Pagan Paul Sep 2017

Far atop the highest clouds,
down below the deepest seas,
all the space thats in betwixt,
words will flow with skilful ease.

At every point upon the compass,
around about three-sixty degrees,
the tumbling omni-present sound
of words upon Poetica's breeze.

So fly high above the clouds,
and swim deep beneath the seas,
Poetica is freedom to express,
and Her words no law decrees.

from 'Selected Works'  
by Lord Pagan of Poetica

© Pagan Paul (23/09/17)

3rd of the poems stolen from Lord Pagan :)
Pagan Paul Sep 2017

Far away across the sea
an island cloaked in mystery.
Where nothing is as it appears
because it exists between the spheres.

Poetica speaks as she spins
flying high within the winds.
Words flow in rivers deep
climbing mountains to fall asleep.

Resting fair on velvet green
in secret valleys so serene.
Shady glades in woodlands snore,
comforted, safe, beyond misty shores.

It is there verse and rhyme are born,
upon Poetica's burgeoning dawn,
floating away and out of sight,
into Poetica's beautiful night.

from 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica

© Pagan Paul (10/09/17)

Companion poem to Poetica (posted June 2017)
N3U2O Jul 2017

Creation is so hard, not even the ease of a whole
Life wasted could give enough pleasure to
Cover up the pain what has to be put into it.

Creation is not for the fine-fueled,
Ones, who play their world goal by goal,
Fight their void deal by deal.

Creation means to always leave enough room
To let them all be destroyed and breathe again.
Single-mindedly be done, and redone, and redone.

Pagan Paul Jun 2017

The Land of Poetica is viewed
as far as the eye can see,
reaching out to unknown shores
edging the oceans of infinity.

Each drop is a Lord or a Lady
contributing to the community,
sending out their words of Art
with no judgement nor impunity.

Though storms may hit at times
rocking the boat of security,
waves of the Lords and Ladies
save Poetica from obscurity.

from 'Selected Works'  
by Lord Pagan of Poetica

© Pagan Paul (22/06/17)

K Balachandran Jul 2013

An artful liar, his words beautifully cheat all,
speaks nonsense any one can believe
with  consummate flair, sees the essence without effort,
it fits well in metaphors and imageries galore,
he has wings to fly anywhere with ease, see things up close.
The  wind of imagination he blows makes waves,
he is taken to  ecstatic heights riding on  its crest,
yet he doesn't accept, when they call him a poet,
"Just at those moments I am inspired" he says"call me a poet,
not all the time I am one, being a poet is not a profession
but an attribute others bestow on one, out of appreciation"

Sofia Kioroglou Apr 2016

I know I am not much of a poet myself
I just love to describe what I see
what touches my heart, what leaps to mind.

When the words do not come out quite right
and the rhythm is a bit off-key
I don' t get my knickers in the twixt

Poetry is not about the best masterpiece
but about letting my words flow like a river
allowing the pen to scribble all over a blank page

Terra Marie Oct 2014

Here’s where poems come to die

A child sits alone,
But isn’t really alone,

His mind fires colors and shapes
Into all empty, black spaces
He hears the voice of his best friend, Henry,
They’ve known each other for two minutes

The child knows his story,
How he came from the same place
that the fairytales do.

The child’s heart is open.
The child’s innocence creates
And Henry smiles, his red
hair a strange color with no name.

And they laugh,
The child watches a small horse
Graze in the tall grasses of the prairie
Henry laughs because he’s always been ticklish
Right under his arms.

They whisper about their adventures
How Henry saved the child from
From the job of constantly pitting peaches

From the centipede as it marched
To a war beat that only Henry and
The child can hear.

Years later, the boy doesn’t know
And he doesn’t know he ever did.
That was beat out of him
After he stole his first pack of chewing gum.
And looked at his first Playboy.
This is where poems come to die.

LBG Jun 2014

El hombre, en el sueño y en la vigilia, consideraba las respuestas de sus fantasmas, no se dejaba embaucar por los impostores, adivinaba en ciertas perplejidades una inteligencia creciente. Buscaba una alma que mereciera participar en el universo.

Borges Crowley El Oro De Los Tigres
Jaanam Jaswani Oct 2013

it's the morbid fear to tickle the pen against paper -
and behold; the fear to connect the matchstick to the taper
to stay on, till the sun shoots
to pick out thoughts, from their roots

counting syllables and rhyming words:
they don't matter much.
for look at the birds
they put freedom on  your heart with a single touch

i can't rhyme no more no
my continuum is hampered
by your wholesome self oh so patient
quatrains and dissection no
feelings and love

and how i mutter words
this is how you make me feel, boy

incoherent yet filled with passion
i can't think but i managed a few adjectives for you
this is how you make me feel, boy

you bewilder me

— The End —