You′re the Poet | Culture| Arts, music and lifestyle reporting from Germany | DW | 28.03.2002
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You're the Poet

On account of World Poetry Day, we asked you to send us your favorite poems for publication on our website. Here are some of your entries.


Who deserves the laurels as best poet?

If you'd like to share your favorite piece of poetry, send it to us by e-mail. We'll publish the most interesting works on this page.

Laurier Chevalle sent us a poem about loneliness.

Without you

I cannot refrain from the memories
The pain and the reveries
The cold eyes of a bright day
Because empty is where you used to lay.
How vengeful time has become
Now full of sour moments
That was once sweet.
The dread of nighttime as it looms
The vacant ambience that ensues,
The norm.
Sorrowful melodies, effusive, apt to my wit
In these I helplessly wallow.
Consumed in the shallow rafts of my self-pity.
Periods visit and depart, fallow
Whiled away with engaging nostalgia
Echoes of your cries and laughter
The whispers ring out loudly and clearly
The intensity of your presence fills the air so powerfully.
Love has created a bond
That time can never break
Not for a second.
With every breath that I take
I miss you.

Eric Norris is a poet who lives in New York City. He has sent us this poem which he wrote last year.

Love Song

If you are lying in my arms,
Lie to me once more:
Your room is not so dark, my love,
The darkness hides the door.

So, let me put the candles out,
Put out every one;
Pretend (for fun) I haven't felt
This slight impulse to run.

Since now is all we have, my love,
And now a moment past,
Tonight may be too small for me:
Tomorrow is so vast.

Michael Bedward wrote this poem in the year 2000.


She holds out her hand
Palm upwards
Tiny and perfect
Flower ! a demand
But not like my demands
Hers are stronger
More certain
Empty of worry

I draw a daisy on her palm
She watches
Inspects it carefully
Then all smiling
Shows it to me
I've studied flowers
But she knows them better

Ali Faraz Ali has also sent a poem that he wrote himself.

Criticism of Poetry

The critics say all my poems are alike;
They only talk of you
Please don't blame the critics
They have only seen the poems
They've not seen you.
I don't need any criticism
I don't want any praise
I don't desire to be called a poet
I know only this,
All my poems are true
And I wrote them for you.

Juan Quiles sent this entry.

They are gone

on an empty field spanning the horizon to empty silence
besieged by a glistening sun, high up above in the sky.
somewhere, once when it was green and pleasant
children played; no care in the world to be shown.
buffered by towering mountains
capped by the whiteness of the snow
reaching for the heavens with open arms,
yet deeply entrenched into the depths of the earth.

the wind transports the silence that now inhabits this place.
from and to, blowing away remnants of this time now gone.
she can no longer irk the children,
they have marched away, look around but they are not to be found.

fragmented settlements once to the east
Now lie abandoned, they are gone.
voices, smiles, smells ... departed.
away from this once tranquil place hidden away in the safety of the past.,
valley guarded by gods of earth.
they travelled off, perhaps never to return.
the memories, the sadness yet remains.

disturbing silence that now inhabits,
replacing the terror and screams once felt
this field recalls, it bears the scars in its dryness.
they went away, fleeing from the pain falling from the sky.

perhaps all will return and children will play
bringing life back to this place,
and the sad mornings under a silent sun will be gone.

continued on page 2

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