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This Poem

THIS POEM

This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.

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One Small Poem Early In The Day

ONE SMALL POEM EARLY IN THE DAY

One small poem early in the day
Makes me feel the day will be O.K.

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This Poem Is Not A Dream

THIS POEM IS NOT A DREAM

This poem is not a dream
It comes from where so many true poems come
From the other side of the mind
When it does not know peace -
From the waking desire
The hunger that is not satisfied
The lonely life and the lonely mind-
It comes from the search for love
And the love itself – the joy of love-
And from the memory of what we most deeply know when we are ourselves in love of another-
This poem is not a dream-
It comes from the waking world and the waking words-
The hard truths the bitter small things
The disappointments and rejections
The endless small humiliations which Time and Chance make of us all-
This poem comes from where we are most human
With the pain of those closest to us-
And our longing to save them and be loved forever by them-
The dream is not the poem
Life in its all its endless difficulties is the poem
And this poem too
Does not say half of all the hurt I have suffered in this one small day alone.

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Do Not Read This Poem

do not ever read this poem
this poem is containing a virus
and once you read it
you get infected by it,

do not continue reading this
stop at this point.... here....

-nothing follows-

sorry, but you are already
infected by this poem

the cure however is there,
read it back and when you arrive
at the last word

thank yourself, you are worthy of the title
gullible like the author....(ha ha ha)

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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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This Poem..

This poem
was about to speak to you
assuming that there is a you right there and now
but
hesitated, a little unsure of itself

this poem
though all ready to be
a bouncy, Tiggerish, extravert sort of poem
is going instead to take a quiet moment for
introspection

this poem
remembers that computers are essentially
binary – built up of millions of yes-no choices
so

this poem
is above all,
yes;
hoping
in still a Tiggerish way, to hear you also, say
yes

this poem
finds that it has
certain hidden desires
which it rightly or wrongly
was going to lay on you
like

this poem
would like to tell you
something new which
you might or might not believe
until some time later
when you’d say
yes!

this poem
would like to touch your heart
(impertinently assuming
you might need aortic massage)
so that when you finished reading it,
you’d say
yes!

this poem
presumptuously
would like to enable you to
see the whole world with fresh eyes,
as if never before,
be the first day
of Creation for the
rest of your life
so that you'd say
yes yes yes

this poem
would love to
be Irish, throw magical, spellbinding words round you
like two hands throwing wild flowers
over you in a summer meadow,
looking into your eyes, laughing, kissing,
dancing over the green hills to blue skies hand in hand
enchanted with a life you’d passing forgotten,
always known, while time
is eternity and
you and I and all things are
yes, yes, yes and
yes

this poem
at this point
introspectively with a touch of humility
thinks
maybe it’s sufficient, purer,
just to want to
pass you in the street,
smile right into your eyes
maybe shake hands, even
kiss both cheeks how ever many times
and know that without necessarily
saying anything
the answer’s
yes

this poem
hopes it’s made its point
without mentioning
love or other well-known,
complicated things like that and
moreover it’s gone on long enough
because

this poem loves
what happens in silence
what happens in stillness
and just wanted to say

yes?

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This Poem Is Not For You

This poem is not for you
unless you've shared the inside joke
the running gag that's told to few
a humor lost on average folk.

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Do Not Read This Poem...

this poem is sad

it is the picture of a 12-year old boy with bruises on his head
blood oozes from his nose
his lips are swollen like a bloated fish poisoned on the river

his eyes look nowhere
like a light house turned off

do not read this poem when you are far away from your home

you may remember
one of your sons....

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This Poem Like My Life/ Cannot Say What It Truly Means

THIS POEM LIKE MY LIFE/ CANNOT SAY WHAT IT TRULY MEANS

This poem like my life
Cannot say what it truly means-
It does not know how to end -
It is not even sure where it is now-
This poem like my life
Stutters and stumbles on
Waiting for some sudden salvation
Which will never come-
And simply goes on and on
Until somehow
It will be interrupted
and undone.

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Ignore the ad above this poem

I deeply resent
the ad above this poem
(well it was there
last time I looked)
for Carcanet Press
as if we were chums
them and I
far from it
not only am I
not published by them
in case you thought I was

but

they don't even answer my emails
offering them my poetry
at 100% off

and their
selecting editor
is quoted as saying that
'amateur' poets should
be wiped out
so much for
love of poetry

I guess courtesy
isn't award-winning
these days

(dammit, it's a different ad this time...)

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This Poem Will Be For My Mother And Father

THIS POEM WILL BE FOR MY MOTHER AND FATHER

This poem will be for my mother and father
In my old age-
Why not one more poem for them?
Who were my world
Who gave me what I am
Who in their life together
Struggled and endured through the pain
Loved in their own way-
Raised us-
Why not think of them again?
This early morning in Israel
Far away from Troy New York
Where they made their story?
Why not one small poem for them,
Who are no longer here
Who were everything once?
Why not for Ma and Dad,
The only ones the real ones the ones I love
Ma and Dad and Jakie and Joycie and me.

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Notice What This Poem Is Not Doing

The light along the hills in the morning
comes down slowly, naming the trees
white, then coasting the ground for stones to nominate.

Notice what this poem is not doing.

A house, a house, a barn, the old
quarry, where the river shrugs--
how much of this place is yours?

Notice what this poem is not doing.

Every person gone has taken a stone
to hold, and catch the sun. The carving
says, "Not here, but called away."

Notice what this poem is not doing.

The sun, the earth, the sky, all wait.
The crowns and redbirds talk. The light
along the hills has come, has found you.

Notice what this poem has not done.

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this POEM assures YOU that....

this POEM is not
a product of a philosophical quibbling
not a part of guidance
and counseling like what sometimes
nagging mothers do
not a scolding like what fathers do
to their sons who are feeling lost
and unwanted
this poem shall not ask you to confess
your sins
like what religions do
calling for this and that
for absolution and deliverance
or purification
neither will this poem be a doctor
giving you the cure
for whatever sickness you have
this poem when you read it
till the last simply assures you
that you are not alone

when you read even if you do not try to understand
there is this comfort
that in our loneliness we are never alone

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To My Brothers & Sisters Adrift in Troubled Times This Poem of the Moon.

Since the disorders in Henan and the famine in Guannei, my brothers and sisters have been scattered. Looking at the moon, I express my thoughts in this poem, which I send to my eldest brother at Fuliang, my seventh brother at Yuqian, My fifteen brother at Wujiang and my younger brothers and sisters at Fuli and Xiagui.

My heritage lost through disorder and famine,
My brothers and sisters flung eastward and westward,
My fields and gardens wrecked by the war,
My own flesh and blood become scum of the street,
I moan to my shadow like a lone-wandering wildgoose,
I am torn from my root like a water-plant in autumn:
I gaze at the moon, and my tears run down
For hearts, in five places, all sick with one wish.

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0095 The title of this poem comes at the end

If you’ve read
136 poems
by one poet
in, uh, an hour plus,
which is a stupid thing to do
normally
to any poet
and insulting
if you think that way

at least when you do this
you get an aftertaste
of a sort – you get
tired beyond boredom, or
the guy has only three things to say
again and again or
he’s posing as a poet or
subtly unloading his negativity
or his hatred for life or
exploiting your emotions or
even more subtly pleading
for your sympathy

but no
I don’t feel any of these things right now
I just feel
a huge huge love which
somehow isn’t
just focussed on you and
I’ve even tried to set against this
cold lit-crit sorta thoughts
but no

I see you as a man
who looked the ordinary
in the face
and didn’t want to alter it and
asked nothing of it but was
contented in a way
beyond definition that
I can understand
would piss off anyone
with ambition or
so-called American values
although many of your poems
are the stuff of ordinary Americans
in the bar chatting about life
over a beer in B movies

but I’m thinking that maybe
this is the way God sees the world –
this is what you’ve made
of what I gave you and
so be it’

I’m a little scared too
that if I met you face to face
unexpectedly with that
wise beat-up face like a
thoughtful ape I might
recoil or something
and be ashamed afterwards
but I hope not

I just hope that
somewhere deep down
you loved yourself
as much as so many people
and you can read them here
love you
for real
and as is

the title of this poem is
A Homage to Charles Bukowski

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This Poem

this poem comes
from a cold room
popping out
from a worn-out
wall

do not
read this poem
aloud

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Nobody Knows What This Poem Means

NOBODY KNOWS WHAT THIS POEM MEANS

Nobody knows what this poem means
And yet it seems to mean what it seems-

A poem that only apparently means
Is not the poem
That seems what it seems-

So this poem perhaps does not know
What it means-
And like most other poems
Means more than it means..

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Did This Poem Catch Your Eye?

Did this poem catch your eye?
If so I hope not to disappoint.
To begin like the others.
Making it as simple as possible.
An easy read.
Nothing like me.
Line by line.
Calming the tides.
Writing till the point and rhymes subsides.
Words biting the empty space.
One by one strung together to fill the void.
Now that you read this are you kind of annoyed?

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This Poem Is Made Of Faces

The beautiful ones that pass me by
I can hear them talk I can see them smile
And now I know no one ever dies

This poem is made of handprints
Each unique web if human lines
I can see them sealing transcendence writs
And now I know no one ever dies

This poem is made of lips
Faithful to the words soul spoken signs
I can see them vanish within a kiss
And now I know no one ever dies

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This Poem Like So Many Others I Write

This poem like so many others I write
Is a simple confession of what I think and feel now-

For me it is poetry
I hear it that way-
But I do not know if it is poetry for you-

I am a poet in doubt as to the value of my own poetry
Sometimes I try to overcome that doubt
By deliberately writing feelings and thoughts
I believe others share-

But I do not know if reading and recognizing real poetry
Is Empathy in this way.

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It Is This Poem

thunderstorm

carries a ship

relentlessly aboard

a hopeless man he confesses to be

one hopeless man

losing his sense of direction

climbs

aboard towards the roof of the ship

gazing at the horizon

i fear that he would jump

out the ship into the whirlpool

he looks at me

and i sense the same

fear

to an identical situation

upon the same


storm upon the same ship

upon the same

dark hour


somehow we change

and so here i am

writing about him

it is this poem.

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