poems about poetry

Plagiarism | Chris Byrne

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Was it just a word?
Or was it sneaking in
And stealing my soul
Whilst I slept,
Hearing me playing my
Favourite song that inspired
Me, a tune that helped
As I wrote those deep and dark
Inspiring sonnets, trying not to
Plagiarise the lyric, that hidden
Meaning within a song,
My thoughts coming to life
All because of a song,
Something it awoke in me
As I typed and typed
Erased and erased
As my brain thought
It’s too like the song,
The never ending
Thoughts of a poet
Are always just like the song.

Opening | Clara Burghelea

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A mother wound
lives under the skin.
Raw at first,
throbbing less in time.
It dwells into other losses
of the tongue
that grew mute, unraveled,
the morning sounds
of night-shift cracking bones,
damp cloth on feverish foreheads,
eggplant salad, complicit smiles.
A language of lacks, body as implement.
Slowly, one poem bears the next,
descending the page like a string tie.
At the end of the day, I weigh
the unsaid, the misspelt, the in-betweens.
The poem cracks. On the page,
the learned foreign letters
give pain a loud, bearable voice.
The wound tingles, the words breathe.
One dying leaves room for poetry.
Many other deaths follow.

Pretending to Be Profound | JD DeHart

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By the light that streams
in, you can see through
the discourse, held up to
the light like a small animal
within that envelope of syntax
and highbrow terminology, the
digestive system of the creature
can be deduced
a flurry of sound and thunder
with no lightning heat or music.

Discarding the Poem | Ananya S. Guha

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A poem flexes words
I sit taut, still among the words
of others, and wonder why in the last instance my poem was politely
rejected by an editor who writes poetry like me, but wants also to
discard the words of others. So in righteousness I decide not to write, or read, but simply chalk out ways of obviating the poem.

A Poet's Curse | Chris Byrne

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A poet’s curse
Is writing about love,
Sensing the darkness it expresses,
The beauty it reveals; understanding
It’s a complicated feeling,
Misunderstood, difficult, full of
Words, thoughts, and misconceptions.
Most never see, nor value
Its true nature, yet we recognize
Its inner beauty within the
Gloom, always craving it
Never seeing it.

A Poet's Spell | Blanca Alicia Garza

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When I was a little girl,
I dreamed of being a poet.
As an adult woman
I learned that to write
the most beautiful
of love poems I
had to let my heart
break into a thousand pieces.
Perhaps it is true, that the poet
carries a spell to pen,
the beauty of love, but
never is able to attain it.

Mode | JD DeHart

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What does word have
that gesture doesn’t? We each sit
in an experience, stand in a way of living.
We express our life,
prioritize what we feel we must –
Gathering the world together
onto a white board, listing the order
of our day, our reflections,
What can be done with lips
can be done with hands, no barrier
holds language back, it is a flood.
We are bubbling with expression.

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