Poetry Poems

Poetry doesn’t just happen. It’s not just a bunch of words grabbed hastily and arranged to rhyme, it’s not even a so called overflow of emotions. Poetry is much more than that. It’s the silence that echoes within your being,

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During the talk on love and life My friend, he ended the conversation With a conclusion ‘One who want to be a real poet Should have a pure heart But one who needs to be a committed lover Should have

Poetry evokes feelings, Stimulates thoughtful expressions, Evolving a strange emotion, Of an image in mind. It transforms everything, With a new perspective, A reflection of a photographic sight, In significant verses. Poetry is a pictorial, Imagery of words, Intensely used

I feel the tiredness of my years, those quiet times when breath appears in melting mosaic imagery, upon the mirrors of a sea that only calls so many names, through pious sunlit tortured flames that scrape themselves away from light,

He said it was not easy, Not that easy, writing poetry. But I didn’t think so. (Yeah! I thought of it though.) I sent him my blueprint, He laughed and laughed… It’s not that easy, you see Your’s all wilderness.

A motley group had made an affiliation of sorts It sprouted and mushroomed in our back lane And there was born a poetry club with no name Passion it was for the verses written in Urdu That linked them beyond

When life deepened and words rose to a mystic high , When solitude became a beauty and deep inside could not understand if pain is a blessing or pleasure a boon , when wind whispered in ears sweet nothings ,

Each night, the universe Writes its’ story On the surface Of the moon Using starlight As its’ pen, And deliberately Makes some words To fall on earth That is poetry The immutable self Afraid of its’ loneliness Thinks itself To be many And

Black hole in my china cup, You swirl round in vortices; Rising, falling, twirling up, You mind me no notices! In your twirling eye, black As pitch, I see me in a café; Sitting up and sitting back, Stirring black-hole

Music lost, recovered, lost Love lost, recovered, lost Poetry lost, lost, lost even if found Lost in words, words in loss, lost voice Lost embittered passion, seething with lost memories Alzheimer’s child, poetry’s kind upbringing Parentage questioned, orphan of regrets

About the book – My Life and Poetry’ contains 78 English poems in very simple and heartfelt language. The poems in this book have a sense of divinity, love and natural beauty. I will be obliged if this book makes an

Now let poetry flap its wings and sing to the sky in a language that not just carries a rich literary history but is also close to the heart in an unexplainable way. HighOnPoems launches the most awaited Hindi Poetry

Of splendid thrones of gold or treasures manifold Of jewelled caskets or lavish banquets Of Emirs and rajahs Of Sultan and Shahs Of kings and queens Of rulers and emperors Of sparkling crowns or flowing gowns Of their subservient stewards

And so, with trembling heart I dare to embrace your clean white sheet And mark it with my scribblings. To make a sentence, where to start? And where to feel complete? Does it matter if my style don’t rhyme? I’m

Blood dripping from the pages of history books, wartime pictures, dried bones, graveyard stones, torture weapons, memorial sites, echoing the atrocities which occurred at Auschwitz. Any poems that capture the glimmers and whispers of a rainbow in another season may

Poetry is not an intelligent Arrangement of words or rhymes But an articulation of heart An articulation of emotion An articulation of the subtle feelings That can never be expressed by a prose Poetry is associated with more heart Than

The moon spends her beauty and wins the hearts of many, The poet spends his heart and makes him free . .

Breaking the path by random steps, you move, and thoughts make a ritual dance. In a wingless flight, a cosmic gloom envelops you. You try to stop the dark tremors, Yet you don’t feel safe in a crowd. Life has

Sometimes I feel Isolated. I hate it F is all I see when my papers are graded. I sit in the back of the bus and class faded. I have this mind that is painted on a canvas. There’s still

The unnameable voice whispers with a breath made solely from light –Its voice speaks a vocabulary uttered as vast permutations: migratory flocks, tree leaves, innumerable insects… tropes, colors, atoms and not least, the miscounted stars significantly smaller than the total

Are you educated? Have you an injured heart? Have you a purified brain? Do you believe in truth? Are you alone? Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic? Are you a secular person? Do you believe in democracy?

(1) Poetry is holding eternity by its front curl, each time it passes through a transitory flicker. It is seeing all winters in just a refraction of a water drop. It is your face blushing whenever a firefly flames its

At the hapless poetry event I thought I’d have a splendid time But as a poet I should know That life has the habit of being cruel So immensely cruel So I had to avoid the debris Of classical poetry

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Momma! I am your poem. From that mountain hole Too many pains left And from the island of the vexation A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made  a missiles I was fabricated just below your heart  And I am

I listen to the words of the song that the blind blues player sings Sweat running down his face, neck muscles in a tight strain Sounding as if he’s lived every word he is singing I feel the sting in

In a dream that is not mine Muse of Poesy, upon your cue, I follow after a gossamer line Till I versify as one with you! In your Mobius-looped universe Space regresses as time in reverse; We versify lost dreams

The flesh was putting up a brave dialogue. I was willing to play the game. Stunned, shocked, pleasantly sore basking in heat of silk throat, I asked the needles to go ahead and stitch the wounds without loss of blood.

Strangers from incident, lies for distance, pitfalls of living infrequent, Rushes of sympathy pass over like fever sweat. In concurrent motion the wolves swarm on the lifeless carcass. Impending emotions fill the hole in my stomach, my chest continues to

I’ll let you know some things if I may, Like a captor addressing a prisoner to be. Words like ropes that do not fray, I am locking you in my poetry. It is selfish of me to hold you like

HighOnPoems announces the launch of our new section – Poets and their Published Books If you are a poet and have your work published, HighOnPoems is a perfect place to promote your book and get noticed within a huge community

During the talk on love and life My friend, he ended the conversation With a conclusion ‘One who wants to be a real poet Should have a pure heart But one who needs to be a committed lover Should have

What’s poetry to me Within myself I need to see It’s a flow of words Like the tweet of birds It’s a way to express Something you don’t want to suppress It’s a personal affair Revealed to the world in

I wrote these words to tell all my secrets about you. I told you not to exhort, appreciate nor pity too, but I hope you’ll read and take a heed; to all these words though, it seemed absurd. Do not

Once upon a day I encountered a machine capable of the most exquisite, subtle and profound expression of feeling, While its cogs and wheels turned coldly and mutely, with no heart, thought or feeling of their own. A sign on

Loneliness of night, When extinguishes the lighting eyes, Silence when rules the earth, I listen to the music of anklets, Someone silently comes in, And I listen to a song of love, The poet is still thirsty, The thirsty eyes

What is poetry I must ask, writing poetry can be quite a task. Still I struggle and continue to write Hmmm, for my delight, or is it from insight? Although I get frustrated, very agitated, can’t bring myself to hate

I enjoy writing poetry, it makes me feel free. Before I write I think of every line, because in a poem everything rhymes. In a poem you write what you imagine, it is a written magic. What you write is

Have you given birth? If you have written poetry then you have It doesn’t matter if you are young or old Man or woman Tall or short Poets give life to words Everyday, in every way, everywhere In a hectic

I wrote these words again; Feelings with you I have gained These were the words— Telling you’re my inspiration, And now it’s fell into affection. Only in my poetry Words where I found your beauty. Place to spent time loving

I wrote this poetry As I found your beauty Where words that still unsaid Feelings that still undead. I wrote this poetry Because of you And not because of fortune and fame I wrote this poetry Trying not to impress

And with a gust of defeat; the future seems familiar. Has the oneness forgotten about me? The interconnectedness of futile Embellishments followed by straights of garbage, lack-luster trash, soul-less sirens of shit-laced spines, irrelevance, trains without brakes. Exposure, death, the

Stand up for what is true And for what is just Remember not your suffering Rejoice with youth and wonder Accept what cannot be changed Cry out for what is whole Do not hesitate The time is now What you

In your eyes, I watched fireflies dancing… I listen to a song within my heart, shredded, broken whispers… at dusk listening to the music of falling leaves laid bare my heartaches… tonight, it rains with thunder, being alone is quite

Today I thought it’s a day of leisure Let me go through all my friend’s treasure Today I will not write any poem Today I will read all others creations The lovely poems, sonnets and songs Some ode, some heart

I can’t name things. I can’t tell, with some mighty confidence, this is this or that is that. You tell me of love. but, I have known too many loves. blue love, green love, red love, even yellow love. I

Ask Van Gogh why he painted; A lunatic left at his own devices His grey mind sucking colors from the world into a canvas. Each rub leading to liberation from the known world The thick paste transforming a canvas; Into

The stillness of the wind Is all around As I walk along This stretch of sand Oh! how I am amazed A beauty so grand As I stood and gazed This majestic land I knelt and picked A leaf in

Blessed??? So called destiny pushed me to an end, Found comfort and peace in writing, Making Poetry my best friend. Revisiting the past had never brought solace, Penning each emotion, hurt and pain, Aided in ending the distress with absolute

Swift entropic arrow of time, You illicit my poetic freedom! You vex me inside-out of rhythm, Outside-in of rhyme; You irreversible debacle And thermodynamic oracle, Too late I learn: in my present Wanes a future crescent! How like an even

Rain in cooling swathes of water Drenches the grass a shining wet Canopies of leaves dripping at every corner A parade of umbrellas, their owners in a fret Sweet respite from endless hot days Without a shadow of a breeze

There is poetry in the, Heart of the ocean, A longing in the soul, To be enfolded in its waves, As they create a ripple, Of pulsating thrill in me. A calming tranquility, Fascinating wondrous hues, Magnetic is the attraction,

Being a poet doesn’t mean you just rhyme at the end of the line. For me it is a chance for readers to relate to the views that are mine. I usually try to write great poems to inspire the

”You live in a queer world of dreams, Mr. Ahmed Turning odd imaginations to mere fancy words Bejeweled by baffling metaphors and similes That one mightn’t get the hang of with ease Why don’t you eschew the pesky rhyme rule,

Once, my tongue reached out Deep towards your heart In search of all the pain And dirt And grief And desires And the philosopher’s stone. In search of all that That made you seek me out Amongst the crowd of

if I write enough poems maybe I’ll get one or two right it doesn’t really matter very much to me each one I can read which helps me remember is good enough dependable and sturdy to do me such a

I didn’t much want to admit it, I was fine gathering dust on the shelf, But the day that I posted My first poem online, I messed up and I “outed” myself. I’m not what you’d call a great thinker,

If you decide to hurt me please be prepared to become a poem

If you find no poem on your doorstep in the morning, no paper, no knock on your door, your life poorly edited but no broken dashes or injured meter- If you do not wear white satin dresses late in life

1959; was it? Oh! I thought it was 2000 … Welton Academy; was it? Or was it St. Xavier’s College? Todd Anderson or me? As I pen this furiously … My thoughts turning liquid I feel so lost … A

Oh, the greenness In the desert… You are the sign of bravery You are the mark of subsistence You challenge the established fate. But, you don’t have Enemies in the desert, do you? Nevertheless, here are Thousands of enemies For

As a lover of poems; I imagine, I explore, I discover, I write. As a lover of poems; I read, I pause for a while, I understand, I feel every inch of words written. As a lover of poems; I

The black slate, The white chalk, The lustre of a steel tiffin box. The drenched eye that read its first romantic novel, The inexpressible pain of your first heartbreak, The solace in a best friend’s hug, The fancy collection of

I stopped and wrote a poem today, Some simple things I had to say, I don’t know why I wrote them down, Perhaps to smile, instead of frown. I’d love to share my words of rhyme, Let others read from