Home » Poems » Best » Madah

Best Madah Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Madah poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of madah poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Madah poems, articles about Madah poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Madah poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

New Madah Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Madah poems are below this new poems list.

My Devoted Patron by Krutsinger, Caren
Honestly True by Jean-Baptiste, Nagella
The Wedding Picture by Dillenbeck, Gerald
You are love of my heart by sharma, Kishan
hood rat by NZIOKI, FRANCIS
The Figure a Poem Makes by Robert Frost by smith, david
KATA TAJAM by aliefya, syantrie
The Sheikh by Davis, Abimbola Mosobalaje
Up another level by Pyatt, Michael
POETS ARE PROSTITUTES by MBUGUA, CHEGE

View all new Madah Poems

The Best Madah Poems

Details | Madah Poem |

POETS ARE PROSTITUTES

Poems, prose and roses
Poets hate politicians
Poets prefer poking pens at people
P-words, power and paupers
Poets love writing about love
Tears, the sky and meadows

Poets are prostitutes
They are sex vendors
They expose their naked thoughts
To the world
They talk dirt without apology
And care less about anyone's emotions
Poets are short-tempered like a mini skirt
Like a G-string, there's a thin line between poetry and bigotry
Poets flaunt their innermost secrets for attention

Poets are prostitutes
Because poets are deep
They spread carnal diseases 
Such as satire, criticism, rebellion, revolution, philosophy and the worst diseases of all:
Human love and hate

Poets write out of need,
Self-righteousness, lust and malice.
Poets lurk in the twilight corners of solitude
Under the street lights of obsession
Poets are a minority group
Protesting for equal rights
And recognition of poetry as a profession
And they claim poetic license
Poets sometimes render their sensual services
To ingrates who refuse to pay attention
Poets are often sneered upon in a hypocritical society
And a critical clique of readers
Poets get arrested at night
As this is the time when the goddess of creativity is moaning with faked pleasures of expression.

Poets **** you up for fun.

Writers are whores
Who lust for the misery of others
Their pens drip at the orgy of words
They write from different positions
They milk rhyme and reason dry
They **** life's dictations
Until the truth 'cums' out in torrents
Poets at times endure penetrations of mediocrity
And implants of other people's labour
For the sheer ecstasy of public approval
And literary glory

Poets can rob you of your money
By sweet endearing words
So you have been warned:

Beware of these brutal bards
They can easily elope with your spouse!

Details | Madah Poem |

EK SHAIR

 AAYE UMMAT MUSLIMA TERE LIYE IK LAMHA-E- FIKRIYA
 BHOLEEN HAM IKHTILAFAT KO ,QURBANI KI BANE MESAL


 POETRY BY :RABIA IQBAL RABI

Details | Madah Poem |

Lamha

Minnaton Se Mili Ho Mujhe,
Muddaton Mein Gawaa Diya Toh Kya Haasil.

Details | Madah Poem |

COULDN'T HELP MYSELF

as the story goes
you got my noses
like noone els
i couldn't help  but wept
loving you too
i
COULDN'T HELP
MY SELF

Details | Madah Poem |

Tak Lekang Oleh Waktu

Perihal kebaikan yang datang
Kebaikan itu pantas menyentuh aku
Sentuhan yang membuat aku terhutang
Sentuhan itu juga mengusik kalbu

Barangkali ia kebaikan yang sedikit
Namun besar nilainya di sisi aku
Resah, gusar, pedih dan sakit
Lantas aku tenang, hanya kerna kebaikan yang sedikit itu

Maka masakan mampu aku lupa
Pada kebaikan yang sifatnya sebegitu
Tak terbeli walau digadai dunia seisinya
Tak tertebus meski sampai hujung waktu

Kerana itu aku menjual janji
Selalu aku berdoa semoga sentiasa dipelihara Ilahi
Juga segala kudrat yang ada bila dipinta akan aku beri
Moga dengannya terbayar kebaikan yang pernah aku rasai

Masih panas rasanya di dalam dada
Walau hari-hari itu sudah lama berlalu
Kesan tangan peribadi yang baik dan mulia
Kekal ia dalam ingatan tak lekang oleh waktu.

Details | Madah Poem |

The Sheikh

The flying hills and its tinted gold
Its pyramids and the blinking moulds
Beautiful the night, a city behold
New dawn it was at Bur Dubai

The city that never boasts of mountain
Infertile the land unfriendly the grains
Until comes a dreamer called Maktoum
Muhammed, the son to raise the tune
 
At the sea end stands nations inertia
In father’s desires, Maktoum built to sky
Descendants of warriors, to sea he claimed
To build the Palms, the earth, for world to hail

Details | Madah Poem |

KATA TAJAM

kata-kata yang tajam 
bisa menjadi pedang penikam
untuk menghancurkan keburukan
dan menggiring pada kebaikan

Jogjakarta, 30 April 2016

Details | Madah Poem |

The Figure a Poem Makes by Robert Frost

Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the artists of our day. Why can't we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in thought. Then it will go hard if we can't in practice. Our lives for it.

Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax, words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context- meaning-subject matter. That is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with metres-particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful to watch our sprung-rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider experience.

Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound to being a poem's better half. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.

Details | Madah Poem |

Up another level

I got slower in my travels
The sadder the sights that meet my eyes
A reflection on the train windows
Cities in decay, streets overcome with tears
It cant move fast enough for me
I feel the dirt of the city cling to my face

Just sinking in the quicksand
Hold up my hand for one last chance to be found
up another level, holding out for an angel
It could be you, although I'd take a chance on just about anyone

I have flown through clouds of ash
I have tasted the grass and its not sweeter
On this side or the other
Gotta reach up another level
Dont want to be touched by the devil
Please dont stray from me my guardian angel

Hanging from a thread
Spun by a spider since long dead
Its up another level waiting to be released
And this waiting game will finally cease

Details | Madah Poem |

hood rat

Zero chills 
Poping pills 
Month 9 panctured belly
Baby never made it
Mama still shaking booty
Thursday reaggae 
Still lit she feel
Someone call Dr dolittle
I got a litre of baby bloody juice
Lit mamma,s litter 
Littered by the lit mama
Little she knows 
Pappy needs answers

The child of destiny
Denied to rise 
God,s messager 
Decided to pull a driveby
Cold dead flashed in the sewer
Into the sewer it goes
All its dreams down the sewer
Mama saw it as **** 

Just another cycle
Menstrual juice she saw
Her body her rules 
Her booty they drool
Not ready 
Deffinately bouncing back
Under the mat 
The dirt goes
Ostrichy in the sand
Heads down
Mama is ahead 
Perfectionist in heads 
Taking it hard 
Lit she says 
Only remember 
He laughs last
 laughs loudest 

The service provider 
Comes pretty soon
Earthly bridal you are
Chosen by earthlings 
Down you will go 
Consequencies must face
Trust me Papa will get you
Good he will get you

Details | Madah Poem |

You are love of my heart

You are just you are
The love of my heart.
It's just me,I just love
Now with just that.

Can not live in,
Away from you,
Now also a moment.
It is from you only from you,
Is my world.

I do not have any more anymore
Than you to today.
You are only one to be
More special than me.

You are just you are
The love of my heart.
It's just me,I just love you
Now with just that.

Details | Madah Poem |

The Wedding Picture

Mom and Dad's wedding picture
frames a glass-covered black and white frozen moment
with warm smiles 
for invisible cameras.

He in his WWII uniform
of a first class private Republican
with recent patriotic death technology experience.

She in a white satin dress,
veil innocently pulled back,
rosy, more democratic, cheeks
even black and white monotheism
cannot fully suppress.

And,
I am in there too,
on their first day
of my realistic political and biological chance
to become
together
with who we are
together
this morning
in this home
in this town
in this State
in this Nation
on this Earth

In this time
of climate health and pathology
and spiritual health longing to belong
and economic health as probably less hoarded wealth
and political health and supremacist pathology
and mental health and issues,
crisis,
opportunities of Yang wealth
and risks of not yet enough restoring Yin-Matriarchal health.

This white satin laced bride
and this uniformed groom
smile together in black and white
monoculturing wedding pictured,
where white carries the main Yang history
while black
was lack
of negative information,
understory,

They too
had been understory health potentials
when my grandparents,
matriarchal and patriarchal,
smiled without black and white cameras
through their pre-WWI wedding days.

On back 
through unrecorded 4D polyculturing histories
of full-color wedding days.

On back
to before patriarchal and matriarchal commitment smiles,
invested in future cooperative economies
and, preferably, synergetic family politics,
relationships and transactions
of all nutritional varieties,
had ever thought of public wedded vows
to love and cherish
potential Elders in Her EarthMother Womb.

Frozen moments
restoring new climate potentials
through cooperative commitments
to future lives,
their health,
our health,
Elders' health potential of wealth
all together
in this one black and white
wedding picture frame.

Details | Madah Poem |

Honestly True

  (Fact)

I  am not a Queen but we do shared the same birthday.
She's the greatest role model ever existed to me
She's is the person I would look up to more than my parents.
She would be the type of person that would teach females how to act like a lady not a wild lady
Great upbringing, great posture, and how to keep to many flies away from trying to take advantage of your precious parts.
I admire her with all my might I watched stories and news
Of her with great respect.
Her grandkids are so precious I've watched them grow.
They mother would be so proud to see how well they grow
Beautiful princess I cried like a child when she died, no one can't match up
To a one of a kind. Princess Diana R.I.P.
The Queen will always be the one and only.
Nobody will never be above her don't even try to be.for she the one and only much respect.

Details | Madah Poem |

My Devoted Patron

No one ever had a more devoted super patron.
He marveled at every painting and poem I thought up.
He cheered at each of my gaudy crazy color choices,
He toasted all my thoughts with a golden glass tribute cup.

He wanted to buy all, the first time I had a white arts and crafts carnival tent.
I was against this of course, wanting a chance to sell to others, to share my soul.
This life is not yours, he said, you are more sensitive, artistic, heaven-sent.
But I wanted to sell to excited children, and their mothers, that was my goal.

My marvelous patron talked me into selling online, and that worked out for a bit.
I was gleeful and happy and awhirl with joy with each sale, so tried and true.
But when I went to visit him, and saw each painting in his home, I threw a hissy fit.
I wanted to sell to others, I said, I didn’t want all of them to be sold to you.

Now when I sell a painting or a poem, I run home all aquiver, excitedly glad.
Sales always chase away any insane feelings of disappointment or unexpected gloom.
I have a patron who believes in me, a man who is honest, and never a cad.
Best of all, to deliver it, all I have to do is walk to my own living room.