As poet and artist I am a Polytheist, as Nature investigator, a Pantheist.
The Great Artist and Poet
Many many moons ago
great poet and artist
mastered the sonnet
and the madrigal,
writing them for his
whose bright light
remain high in glory
'The Last Judgment'
tells a virtuous story.
Having lived a long life
his sculptures are rife.
In Florence and Rome
tourists may view,
and the privilege is
theirs so to do.
Yet Another Poem About The Poet And The Poem
Yet another poem about the poet and the poem
Another self- reflexive indulgence in idle self- definition-
While the real world and the real poetry
Go on in their own way-
As if this poem and this poet
Do not know how
Romantic Poet And Memory Of Magic Realism - Wael Moreicheh
ROMANTIC POET AND MEMORY OF MAGIC REALISM
life still fact of dream small village
in unfinished seas a sailor can not visit the land
or say can god of souls stopped death for ever
magic realism our story
through broken economic'my economic under zero hours '
as peace in middle east
The Poet And The Reader
the poet writes his lines
they are all dead
unless the reader comes
and resurrects them
then the poem becomes alive
and begins to read upon itself
the meaning of its existence
there is a bond between the poet
and the reader
a familiarity comes into play
one says> this is what it is
the other says> i know.
POET and POETESS
Poet and Poetess can write words oh so sweet.
They can make you throb inside,
make you feel the heat.
Poet and Poetess can write words oh so strong.
They can make you hurt inside,
make you feel what's wrong.
They take on love.
They take on hate.
They make your mind saturate
with tears of joy
and tears of woe
that just grab hold
and won't let go.
Poet and Poetess can write write words oh so true.
They can make you think inside,
make you think things through.
Dedicatory Poem: To George Sigerson, Poet And Scholar
Two men of art, they say, were with the sons
Of Milé,—a poet and a harp player,
When Milé, having taken Ireland, left
The land to his sons’ rule; the poet was
Cir, and fair Cendfind was the harp player.
The sons of Milé for the kingship fought—
(Blithely, with merry sounds, the old poem says)
Eber and Eremon, the sons of Milé
And when division of the land was made
They drew a lot for the two men of art.
With Eber who had won the Northern half
The Harper Cendfind went, and with Eremon
The Northerner, Cir the poet stayed;
And so, the old Book of the Conquests says,
The South has music and the North has lore.
To you who are both of the North and South,
To you who have the music and the lore,
To you in whom Cir and Cendfind are met,
To you I bring the tale of poetry
Left by the sons of Eber and of Eremon.
A leabhráin, gabh amach fn saoghal,
Is do gach n-aon dá mbuaileann leat
Aithris cruinn go maireann Gaedhil,
T’réis cleasa claon nan Gall ar fad.
The Poet And The Lonely Lady
one summer a poet writes about
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
wanting to be lost and be held in
she decides to love
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
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
that the poet is a
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
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
her in his eyes
even unwritten by any poet
this love is still so beautiful....
Me, the Poet? and She?
Me the Poet? and she?
Any time I am to handle her
It is a pleasure to both
She accommodates me so well
And accepts all my maneuvers
With silence and giving me
Signs of her enjoying
Each move and touch of mine
It is always a new experience
When I approach her
For negotiating her
As each time her curves and shades change
Apparently exciting me
The product of our association
Is also a pleasure to us
And to others as well
As the outputs always have
Something new to convey
And something new to show up
They display more the
Reflections of me while
They invariably inherit her beauty
The conception of the product is
Instantaneous and it is triggered
Mostly by the environment we are in
While I have words to express
My longing for her
She never once uttered a word
On the love she has for me
But she herself is an expression
More than her love
It is her blessing I am able to
Maintain my relations with her
She at times chooses to stay
Off me when I am drowned in
Thoughts not congenial for our getting close
Her inviting beauty
Her flexibility to suit my moods
Her tolerance to my non-sense
Her exciting curves
Her awesome shades and
Her intoxicating scent
Made me lost to her
Whenever I am in her vicinity
And I am a lifetime prisoner
To this marvelous creation
Hold on friends
Stop your imagination
Written in love for
The language I use while scripting
Me, the poet and
She, the English
Many many moons ago
A great Poet and Artist
Italian - Michelangelo
Mastered the Sonnet
And the Madrigal,
Composing them for his Rose
Vittoria Colonna... whose
Aura of magic still glows.
remain high within glory.
'The Last Judgment Painting'
Reflects his holiest story.
Having lived a long life
Poems and sculptures were rife
For interested tourists to view.
A pleasure for the literary few.
Floral Poems of Delight
A famous poet and artist
~~Cicely Mary Barker~~
born in London eighteen ninety-five
died in London age seventy-eight
produced a very beautiful book
~~The Flower Fairies~~
Unable to attend school because
of ill-health, Cicely worked from
home, taught by a Governess...
A copy of this book was given to
me on my fifth birthday, and was
a first introduction to floral poems.
My young life was absorbed with
Flower Fairies...the Song of the
Poppy was my favourite. I recall
the words until this day. I am sure
that Cicely Mary Barker would be
delighted to see her Poppy Flower
poem brought to light after so
many years...and I quote:
The green wheat's a-growing
The lark sings on high
In scarlet silk a-glowing
Here stand I.
The wheat's turning yellow
Ripening for sheaves
I hear the little fellow
who scares the bird thieves.
Now the harvest's ended
The wheat fields are bare
But still red and splendid
I am there.
Many thanks to the one and
only...the Late Poet and Artist
Cicely Mary Barker.
O poet O Artist
Write what you think
Alas, You are not free
Even in our democracy.
Sketch what you face
Alas, You are not free
Even in our democracy.
Poet And Priest.
The poet's born, the priest is made: at last
Shall come a day when all men at the shrine
Of poesy shall pay their vows, and know
The oracles of Nature are divine,
And but the inspired have authority.
0240 The Poet and the Tree
under the tree's shade
the poet wrote;
that his poems
might have the grace
of the tree.
the tree heard
the poet's wish
and gave itself,
to share his book
leaf for leaf
for as long
as his poems lived
and so it was
Poet and Lord
GOD makes a poet: touches soul and sight,
And lips and heart, and sends him forth to sing;
His fellows hearing, own the true birthright,
And crown him daily with the love they bring.
The king a lord makes, by a parchment leaf;
Though heart be withered, and though sight be dim
With dullard brain and soul of disbelief—
Ay, even so; he makes a lord of him.
What, then, of one divinely kissed and sent
To fill the people with ideal words,
Who with his poet's crown is discontent,
And begs a parchment title with the lords?
Poet And Woman
Woman, you are incomplete without poet,
Poet, you are also imperfect without woman.
The soil is incomple without the root of trees,
The sky is incomple without the clouds,
stars or the shining Moon,
The river is dead without the dancing of waves,
And, the poet's heart is a desert without a woman's love.
The forest is incomplete without the wild animals,
The sun is lost in darkness without its light,
The trees are but a row of emptiness-
without the chirping of the birds,
And, a woman is but half without a poet's imagination.
To the spirits of Abn 'Arabi, poet, and Averroes, philosopher
The philosopher asked the poet,
Does what the poets and the mystics
find in their hearts, agree
with what the philosophers have discovered
or reasoned to be true?
The poet answered
Yes, and No
and between the two
is a place, a space, where
the mouth is silent,
the pen hovers poised above the paper,
the eyes sparkle,
the heart leaps and rejoices,
and the mind soars on journeys
beyond anything that was known before
and lives experiences never before experienced;
finds words behind words
that were never spoken before,
sounds behind sounds
never heard before,
a knowledge beyond love,
a love beyond knowledge..
a place where poets and philosophers
meet together in a world of wonder.
The Poet And The Bird
Said a people to a poet---' Go out from among us straightway!
While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine.
There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateways
Makes fitter music to our ears than any song of thine!'
The poet went out weeping---the nightingale ceased chanting;
'Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?'
I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting,
Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun.'
The poet went out weeping,---and died abroad, bereft there---
The bird flew to his grave and died, amid a thousand wails:---
And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there
Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.
The novelist and the poet
the difference between
the poet and the novelist
the former invites you
straight into his world
a canvas that takes
words for paint
humour for techniques
realism for images
on the other hand
flatters you with
but takes the liberty
to hide behind
each of his creation/character
hard it would be to
find the man in
the maze of his words
you would gain more
hunting for him in town
the novelist is a
seizing any idea that could
help him sell his words
the humble poet though has
to sniff out his real self, his own god-instilled rhythm,
to let us share his adventures, colours, dreams
the novelist craft words for money
the poet craft words - to find himself and shares it with those -
who wish to find their own selves
Ultima Thule: The Poet And His Songs
As the birds come in the Spring,
We know not from where;
As the stars come at evening
From depths of the air;
As the rain comes from the cloud,
And the brook from the ground;
As suddenly, low or loud,
Out of silence a sound;
As the grape comes to the vine,
The fruit to the tree;
As the wind comes to the pine,
And the tide to the sea;
As come the white sails of ships
O'er the ocean's verge;
As comes the smile to the lips,
The foam to the surge;
So come to the Poet his songs,
All hitherward blown
From the misty realm, that belongs
To the vast Unknown.
His, and not his, are the lays
He sings; and their fame
Is his, and not his; and the praise
And the pride of a name.
For voices pursue him by day,
And haunt him by night,
And he listens, and needs must obey,
When the Angel says: 'Write!'
Poet And Peer
They asked the Bard of Ayr to dine;
The banquet hall was fit and fine,
With gracing it a Lord;
The poet came; his face was grim
To find the place reserved for him
Was at the butler's board.
So when the gentry called him in,
He entered with a knavish grin
And sipped a glass of wine;
But when they asked would he recite
Something of late he'd chanced to write
He ettled to decline.
Then with a sly, sardonic look
He opened up a little book
Containing many a gem;
And as they sat in raiment fine,
So smug and soused with rosy wine,
This verse he read to them.
'You see yon birkie caw'ed a Lord,
Who struts and stares an' a' that,
Though hundreds worship at his word
He's but a coof for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,
A man's a man for a' that.
He pointed at that portly Grace
Who glared with apoplectic face,
While others stared with gloom;
Then having paid them all he owed,
Burns, Bard of Homespun, smiled and strode
Superbly from the room.