Tawfeeq Hasan Khan
(1/30/2014 4:49:00 AM)
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I think that a poem should be like a dirty ocean whose depth cant be seen but can be felt only if you dive deep into it.
(1/28/2014 2:28:00 PM)
i think just flow with your feeling n write whatever you feel after all poetry is flow of feelings......
(1/28/2014 7:00:00 AM)
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Writing poetry is the life-breath, respiratory system and a going on process.
Gangadharan Nair Pulingat
(1/27/2014 8:44:00 AM)
I am very much interested to read and recite poems and trying to understand its meanings the poet supposed to understand by the reader. I think that poems beautifully created by the poets of eminence is really worth to social awakening in every sphere of life and making the reader so enthusiastic for societal obligations in right sense. Be it sorrow, enviornment protection, nature, river and any subject is so much interesting when it comes as a poem for an interested reader. Poets and poems are the real connectivity link for international human relations and humanity at large I think.
(1/23/2014 12:44:00 PM)
Hey, I'm inviting you to check out my site The Poet Society.Net. (http://www.thepoetsociety.net) . Also if you have any suggestions or comments on the site, you can email me at email@example.com. CHEERS! ! !
PS: Keep writing ;)
(1/22/2014 11:00:00 PM)
@ JC: The lines were good, but honesty was lost in alien words. Good poems are those which wish to connect with the least difficulty as possible. I dislike smoke-screening and pretense, but a full view of what's what is most appreciated by all. In simple understandable English like a good movie that makes you run or walk, depending on the cue.
(1/22/2014 10:55:00 PM)
@ Metamorphh: Yep. Rhymers are best in my opinion. They give poems that melodious quality that makes you feel welcomed by the poet. It is like sitting side by side together and going on the rhythm of bodies closely touching, rather than being pushed recklessly behind by the other, as some poems do. My poem is also somewhere in this page. See if you like the easy rhythm of waves rolling in and out.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
(1/22/2014 8:52:00 AM)
While I enjoy reading all kinds of poetry, I particularly like writing rhymers. Creating within the strictures of rhyme I find to be challenging, exhilarating and just plain fun. So, a little challenge, maybe?How's about something a bit abstract?Here's my offering, and looking forward to seeing what you've got...
Enter the beetle, the sickening shell
hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.
So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
a precarious balance on the one that won’t budge;
he’s a pillar of porridge made of steel, and hot fudge.
An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on;
it’s a race to save face on the magistrate’s lawn!
The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
while the dahlias drown in the spades they were dealt.
All the while, a mower’s blades can be heard in the distance,
and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.
The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
(their sh*t’s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats) .
The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
all the gophers, whose guts are befouled, and besmutting
the whole yawning yard, it’s turf slick with ennui
(from the grease of the gopher guts’ grime, don’t you see?)
The tumultuous trenchwar strikes a strident crescendo,
as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.
The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
t’was God’s yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away) .
(1/19/2014 8:07:00 PM)
Even when running a fever due to flu virus, also very cold water, the poet survived due to a poem she wrote. So, there aside from being balm to a grieving heart, poems can also be like an antibiotic. As she told another online seafarer last night in poemhunter, don't lose your grip on your craft and let go off nonessentials...The poem written in the throes of a fever:
Taunting Me To Come
I know how far are the stars
I just have to reach out and there
Your face is ever so clear, so near
But you are staring hard and glare
From laptop is hurting my eyes...
Not tonight, I will not risk your ire
Some other night when relaxed
When eyes are upturned and squinty
From playing with frisky Poochie
The two of us can cuddle and share...
Your happy heart is made for poems
Your eyes can see beyond the shore
Waters lap on sand things you adore
On and off like pendulum on clock
Sand in glass just pours unminded...
Where birds dip below streams
And come up with fish in beak
They never tire of splashing water
Where the sun never fades and
Wind never breaks leaves from boughs...
There is such a world you showed
And I brought a red canoe for us
You believed everything I told you
And so we drifted companionably
The word busy is not in your tongue...
You were singing a wordless song
More of a hum, and a laughter to fill in
Now there is more of nagging silence
Like dripping water from a faucet
Rattling my senses, nonsensical....
I am running a fever but I survived
Just washing my face in clear water
I caught in the palms of my hand
You were laughing as you splashed
Feet swift on sand, taunting me to come...
(For my mentor and friend...)
(1/19/2014 12:21:00 PM)
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I feel, I see
dream of heaven in the hell