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Populist Manifesto No. 1

Poets, come out of your closets,
Open your windows, open your doors,
You have been holed-up too long
in your closed worlds.
Come down, come down
from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills,
your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,
your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,
down from your foothills and mountains,
out of your teepees and domes.
The trees are still falling
and we’ll to the woods no more.
No time now for sitting in them
As man burns down his own house
to roast his pig
No more chanting Hare Krishna
while Rome burns.
San Francisco’s burning,
Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning
the fossil-fuels of life.

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poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
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This Poetry

This poetry is not poetry

This poetry is not poetry as poetry goes

But is as silent as a man in a rollo neck jumper

Almost reading yesterdays news

This poetry is not poetry

As far as poetry goes

It is neither verse

Or poesy prose

This is a debunking of 'The poetry'

Everyone knows

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poem by Yvette Smith
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Retrieved Poetry

Poetry is dead,
Some would say.
But the inspiration that befell the poet,
But the gods that cursed the poet
Would never allow him grow weary.
It keeps pouring out like morning dew
From sundown to cock crow.
Poetry is dead,
          Some would say.
Those would get paid
That wishes it out of this world.
Judgement day, the pay day, even today
,
Memories linger of what the gods inspired.
Only poetry has survived a worldwide flood.
Poetry is dead,
          Some have said.
          But the inspiration keeps coming,
          But the memory keeps living.
          Poetry lives on even when the world is dead;

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poem by Chime Justice Ndubuisi
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Poetry, That's What I Write

Parody of the classic song Money, That's What I Want

The best words on the page are here
Teaching you a hell of a lot more about life
Then just the birds and bees
Now you know words of magic
Words of wisdom
Given birth
Right here, right now
Oh, yes
Poetry, that's what I write

My wicked writing should give you such a thrill
So don't be shy
Go ahead and click on this link right here
My poetry won't pay your bills, no
But I can promise to give you some kinky thrills
Now you know
Poetry, that's what I write
Bright and beautiful

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poem by Ramona Thompson
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On The Poet And Poetry: The Complete Text

1
Shakespeare and Kalidas and Homer
had no need to flaunt qualifications
so don’t trumpet too much of yours

2
in this kingdom
where one writes
there is no seniority, each is equal

3
it is not important to be a poet;
the thing is to bring the poetry

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poem by Raj Arumugam
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Poetry Is Sexy

Poetry is sexy
Its lyrics aim to please

Poetry is sexy
Engaging in its tease

Poetry is sexy
It radiates with verb

Poetry is sexy
Every idyllic word

Poetry is sexy
Refined for purity

Poetry is sexy
Stripped of subtlety

Poetry is sexy
When read between the lines

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poem by Brian Dorn
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At Play In A Garden of Words (The Problem With Poetry, or, Harvesting the Pea Patch)

I’m put upon to ponder the problem of poetry
& thus, I proudly or, perhaps, perfunctorily,
Ponderously pronounce with a preponderance,
Even a plethora, of p’s:

Poetry is pithy, prankish and perky,
Pertinent and impertinent, too
It’s prophetic, pathetic, pragmatic and proud

Poetry pretends, preaches, points out,
Points to, and down, and under

Poetry’s petals promise purity and peace
Poetry’s pristine, picky and pale

Poetry is practical, prudent, is pregnant,
Gives pause

Poetry’s precise, prayerful, powerful
Poetry’s presence is portentious and playful

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poem by Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson
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The Victories Of Love. Book II

I
From Jane To Her Mother

Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart
Are not half known till they depart!
Although I long'd, for many a year,
To love with love that casts out fear,
My Frederick's kindness frighten'd me,
And heaven seem'd less far off than he;
And in my fancy I would trace
A lady with an angel's face,
That made devotion simply debt,
Till sick with envy and regret,
And wicked grief that God should e'er
Make women, and not make them fair.
That he might love me more because
Another in his memory was,
And that my indigence might be
To him what Baby's was to me,
The chief of charms, who could have thought?

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poem by Coventry Patmore
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Our Love Was Is

Our love was ...
Our love was ...
Our love was famine, frustration
Our love was famine, frustration
We only acted out an imitation
We only acted out an imitation
Of what real love should have been
Of what real love should have been
Then suddenly ...
Then suddenly ...
Our love was flying
Our love was flying
Our love was soaring
Our love was soaring
Our love was shining
Our love was shining
Like a summer morning
Like a summer morning
Flying, soaring
Flying, soaring

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song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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Show Me Love

(spoken) Hello
This was an accident
Not the kind where sorrow sounds
Never even noticed
We're suddenly crumbling
Tell me how you've never felt
Delicate or innocent
Do you still have doubts that
Us having faith makes any sense
Tell me nothing ever counts
Lashing out or breaking down
Still somebody loses 'cause
There's no way to turn around
Staring at your photograph
Everything now in the past
Never felt so lonely
I wish that you could show me love
Shov me love
Show me love
Show me love

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song performed by Tatu
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