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Juan Ramon Jimenez

The poet is not a philosopher, but a clairvoyant.

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A Poem Whose Meaning The Poet Does Not Know

A POEM WHOSE MEANING THE POET DOES NOT KNOW


A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Is a question only its readers can answer.
But if in the silence of endless absence
There are no readers
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Becomes a poem which does not exist.
And a poem which does not exist
Is not the poem the poet dreamed
When he heard in the night or the early morning
That rush of music that sequence of sounds
Which seemed to say more than he would ever understand
As he wrote it down in haste
For fear it somehow would be lost.

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The Poem Is The Metaphor/ For All The Poet Is Not

The poem is the metaphor
For all the poet is not-
It lives in its own way
Beyond the fine line
Of the poet’s sacred intention.

It knows a holiness of its own,
And perhaps no holiness at all.

It is what it is
As all things are what they are-

And if it means more than first appears,
And if it says endlessly new sounds,
The poet never knew he uttered,
Still somehow deeply it connects
To where he is and what he was and what he will be,
When he is not.

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Erica Jong

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.

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Not With Swords, But With Loving Heart!

Powerful souls are birds with powerful wings,
using wings of intuition and rational thinking,
they soar above tempest and storms,
above chill of snowfall and thrill of burning volcano!

They see deep into sky to reach beyond stars,
dive deep in ocean to bring up precious pearls,
they climb mountains withstanding hurling stones,
souls won the world, won not with swords, but hearts with love!

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To the Poet

In different clearness of rays,
In addling amalgam of visions
We always live in world’s things’ reign
With its triad of space division.

And spreading borders of this life,
Or multiplying forms by fable,
To hide your I from not-I’s eyes
You will be never-never able.

This power’s your leading star,
It has your God and nature’s law,
And before it, it’s pale and far –
The Art, belittling things’ great role.

You can not flee from slaving reign
To look for charms of airy smears,
The deepness is not verse’s main,
But just a puzzle which it bears.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
So, love the clearness and rays,
In the aroma – their creation,
And cut bright bowls for the grace
And always integral receptions.

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The Poet And The Lonely Lady

one summer a poet writes about
true love
and happiness
and this lonely lady
chances upon the lines of this poet

and she has tasted the sweetness
of happiness that love can bring

she loves every word in the poem
feels the ecstasy of every line
and every night
she says she cannot sleep
thinking, feeling,
wanting to be lost and be held in
his arms

she decides to love
the poet
ultimately
she travels to the place stated in his address
hoping to see him
so she will finally know
his love that touches her
in the bottom
of her heart

only to find out
it is sad
that the address does not exist
and the poet does not live there
and does not even
exist
perhaps only in the imagination
of those who want to love
and be loved

she is so sad she jumps into
a conclusion that love is a
lie
that the poet is a
liar

since then, she stops reading the poems
of that poet
(or any other poet)
who never dies
because he for once never ever lived
in the first place

except the poem
perhaps
which to date still convinces lonely ladies to live and believe
to love and be loved

that which defines
what love is
where love is found

and find it somehow in the arms of one
who is real, like it is alive, like it is true
to the one beside her
who touches her
with his
warm hands
who melts
her in his eyes

because
even unwritten by any poet

this love is still so beautiful....

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The Poet Endureth!

i stare at my face in the mirror,
and count with the heavy rhythm
of the clock... moment by moment...
every feeling, born and unborn,
every taste, intoxicating, burning the lips...
every smell, faint and overpowering...
every touch... real and imagined...
and who am i? and what have i to give?
i am the sound that you cant define,
cant put to words, cant control.
i am the fire that warms you, and destroys you...
the water you drink that drowns you;
the wind at your back, the infidel wind
that whispers to you in the middle of the night.
i am the small child, lost and crying,
i am the murderer, still someone's son.
i am the woman you'd die for,
that leaves you broken and bleeding.
i am the priest, the prophet, the thief,
the addict, the whore...
i am everything you believe in,
everything you're scared to admit you feel.
i am the tear no one sees you cry,
i am the fear you keep hidden.
i am the hungry man standing in line,
whose family is long gone.
i am the casket they buried your mother in...
i am the words written in stone,
that no one ever reads.
i am the stranger who steps in front of the car,
pushes you away, and is killed.
i am the path grown over,
... that you'd forgotten!
i am the kiss, the touch of flesh,
the cry of passion in the night.
i am the soul damned to hell,
burned at the stake by the righteous!
i am the hand that touches forbidden places,
that holds yours when you're alone.
i am every mistake you've ever made,
and some you want to make!
i am a lost soul with a glimpse of eternity,
nothing more, nothing less...
i am the poet endureth! i am nothing
but the dust beneath your feet...
i am merely the echo of what makes you human,
i have no name... i am everybody!

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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet

I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET

I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.

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Sometimes It Is Not The Poem But The Poet

how i want to be a pseudonym of a pseudo-poet
all: pseudohematuria
pseudoxoma, this sham shame this
counterfeit eshete, this fake classic
this pretense
inside this desception, false sun shining
on the sand, 'nom de Usenet
best-known and funniest hoax
this BIFF BIFF BIFF
Many flamers/ entities,
that AI program of sophistication

yet to exist
and the exits
travesty generator to simulate

oh! ass!
a significant number of people
like us
fooled by the forgeries
they debate over their authenticity

eventually
settled only when the perpetrator came forward
publicly admitting the hoax.

acidic Ph, test it.
taste it, let us see how your tongue works
to know the truth

i shall now reveal
you have loved the poet
but his poems you despise
.

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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 notis somewhere else being someone else
That ‘the poet I am and the poet I am not’ cannot see or dream.

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Why Do Ye Call The Poet Lonely

Why do ye call the poet lonely,
Because he dreams in lonely places?
He is not desolate, but only
Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces.

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I May Not Have Been A Great Poet

I MAY NOT HAVE BEEN A GREAT POET

I may not have been a great poet
Or even a good poet
Or even the poet I wanted to be.
But I am the poet I could be
The poet I am.
And may God have mercy on my soul,
And on all those I love.

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I Am Not The Poet I Dreamed

I AM NOT THE POET I DREAMED

I am not the Poet I dreamed
I am the Poet I am
Whatever will be – will be
And the stars and the suns
And this world and all the others
Will shine and give light
Whether I glimmer or flicker
Or do not.

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The Poem Is Not The Poet

THE POEM IS NOT THE POET

The poem is not the poet-
He cannot own or control it-
It takes on or does not take on
A life of its own-
It lives or does not live
Without him.

The poem is not the poet
It goes on as it is by itself -

Almost as alone as he is.

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The Poet Despairs

THE POET DESPAIRS

The poet despairs,
He cannot write-
All his thoughts and words are confusion.
He has lost who he is,
And does not know why he is in the world.
The poet cannot write
He is no longer a poet
He does not know why
But he can no longer be.
Oh how he loves Poetry
And how he is tormented
By having lost it.

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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?

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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.

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Erica Jong

The Poet Fears Failure

The poet fears failure
& so she says
"Hold on pen--
what if the critics
hate me?"
& with that question
she blots out more lines
than any critic could.

The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.

It's in his doggy nature.
If he didn't know the poet
for the boss,
he wouldn't bark so loud.

& the poet?
It's in her nature
to fear failure
but not to let that fear
blot out

her lines.

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The Poet Finds....

The poet finds whatever the moon could not see,
The poet finds whatever the earth does not know,
The poet finds whatever the sun could not see,
The poet finds whatever others do not know,
The poet finds whatever the stars could not see,
So why do the heathen rage and the people plot vanity? !
For she who is pregnant is closer to us,
And the hart pants after streams of water.
Your tears have been your food night and day,
And like your inner self in the lan dof your muse;
But the poet finds whatever the sun could not see.

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When The Poet Has Spoken

So, again you say it never happened
And plea for my insanity
When you could not admit
Your emotions were twisted
To suit your own needs
While making mine forever secondary
As if only you had wings
Which fell off from a missed opportunity
and had clipped before the spring...

Many paths have been broken
And chances clearly undertaken,
Still, the sun shines on above
Upon even those paths man has forsaken,
But still, he has God and his love,
He is the poet that has just spoken,
Feeling the pain of a broken wing from a dove
That can no longer reach the sky...

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