Poetry

[KTC]

.

[NeuroFizz]

And is has at least as many approaches, and as many vectors as a compass has directions.

[LimeyDawg]

It has more, it has time

[davids]

Yah and it keeps me constant as well

[Magdalen]

A poem is like another home
A word -- a window
A phrase -- a door
Welcome, well come right in,
Stay awhile and you will find
The poet's gone but he won't mind
If you relocate the entire place,
a poem's not bound to time or space.

I love poetry too!!

[poetprncess]

It is the seeds to discovery of self
and life, the bloom of struggle and sorrow,
the harvest of new birth and greatness ...

it is the breathe inhaled, exhaled ... a soul shared!


(quietly sneaking out the door)

[kdnxdr]

Poet/Try

[brokenfingers]

Poetry. It be cool.

[scarletpeaches]

Poetry - it rhymes!

[P.H.Delarran]

Plucked from afternoons of random musings
Ordinary moments woven carefully and
Enticingly presented with a shy smile
Torturous anticipation cannot taint the joy of
Recognition, the moment of connection when
You know you chose the right words

[Stew21]

to go so many places in so few words.
to dive into the memory, mind, psyche of so many and when you get there, experience a piece of the poet, and find a bit of yourself you either didn't know was there or had forgotten.
to experience someone else's moment.
to re-experience your own.
to see the same things you know inside out in a new way.
to awe at a well-worn phrase used in a new way.
to be amazed by the perfect fucking metaphor.
to awe at a string of words that you wish were your own.
to hear music in the sounds you read.
to learn a lesson, be inspired, find meaning, whether unexpectedly out of yourself or from others.
to have other people get those things from your words.
to have someone see inside your memory, your reason, your psyche.
yea, i love the hell out of it.

[ddgryphon]

It is my favorite addiction:

time
space
by words
transfigured
shot through the reaches
of an expanding universe
i am both singing
and the song
in the same
moment:
hear
me

[plnelson]

It's a microcosmic journey into the macrocosm. It's about not being analytical...just letting go.

So is taking a pee.

[Nateskate]

Creativity is at the core of who we are

"In the beginning there was expression
And expression took form
And the Expressor saw it was good
And then He made expressions who would then express in the image and likeness of the Great Expresser"

We all find our meaning through various forms of expression
Poetry is not only an avenue, it is also a puzzle, a riddle waiting to be solved. How can we weave words into a combination not used before to say something, perhaps said millions of times before, in order to stir thoughts never thought before?

www.myspace.com/poetnate (http://www.myspace.com/poetnate)

[III]

Sadly, I just don't get poetry unless it's a really cool rhyme scheme or uniquely viscerally striking. I'm trying to absorb an appreciation for it from this forum but it doesn't come naturally to me at all. I'm glad you guys get such a kick out of it though. It's somehow comforting to know there's great beauty floating around to which I'm utterly oblivious.

[NeuroFizz]

the surface tension,
so the water glass
can be filled
beyond the rim

the sneaky-bite
of your brother's
PB&J sandwich
that sticks your laugh
to the roof
of your mouth

the itch that's scratched
by someone else

the stitch that fixes
the hole in a shirt

the taste of a third beer
and the held-in rush
from the other end
in a roadside bush

a familiar lover
for the very first time
and the feeling
she gives when you
and she rhyme

[plnelson]

Sadly, I just don't get poetry unless it's a really cool rhyme scheme or uniquely viscerally striking. I'm trying to absorb an appreciation for it from this forum but it doesn't come naturally to me at all. I'm glad you guys get such a kick out of it though. It's somehow comforting to know there's great beauty floating around to which I'm utterly oblivious.

Have you tried Billy Collins? His poetry is considered very "accessible" - easily understood by ordinary people - but still containing lots of thoughtful substance.

What about song lyrics? I find many song lyrics wonderfully poetical - Joni Mitchell, Bruce Springsteen. When Paul Simon sings . . .

A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!

It doesn't have a fixed meter (even though it's set to music!) and it doesn't rhyme, except for an occasional but very effective internal rhyme such as "Spinning in infinity" but it's very poetic.

[III]

Some things I get. I get guitar. I get drums. I don't get saxophone. I get cigars. I get wine. I don't get coffee. I get most lyrics. I don't get most poetry. But let me see if I can put it in poetic form. If I'm right, this will suck:

hey batter

when poetry
is presented like this
i generally don't understand
the breaks
the line breaks
why the breaks
why the rhythm
why the symbolism
why the cadence
y the clever

each line
each idea
feels like a baseball
thrown in quick succession
a pitch at which
i must swing
in my wheelhouse
out of my wheelhouse
i must swing
exhausted

someone just bean me
so I can get on base

[Stew21]

Some things I get. I get guitar. I get drums. I don't get saxophone. I get cigars. I get wine. I don't get coffee. I get most lyrics. I don't get most poetry. But let me see if I can put it in poetic form. If I'm right, this will suck:

hey batter

when poetry
is presented like this
i generally don't understand
the breaks
the line breaks
why the breaks
why the rhythm
why the symbolism
why the cadence
y the clever

each line
each idea
feels like a baseball
thrown in quick succession
a pitch at which
i must swing
in my wheelhouse
out of my wheelhouse
i must swing
exhausted

someone just bean me
so I can get on base


with a bit of work - it's really not that bad, III. :)

for starters, lose the first stanza and let the metaphor do it's job.

[III]

with a bit of work - it's really not that bad, III. :)

for starters, lose the first stanza and let the metaphor do it's job.

It's okay. I'm content not to get it right now. I'll keep lurking and learning ;)

ETA: I don't get jazz either. Or rather, I understand it conceptually and artistically but it's not music to my ears as it is to others. It's just where I'm at in life.

[Stew21]

Poetry as Baseball

baseballs thrown
a quick succession.
"hey batter" - taunting
keeping me outta the game.
here it comes,
a pitch at which
i must swing
in my wheelhouse
out of my wheelhouse
i must swing.

exhausted.

someone just bean me
so I can get on base.

[Unique]

Poetry
My gift of blood
without the need
for leeches

[penniless_poet]

Poetry runs,
In rivers and streams,
Floats through clouds,
Flits through dreams.

Emotions written,
While feelings caught,
Conveys a memory,
Expresses a thought.

And every verse,
And every line,
Becomes a melody,
Frozen in time.

[poetinahat]

Poetry
My gift of blood
without the need
for leeches

Whoa.

[C.bronco]

Poetry as Baseball

baseballs thrown
a quick succession.
"hey batter" - taunting
keeping me outta the game.
here it comes,
a pitch at which
i must swing
in my wheelhouse
out of my wheelhouse
i must swing.

exhausted.

someone just bean me
so I can get on base.
Great baseball poetry can be found here: http://www.edwinromond.com/books.html You just have to scroll down the page.

I find that some poems or lines haunt me at different times; the words of poets remind me about where I am.

[CurtisPutnam]

Somehow writing poetry about poetry is like sliding down hill on your bare bottom.
A real thrill but a little cold on the cahones.

There once was a poet from Derry
Who married an indigent, Mary,
and to his surprise
she poked out his eyes.
So, blindly he wrote on the air he.

[dreams in words]

My first poetry addition to this site. I take we we are to stick to poetry as the subject, where do I post other subject matter poems? I have ALOT of them....


Fumbling for words.

Fumbling for the words I seek,
That are suspended just beyond my grasp,
evading my lips they leave me silent and meek,
with empty questions to ask.
I find myself, sitting on the waistside, feeling impotent and dumb,
Watching the world go by, I'm reduced to being shallow and numb.
What was it I wanted to say?
what held such importance that I couldn't delay?
Fumbling... Fumbling....
with a twisted tongue, knotted and wroughted,
from a thought that had begun, with a caliber of Nobility.
Now lie wasted on the ground... for noone to speak.
Fumbling, For the words I never found, escaped of sound
Fumbling, fumbling
For the words... now noone will hear.
Their lost in translation from my muted mouth,
To your deaf ears.

I am sorry! my spell check does not work, on top of being a terrible speller.

[Writer???]

My first poetry addition to this site. I take we we are to stick to poetry as the subject, where do I post other subject matter poems? I have ALOT of them....


For posting poetry you simply want to share, there is the "Chapbook" section.

http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?f=120

For poetry you want to work on and get feedback and help, there is the "Critique" section.

http://www.absolutewrite.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?f=85

The password for either is citrus.

[Nyna]

There are some poems that get into your blood. Some lines, some questions, some scenes from books you only half-remember that you will always half-remember, that you can never forget. Stories that you carry with you, poems that lie beside and inside of your heart, beating, beating. There are poems that keep you breathing. There are stories that whisper in your nightmares, that murmur in your dreams. There are voices that speak to you at your most tender, private moments -- there are jokes that you hear from long, long ago, laughter threading its way through your bones, old bones made of so many ancient songs you never shed. There is history caught in the back of your mouth, there is a brand new poet screaming in your belly, words that still grow, that are still growing.

You grow up surrounded with poetry, you grow up entwined with it, with Shakespeare on your eyelids and Eliot in your nose, with Virgina Woolf’s hands on your shoulders. There’s a mad woman in your attic, a blind prophet in your garden, an ocean whispering, whispering, whispering in the seashell of your ear. Poetry grows in to you and around you; ivy twining your aging walls. Soon there will be no separating your words from the words that surround you; your voice becomes an echo. A dying fall.

And deepens, reverberates, falls. You crack your own words into a million jagged shards and gather them together in a mismatched puzzle, and there it is, and it looks very fragile but it isn’t, not at all. Your poetry becoming strong. The ocean in the back of the room, the voices in your blood, the demon in the keyboard grabbing your fingers and not letting go, the books, the books, the books. The poetry around you growing warmer. Lyrical and delicate you touch words to your lips and taste their crumbling dust, the aftermath of a perfect poem, the kind that stays with you.

You write. Somewhere in the world so many years from now a girl swallows your words. She can never get them out again. She claws her own throat, spills blood across the pages, scrabbles words in that blood. Your words grab her. They embrace her. They don’t let go. She tries again to bleed them. Breathes them. Grows.