posted
I thinking reading poetry is essential for those who want to write it, if only because it's senseless to ignore thousands of years of lyrical tradition in hopes of reinventing the wheel...
Posts: 5663 | Registered: Jun 2000
| IP: Logged |
posted
And it's PAINFULLY obvious when someone who writes poetry hasn't read it. Just as it is when someone who writes fiction doesn't read it.
Posts: 4816 | Registered: Apr 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
This is as good a place as any to post the REAL Valentine's Day poetry.
My Love
My love, she's sweet. Not just to taste, But the whole sense of me sips her and smiles, Like laying bare under the touch of June, With the wind wild all around, And she is the warmth that is above me, Over me, finally all through me.
Sweet, my love.
My love, she's strong. Her heart holds The strength of all the earth, to build Or wreck. And her fingers find me, sculpt me. Edging along the soul of me, Til I am carved and fit, and she has Sunk her own strength into me.
Strong, my love.
My love, she's wise. Language like light, And she hunts my darkness out of me, As skillful as weaving sunbeams, To clothe my terror with her own calm. She knows my deepest secrets. And loves me still.
posted
This thread is part of the Grand Jatraquero Poetry Bump.
:bump:
In fact, of the first ten pages on this forum there are less than six threads with poetry on them.
And this poor guy, the granddaddy of all poetry threads, was languishing on page two-- and that's only because I posted to it yesterday! Before then, the last post was on friggin Jan. 22nd!
Let us have days and months of poetry and wine! Or ruby red grapefruit juice!
Posts: 14554 | Registered: Dec 1999
| IP: Logged |
Because the foreign language poetry should not be on the first page while this gem languishes on the fifth.
Posts: 14554 | Registered: Dec 1999
| IP: Logged |
The People knew about the truth In ways we only vaguely see; No man can point it out to us No priest retains the needed keys. Its power dwells where each believes That truth resides; to reach its strength There’s nothing you can really do: The more you strive to grasp at truth The further truth will move from you.
The People said you must lie down for power, You pick a place where someone blessed with truth Has spent much time, or even died, and there You wait. And pray or meditate. And wait. In silence contemplate while opening yourself. And then, not God— some local source of power May choose to pity you and gift you with a truth That’s tailored to your needs, with special songs to sing, Or other amulets to help you wield The mighty tool for living well you’ve gained.
Perhaps you won’t be answered. Perhaps you’ll die of hunger. Perhaps you’ll choose a sterile site Where charlatans have seemed to draw A power that was only feigned. But if it is truth you would have— Real power, truth, or “medicine” (As puha is so sadly called)— You must lie down for yours, And stop trying to steal ours.
*"Lying down for power." Erroneously termed the "Comanche Vision Quest" elsewhere.
[ February 17, 2005, 02:51 PM: Message edited by: David Bowles ]
Posts: 5663 | Registered: Jun 2000
| IP: Logged |
posted
Paint a Monet for me with your touch Water-lily kisses, traced against my skin Though the only color I will turn is blush Your pallet hides a thousand shades within
Lily-pads and sunlight, and softly drifting clouds A pond of blue the color of your eyes The promises you make me are never said out-loud But the picture that you paint me never lies
Posts: 7954 | Registered: Mar 2004
| IP: Logged |
posted
This is the poem I wrote today. It's pretentious to the point of totally ridiculous but since I have no shame and I'm twistedly proud/amused of/by it I thought I'd let everyone else have a bit of fun untangling my "sweeping" metaphor and total lack of direction .
Don't judge me, because I am young and impressionable and just having a bit of a laugh sounding high-and-mighty. Also, it's not supposed to be political, but it may have ended up a tinsy bit that way. Furthermore, it sounds really depressing, and I'm really not this depressing (hence the glued-on last stanza), only this poem got out of control... (It's aliiiiiiiiive)
His was a mind, hers was a body
I fell sick on Sunday. But sunshine filled the room, And evicted the gloom. (All forty days Of the rent had been paid To the landlord)
On Monday, we laid ill together Live, dead, forever. The man, the woman and me.
His was a mind, hers was a body, Curled on opposite sides of a courtyard Where the blind gardener’s grave Is mined and paved. Mine was a voice gone still, In the week’s global chill.
Dues-day brought Spring, But no song; last night, Someone shook the Southbank, But there were no pennies left. We’ve no more tax to pay.
Hers was a body, An antique shattered visage in the sand; Scratched by the last dry winds day Of hundreds missed. His was a mind, The same stone pedestal. Once loved, once forgotten. Rediscovered by journeyists, In search of a story To relate to the guests Of the next grand marriage. The wedding-singer’s Throat was parched with sand. A rain-date was provided.
Thursday’s warmth And the body stumbled on death, The mind not far behind.
Fool day Friday No one will die today (No joke, Pope)
The angels covered their ears Immune to the unmusical fears Of voices in a concert That started at nightfall. We silently croaked out An unspoken elegy To her, and to him. (I know that my Song held my goodbye.)
Saturday: closed our eyes And watched one side of Our cube-shaped dies Weep a tear or more From every corner Of the lonely lost marble. “Heaven preserve us, Animus mortuus.”
Thunder crumbled Sunday’s Snow-filled clouds, Scattering ashes in the soul’s sarcophagus, And on Eros’s shroud.
Midday bells rang; The tumbling peals Of an afternoon wedding. The sky brightened.
Posts: 8473 | Registered: Apr 2003
| IP: Logged |
posted
It's friday night Time to go to the hooters Back at home I got a stack Of first person shooters People laugh and say Tha I am stuck in denial When I say to their face That I still got my style Oh you know who I am And you've seen me around I'm the drunken hairy guy Lying on the ground I'm an old college man I'm in college right now I can do as I want Cause there's never a how If you ask me what I'm taking Oh you'll get a blank stare I have never enrolled And they don't seem to care I've been here living life For more than 10 years I've broken my own record For number of beers I know the menu of wendy's And they know my card number I mutter obscenties While deep in a slumber I build all of my furniture From pizza boxes I got 20 different people On my 5 xboxes Oh why do I come here Oh why don't I leave Are questions I ask As I'm starting to heave I know it's all pointless But I like being cool So do as they tell you And stay the hell in school.
--------
I was up pretty late last night. It's not great, but hey, I thought it was funny.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
Wow, it's been a long time since I've posted anything on this thread.
Here's something based on some old notes:
Scrawlings From Fall ’00
I had something to reveal years ago Something about flesh and metal Curving substances, shielding us within The cyclic quiverings, curses that rebound off the steel Chains of wishbones binding human lives Plural nouns and those objects afraid to be grouped Cave-wall scrawlings, was that 2000 AD? A mad year, but now I am truly wild Unafraid, though my brain is a fear organ Matching stillborn Christs for absurdity the thought humiliates the thinker.
I forgot what it was I meant to etch on that wall, when I was a caveman.
Posts: 4600 | Registered: Mar 2000
| IP: Logged |
posted
Thalia, o great muse of my passionate heart Where did your inspirational guidance go Without you, O Thalia! I am torn apart I was soaring high, and have sunken low
Thalia, I hate the ruse you send my soul Teacher, you tease, you unrational sprite My love, O Thalia! its taken its toll And I ask why, and there’s no light.
Thalia! I lose your gifts from my mind My model of life, you’ve left me behind Alone and afraid, I go to the grind No inspiration for me left to find.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
A friend I had known for a while Left me, she had cold and gray hands When I saw her night before last I wasn't there when I saw her Least ways, not acknowledging her She was a forgotten flower Among family, left alone She was gone years ago, really Spaced conversations had happened Between us. Still, who else knew her? Did anyone remember her? Only gray days seperated Us, and yet, I too forgot her No longer in my thoughts, my heart She truly had left me and now Now I feel nothing, and why nothing? Why is my body dead and cold Why is my heart heavy and old My eyes keep searching, and for what I don't really know but they search They search where a person should be And when they see nothing, they cry Two days, lord, it has been two days Why cry over an aquaintance? True, through years I had known her name But what more did she know of me? Still I sit in sleepless slumber I was an ear, but she was more She was a connection to life I listened to her, but said nothing I had learned I am not alone And that my worries, that my pain Were not just my worries, my pain But the pains we share together And that is why I will miss her
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
No one will ever read this poem. No word-fumbling young lover will plagiarize it for his girl-friend's ears, no high schoolers will have to find it in an anthology, no old man will curse his slipping mind because he can’t remember how it goes.
At least I’m realistic about it. I mean, people ooh and ahh over the prophetic wisdom of those poems that talk about how they will last forever, but let’s be honest: in three thousand years, how many of those kind of poems must have been written? The remembered ones—isn’t it really just a matter of odds?
Posts: 1068 | Registered: Aug 2000
| IP: Logged |
Why should this big and scary bear Lash out because I poke him there? Except for scars, there's not a trace Of where I shot him in the face. In fact, my buckshot (you will find) Has only left him half-way blind. His other eye should clearly see It's stronger now because of me. He ought to greet me with applause But all I get are teeth and claws. What could be going through his head? You'd almost think he wished me dead.
You see, I raised him from a cub Way back when Mama Bear got clubbed. (Although the bat was in my hand, You’d think a cub would understand Superior philosophy -- That pain and great adversity Are better teachers in the end Than gentle guidance from a friend.) When I threw him to the wild, I knew he'd hear "I love you, child" In ever bite and every sting My "hands-off" parenting could bring.
So when I last came to his lair, To bless him with more tender care By blindly slashing with my knife To better make him fit my life And -- a bit less bear-ish -- be Presentable to my family You'll understand my great surprise: No open arms. No grateful eyes. Instead, just roars and gaping maw. All because I stabbed his paw? How was I supposed to see The pain I caused he'd blame on me?
Posts: 6394 | Registered: Dec 1999
| IP: Logged |
posted
Take me back to the sunset I remember Take me two summer sunsets ago Let me live in that moment forever Let me breath in the love that I know Believe me when I hold your hands softly Believe me when I look in your eyes Live with me till my life has left me Live with me under those sunset skies.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
That's beautiful, T_Smith. It begs to be set to music.
That said, can I quibble with the first two lines? I don't like the broken meter in the first line, and the tone makes me think you're referring to two years ago, but the second line actually refers to the day before yesterday. How about: Take me back to sunsets remembered/ Take me to sunsets two summers ago/ etc. Also, if you change "Believe" to "Trust" the meter works better for lines 5 and 6 since "believe me when I" has 3 unstressed syllables in a row unless you artificially force a stress on "when". (Whereas "Trust me" begs a natural slight pause that I think breaks the run of unstressed syllables better.) Or if you really prefer the word "Believe" there, (and I can see why you might), making it "Believe in me" naturally puts more stress on "when", breaking the string of unstressed syllables.
(Just my 2 cents. I really like the poem.)
Posts: 6394 | Registered: Dec 1999
| IP: Logged |
Yeah, I was referring to two years ago, when I had proposed to Jamie (whom is in Atlanta till Sunday). I was hoping that "Two Summer Sunsets" would come across as "Two July 2nd Sunsets" to try to fit it into the flow of the verse, but it is worded improperly, I now see. Would "Two Summers Sunsets" convey that? If Jamie were around, I'd ask her, being an English Major and all, and the fact that my brain sucks with words.
I do like "Take me to sunsets two summers ago" as a replacement line.
I see what you are talking about with "trust me" as opposed to "believe me", and in the technical aspect, it fits better. However, like Tatiana, I prefer "Believe".
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
Trying to depict the unreceding hairline I hope I’ll have when I’m fifty, To catch the Makakilo sunset on his glasses, But I never took a decent art class So these details escape me.
The Seattle sky dims, and Raindrops hit the paper until The lines blur and I Can’t recognize my father In the bleeding ink pooling on my page.
But they’re just lines, separating One section of white from another, Hair from hair, Pore from pore: Nothing so dramatic as Country from country, Words from heart, Father from son.
But there they are, Each line a smeared memory Stuck in my head Like rice on the dining room floor, Refusing to be brushed away with Something as weak as will.
Posts: 4313 | Registered: Sep 2004
| IP: Logged |
posted
Pause me a moment of pure ecstacy Let me go faster than light Rebound that minute of child fantasy Where dreams last more than a night Unlock that door that is keeping me in Unlock illogical thought Let optimism no longer be sin And I’ll live in a land that is not.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
quote:Originally posted by Lyrhawn: I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.
::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::
That makes me feel terrible. Should we not critique here? I don't want to discourage anyone from posting. On the other hand, I'd rather get a critique, myself, than no response at all. Posts: 6394 | Registered: Dec 1999
| IP: Logged |
quote:Originally posted by Lyrhawn: I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.
::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::
That makes me feel terrible. Should we not critique here? I don't want to discourage anyone from posting. On the other hand, I'd rather get a critique, myself, than no response at all.
It varies from person to person, obviously, but I wholeheartedly agree with Karl here, especially since what I've seen of his critiques is very to-the-point without being rude or indulging in PC "compliment sandwich" crap.
Posts: 4313 | Registered: Sep 2004
| IP: Logged |
posted
Karl, thank you for the compliment. Perhaps at one point I'll gather the poems written in the last two years and put them in one place so I can see if I've improved.
Personally, one should expect a critique when posting here, and if one is not looking for one, one can just as easily write "no need for critique", but I believe that is shooting ones self in the foot. Lyr, I would enjoy reading some of your work if you would care to share.
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
“I no longer believe in exclamationpoints.” — from “La meglio gioventů” My mind drifted towards you, Allen Ginsberg, as it is wont to do, as the sun set over the Plaka I went out, questing for images.
As for style I must keep my lines shorter than yours, for in 50 years, we have rejected long lines and exclamation points, symbols of our misspent youth and the dreams that faded with the swish of the ducal robes of fur.
Under the bright holigan glare, men sat speaking, smoking, laughing. Still, no sign of Lorca amongst the melons. Nor do I see the Buddha playing chess under the watchful eyes of a dozen theotokoi.
I wandered down a dark alley, decorated with cigarettes, beer bottles and other mementos of a saturday night, and sawdust restaurants with oyster shells.
In the melancholy shadows, I saw a Keatsean beggar sitting, smoking, drinking and mumbling to himself, concerning beauty, truth.
I silently walked on, looking for poetry.
I wandered into smoke-opaque rooms where men sat, watching scores on plasma walls, laughing, cheering Brasil versus Hellas, Hellas scores the boy cheers.
I silently walked on, looking for poetry.
Posts: 1332 | Registered: Apr 2005
| IP: Logged |
quote:My mind drifted towards you, Allen Ginsberg, as it is wont to do,
I liked most of your poem, Pel, but this line actually made me laugh out loud.
The rest of it's pretty good, even if it's trying rather hard to wear its allusions on its sleeves. (I'd dump the "Keatsian" descriptor attached to the beggar, for example.) There's nothing wrong with exposing your influences, especially in poetry, but some of them are a bit too transparent. (And there's a diminishing rate of returns: when you quote a poem that in turn quotes a poem which quotes a poem, how far are you from the original inspiration?)
Out of interest, how do you feel about the "worldplay" thread?
Posts: 37449 | Registered: May 1999
| IP: Logged |
posted
Yes, well, the poem was inspired by a combination of main three things, an actual night out in Athens, T.S. Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock and Allen Ginsberg's Supermarket in California especialy the idea of Allen Ginsberg being with me like Whitman was with him.
Posts: 1332 | Registered: Apr 2005
| IP: Logged |
posted
Perhaps I was dropped on the left side of my head, because I feel as though words are pus-like fluids seeping out of my ears, and not a single decent one can be retained long enough to flow out of my fingers and onto the page. Sometimes I put my ear over my keyboard in a vain attempt that they'll leak on the keys and that the prose will write itself. I'm far too unfortunate, though, because whenever I do so, all I end up with is scrambled French and German. Is it possible to cultivate my words in a jar, and run them through a centrifuge?
Posts: 9754 | Registered: Jul 2002
| IP: Logged |
posted
No Title As of Yet I am not a Horatian character, such heroic blood flows not in my veins, I am a cynic, plain and simple.
A cynic cannot be a poet, so I have been told, “go, write novels, there is room for pessimism there.”
“But a poet must love, like Martí loved Cuba, like Dante loved Beatrice”
I fear I love nothing, nothing but myself. I see myself in the mirror of humanity a distorted image that still looks clear I reach, it reaches back Between us a pane of glass.
Posts: 1332 | Registered: Apr 2005
| IP: Logged |
posted
Yes, I think so too. Actually, I tend to oscillate between deep cynicism and profound humanism. The former is a much easier position.
Thus, I present
The World's Shortest Prose Poem There is cynicism and there is humanism and between them are synapses.
Posts: 1332 | Registered: Apr 2005
| IP: Logged |
posted
Here's my first new one in years. Let me know what you think (oh yeah, girls suck).
Waiting
Pinky, ring, middle, fore
Fingers drum erratic beats on the sofa’s side while the digital clock traps weary, darting eyes.
Pinky, ring, middle, fore
Ambulances driving through my brain give sick hope; rebutted by growling knots lodged within my guts.
Pinky, ring, middle, fore
My head whips round to face the telephone, willing it to life, but it sits silent and accusing.
Pinky, ring, middle, fore
My legs begin to shake, so I leap to my feet to continue my march round the coffee table. The concrete foundation lies exposed in patches, staring up through the worn carpet. I curse the man on the television screen for laughing at me. I begin to quicken my pace, while my hands tug at my hair. The muscles in my legs ache. Sweat beads on my brow. I collapse…
back onto the sofa to resume my solo upon it’s threadbare side, which echoes through til dawn.
Printer-friendly view of this topic
![[No No]](graemlins/nono.gif)
![[Smile]](smile.gif)
![[Wink]](wink.gif)
.![[Blushing]](graemlins/blushing.gif)
![[Dont Know]](graemlins/dontknow.gif)
