect
But I say;
If you can’t recommend yourself who will
Why practise if no one is perfect
Because I’M A POET I say
poem by Zama Ashley Helebe
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An exact poetic duplication of a man is for the poet a negation of the earth, an impossibility of being, even though his greatest desire is to speak to many men, to unite with them by means of harmonious verses about the truths of the mind or of things.
quote by Salvatore Quasimodo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poet's Pride
Oh, it is a quiet harmless pride
Of simple and innocent poet's heart;
It is the heat inside a hearth
That is cool and calm outward.
It can burn and engulf the steel,
Dissolve the earth to fluid dreams
While sits upright on the golden throne
Of the poet's safe candescent heart.
The poet's pride is on a tripped ride
While exposed on an open road,
Like a patient from a mental ward
With inward versus outward fight.
While expanding to far off horizons,
Poet's pride is light like birds;
While grim like clouds,
It cools and pours confidence around.
It is a strange candescence inside
That exposes nuances of the self;
It is a strange candescence inside
That seizes shams from its shades.
Poet's pride is frozen enlightenment,
Pure and thick fog of innocence;
Poet's pride is a cleansing holy fire
That melts gold to give it shine.
Warm like a dear darling's hug,
Cold like Antarctic ice-shelf,
Soft like gold and hard like steel,
The poet's pride is humility in disguise.
It creeps like cool breeze
Or sweeps like a tempest;
It spreads sweet fragrance
Or leaves back sad wreck.
A rare grace of imbalance is pride
In the deepest caves of a poet's mind,
The eerie smoke of the poetic brood
Fills the air with a soothing indolence.
Poet's pride soars like a kite in the sky
While calm reflections delve to the self;
Poet's pride dips deep when hurt
While the sham world ignores his worth.
Pride is a wall that blocks path
Of easy virtues for a speedy flourish,
A riddle of likes and dislikes is pride,
Where walks a poet with royal grace.
The poet's pride, his strength and worth,
A protective sheath that absorbs shocks;
The poet's pride, his being's depth,
Whence uprises his poetic breadth.
poem by Praveen Kumar
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Bob Dylan Heard The Voice
Bob Dylan heard the voice
Of a poet who died in the gutter;
That dying voice
Then seeped into his soul
Imbuing him with beauty and truth.
And that voice
Of the old poet is now
As hard as twisted nails,
But it still has the rare beauty
Of complete honesty.
Thus I continue to follow
The great wandering gypsy of song.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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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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The Poet as a Feeler of Pain
What makes a poet?
Many have tried to guess.
Is it a voice
like a conduit,
a plainspokenness to grief,
the hairs of the head
dancing on end,
the blood swarming
with the voices
of all those who have died,
will die,
& will also be born?
Is it a catch
in the throat
that awakens the eyes,
is it in the eyes themselves
or is it something
in the heart?
I think it is pain-
an openness to pain,
so that the least leaf
cuts the hand
& the smallest tear
cuts the cheek
like jagged crystal,
so that the world
is a sick infant
& the poet its mother,
praying, crooning, promising
to be good
if only the cure
takes.
There is, of course,
no cure.
Poetry does not cure
the poet
& the poet
does not cure the world.
Usually he catches
the world's diseases
& dies
even before his time.
But against all odds
& all indifference,
another one is born.
The world must have
someone to feel its pain
& speak of it.
The poet is that mouth.
poem by Erica Jong
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Amazing Joyce
On such rare and marvellous talent how can one put a price
She surely is amazing the one and only Joyce
She has tried every form of poetry one must say with success
And to lovers of poetry Worldwide she brings great happiness.
The marvellous Joyce Hemsley a poetic legend of our time
The internet queen of haiku and senryu and the internet queen of rhyme
Six thousand poems to her name she just goes on and on
One cannot say about her that her better days are gone.
In every one of her poems one can detect her poetic voice
The poet for all Seasons is the amazing Joyce
What can be said about her that has not been said before
Six thousand poems to her name and from her expect many more.
She waves the literary banner for England a true poetic great
The amazing poet from Sunderland we ought to celebrate
A legendary online poet by example she leads the way
And surely a great mentor to all young poets of today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Song For The Irish Militia
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in prostrate men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the crop so bravely sown!
No more I'll sing nor idly pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
No foe would fear your thunder words,
If 'twere not for your lightning swords
If tyrants yield when millions pray,
'Tis less they link in war array;
Nor peace itself is safe, but when
The sword is sheathed by fighting men
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The rifle brown and sabre bright
Can freely speak and nobly write
What prophets preached the truth so well
As HOFER, BRIAN, BRUCE, and TELL?
God guard the creed these heroes taught-
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
Then, welcome be the bivouac,
The hardy stand, and fierce attack,
Where pikes will tame their carbineers,
And rifles thin their bay'neteers,
And every field the island through
Will show 'what Irishmen can do! '
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death so Ireland's free!
Yet, 'tis not strength and 'tis not steel
Alone can make the English reel;
But wisdom, working day by day,
Till comes the time for passion's sway
The patient dint and powder shock,
Can blast an empire like a rock.
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free!
The tribune's tongue and poet's pen
May sow the seed in slavish men;
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown.
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine,
But train my soul to lead a line
A soldier's life's the life for me
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free.
poem by Thomas Davis
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Mind candy
Spoken with a voice of infancy and sweet severity
A story well known, something easily associated and contemplated
Entranced by the name, the voice, the humor, the scene
'What a wonderful message.' 'What a wonderful thing'
What a waste of the mind, what a cavity
The sadness of speech is the show we all seek
The speech from the heart, nervous, anxious, shaken in a quiet testimonial voice, a fountain after three days drought
Find the candy to rot in...to out, or
Find the heart, a muscle with the strength to carry all things out.
poem by Jeff Rushton
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biography ***** FEAR ME NOT, OH PLEASE, FEAR NOT ME
I am not the poem
you read in hunter's web
i am not the simile
you read in rhythmic melody
i am not the methapor
nor personification nor hyperbole
eventhough my tounge can speak
literary language's soul
and my mind can blink
mystery of endless imagination
still i am not what you are thinking
yes my hand writes
romantic tone
from veins run the
blood of pen
to spell in solemn way
I AM A POET
with young strength of joy and pain
poem by Rommel Mark Dominguez Marchan
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A Spirit Of Poetry!
when a spirit of poetry decent,
it came
In a form of dove
When it came
Jesus became first poet under sun
And Almighty God
Was already, first poet over sun?
Using Poetry in poetic foam
Almighty GOD spoke through poetry
And he is a poet himself
Now his poetry is everywhere, and anywhere
We interact with poets
Words are like soil, are everywhere
Brighter that Sun
His poetic lights lead the way
When he likes
He will come
He will be in poetic foam
To Re-arrange poems
Schedule them in a poetic manner
On a judgment, He will met poets first
And secondly meet
Those who haven't written a poem
To Discuss similes, metaphors and personifications
Future of poetry is in heaven
poem by Jacques Sprenkie Mateya
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Each Poet Is A Solitary Voice Sounding His Own Alone Through The Universe
EACH POET IS A SOLITARY VOICE SOUNDING HIS ALONE THROUGH THE UNIVERSE
Each poet is a solitary voice sounding his own alone through the universe
Each one writes what only he or she can
No one is the other and all for anyone else
We come into the world alone
And we die alone
And we are poets – alone
Yet what we dream alone
Is nonetheless what no alone can ever give
A kind of love and recognition
An affirmation of who we are
A blessedness
That may once have been had in our mother's love
But which in our long slow years
Can never fully come again.
I loved a woman once
And she seemed to love me
I knew then
There is Eternity.
Now in my old age
I also need love
A poet is alone
And only G-d above.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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