Posts tagged writing
Tears and tears of pain on paper, That rolled, discarded as rubbish, a draft Signs of a writer writing, The toil, the sweat, the writers graft, And it is love, the torment of the heart, Reason for living, wanting life to end, and when Tragedy and pain write the best poetry Poets wish to never write a poem again!
William Topaz Mc Gonagall Of awful verse he was the master, Writing of the Tay Bridge disaster, Stating Shakespeare the best wordsmith be, In Britain to date, and second he, No disrespect to Burns the Bard No desire for a great name to be tarred, He was second best Scottish son, For north of the border, Mc Gonagle was number one! On receiving [...]
I said that I would write a poem today On what? I do not know Before pen and paper I put away And off to Birr I go. And so quick and short stanzas here I write Upon nothing at all Poetic equivalent of graffiti Scrawled big upon a wall Perhaps when I return back here from town And all is quiet and still The great epic poem that I seek to write [...]
I read a quotation that said “creativity is born of loneliness”, and while in times of dark moods indeed creativity can be a release… it is not the only time of creativity. For me, creativity is a celebration of life… a day gone by without a verse written is a bad one for me. Maybe I am crazy… ? Born of lonelines [...]
The louse can see no class or creed Upon the subject on which it does feed Both opportunity and need Dictate where it srikes. It looks not on colour of skin Whether or not the lady does sin Cares not for hearts or whats within Once he finds somewhere he likes. I am not haugty, or a snob Care not for he accent from yer gob If you are manly, or [...]
The great masterpiece he sought to write Never made it to paper But it was in the mind somewhere Just seeking to be written Versified, ordered and edited Forwarded, published Launched and acclaimed. They came all right in the droves And hailed his last performance As the clergyman threw a fistful of clay On the writers coffin.
Of blocks are walls built: the builders One by one they make it long and tall Arranged right: they make it stronger Of a builders blocks are made a Wall. Of blocks are books unfinished: the writers One by one they dishearten and fall When too many and often: he can abandon his project And the book is never finished at all.
The dead do not talk Silent: lips sealed, unspeaking Conversation ended. But from these pages of books They speak in the library From a writing prompt at a Facebook tanka group “Tanka on Site” var OB_platformType=3; var OB_PlugInVer=\'220.127.116.11_Regular\';
I My mind is wrapped in stillness deep, A calmness that’s unbroken, For it is night and it is dark And there is not one word spoken Outside in the empty street That patiently waits the dawn, And I as I try to sleep, I turn in bed and yawn. II And in this emptiness of mind, Images and words can play, As I in slumbers drift in and out In the ea [...]
Rain beats at my window, As the day it slowly dies, As midnight approaches, I’m cold I realize. For long I’ve sat at keyboard Typing words onto screen Its seems as if no time, And yet for hours writing I’ve been. And I turn on the heater, I get up from my chair, I stretch and yawn, look in the mirror Laugh at my reflection t [...]