And what are words to poets?

For all my friends here at the Cafe... Your words make a difference...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What are words to poets?

Deep blue

in their able brush

soft as seraph whispers

they paint your midnight sighs

smiling softly in your sleep

drifting in dreams…

They are scarlet strokes

Knives stained in the blood

of kings

of martyrs

of rebels

of the innocent…

Words are golden treasures

Sunsets and similes

sonnets and songs

Latin rhythms

rock beats

pounding

driving

filling minds with inspiration

or unbridled passions…

Words inspire

Incite war

devastate hearts

convey peace

recount tragedy…

And what are words to poets?

They are life in letters

strung like pearls

worn in grace

priceless

powerful

profound

WORDS…

 

Author's Note

Please feel free to add your own reflections

Reviews

[Mark]

What are words to poets?...Hmmm:
What are hands, to a clock?.....Purpose: The only means of delivering meaning;
What are raindrops, to thunderheads?.....Fulfillment: The completion of intended purpose;
What are seeds, to flowers?.....Potential: The first and predominant mode of achieving Fulfillment!

[Touché Armada]

What are words to poets?
Tactile blue
encasing, levitating
Watery skies to learn how to fly
The grain of salt too many
taken lightly.


they are plentiful banquets
laid at vast tables
of the poor at heart
the ironed willed
the fragile wing
saviours


Words are hall runners
Persian rugs
Mandolins tuned high
Lyra's compass
Yesterdays horoscope
Forgotten languages
Extinct races
Wheeling imagination
For all the ones still missing
Words breathe life
Breaths breathe words
gently
horrifically
stealth fully
historically
purposefully
Sometimes thoughtlessly

So what are words to poets?
They are secret lovers
Deepest torment
Total surrender
Unending battles
Deities immortalities
Mortal wounds
Healing fields
Metaphors
Riddles
Truth
&
Lies
Dagger deaths and Truce to wars
WORDS

[Sorry Infamous]

Maybe the nicest poem I have read here about other poets...
you truly make a difference.
My favorite line
"they paint your midnight sighs"

Words that bleed...
and leave a stain
on every one of our good days,
our fingers cramped
and yearning...
we, the poets
like hands molding clay
from out transgressions
from our bliss
we build this vase
fragile and beautiful
may we live forever
in the breath of our art.

[closed account]

Outstanding!!! I wish I could give you a standing ovation

And what are words to poets?

They are life in letters

strung like pearls

worn in grace

priceless

powerful

profound

WORDS�

MASTERFUL.... THIS WAS POETRY ... TRUE REAL POETRY... GREAT JOB.. :-)

[JohnL]

Words are our raw material. They are terrible, they are wonderful, kind cruel, soft, hard. The sound of them lends expression, the lilt of them makes a song - and so mny more things can be said but words have no power of their own. What a privilege we have in our responsibility of use! What power is entrusted to us.
You have written a fine poem here, Craig. It is incomplete - not because you have missed anything out but because there is no end to what you have written. Our lexicon is infinite - what a thought - we can only touch so much. Here, you touch it beautifully, showing love, respect, awe and intelligence in the use of our beloved raw material, words.
Many have written on the subject. One of the best treatises upon words I have sent to so many of my friends. Forgive me if you have already seen this. It is from Pablo Neruda, originally in Spanish and it carries the fire. I take the liberty of appending it> > >

The following is a passage from the memoirs of Pablo Neruda, translated from the original Spanish. Neruda was a Chilean, a winner of the Nobel Prize for literature, Chilean Ambassador in Paris at the time of the Allende regime and a poet of rare excellence. He wrote on a wide spectrum of subject matter, his poems on love, travel, injustice and the Spanish Civil War being exceptional.

THE WORD:
". . . You can say anything you want, yes sir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend. . I bow to them . . . I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down . . . I love words so much . . . The unexpected ones . . . The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop . . . Vowels I love . . . They glitter like coloured stones, they leap like silver fish, they are foam, thread, metal, dew . . . I run after certain words . . . They are so beautiful that I want to fit them all into my poems . . . I catch them in mid-flight as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives . . . And then I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them, I let them go . . . I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves . . . Everything exists in the word . . . An idea goes through a complete change because one word shifted its place, or because another settled down like a spoiled little thing inside a phrase that was not expecting her but obeys her . . . They have shadow, transparency, weight, feathers, hair and everything they gathered from so much rolling down the river, from so much wandering from country to country, from being roots so long . . . They are very ancient and very new . . . They live in the bier, hidden away, and in the budding flower . . . What a great language* I have, it's a fine language we inherited from the fierce conquistadors . . . They strode over the giant cordilleras, over the rugged Americas, hunting for potatoes, sausages, beans, black tobacco, gold, corn, fried eggs, with a voracious appetite not found in the world since then . . . They swallowed up everything, religions, pyramids, tribes, idolatries just like the ones they brought along in their huge sacks . . . Wherever they went, they razed the land . . . But words fell like pebbles out of the boots of the barbarians, out of their beards, their helmets, their horseshoes, luminous words that were left glittering here . . . our language. We came up losers . . . we came up winners . . . they carried off the gold and left us the gold . . . they carried everything off and left us everything . . . They left us the words."

Pablo Neruda, 'Memoirs'

* Spanish, of course but doesn't it apply to us all?

[Brianna Brie]

And what are words to poets?
They are life in letters
strung like pearls
worn in grace
priceless
powerful
profound
WORDS�

Great choice of words and format. Enjoyed this poetic creativity.

[Jinx's Heart]

Oh! I love this poem. Your title had me thinking and I didn't want to read your poem until I could answer your title, but I came up with nothing nearly as clear and profound as your own "words." Just wow! This is definitely one of my favorite poems of yours! Amazing work!! :)

[Fabian G. Franklin]

Words to me are like gardening tools. I use them to plant seeds of inspiration and hope they blossom and bear fruit resembling the ideals inside my soul. They are shabby tools at best; made of stone and wood.
But with the sun and rain of human smiles and tears perhaps my seeds will grow.
A wonderful write my friend.

[Fran Marie]

They are life in letters
strung like pearls
worn in grace
priceless
powerful
profound
WORDS�


This is just a wonderful poem all the way around,Craig, a most powerful
piece and most inspiring to read~Beautiful penned,Indeed!

Fran

[Stephanie]

I loved everything about this! Words to a poet......it's almost something that can't even be described, yet here you are describing it perfectly! I am always amazed by the sheer talent you have with words. This is beautiful, intelligent and inspiring.

"They are scarlet strokes
Knives stained in the blood
of kings
of martyrs
of rebels
of the innocent�"

That was super awesome! I don't even know how to describe how I feel about that, haha. Fantastic job as always Craig :)

[LisetteCanWrite!]

Wow.. deep feeling on poets and what their words mean.. I could add they paint history through the very fabric of their being.. flowing straight from their souls.. such as you have done brilliantly here.. so smooth is the flow.. and containing so much wisdom and the strengths of the very beings that portray an art throughout the passing of time.. for present and possibly future readers to follow! It is fiction or non-fiction.. and can be an outpouring of release in such intensity. I love the format and rhythm here as well.. it is a strong and inspirational tribute to words, writing and the poetic verse.. thank you so much for sharing!