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1 " If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with the notion that for me the making of poems is both a commemoration (a moment captured) and an evocation (the archaeologist manqué side of me digging into something buried and bringing it to light). But I also said that I find the processes that bring poems into being mysterious, and I wouldn't really wish to know them; the thread that links the first unwilled impulse to the object I acknowledge as the completed poem is a tenuous one, easily broken. If I knew the answers to these riddles, I would write more poems, and better ones. " Simple Poem" is as close as I can get to a credo':Simple PoemI shall make it simple so you understand.Making it simple will make it clear for me.When you have read it, take me by the handAs children do, loving simplicity.This is the simple poem I have made.Tell me you understand. But when you doDon't ask me in return if I have saidAll that I meant, or whether it is true. "
2 " You askif I will write a poemI could,I supposewrite the mostsplendiferousone of allbut notrightnownot whenyour handsare brewingwarmcinnamon teaacross my skinnot when I’mtrying to imaginewhat might happenif you beganfloweringkissesuponmeMy dear,how canI writea poemwhen I’m alreadyinside one? "
― Sanober Khan , A Thousand Flamingos
3 " Hate PoemI hate you truly. Truly I do.Everything about me hates everything about you.The flick of my wrist hates you.The way I hold my pencil hates you.The sound made by my tiniest bones were they trapped in the jaws of a moray eel hates you.Each corpuscle singing in its capillary hates you.Look out! Fore! I hate you.The blue-green jewel of sock lint I’m diggingfrom under by third toenail, left foot, hates you.The history of this keychain hates you.My sigh in the background as you explain relational databaseshates you.The goldfish of my genius hates you.My aorta hates you. Also my ancestors.A closed window is both a closed window and an obvioussymbol of how I hate you.My voice curt as a hairshirt: hate.My hesitation when you invite me for a drive: hate.My pleasant “good morning”: hate.You know how when I’m sleepy I nuzzle my headunder your arm? Hate.The whites of my target-eyes articulate hate. My witpractices it.My breasts relaxing in their holster from morningto night hate you.Layers of hate, a parfait.Hours after our latest row, brandishing the sharp glee of hate,I dissect you cell by cell, so that I might hate each oneindividually and at leisure.My lungs, duplicitous twins, expand with the utter validityof my hate, which can never have enough of you,Breathlessly, like two idealists in a broken submarine. "
4 " I can write no stately proemAs a prelude to my lay;From a poet to a poemI would dare to say.For if of these fallen petalsOne to you seem fair,Love will waft it till it settlesOn your hair.And when wind and winter hardenAll the loveless land,It will whisper of the garden,You will understand. "
― Oscar Wilde
5 " The day will comeWhen my body no longer existsBut in the lines of this poemI will never let you be aloneThe day will comeWhen my voice is no longer heardBut within the words of this poemI will continue to watch over youThe day will comeWhen my dreams are no longer knownBut in the spaces found in the letters of this poemI will never tired of looking for you "
― Sapardi Djoko Damono