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For the love of Poetry

  1. Underworld-Craft profile image60
    Underworld-Craftposted 6 years ago

    What would you do for the love of Poetry? Would you mind dieing for it? Would you mind living for it?... For the love of one of the oldest, best and most trustworthy lover of all time. What would you do for the love of poetry?

    1. 4elements profile image79
      4elementsposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      I wouldn't die for it, but I do love writing it. I have been writting poetry since I was 10 yrs old. I do live for most of mine being that they were written about true feelings I was going through at the time.

    2. Uriel profile image84
      Urielposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      For the love of poetry i would remove my mask and write whatever the heart speaks of. I would be myself and not someone else [ never an imposer]. I would not be a mirror for the others, for only when in true connection with my pen that i can be myself. I throw myself in its faithful hands and i never look back. And in grattitude i bow my head to the master of the pen http://hubpages.com/hub/In-Gratitudei-bow-my-Head

      in this world my pen is the only thing i have so i know that whatever life throws at me, i know i have a place to go back to even if things turned out wrong. All what i have is my pen that writes poetry and i am ready to give up any piece of me except my pen for my pen is my whole universe. Might sound like some piece of hypocrisy but this is what i believe in

      1. Underworld-Craft profile image60
        Underworld-Craftposted 6 years ago in reply to this

        You are titillating me Uriel! Your "Pen" is similar to my "Pen"

    3. Drax profile image77
      Draxposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      Answered from a poet's perspective...

      ...of course I would have to die for it, when I write it and believe in it and there is truth in it then there is someone somewhere who will hate me and the poetry. Perhaps if I lived under a repressive regime then I would be persecuted, imprisoned, denied my rights, separated from my family for the love of it.

      In poems of love I write my heart on the page, my today of together, my future of alone, of separation, of highs and lows, I would live the pain and joy in the moment of writing and as echoes through my days. 

      For the love of poetry I am to be content to be poor, to be an outsider, to be invisible, to be an observer.

      For the love of poetry I hold secret parts of myself up for examination and critisim and ridicule.

      For the love of poetry I'll die a little every day in the words written from the pool of my life.

      Thanks, great question...!!!


      1. Underworld-Craft profile image60
        Underworld-Craftposted 6 years ago in reply to this

        How so sweetly true,- "For the love of poetry I'll die a little every day in the words written from the pool of my life". We all die everyday really from what we so passionately do.

    4. 0
      Brenda Durhamposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      Will I live for it?
      No, it lives for me.
      Will I die for it?
      No, because you see,

      It lives or dies with us
      We are its authors, so
      We weave its threads
      so that it might show.

      Created from our thoughts,
      We write it line by line
      And it will either live
      Or die, unread, in time.

  2. lady_love158 profile image60
    lady_love158posted 6 years ago

    I love poetry, but I sure wouldn't die for it...and I'm not sure what you mean by living for it, though given those options, I'd pick living for it!

  3. ashelladyhawke profile image72
    ashelladyhawkeposted 6 years ago

    You ask what would you do for the love of poetry. Since I believe all of life is poetry in motion, you live and eventually die. That is life. That is poetry.

    1. Underworld-Craft profile image60
      Underworld-Craftposted 6 years ago in reply to this


  4. Joy56 profile image60
    Joy56posted 6 years ago

    i would stay up late to read it on h.p. but i would not live or die for it,,,,,,, it is a great asset to life i feel

  5. poeticColor22 profile image72
    poeticColor22posted 6 years ago

    I feel that life is poetry
    theres no real living without it
    nor is there dying without it
    all aspects of life to me atleast hold emotion
    and emotion is poetry
    without it poetry would be plastic sounding .

  6. Ginger Meow profile image82
    Ginger Meowposted 6 years ago

    For poetry I wouldn't die,
    but a little piece of me inside,
    would whither, crack and dry,
    if I couldn't express or confide.

    You see, for me poetry is alive,
    brewing emotion deep within,
    igniting my creative drive,
    giving me life to begin.

  7. alternate poet profile image74
    alternate poetposted 6 years ago

    I would put poetry back on the school curriculum so that more people are able to understand more of it, and more people able to write poetry.   Whilst the west was developing the art of war with the rising Roman Empire - The Chinese were holding examinations for civil service positions in the government - which were in poetry.  The reason was that it proved the ability to think at a higher level, the only pre-requisite for a position of authority.  As we have lost the general ability to understand and write poetry it has degenerated into some poetry that still survives, but mostly into emotional discharge written to resemble poetry and some into garbled collections of obscure words that thinks it is poetry but in fact is just confusion that fails to get over any message.  All of this stuff still comes under the heading of poetry , but it devalues the form.  So I wish for better education at High School level so that more people are able to understand poetry and get a handle on a higher level of thinking at the same time smile

    1. Joy56 profile image60
      Joy56posted 6 years ago in reply to this

      i second that i think

    2. 0
      kimberlyslyricsposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      So true my friend, it does devalue the form.  However a little confused on the OP statement as to what I would do for the love of poetry?  Aside from above, nothing.  I would do what I always do, rarely read it as it is ti influential to me and taints my thinking when doing my own.  Basically for the love of poetry, I write it, then put song to it most often.  Nothing further than that?


      Kimberly   smile

    3. maven101 profile image76
      maven101posted 6 years ago in reply to this

      I must agree with this commentary...Reading most contemporary " poetry " can be discouraging and reflective of the demise of the written word...little discipline, excessive adjectives, and a confusing array of metaphors inserted for emotional effect that adds nothing to the poem's message...When does poetry become polemic..?
      In answer to the opening question, Keats has writ " When I have fears that I may cease to be, before this pen has gleaned my teeming brain ..." pretty much sums it up for me...I publish very little, writing mostly for family and friends, and sometimes just for myself...

  8. Ginger Meow profile image82
    Ginger Meowposted 6 years ago

    For the love of poetry,
    for the love of god.
    Would you die for it?
    That seems quite odd.

    For the love of poetry,
    both far and near.
    Would you live for it?
    That is quite sincere.

    For the love of poets,
    both young and old.
    Would you care for them,
    and their stories told?

    For the love of poets,
    frozen in time.
    Would you recite them,
    and relive their rhyme?

  9. Awful Poet profile image69
    Awful Poetposted 6 years ago

    I am dead for it
    Im haunting it
    As we read.

    1. alternate poet profile image74
      alternate poetposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      Like this big_smile

      1. sofs profile image86
        sofsposted 6 years ago in reply to this

        I wouldn't die for it . then I can't write or read or enjoy. I would just  LIVE IT!!!

        Or LOVE IT!!

        1. alternate poet profile image74
          alternate poetposted 6 years ago in reply to this

          It's ok to say you would live it !
          but do your footsteps always ryhme,
          your heartbeats always beat in time
          or does love get you always in the shit ?

    2. Underworld-Craft profile image60
      Underworld-Craftposted 6 years ago in reply to this

      Pretty Resonating Awful Poet. There are more than a million insights in your little piece that I so love.

  10. Joe Badtoe profile image60
    Joe Badtoeposted 6 years ago

    Poetry is seen as a lame art which is a throwback to the romantic poets such as Wordsworth (a wimp) and Coleridge (flimsy)and there's very little interest from publishers in pushing poetry or even punking it up to make it cool. This is a crying shame becasue poetry is smart, funny, simple and intricate.

    I was never a fan of 'greats' such a TS Eliot because he used references to the Classics which to me was elitist and pretentious and isolated those outsides the confines of 'intellectuals'.

    Poetry is songs without the music and has no limits to the imagination.

    So just for that here's one I wrote recently!

    Land of Make Believe.

    Well wave the flag backwards
    And empty the sea
    Climb up the mountain of smoke
    Pawn all your jewellery or give it to me
    Let’s make it part of the joke

    Make up a story of daring and deed
    And put on a coat made of steel
    Sneak out in the night on a rising star
    But don’t let them know how you feel

    Build fibreglass promises covered in dust
    Put a leash on a day you enjoy
    Turn a blind eye to a grey rainy sky
    And remember to make a decoy

    Gather up your good fortune
    and shake strangers hands
    leave a memory that’s easy to find
    life isn’t full of empty, bottles and cans
    no one should get left behind

    Throw dice for the desperate
    Play cards with the dead
    Make someone laugh
    And see that everyone gets fed

    Deal out the wishes you found in the snow
    And plant trees in the thoughts of the stale
    Drink gallons of fresh air and blow away the leaves
    And sweep up before the gale

    Shall we all walk backwards to see where we’ve been
    and see what there is to retrieve
    we haven’t gone to heaven and we’re not burning in hell
    we’re just in a land of make believe
    we’re just in a land of make believe


  11. ahorseback profile image56
    ahorsebackposted 6 years ago

    Multiple layers of masks cover the
    faces of the dead poets.
    They say he died while writing
    most times though we wouldn't know it.

    To say we will die for the words
    is more than my heart can stand.
    No matter why we do die
    the writing will show it's hand.

    Left there in the boxes in the
    attic are words enough for you all.
    So share them well my friends
    then throw it away in the fall.

    But I write for unknown reasons
    and you keep the words for Free.
    I write to talley the up cost
    perhaps in the end we'll see..

  12. Ben Evans profile image74
    Ben Evansposted 6 years ago

    Lift the pen.
    Left the words.
    The thought
    shall be eternal
    while the words flow.

    Life shall not give
    and death shall not become.
    Words create a sense
    spirited by those who read.

  13. Uriel profile image84
    Urielposted 6 years ago

    i really loved the poems we have here big_smile Like Ben's  & ahorseback ... so i wanted to share mine..about a time when my pen betrayed me

    The last couple of days have been nasty and painful.And when you try to write off all the pain and harm that you feel cooking inside of your soul and fail you feel devastated and broken. feeling Let down is what makes things worse. You try to let go but the memories keep replaying themselves over and over again. And when you try to make peace and find that even YOUR PEN betrayed you, YOUR WORLD Shatters. Feeling lost broken and betrayed leaves you with nothing. So HELP ME GOD!

    The Fallen Poet (too scarred to write)
    The pen lies broken on the crimson floor
    Palms sweaty red slippery and swore
    The scars run deep but the words can’t explain
    Can’t comprehend the terror can’t tell about the pain
    It hurts when what you feel on paper you can’t pour
    And it burns like acid through the ashes deep it digs down more
    Bleakness and Emptiness
    Hopelessness and madness
    Describe the little white empty sheet of damnation and terror
    No words no reflection as the pen stares at itself in the mirror
    The writer with the mighty pen has turned vulnerable and weak

    Silenced by the excruciating pain, hungry to cry yet unable to speak

    The Shattering muteness
    Drives the poet to madness
    The memories taste of bitterness burn like lava of heat

    As the master of the pen mutely stumbles off her feet
    And the sheet under her palms virginally lays blank in the snow
    She, into the river of expression is inevitably unable to row
    And the serpents of her past uncoil and call upon her demon
    Nails dig down her scalp as she drowns in the past’s venom
    She once trusted that her pen will never fail her
    Yet once again she was wrong, oh life never is fair
    Has her heart gone cold out of shock?
    Or has it run out of time and turned to rock?
    The master’s memories are there right where they were
    But her heart can’t put them into words, unexpressed, so unfair
    Has the pen surrendered its final verses?
    To the dark and claimed death its mistress?
    Or has the last line of her heart run dry from the master’s blood
    And decided to watch her body arch in pain and her blood flood?

    Six hundred sixty six days the poet master held her head up high
    Though she knew that the scarce hope she hang to was a lie
    Carried by the wind like a powerless feather
    The master has become the slave don’t bother
    Life turned hate and evil to be her middle name
    And the numbness for her soul has came to claim

    The only words she had, have lost their lust and tastes
    As life sours everything the poet’s little hope fades
    When being the poet you are gets you damned and called a whore
    Sulk like the old master into the bleakness call life just no more

    Remember my face and how it felt to be broken
    Remember the silence of my pen and being the fallen
    The bruised fingers shake in agony and silence. Or is it fear?
    As the broken poet too scared to write sheds her last tear

    http://hubpages.com/hub/The-Fallen-Poet … d-to-write

  14. ROMANCER OF LIFE profile image57
    ROMANCER OF LIFEposted 6 years ago

    Poetry.... is love. The love for life, for words, and for every movement of our emotions. Poetry... helps us to speak our true feelings and hearts meanings by summarizing, rhyming, and blending together words that wouldn't be used other wise, unless it's used in a sentence. Poetry is a beautiful harmonic way to set free emotions we live with eachday. I find my escape; through poetry. I speak from the soul, I love the way my words flow. I love poetry because I carry the nature and love of a "Poetic Soul."



    1. maddiekylie1077 profile image60
      maddiekylie1077posted 6 years ago

      Poetry is love

    2. daydreamer13 profile image61
      daydreamer13posted 6 years ago

      I already live for it.

    3. Uriel profile image84
      Urielposted 6 years ago

      i believe i have found poetry to be the only cure for a broken heart

    4. 0
      hamstersmessiahposted 6 years ago

      when poets run the world as if they already don't
      (but that's another subject entirely),
      when poets run the world,
      fractal rainbows appear by command performance
      above white castles in the orange sky
      and the throngs gather under the rainclouds
      to celebrate in their mud dance huts
      up to their elbows in a rugby scrum.

      when poets run the world,
      pavlov's bell will go unnoticed;
      in fact the whole clock thing will appear
      as the real illusion that it is.

      when poets run the world
      everybody's hands will be on their own switches,
      forgetting the manipulations,
      forgetting the machinations,
      remembering the God nature within everybody's everyone,
      everything will just be as the poet's dream.

      when poets run the world as if they already don't
      (but that is what the poets focus on),
      when poets run the world,
      the doors will open wide in a grand gesture bow
      and everyone will rise up in song
      at the festival of feasts and feats resumes
      in memories of what dreams unfold.

      when poets run the world,
      the news gossip will comfort the masses
      on this rollercoaster ride we call a planet;
      like springboards, eyes will turn to possibilities
      instead of eventualities and actuaries
      because the insurance man can go fuck himself,
      a sparrow doesn't need a policy for its nest,
      a sparrow builds to suit and dreams whatever
      it wants into existence
      and lest a sparrow fall was only an illusion
      in the first damn place.

      when poets run the world,
      well you know what?
      look around.

      life is a poem when poets run the world.

    5. anonimuzz profile image85
      anonimuzzposted 6 years ago

      I didn't know we were supposed to do something about it other than reading-writing-sharing it, lol. But I don't looove poetry, so it's ok. I do have a poem of mine in my account, that was asked by Richard Craig. http://hubpages.com/hub/Indefinitions

    6. saleheensblog profile image61
      saleheensblogposted 6 years ago

      i loooooove poetry and tried to write poems a couple of times in HP. I am well in my own language but its hard to write in English. Still i could manage to publish 2 poem here.
      "at the age of 21" year and "Thnks God : I am deaf"

      1. anonimuzz profile image85
        anonimuzzposted 6 years ago in reply to this

        English is only my second language, too. My native is Portuguese. Then, there's French, then Spanish and, finally, Barking. The latter was taught to me by my dogs.

        1. Uriel profile image84
          Urielposted 6 years ago in reply to this

          anonimuzz hehehheheh....how about english arabic [both are my first] and french as third but i also speaking cat language tongue they kinda run away from me sad

          poetry is the blood that runs in our veins...our soul and a cause to live for. In my world, i have found poetry to be the medicine [only medicine f] for the wavering heart. With poetry you could be the writer, victim, the king of time and universe. There is no limitations that is why most of the times when i am down, i reach out for my pen and pour my heart on paper. Poetry is life and death mixed in an undeniable twist !

    7. lovelybeauty profile image61
      lovelybeautyposted 6 years ago

      I love poetry...but not much that I die for it...

    8. Apostle Jack profile image60
      Apostle Jackposted 6 years ago

      I wouldn't go so far as to jump off a bridge or any thing like that because I am inspired by life and it's many ways of creativity.But I love my poetry and poems to a height of great proportions.