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Richard Brautigan

Unrequited Love

Stop in /
write a morose poem /
leave / if only
life were that easy

poem by from June 30th, June 30th (1976)Report problemRelated quotes
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I Stop And Wait/For A Poem

I Stop And Wait/ For A Poem

I stop and wait
For a poem.
The poem does not come
The city says ‘Morning beauty’
The silence is a sadness unsayable -
Light is lovely
Isn’t it?
Irony Irony Irony-
I write these lines
As if I actually believe
I am writing poetry
And doing something.

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Madness Is Not My Poem

MADNESS IS NOT MY POEM

Madness is not my poem-
I have lived a life
Striving to remain sane.
Madness is pain and disorder-
Madness is the hurting that does not know its own end-
Madness is screaming and praying for the pain to stop
When the pain does not stop.
Madness is not my poem
I strive against Madness all my life
Sane I am even when sad
Madness is not my poem
Though I will die being afraid
It still might be.

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There Is No Poem

there is no poem that can stop
this mess
this furniture of the room are not in place
the table is under the rain
outside
the chairs are crumpled like paper
in the drain
the books are opening their pages to the skies
the pens are shooting like
arrows in the air
no one can stop the dead
not this poem that only counts
those who want to be buried
no one can stop the grief
not this poem, not that poem
no poem can stop the flood of all emotions
no poem can resist
the burden of carrying all these
like a carriage like a coffin.

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A Poem Of Empathy

my shoes are shiny
black
leather and expensive
i look rich and i speak
like a true gentleman

last night i went of the house
without my
Man Friday
and i wore a mask of the
beggar
and i erased my first name

i am Tonio
the mendicant

and i sit upon a corner
with a can on my hand
begging for
mercy

and you pass by
and you never recognize me
and you spit on me

and then i wrote a poem
about the matter
and you say it is the best poem
i have written
and that you pity the beggar
and that you like to do
something about all the beggars
in this world
make a foundation
fund a cause

and i stop reading the poem
and then
i begin to ask
'who are you? '

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A Poem For Every Good Man

A poem for every good man
That serves God
And treats everyone with respect and dignity

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Oh God, I Pray For A Real Poem

OH GOD, I PRAY FOR A REAL POEM

Oh God, I pray for a real poem-
For lines that remain in the mind forever-
And not words words words
that fade as they are written.
A real poem
Like Your Tehillim
Lines that remain in the mind forever.

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To Eve: The Poem That Looks Like A Fantasy

I READ YOUR POEM,
THE DOG POEM.

I HAVE A BELIEF THAT

IF A WOMAN TALK ABOUT A DOG,
IN HER LIFE,
IT IS A Miserable BEAUTIFUL LIFE
SHE WANT TO DESCRIBE,

MAY BE SOMEONE CAN CATCH HER SIGNALS;

A DOG!

IT IS A WAY TO STAY A LIFE,
AWAY OF LIFE AT THE EDGE OF THE COMFORT ZONE.

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Only Fools Stop Loving

Only fools stop loving
Those utterly unfeeling
Numbed by too many scars
That have sadly turned to hating.

Only fools stop loving
For they have lost awareness
Of life and its true meaning
Of Joy, and Hope, and Goodness.

Only fools stop loving
That is maybe the reason why
This number one fool He was saving
And on the Cross He had to die.

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Poem about Poetry - His Poetry Collection

i found a poetry book on one of the tables in my office
i opened to read it from one poem to another
i discovered that the man never knew poetry
and wondered why he had to publish it
the words did not dance in my mind,
they all stood glued to the page
my heart did not go ga ga and my eyes
did not wish to jump from one line to the other
there were at least 10,000 words which lied
like rows and rows of quiet, never visited graves

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The Winter Poem Is A Cold Poem

THE WINTER POEM IS A COLD POEM

The winter poem is a cold poem
It is a poem seeking warmth
It wants to feel a comfort
In being at home
But the cold is deep
And so dark
And the pain so rigid in its breaking
That no light can heat it
And no sun can thaw it
And nothing not even the bright blue skies of another time
Can make one forget it.
The winter poem is a hard poem and a cold poem
And the soul of that poem is as loveless as death.

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The Poem Of The Evening

THE POEM OF THE EVENING

The poem of the evening
Is a small poem
It waits for its own words
And hears itself come slowly and surely
It knows by the time the darkness is here
It will already be real.

The poem of the evening
Is an easy and small poem
It may not mean much
But it comes so smoothly
It seems to laugh at the heat of the day
And love itself for being here.

The poem of the evening
After the long day
Is a happy poem

And it looks forward to praying the evening prayer forever.

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There Is A Way For A Poem To End

THERE IS A WAY FOR A POEM TO END

There is a way for a poem to end
In which its meaning remains forever enigmatic
And there is a way for a poem to end
In which its meaning closes the circle.
And there is a way for a poem to end
Which is only a beginning for a poem elsewhere.
There is a way for a poem to end
Which leads to all other poems
And a way for a poem to end
Which says that this is all the world there is
And no more need be.
This poem is ending now
Like a life which has lost its meaning.

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Repetitive Of A Nostalgia, A Moment Ago

there is no poem that can stop
this mess
this furniture of the room are not in place
the table is under the rain
outside
the chairs are crumpled like paper
in the drain
the books are opening their pages to the skies
the pens are shooting like
arrows in the air
no one can stop the dead
not this poem that only counts
those who want to be buried
no one can stop the grief
not this poem, not that poem
no poem can stop the flood of all emotions
no poem can resist
the burden of carrying all these
like a carriage like a coffin.

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And Then You Ordered The Sun To Rise For Me

and so the sun did rise
upon your orders
to shine upon me,

what next? shall you move
the mountains? shall you divide the sea?
shall you fish for the stars and bring them inside a net for me?
shall you seal the blackholes of my heart?
shall you summon all the birds to sing for me?
shall you stop the planets from revolving?

even if you can, you don't have to.
there is only one thing that i ask of you.

write me a poem about 'such sweet sorrow'
that which Romeo said to Juliet on that famous night.

you know it well, your heart once bled.

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What is a poem?

A poem comes in many guises.
A good one almost hynotizes,
drags a reader to the end
as if they'd found a long lost friend
Wakes in them, familiar feelings
makes them smile or leaves them reeling.

Says so much in so few words
or sometimes says so little
It glorifies exotic birds
or simple cuckoo spittle.

A poem has a humane hook
that leads us to a notion.
A cellar door through which we look
and share the poets true emotion.

A poem has a tale to tell
beginning, middle and ending,
and if it doesn't rhyme...oh well
that doesn't really matter.; ¬)

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Dont Stop

(chick rains/tom shapiro)
Girl, youve got me so confused
I dont know what Im gonna do
Part of me says take it slow
And part of me says let it go
Dont - stop
Dont - stop
Dont stop doing what youre doing to me
I think were moving way too fast
We need to take it slow and make it last
I cant keep holding back
When you keep doing things like that
Dont - stop
Dont - stop
Dont stop doing what youre doing to me
But Ive watched the flame of love go out
Burning love takes a toll
I dont want to lose control
Dont - stop
Dont - stop
Dont stop doing what youre doing to me

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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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The Poem of Life

The poem of life
may rhyme or may not
it's put out in stanzas -
whatever you've got.

The poem of life
is sometimes a ditty
a ballad, a sosnnet
sad, lovely or witty.

Some couplets may falter
and burn into ash
as love affairs enter
proverbial crash.

The poem of life
now childish, now grand
reflects the old psyche
asserting its' stand.

The poem of life
will change as you enter
that scary old place
they call 'Senior Center.'

The poem of life
though wobbly in rhyme
is something YOU wrote
you know 'it is mine.'

The poem of life
ah, think of it how
your kin that is next
will treasure it now.

Or maybe your poem
was written in sand
that's even better -
in trash it won't land.

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Her Poem

The Stars that shine
The moon that glows
You still inspire the rhyme
And the feeling that never goes

Life keeps us apart
But we find our way back
You stole my heart
When, I dont know, I lost track

Why did you let me leave?
Why didnt you try to stop me
I just couldnt believe
The pain I gained that you couldnt see

I saw you again
The feelings came back rushed
I couldnt remember the pain
But relished how we touched

I'll never forget
Its something I cant do
Nor will I regret
What I've done with you

No matter what we do
No matter where we go
I'll always love you
Its a promise you will always know

That will never change
No matter how long
The distance between us may change
But what I feel for you will never feel wrong

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The Poem As A Form Of Confession

when you read my poem
you begin to say that i must have been confessing
about a past and it is my subconscious who is always speaking
apparently you
notice the coming and going of a soul
to its favorite place
talking in the first person
sometimes you begin to piece the different forms
of metaphor: an image of mother, a naughty son
a flock of sheep, an old house by the river,
green hills, ripples of the sea,
leaves falling,
you connect chain to another chain
always bearing in mind
that one who tells the truth cannot forget
a story.

i used to believe in what i write
and chose those which i must believe in
but somehow i have changed: i now want to write for
those i do not believe anymore.

a black book, an access code,
a blue bird, a caterpillar, a cat on top of the
dog's head.

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