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Issa Poetry


Issa makes it easy to export the poems you write for your friends, your enemies, or all the world to see. This page is a forum for Issa users to display their poems.

Please note that we are no longer accepting submissions for this page, as Issa is no longer one of our products.


by Jim Anderson

by Richard Butcher

by em

by Ellie M.


by Jonny Appleseed

by Ian Meyer

by Peter Savage

by Meryl



by Faye Griffin

by Nicole Pendlebury

by M. Spade

by Ryan Mathus

by Jessica Selinsky

by Adam Radestock

a long poem (click to see it) by James Torn


by Jeff Bradley

by Ulrik Sverdrup

by Neal Sonnenberg

by Tanya E. Bryant


by Colin Mattson

by David B. (What-a-guy) Wayne

by randoriaiki



by Baile Espiral

by David B. (What-a-guy) Wayne

by Brice Thomas Wolfgang Hutchings

by Albert Wan


by David B. (What-a-guy) Wayne


by Jukka K. Purma

by Craig Alan Moss


by Joyce Lazarus

by Tim Deniston


by Clark Faulkner

"I Love Issa" by Peter Heffner.

Peter Heffner, a beta-tester of ours, wrote a little piece (some might call it a "rant" :->) about the purity of fridge poetry that we'd like to excerpt here, since we find it to be inspirational and true.

The point of fridge poetry is its spontaneity. If you write something you'd like to keep, you just punctuate and capitalize it when you write it down later. This is assumed in fridge poetry. This is the process of creating.

Do you remember in composition or English classes where the teacher says "You have five minutes to free-write. You can correct for mechanics later?" That's fridge poetry: a free-write. Who cares about capitalization and punctuation? You don't need them when the meaning's clear.

Here are a few other poetry-related tidbits:

A nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll called The Hunting Of The Snark.

A takeoff on it that my friend Eli Meir and I wrote, called The Hunting Of The Model.

And I will leave you with a poem by e.e. cummings that my sister read at my wedding:

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands