charley dallas 980907
OTK is almost as good as cheese with whine 990509
valis my grandad talking about his war photos while the parents argue over telephone bills in the front room. 991209
SCOTT unto a new thought
a new way
the poet fades
leaving traces
subtle residue
a poet..,
out of his eyes
unto something new
Sol turning slowly, tumble
wheeling starfire
your mind is undone, stringlike
misstree translating the dry tones of day to day life into something more vibrant, trilling metaphors and howling at the moon. they turn water to wine, show their secrets like a cheap hooker or a tender lover, and spin the fabric of reality into a shimmering tapestry to warm against the night's cold. they are masters of misdirection, and will change all the colors of your rainbow with just a few words. 010422
Zy I'm no poet, I'm an ignorant fraud. But the difference between a poet and an ignorant fraud is that a poet is an un-ignorant fraud. 010920
distorted tendencies Visual Aesthetics. 010921
ClairE We all are.

Billia there are no poets here. 020323
jon_dog I am a train of Winnipeg, I want to taste your food.
- Clive Holden
god i am multiple rabbits, i am the monkees 020405
ilovepatsajak and me i'm in my bedroom
drawing in my notebook
'cuz my hand thinks i'm an artist
but my heart knows i'm a poet
jayseehc whose woods these are, I think I know. His house is in the village, though. He will not see me stopping here to watch his woods fill up with snow...

...the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost
megan it would make you think this,
simply because
he's looking out the window at the falling rain, tap, tap, tap, crying. teardrop, tunnel, darkness. tap, tap, tap. what's wrong with you boy, cries the picture he's looking at. tap, tap, tap. why cry when you're surrounded by this much beauty?
crimson I long to be a poet. A composer of beautiful words that together require time and thought to write and to later comprehend.
I love words.
I want to get by.
I don't want to be remembered.
oldephebe I didn't even begin to under stand poetry until a few years ago
despite the serendipity, and collusion of magic and muse I babbled about in
oldephebe_and_I_just_cant't_believe .

Several years back I had a brief affair with a true poet a woman of exacerbating opposites and an intoxicating aura. She awoke the poet in me, if you can believe that from my anal retentive officious blather.

I don't write about her or share the hundreds of poems she inspired because
well being the wilting flower that I am those words still possess an alacrity, a "something" that opens up all those doors I've welded shut in my crowded attic.

Wow, poetry is the language of the soul, the truest language, one great line can feed me for the rest of the day. I can't summon the words to fill my breast, or the light or whatever, ever now and then I'm graced with some words, it's a real funny feeling - my heart gets this funny ache and then it all just kinds of flows out - I've got a long way to go, much much to learn about writing poetry, I thought misstrees' lines perfectly encapsulated poetrys' power and prodigies - it's a powerful thing when you can shape your will, your words upon a persons heart and see the hard edges melt in their eyes - see the transformation right before you - it's really tempting to abuse that facility but if you're a true poet you only want to write the truth upon a persons heart and let their souls be the final arbiter

I wish the muse would visit me more often - I don't have this academic or structural understanding of poetry - so I can only write it when I feel it

I don't know how I lived all those years without it

most of my deepest relationships have been with women who were real earth spirits, ah deeply spiritual and ah they wrote beautiful poetry at least I thought so..

poet the word used to conjure this image of a 18th century fop. frilled shirt and limp wrist and ah questionable or dubious sexual preference, yeah I'm embarrassed to confess - now I pretty much don't care much about about a persons sexual preference as long as they try not to force it on somebody else - but poetry?
I couldn't live without out it. Yeah most of my male friends know nothing about my secret life of poetry - and now I'm meandering down a path that's almost petered out - so..
mj i've never known whether to take it as insult or compliment 030818
jezabel curse this poet's soul,
the one that feels against my will
and lays me open for all to see.
every intensity cuts and awakens,
but such unbeauty to open eyes to.

if i could shed this soul like skin,
i would be less, different, and dead,
and if i could don it at will,
it would not be a soul at all.
oldephebe yea, that's the rub, or rash..
smoetry poetry..it's one thing you can't fake..oh you can try but the meretricious and maudlin always sticks out..rudolph nosed ..i have absolutely no idea what i'm writing..been p all night with insomnia again..
misstree neat, i learned a new word today. *smile*

i'm always a little ashamed to admit i'm a poet. especially when i'm a poet without words, or when all i'm doing is wallowing in angst, or when people give me that *look*, the combination pat-on-the-head and "oh god you're not going to try to get me interested in that crap, are you?". i feel like calling myself such is pretentious, like it denotes some level of skill or formalized devotion, when all it really is is an ongoing love affair between me and word constructs. i feel like it points out the embarassing truth of what this world does to me, and how i react to it. don't get me wrong, i'm a little proud of it sometimes, but i don't accept praise well in the first place, and i dunno, it's prolly just the angst talking so i'll shut up now.
Jason Reed You're a poet and don't know it. 031010
mj a man who bears his soul.
a man who does more than just write.
a man who teaches you more in a few lines of verse than you could ever concieve.
the epitome of a man.
poet not me 060403
dessiahs_song skirmishes inside
a brilliant mind
dewy webs
come, speak again.

rise, unbelong, bequeath
to paper what is not yours.
FA113N I am a poet.

Yet to say that seems sacrilegious.

I am a child, drawing on the dining room walls with crayons.

She is an artist, painting in inks so blue it makes my heart ache.

To say that we are poets, is to equate our skills, and that is wrong. I am merely a fan girl, an acolyte, an echo.

She is a poet.

And I am in awe.
what's it to you?
who go