There were five writers on Blazing Saddles.
quote by Dom DeLuise
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Pony
Im just a bachelor,
Im lookin for a partner
Someone who knows how to ride without even fallin off
Gotta be compatible,
Takes me to my limits
Girl when I break you off,
I promise that you wont wanna get off
(chorus:)
If youre horny, lets do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddles waitin
Come and jump on it
If youre horny, lets do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddles waitin
Come and jump on it
Sittin here flossin, peepin your steelo
Just once if I have the chance, the things I would do to you
You and your body, every single portion
Send chills up and down your spine, juices flowin down your thigh
(chorus 2x)
If youre horny, lets do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddles waitin
Come and jump on it
If youre horny, lets do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddles waitin
Come and jump on it
If were gonna get nasty baby
First well show and tell
Till I reach your pony tail (oh)
Lurk all over and through you baby
Until we reach the stream
Youll be on my jockey team (ooh)
(chorus 2 1/2x)
If youre horny, lets do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddles waitin
Come and jump on it
If youre horny, lets do it
Ride it, my pony
My saddles waitin
Come and jump on it
(fades)
Ride it
song performed by Ginuwine
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Ever Blazin'
(Ever blazing ever blazing girl)
(blazing up the flame blazing up the flame)
(Ever blazing ever blazing girl yo)
[Chorus]
As the world turns
and as time burns
girl you know im gonna be there
my love is ever blazing ever blazing girl
and you know it na go change
As the world turns
and as time buns
girl you know im gonna be there
my love is ever blazing ever blazing girl
and it never fades away
[Verse 1]
Theres no pretending
girl i said my love is never ending
form we used to par just like a friend thing
up untill now me a tell you say
a you fi be the queen
i and i man a accenting
and a 1 thing the dutty paul is requesting
keep up to date cause you are the best thing
girl you know your life style real intersting thats why the dutty investing
[Chorus]
[Verse 2]
Because me admire you
but me na shy of you
say from the day me hire you
me know me na fire you
girl form a long time the dutty a desire you
woman you know say you a hot and you a spit fire too
bill gate donald trump
the a require you
ina the pentium five them want wire you
when them know you a real frequent flier to
like a trophy ina me bed you know me wan retire you
[Chrous]
[Repeat Verse 1]
[Chrous repeat 2x]
song performed by Sean Paul
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)
The Lonely Writer
Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers
The needy juvenile writer
Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to
The Spite Writer
This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.
The Religious Writer
These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.
poem by David Whalen
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My Almighty Comes To Defend With A Rescue
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles from a saddle I no longer sit!
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles from a saddle I no longer sit!
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles.
I...
Do believe,
My Creator has a plan for me.
Without those battles,
Fought straddled to a saddle.
And I don't,
Fight any battle
Strapped high on any saddle.
No I don't,
Fight any battle
Strapped high on any saddle.
My Almighty comes,
To defend
With a rescue.
And to fight my battles.
Those battles fought from saddles.
My Almighty comes,
To defend
With a rescue.
And to fight my battles.
Those battles fought from saddles.
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles from a saddle I no longer sit!
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles from a saddle I no longer sit!
No more fighting battles.
No more fighting battles.
My Almighty comes,
To defend
With a rescue.
And to fight my battles.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Most Writers
Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.
Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.
Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.
Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Writer's Drought
You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.
The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.
Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.
Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Seasonal Cycle - Chapter 01 - Summer
"Oh, dear, this utterly sweltering season of the highly rampant sun is drawing nigh, and it will always be good enough to go on taking daytime baths, as the lakes and rivers will still be with plenteous waters, and at the end of the day, nightfall will be pleasant with fascinating moon, and in such nights Love-god can somehow be almost mollified...[who tortured us in the previous vernal season... but now without His sweltering us, we can happily enjoy the nights devouring cool soft drinks and dancing and merrymaking in outfields...]
"Oh, beloved one, somewhere the moon shoved the blackish columns of night aside, somewhere else the palace-chambers with water [showering, sprinkling and splashing] machines are highly exciting, and else where the matrices of gems, [like coolant pearls and moon-stone, etc.,] are there, and even the pure sandalwood is liquefied [besides other coolant scents,] thus this season gets an adoration from all the people...
"The beloved ones will enjoy the summer's clear late nights while they are atop the rooftops of buildings that are delightful and fragranced well, while they savour the passion intensifiers like strong drinks and while the ladylove's face suspires the bouquets of those drinks together with melodious instrumental and vocal music...
"The women are ameliorating the heat of their lovers with their chicly silken coolant fineries gliding onto their rotund fundaments, for they are knotted loosely, and on those silks glissading are their golden cinctures with their dangling tassels that are unfastened on and off, and with their buxom bosoms that are bedaubed with sandal-paste and semi-covered with pearly strings and golden lavalieres, and with their locks of hair that are sliding onto their faces, which locks are fragrant with bath-time emulsions, which are just applied before their oil bath...
"Brightly coloured with the reddish foot-paint that is akin to the colour of lac's reddish resin, adorned with anklets that are festooned with jingling bells, whose tintinnabulations on their stepping after stepping mimic the clucks of swans, with such feet those women with bumpy behinds are rendering the hearts of people impassioned, in these days of pre-summer...
"These days the bosoms of womenfolk are bedaubed with scents and sandal-paste, and they are given out to snowily and whitely pearly pendants that are sported on those bosoms, and even their hiplines are with the dangling golden griddle-strings, with such a lovely ostentation whose heart is it, that does not fill with raptures...
"The seams of limbs of ladies of age are conquered by the often emerging sweat, thus those peaky bosomed lustful ladies are presently banding their bosoms with softish fineries, casting aside their roughish apparels ...
"The rustles of air comprising the aroma of watered sandal-paste, blown off by the fans with peacocks' plumage, and the rustle of strings of pearls when the roundish bosoms of loves are hugged, together with the subtle melody of string instruments, and subtly sung intonations of singers, now appear to awaken Love-god, Manmatha, who is as though asleep after his manoeuvres in the last spring season...
"On leisurely seeing the faces of the maids that are comfortably sleeping well on the tops of whitish edifices, the moon of these nights is highly ecstasized, for he is unpossessed with any such flawless face, as his own face is flawed with rabbit-like, deer-like foibles, and when the night dwindles, he doubtlessly goes into state of pallidity, as though ashamed to show his face to the flawless sun...
"The intolerable westerly wind of the summer is up-heaving the clouds of dust, even the earth is ablaze, set by the blazing sun, and the itinerants whose hearts are already put to blaze by the blazing called the detachment from their ladyloves, and now it has become impossible for them even to look at the blazing earth, to tread further...
"The reigning sun's torridity rendered the animals parched, and with unquenchable thirst highly shrivelled are their tongues, throats and lips, and on seeing kneaded blackish mascara like mirages on the sky in another forest, that are cloudlike in their shine, those animals are rushing there, presuming them to be water...
"The women of charm are with smiles and slanted looks, and now they are on par with the twilights that are ornamented with a beautiful ornament called moon, and they are now decorating themselves confusedly and they are inciting the incorporeal Love-god in the hearts of itinerants...
"Extremely seared by the rays of sun, and even by the already seared dust on the pathway, with its slithery motion and downcast hood, repeatedly suspiring when being scalded thus awfully, that serpent is sinking down under the pave of peacock's plumage, distrait of the fact that a peacock is an enemy of serpents, thus distrait is the relative danger from a born enemy or from the searing summer...
"Thwarted are the valorousness and venturesomeness of that king of animals, the lion, for the thirst is abnormal, thereby gaping his mouth much lengthily, and suspiring repeatedly with a lengthened and dangling tongue, and repeatedly whisking his frontal hair of the mane, that lion is not pawing the elephants, though they are at his nearby, and though they both of them are born rivals, thus the scalding summer cooled off their mutual contempt...
"Verily dried up are their throats, but somehow some cool water remaining in their trunks is brought to those dry throats with the prehensility of their trunks, but too scanty is that water for those mega-vores, further muchly scorched by sun's scorching rays and overpowered by heightened thirst, even those water-seeking tuskers are unafraid of those nearby lions, as negligible is the physical danger than the natural danger...
"The scorching sunrays that are akin to the tongues of blazed up Ritual-fire, by them the bodies as well as the souls of peacocks are wilted, thus they wedge their faces in the pack of their plumage for certain coolness, and though they mark the serpents that are milling about under the very same plumage through the plumes and feathers, they peck not those serpents to death, as their priority is to cool off their faces and heads...
"The slime in the ponds is dried up but in some areas Bhadramusta grass is available, and while the herd of wild boars is digging up that grass with their long and broad snouts for a piggish slumber, the sunrays have highly sweltered their backs, but that herd dug the dry swamp more and more, as though to enter the interior of earth, to get a mucky, miry, muddy slumber...
"With the unbearable prickly heat of sunrays highly seared is a frog, and jumping up from a pond with mud and muddy water, it jumped to sit under the shade of a parasol, called the hood of a snake... neither thirstier frog is aware that it is the shade of a snake's hood, nor the thirstiest snake is aware that it is shading a thirsty frog...
"When each other elephant is highly huddling, belaboured is that lake by their elephantine limbs, and completely uprooted are the tall slender stems of lilies and lotuses of that lake, without any remnants of standing lotuses or lilies, thus trampled and agglutinated with mud, they are heaped up under the feet of elephants, and ill-fated are the fishes when trodden by elephants underfoot, and the Saarasa waterfowls are fleeing with fear of this rumpus...
"Akin to sunshine upcast is irradiance of the jewel on its hood, and wigwagging is its twinned tongue licking the air, and it is seared by its own venom, by fiery soil, and by the searing sun as well, and thus tottering thirstily, that hooded serpent is not draining the dregs of frogs, to the dregs...
"Frothily gaping and reeling are the two-pieced snouts, and jerkily extruding are the lightly reddened tongues, and staggering thirstily looking for water with upraised snouts, those herds of she-buffalos are extruding from the caves of mountain with such snouts and gaits, wherein they took shade from the scorching sun so far, but thirst drove them out of those cool caves...
"Extremely withered as though by wildfire and utterly shrivelled are the tender stalks of crops, and windswept by harsh winds they are uprooted and completely wilted and reduced to straw, and all over scorched are they in an overall manner as the water is evaporated, and if seen from highlands till the end of forest, this summer is foisting upon the onlookers a kind of disconcert, as the straw in the wind about the monsoon is unnoticeable...
"Perching on the trees with wilted leaves, flocks of birds are hyperventilating, the overtired troops of monkeys are going nigh of viny caves on the mountain, the water-craving herds of buffalos are rambling hither and thither, the straight flying Sharabha birds are nose-diving into wells and easily lifting up the water...
"The wildfire, that is simulative of a just blossomed bright and fierily ochreish safflower, is exceedingly speedy and further whipped up by the speed of the wind it is eagerly embracing the treetops, that are on the banks of lakes and rivers, with tongues of fire, onto which trees the apices of climber plants are eager to embrace, thus that wildfire has burnt down every quarter of land, in a trice...
"That wildfire, now intensified by the gusts, is blazing the valleys of mountains, and thus skittering across it entered the stands of bamboos, only to shatter them in a second with clattering rattles, then escalated by gusts it is overspreading the straw fields, then from their within, on smacking the perimeter of straw-field, it is broiling the herds of deer, tumultuously ...
[...] Read more
poem by Kalidasa
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In The Dark, Painted Pink
eyes blazing in the dark
do not be slumbered
by sleek black hair
and soft touching
of breath from
ripened lips of red
eyes blazing in the dark
do not fall into sleep's abyss
as gentle touch
fingers promises on brow
with polished nails
pointed painted pink
eyes blazing in the dark
do not drift in dreams
of allures sweet scent
such intoxicates
and dims the wit
of weary men
eyes blazing in the dark
look into souls
and reflect
what is within;
eyes blazing in the dark
poem by David Taylor
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Caricatures
There are writers great and writers small
And writers on the spree;
And writers short and writers tall,
And bards of low degree.
There are artists small and artist great,
With lines both bold and free –
It takes a Low to illustrate
Us bards of low degree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Essay on Psychiatrists
I. Invocation
It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more
Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,
And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens
Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.
II. Some Terms
“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents
And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop
Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient
Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.
III. Proposition
These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations
Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means
Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Pinsky
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An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry
To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.
I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.
When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick Fable shroud,
And with Delight instruct the list'ning Crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has lost his Name)
Deliver'd Strains on Verse to future Fame.
Still as he sung he touch'd the trembling Lyre,
And felt the Notes a rising Warmth inspire.
Ye sweet'ning Graces in the Musick Throng,
Assist my Genius, and retrieve the Song
From dark Oblivion. See, my Genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem rose.
Wit is the Muses Horse, and bears on high
The daring Rider to the Muses Sky:
Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,
By Regions varying in their Nature, flies.
At first he riseth o'er a Land of Toil,
A barren, hard, and undeserving Soil,
Where only Weeds from heavy Labour grow,
Which yet the Nation prune, and keep for show.
Where Couplets jingling on their Accent run,
Whose point of Epigram is sunk to Pun.
Where Wings by Fancy never feather'd fly,
Where Lines by measure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars stand, erected Porches gape,
And Sense is cramp'd while Words are par'd to shape;
Where mean Acrosticks labour'd in a Frame,
On scatter'd Letters raise a painful Scheme;
And by Confinement in their Work controul
The great Enlargings of the boundless Soul.
Where if a Warriour's elevated Fire
Wou'd all the brightest Strokes of Verse require,
Then streight in Anagram a wretched Crew
Will pay their undeserving Praises too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed Name
Must tell its Master's Character to Fame.
And (if my Fire and Fears aright presage)
The lab'ring Writers of a future Age
Shall clear new ground, and Grotts and Caves repair,
To civilize the babbling Ecchoes there.
Then while a Lover treads a lonely Walk,
His Voice shall with its own Reflection talk,
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Truth can Hurt
The truth can hurt
Some writers write infrequently
and others write prolifically.
What matters is the quality
much more so than the quantity.
Good writers by their words display
their thoughts in a coherent way
Describing things they have observed
and garner praise that’s well deserved.
But some think anything will do
and they pay no attention to
the rules successful writers use
they will not learn: point blank refuse
to accept well meant critique.
They much prefer dishonest praise
from so called friends afraid
to speak the simple truth lest they dismay
their friend by speaking honestly.
So naturally they take offence
when other people criticise
that which seems perfect in their eyes.
True writers take this in their stride
they know their work is not perfect.
But what they know is they have tried
and that is all you can expect.
New writers lack experience
but everyone must start some where.
The wise ones do not take offence
when other people show they care
enough to offer some advice.
Because they can remember when
they too were just a new novice
to painting pictures with their pen.
27 feb 08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Among the Red Guns
Among the red guns,
In the hearts of soldiers
Running free blood
In the long, long campaign:
Dreams go on.
Among the leather saddles,
In the heads of soldiers
Heavy in the wracks and kills
Of all straight fighting:
Dreams go on.
Among the hot muzzles,
In the hands of soldiers
Brought from flesh-folds of women--
Soft amid the blood and crying--
In all your hearts and heads
Among the guns and saddles and muzzles:
Dreams,
Dreams go on,
Out of the dead on their backs,
Broken and no use any more:
Dreams of the way and the end go on.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Pony Remix
Ginuwine](timbaland)
(check it)
To all my ladies (what? )
Who wants to ride my pony? (ginuwine, what? )
To all my honeys (uh)
Who wants to ride my pony? (timbaland, uh what? )
To all my babies (remix)
Who wants to ride my pony?
(remix, what? )
To all my ladies
Who wants to?
[timbaland]
Check it out baby
Let me tell you
Come on and ride this horse
You will see we gonna stay on course
Dont try to fight the force
I wanna hear your voice, girl
Come on and get with me
A real true o-g
Straight from the v-a-v
Yeah, here to set you free
Yeah baby call me perv
I wonder do you serve, uh
Check out your curves
Making our bodies merge
Im just a real brother
My name is timbaland
I wanna hold your hand
Want to be your man
[ginuwine](timbaland)
Im just a bachelor
Im looking for a partner (uh, uh)
Someone who knows how to ride
Without even falling off (what? )
Gotta be compatible
Takes me to my limits (word up)
Girl when I break you off (what? )
I promise that you wont want to get off
(no doubt)
1 - [ginuwine]
If youre horny lets do it
Ride it my pony
My saddles waiting
Come and jump on it
If youre horny lets do it
Ride it my pony
My saddles waiting
Come and jump on it
[ginuwine](timbaland)
[...] Read more
song performed by Ginuwine
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The Scout Toward Aldie
The cavalry-camp lies on the slope
Of what was late a vernal hill,
But now like a pavement bare-
An outpost in the perilous wilds
Which ever are lone and still;
But Mosby's men are there -
Of Mosby best beware.
Great trees the troopers felled, and leaned
In antlered walls about their tents;
Strict watch they kept; 'twas Hark! and Mark!
Unarmed none cared to stir abroad
For berries beyond their forest-fence:
As glides in seas the shark,
Rides Mosby through green dark.
All spake of him, but few had seen
Except the maimed ones or the low;
Yet rumor made him every thing-
A farmer-woodman-refugee-
The man who crossed the field but now;
A spell about his life did cling -
Who to the ground shall Mosby bring?
The morning-bugles lonely play,
Lonely the evening-bugle calls -
Unanswered voices in the wild;
The settled hush of birds in nest
Becharms, and all the wood enthralls:
Memory's self is so beguiled
That Mosby seems a satyr's child.
They lived as in the Eerie Land-
The fire-flies showed with fairy gleam;
And yet from pine-tops one might ken
The Capitol dome-hazy-sublime-
A vision breaking on a dream:
So strange it was that Mosby's men
Should dare to prowl where the Dome was seen.
A scout toward Aldie broke the spell. -
The Leader lies before his tent
Gazing at heaven's all-cheering lamp
Through blandness of a morning rare;
His thoughts on bitter-sweets are bent:
His sunny bride is in the camp -
But Mosby - graves are beds of damp!
The trumpet calls; he goes within;
But none the prayer and sob may know:
[...] Read more
poem by Herman Melville
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Custom Made Saddles
I thought you said,
They were avid horse riders?
Why haven't they joined us?
'Who knows?
They mentioned something about,
Having custom made saddles.
And as of yet 'THEY' have not arrived.'
What does that have to do with the horses?
They have saddles already on their backs.
'Who knows?
Maybe they want to impress the horses,
With their abilities.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Pompeii
A Poem Which Obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cambridge Commencement, July 1819.
Oh! land to Memory and to Freedom dear,
Land of the melting lyre and conquering spear,
Land of the vine-clad hill, the fragrant grove,
Of arts and arms, of Genius and of Love.
Hear, fairest Italy. Though now no more
The glittering eagles awe the Atlantic shore,
Nor at thy feet the gorgeous Orient flings
The blood-bought treasures of her tawny Kings,
Though vanished all that formed thine old renown,
The laurel garland, and the jewelled crown,
The avenging poniard, the victorious sword,
Which reared thine empire, or thy rights restored,
Yet still the constant Muses haunt thy shore,
And love to linger where they dwelt of yore.
If e'er of old they deigned, with favouring smile,
To tread the sea-girt shores of Albion's isle,
To smooth with classic arts our rugged tongue,
And warm with classic glow the British song,
Oh! bid them snatch their silent harps which wave
On the lone oak that shades thy Maro's grave,
And sweep with magic hand the slumbering strings,
To fire the poet.- For thy clime he sings,
Thy scenes of gay delight and wild despair,
Thy varied forms of awful and of fair.
How rich that climate's sweets, how wild its storms,
What charms array it, and what rage deforms.
Well have they mouldering walls, Pompeii, known,
Decked in those charms, and by that rage o'erthrown.
Sad City, gayly dawned thy latest day,
And poured its radiance on the scene as gay.
The leaves scarce rustled in the sighing breeze;
In azure dimples curled the sparkling seas,
And as the golden tide of light they quaffed,
Campania's sunny meads and vineyards laughed,
While gleamed each lichened oak and giant pine
On the far sides of swarthy Apennine.
Then mirth and music through Pompeii rung;
Then verdant wreaths on all her portals hung;
Her sons with solemn rite and jocund lay,
Hailed the glad splendours of that festal day.
With fillets bound the hoary priests advance,
And rosy virgins braid the choral dance.
The rugged warrior here unbends awhile
His iron front, and deigns a transient smile;
There, frantic with delight, the ruddy boy
Scarce treads on earth, and bounds and laughs with joy.
From every crowded altar perfumes rise
[...] Read more
poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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That Blazing Light
I don't know where that blazing
Light is coming from
But all I know is that blazing light is
Keeping me up all night long
Every time whenI try to go back to sleep
That blazing light keeps waking me up
Every second
Believe me right now I am getting frustrated with the blazing light
My sleep is very important for me
Without it I can't function at all.
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A goal in sight
One two or go on making it to eight hundred
The poems may go on piling without any end
There is definite goal or aim in sight
You might attain it or would like to continue the fight
'You are good man but bad poet'
I read message which cautioned me not to write
This is not right place for you to reflect the views
I too felt it needed constant reviews
It has become craze among writers
They try to play easy and not prove as good fighters
They may approach readers to view their articles
They also try to limit themselves in small circle
'You read my article and I shall read yours'
This may please each other to have some favors
The quality may limit to one particular leave
The writers may not have good chance to excel
The flaws or drawbacks may not be pointed to him at all
It may be crushed under friendly observation or call
Why at all we need to approach viewers to comment?
Is there no other option to approach them for a moment?
Many comment sarcastically as if they are very good expert
The writer' only crime is request for support
This is not essentially to find any favor at the outset
It is only aimed at getting foot hold to set
Some writers get alienated over the honest remark
They want favorable remarks when try to venture or embark
This is not correct approach as it may not allow their real talents to surface
It may block the creativity and finally they enter in mad race
Any human being may not be pleased with the criticism
It hurts their ego and they take it affront to individualism
The relation has to be kept at one side and profession on other
Both should not be mixed and it should not concern or bother
The writing skill is God's gift and may come out as creation
To some it may prove dine piece and to others only recreation
Everybody has different perception and right to evaluate
The writers weight pro and con and the calculate
It is always nice to find place with some recognition
Your pen may be contributing more with ammunition
They may embark up on new themes and excel
Everything may then move on sound footing to fare well
[...] Read more
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Writers and Poets
Here I sit
At a desk dimly lit.
Holding an unsharpened pencil
Over a piece of old, faded paper,
In my mind lingers a vague intention
Within the unformed idea
Of somehow writing something.
With no clear idea, theme or plan.
Only the restless desire to write.
It's raining. Again.
It seems to rain often.
Not the weather.
Life.
Interior drops fall,
Like flower pedals sacrificed.
Beautys death, the ransom price.
My desire lives in poetic rhythms,
Not in serious writers cadences.
I am not a writer.
- I hope to be a poet-
There is a difference? one may ask;
Oh yes, I believe so.
I'll attempt to express why.
In poetry words flow,
Like living waters.
In writing ideas are built within words.
The writer builds something,
Like a dam, to hold and control the way of the water,
To cause it to go somewhere precisely.
Writers form canals to move readers
To certain places.
Poets open up the dark clouds over life
Pouring out necessary wonders onto human souls;
Thirst quenching beauties that all
-in one way or another-
Are in great need of.
Writers, thankfully, take people
To places where they are able
To realize their own thirst.
Poets give them the drink.
The taste towards fulfilling life's true longings.
Writers and poets together
Make the dark a bit brighter,
The waters a bit more navagatible,
The way a bit clearer,
And the thirst of life
A bit more quenchable.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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