Write So Right

I love this poem about writing. I’m not sure if I could put it this eloquently but I loved reading what the poet feels about the act of writing.

by Charles Bukowski

often it is the only
between you and
no drink,
no woman’s love,
no wealth
match it.
nothing can save
it keeps the walls
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
writing is the
the kindliest
god of all the
writing stalks
it knows no
and writing
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
the last
what it

I feel I write best when the words are tumbling out of me. Sadly, I have not felt like that in a long time. Often, my writing is forced, like my daily bowel movements. Okay sorry TMI!

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I would be a good writer. Because it just doesn’t come bursting out of me?


Nonsense Poem

This poem is apparently written in the style of what is called a ‘nonsense poem’. An adult reading it might find it as nonsense, but if you read it from a child’s mind it’s actually fun! I can totally see a picture book made out of this poem.

Let’s Marry Said The Cherry

“Let’s marry,”
said the cherry.

“Why me?”
said the pea.

“‘Cause you’re sweet,”
said the beet.

“Say you will,”
said the dill.

“Think it over,”
said the clover.

“Don’t rush,”
said the squash.

“Here’s your dress,”
said the cress.

“White and green,”
said the bean.

“And your cape,”
said the grape.

“Trimmed with fur,”
said the burr.

“Won’t that tickle?”
said the pickle.

“Who knows?”
said the rose.

“Where’s the chapel?”
said the apple.

“In Greenwich,”
said the spinach.

“We’ll be there!”
said the pear.

“Wearing what?”
said the nut.

“Pants and coats,”
said the oats.

“Shoes and socks,”
said the phlox.

“Shirt and tie,”
said the rye.

“We’ll look jolly,”
said the holly.

“You’ll look silly,”
said the lily.

“You’re crazy,”
said the daisy.

“Come, let’s dine,”
said the vine.

“Yeah-let’s eat!”
said the wheat.

“And get stout,”
said the sprout.

“Just wait,”
said the date.

“Who will chime?”
said the lime.

“I’ll chime!”
said the thyme.

“Who will preach?”
said the peach.

“It’s my turn!”
said the fern.

“You would ramble,”
said the bramble.

“Here they come!”
cried the plum.

“Start the tune!”
cried the prune.

cried the heather.

“Here we go!”
said the sloe.

“NOW- let’s marry!”
said the cherry.

“Why me?”
said the pea.

“Oh, my gosh!”
said the squash.

“Start all over,”
said the clover.

said the hay.

N. M. Bodecker

Found this while blog surfing, as it is now National Poetry Month is the US of A.

Books as Romance Strategy

The poet offers a dating tip that will guarantee you have a reason for your next date after the first.

Lending Out Books

You’re always giving, my therapist said.
You have to learn how to take. Whenever
you meet a woman, the first thing you do
is lend her your books. You think she’ll
have to see you again in order to return them.
But what happens is, she doesn’t have the time
to read them, & she’s afraid if she sees you again
you’ll expect her to talk about them, & will
want to lend her even more. So she
cancels the date. You end up losing
a lot of books. You should borrow hers.

Hal Sirowitz

I might just do that some day. 😛

Reading Every Day

A short and sweet poem that echoes what I feel about reading, taken from here.

Everyday I read,
I see the world through someone else’s eyes.

Everyday I read,
I learn, feel, and experience something new.

Everyday I read,
I live a life I might not have otherwise known.

Everyday I read,
I learn to refine, and redefine myself, my beliefs and my ideas.

Everyday I read,
I see the changes in history, I see what stays the same. I feel a love for humanity and sometimes I feel shame.

Everday I read,
I laugh and a cry with a family that is not mine, but one I am still connected to.

Everyday I read,
I learn to be brave, to be inspired and most of all, to always stop and appreciate all the wonder that surrounds me.


Of the books we’ve read

I like this poem. It’s true that there are millions of books out there, but the ones that mean something to me are the ones I’ve read. They are the special ones.

My Hundred Books

A thousand books my library
And all are primed, it seems to me
With brains.
Mine are so few I scratch in thought
My head;
For just a hundred of the lot
I’ve read.

A hundred books, but of the best,
I can
With wisdom savour and digest
And scan.
Yet when afar from kin and kith
In nooks
Of quietness I’m happy with
Sweet books.

So as nine hundred at me stare
In vain,
My lack I’m wistfully aware
Of brain;
Yet as my leave of living ends,
With looks
Of love I view a hundred friends,
My books.

Robert Service

The Joy of Reading Your First Book

I don’t remember when I could read my first book, but I don’t think I was all elated about it, haha. But if I had my own child and s/he could finally do that, I’d feel a lot like this, except the difference in pronoun of course.

My Book

I did it!
I did it!
Come and look
At what I’ve done!
I read a book!
When someone wrote it
Long ago
For me to read,
How did he know
That this was the book
I’d take from the shelf
And lie on the floor
And read by myself?
I really read it!
Just like that!
Word by word,
From first to last!
I’m sleeping with
This book in bed,
This first FIRST book
I’ve ever read!

David L. Harrison

You are You and You are A-Okay!

I like this self-affirming poem! I should make it my theme poem or something.

I am me.
In all the world, there is no one exactly like me.
There are persons who have some parts like me,
but no one adds up exactly like me.

Therefore, everything that comes out of me
is authentically mine because I alone choose it.
I own everything about me
My body including everything it does;
My mind including all its thoughts and ideas;
My eyes including the images of all they behold;
My feelings whatever they may be…
anger, joy, frustration, love, disappointment, excitement
My Mouth and all the words that come out of it
polite, sweet or rough, correct or incorrect;
My Voice loud or soft.
And all my actions, whether they be to others or to myself.

I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears.
I own all my triumphs and successes, all my failures and mistakes.
Because I own all of me I can become intimately acquainted with me.
By doing so I can love me and be friendly with me in all parts.
I can then make it possible for all of me to work in my best interests.

I know there are aspects about myself that puzzle me,
and other aspects that I do not know.
But as long as I am friendly and loving to myself,
I can courageously and hopefully, look for solutions to the puzzles
and for ways to find out more about me.

However I look and sound, whatever I say and do, and whatever I think
and feel at a given moment in time is me.
This is authentic and represents where I am in that moment in time.
When I review later how I looked and sounded, what I said and did, and how
I thought and felt, some parts may turn out to be unfitting.
I can discard that which is unfitting, and keep that which proved fitting,
And invent something new for that which I discarded.

I can see, hear, feel, think, say and do.
I have the tools to survive, to be close to others, to be productive,
and to make sense and order out of the world of people
and things outside of me.
I own me, and therefore I can engineer me.

I am me and I am okay

Virginia Satir

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