(2/27/2015 2:11:00 PM)
I write with my own style of poetry, but i feel i still need advice on developing it, any tips?
Heres an example http://www.poemhunter.com/errors/404.asp?404; http://members.poemhunter.com: 80/poem/canyon-4/
(2/25/2015 4:14:00 AM)
The unknown way is always more creative...
(2/25/2015 4:10:00 AM)
I look at sky, the sun has goon
You are not here, just the silent moon
Looking for your eyes, but
I see just my own
(2/20/2015 7:41:00 AM)
POETS ARE THE BELL RINGERS of THE SOUL
Poets as a rule are high on adventure
Like wondering bards or prophets today.
Embracing hearts and minds with wisdom
Casting through verse their visions at play.
Poets have their dreams and their nightmares
Of love, life, death, faith and war.
They feel the pain and tragedy of others
Even those they’ve never met before.
They fan the flames of human compassion
With their stories of the failings of man.
Professing to follow a higher power
As they recruit whomever they can.
Poets are the bell ringers of the soul
As they depict the past, the present and beyond.
They sound their alarm of what lies ahead
As the missteps of man live on.
POETS AND POEMS
Poetry blossomed long before Shakespeare, Milton or Poe.
It thrived prior to Solomon and the languages of old.
Poetry today offers itself more often in the form of music
Then in sonnets and poems as the legends of life unfold.
Man has his fear of loneliness, death and the hereafter
As authors compose his doom, desperation and glory.
All hear the words of both good and evil
With too many that fall for the wrong story.
The falsehoods of life find it hard to hide
From the word of God’s poets and poems.
Sharing their joy, frustration and sorrow
By voice, Internet, radio, or books, in our homes.
Poets and poems help man become more human
As the storms of life proliferate their toll.
Poets and poems were put here for a reason
To help tame the savage that dwells in our soul.
GOD’S MOST HUMBLE POET
I’m God’s most humble poet
Whose poems have meter and rhyme.
Stories of love, faith, hate, honor and duty,
Obedience, war, heroes, history and crime.
I’ve performed my gift on T.V. and radio
Before millions I’ve never met.
Preached my praise of God and country
With 785 poems on the net.
Satan’s soldiers, shepherds and bards
Spew forth their foulness and grief.
They attack the joy and goodness of man
Dishonoring life, family, country and belief.
Prospering through work, love and conviction
Enables us to remain whole and how we should be.
Fortifying our soul with fulfillment of faith
Lets our worst tribulations be shouldered by Thee.
Moses, Samson, David, Solomon and Jonah
All failed God in their own human way.
He chose to forgive them and bless their powers
So they might dwell in hearts of man today.
Without God’s grace, wisdom and glorious domain
There’s no doubt all would soon cease to survive.
Through purpose, morals, faith and conviction
We are able to transform and keep goodness alive.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
One of America’s most famous writers
Was born in Boston, January of 1809.
Both his parents were failing actors
And his father was drunk most the time.
In 1810 Edgar’s dad disappeared
His mother died soon after.
A childless couple took him in
Raising him with love and laughter.
Edgar had a Negro nurse
Who brought him to her quarters.
There he listened to ghost stories
Far beyond Earthly borders.
The strange tales he later wrote
May have come from her inspiration.
The words she used to describe death
Gave Poe his taste for sensation.
The Allan’s moved to England
Where Poe attended boarding schools.
There’s no doubt his time spent there
Sharpened his skills as tools.
Returning to Richmond and back in school
He began to compose new verse.
Heavy debts forced him to leave college
As his life took a turn for the worse.
Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston
Where he was unable to find employment.
A young printer agreed to publish his poems
Giving him hope and enjoyment.
Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army
And was accepted to West Point in 29.
Poe couldn’t stand not being a writer
Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.
Afterward he became an editor and critic
And married his cousin who was thirteen.
Six years latter he discovered she was dying
Suffering once more the unforeseen.
He went through periods of insanity
Caused by grieving and functional fall.
He smoked opium and drank too much
Till at his doorstep death would call.
Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse
Still lives in our hearts today
Famous for The Raven and other great works
May his soul rest in peace we pray.
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it’s God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent His poets down to Earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can’t help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.
By God's Poet
Most Published Poet
On The Web!
Tom's 785 Poems Are Free To Share!
Google = Tom Zart Google
(2/11/2015 6:04:00 PM)
I'm planning, together with other poets, to publish a poetry e-book (antology) .
We would like to have a few more poets in our group. Possibly from different parts of the world.
Each of them will have 7-10 pages.
At least 50% of the poetry has to be new (not already posted on web-sites) .
If of interest, write a message to me. Thank you
(2/11/2015 4:57:00 AM)
My rules for poetry
poetry should be powerful. do not use too many words - this softens the blow
using large word shows you are educated, but does not add force.
keep your words small, sharp and few.
say what needs to be said and be done.
(Advertising people know this. it is their art)
do not repeat things unless they are very important.
do not abuse your readers (Poetry should be easy to read)
(2/2/2015 12:56:00 AM)
| Read 2 replies
1. The first thing I had to learn was to write in lines - not in feet and meters, not in metaphors and similes, for gods sake not in rhymes. Poetry is in the lines. Lines are instructions to readers on how to read one's poem, a script for an oral reading, a diagram for the mind to find your turnpike and its signs. In fact, you may even want to begin with found poems. Select a passage of prose when you like the way it sounds. Somehow it appeals to your imagination or evokes an emotional response within you. Recast it in lines. Notice where you breathe, where you insert little pauses or emphases, where the language smooths itself out, where it bounces or drags, rushes or slows down, skips along trippingly on the tongue or demands care-ful, de-liberate e-nun-ciation. Let your line comply with the poem's demands. Experiment with end-stopped lines and enjambment (run-on lines) . Where would short lines work best? Where are long, long lines required? Is your reading enhanced if the lines conform to the grammatical structures of the sentences, or does a surprise of some kind or a shocking division arrest attention where it needs to be arrested? You'll probably find yourself revising and revising again - a practice the poet must feel at home with. Keep doing this with several passages until you produce a poem you want to share. Don't. Put it aside. Come back a day or so later, a week or so later. Read your poem aloud, or in a whisper, or at least voicing it in your own mind. Then you will know whether you have produced a poem or not. That, for me, is step one.Replies for this message:
(2/19/2015 6:30:00 AM)
Rhyme creates rhythm and an interest in the reader.
(2/9/2015 9:46:00 AM)
Hello Frank.... i invite you to read a line of any poem and do not make any stress on syllable.... Could you?Dont you see how feet in poetry is important?This pause or breath are what?And secondly ho ... more
- Abdulrazak Aralimatti (2/19/2015 6:30:00 AM) Post reply
(1/29/2015 1:36:00 AM)
Writing poetry first of all requires one thing: the decision to write down your feelings. For when decides to write, the words and imagery will flow the heart
(1/26/2015 7:50:00 AM)
QUESTION: HOW DOES POETRY COME TO YOU..?
I'd answer.. I don't know.. :)
I can only tell you about how it happened that a.. 'piece of poetry'.. came to me..
It was a cool, clear October night, in Hungary. Year 1983: more than 32 years ago…
- - '’WATER MUSIC, I.' ___ [in Italian: 'Musiche sull'Acqua'.1] (*)
- - http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/water-music-i-musiche-sull-acqua-1/
- (*) after Georg Friedrich Händel's ‘WATER MUSIC'.
It is the first in a collection of 10 lyrics. I wrote them in Pécs, Hungary, a long time ago (Autumn 1983) .
It was a cool, clear October night, in Hungary. Year 1983: more than 32 years ago…
I was in Hungary on an invitation and grant from The Hungarian Academy of Science. According to the fellowship, I had to spend 6 months in Budapest, at the National Institute of Neurosurgery, working on a research under one of the best neurosurgeons in all East Europe (the late prof. Pasztor, then head of the Institute) .
But destiny's will was different: the communist bureaucratic direction of the Academy, in Budapest, decided that I had to spend the first 3 months in Pécs (south-west of Hungary) and only the last 3 in Budapest.. Pure madness, of course.. but so things were.
Yet, when in Pécs (a pretty town, by the way) , just on my first few days there, it happened to me to meet a beautiful, bright, lovely young girl..
I wrote the 10 poems of my ‘'Water Music' there (the last one, the 10th of that collection, although I started it in Pécs, was finished in Italy) , for/on her and on my absurd situation.. as I was far from home, from my work, in a foreign country.
I went there supposing to work on a research.. but I found myself facing a paradox.. stuck in the middle of nowhere.. because at the Neurosurgical Dpt in Pécs I couldn't work on anything.. and my days there were simply void of meaning..
I usually spent every morning at the hospital (Mon-Sat,07.00-14.00) , then a light lunch at a restaurant (the hospital cafeteria was so bad that, after the second experience there, my stomach refused to eat their food) . After lunch, I used to spend my time walking in the town centre or reading; then having an high tea at 5 PM at a beautiful café house..
I still have vividly, before my eyes, the images of that 'café', where a wonderful tiled oven dating back to the 18th century made a show of itself in a romantic corner of the main room..
And that was where I met Csìlla.. She was 17 that time: a student and a ‘ballerina' - she wanted to become a ballet dancer..
She loved music, too.. Händel's 'Water Music' was sort of ‘our music'..
Now you can begin to understand.. can't you?
- It was a night (almost Dawn) , when I wrote this poem.
I was in my room, staring at the clear sky through the window.. The moon, so pale and magic.. drawing my imagination to 'Her'.. In my ears Händel's music was still playing softly..
We had known each other for c.1 week. That evening she had invited me to a rehearsal for a ballet they would have performed on the next Saturday..
- The quotation [‘gazing at the stars'] refers both to the night's heavenly vault and to the girl's name: ‘Csilla' relies to Hungarian ‘csillag', meaning ‘star'.
- Then, here you have: 1. A night sky.. with stars and the pale orb of the moon..; 2. A ‘Csìlla/csillag' girl with her ballerina' legs.. like a fairy..
- 'Legs so pure' want to express the sense of beauty, whiteness (from her complexion, but also a reference to her ballerina suit) and also purity (her young age; her innocence, moral integrity..) .
Someone could think: 'legs that make you dream'.. but in my poem, such a sexual attribute goes together with an intellectual and (sort of) ethical judgment..
For all the reasons above I have made it with 'legs so pure'.
- 'Your eyes -Ethereal / Like butterfly wings'
Her eyes, when she looked at me, and
- ‘'ETHEREAL' (eyes) because: - 1. they were light blue eyes..; - 2. and, somehow, they had sort of a 'spiritual' feature.. By such a word I wanted to recall to memory a character made 'divine' by Dante's genius.. I refer to Dante's Beatrice..
- ‘'Like butterfly wings' relates to the delicate, translucent, diaphanous features of the butterfly wings, applied to her eyes looking at me; but it wants to recall to mind also the movements of her body, when dancing.. Where ‘wings' are both her legs and arms..
- 'SUSPENDED ON YOUR HEART': beside her I did feel myself like being in a suspended state.. without any distress, in peace with myself.. sort of being suspended in zero gravity.. out & above the day-by-day life.. Sort of escaping the deadly cycle of the existence..
- ‘Pulse of life' is referred to Her People and Culture (Hungarian) .. as I was in a foreign country, and through Csìlla I had the chance to understand a different Culture.. to get to her heart and, through her, to the heart of her Country.. (‘THY PEOPLE' = Csìlla's Country/People) .
- But that chance was not fulfilled... - as the 'background story' shows, when I've described my ‘absurd situation' [I found myself facing a paradox..] -..and despite Csilla's presence, I found myself so estranged.. in a state of dejection [reference to Jean Paul Sartre's 'Being and Nothingness', more than to Heidegger's philosophy].
Yet, such a feeling of strangeness (of extraneousness) never leaves me.. even in Italy.. even among my people..
- '-Stranger / Always) / As among My.' = MY PEOPLE.. ‘feeling like a foreigner even at home'...
'Water Music', I. - from the collection:
'Water Music' 10 poems by Fabrizio Frosini
Leylek D. Sovura
(1/18/2015 12:55:00 PM)
Poetry: What i think is essential:
I am writing since i was small and there are three big things you absolutley need to pay attention to:
1. The theme
2. the words
3. the sound
If you read a poem of yours, try reading it out loud. It has to be comfortable to the ears. A nice ring to it, if you want.
Coherence of the words and a good structure, combined with a well fleshed out underlying theme(s) are a necessity.
What can be variable though is the length. Sometimes shorter is better.
Too many words can be very irritating and can even put off possible readers.
But then again, it's all about the story, the life lesson that you want to tell.
Also not every poem has to be a masterpiece.
We write poems, because we want to write down our feelings, our experiences and our nightmares,
so we can share them, but at the same time try to understand them.
BUt at the end of the day, the most important thing is to enjoy them ourselves.