(10/10/2005 6:29:00 PM)
Freeform Poetry is constricting to the imagination because it tends to prevent the writer looking beyond what has been written and refining it. (Now retiring to my nuclear shelter)
(9/25/2005 1:35:00 AM)
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It was then a few days before. I was out from my room at that night looking at sky gave me a touch of the nature. I was moved by the spraying light of the moon and compelled to converge my experiences but how I did it? Is that good one or not: Look at the poem below that I put on the paper and without amendment I am presenting it here:
In the dark cold night
The sky is full of golden rays
Who can tell the truth behind the silence?
What is the mystery of the cat walk?
Which the silently gazing rays
The fairy of universe is exposing
To the little naked eye
The still mode of the world
Looks so beautiful at that moment
No one to talk even a word or two
Files shut and closed mouths
Let the eyes to stare at the beauty queen
This protocol of nature
Gives her charms of limitless moments
It is too early to go to bed
For tonight is like the blessing of nature
This untouched moment is so steady
That the trees are whispering
The stars are hiding their faces
From being burnt to ashes
By the flames of rising fire
From the mouth of queen of solitude
(8/15/2005 4:42:00 PM)
I agree with Raynette, in that poetry is art. As poets, we use words as our colors to create our illusions. Where I differ, is in respect to raw emotion sufficing. Look at the works of e e cummings. Though Harvard educated, he played with the proper placement of words, used verbs as nouns, etc. What shows through in his work is his raw emotion, that is what made it all work.
(7/17/2005 3:58:00 AM)
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Rilke, Hardy and Me...some freeform.....Ron Price, Tasmania
THIS IS NOT AN ARRIVING
Love is...a high inducement to the individual to ripen...it is an exacting claim on him...love is burden and apprenticeship....(not) light and frivolous play...something new enters us in our sadnesses...the future enters into us this way in order to transform itself in us; therefore, be lonely and attentive when you are sad. In this way, destiny goes forth from within people, not from without into them. -Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, W.W. Norton, NY, pp.54-65.
Go into yourself and cleanse.
The list is long and will keep
you busy with its regularity
and it must be done
or your house, your home,
will not enjoy effulgent glories,
infinite and unseen grace,
divine knowledge or immortality.
What is this cleansing? A scouring
of your memory and imagination
of what is idle in the talking department
and what you hear
on that internal telephone receiver.
Accept your aloneness here,
your trust in God
and your holding to him
and try to do what you know
you should do-simple, that simple.
Can you hear the tremulous after-ring
of memory clarifying the message
of all that is unclear, undefined,
unknown, pointing toward a fate, a destiny,
like a wide, wonderful web that is finally
threading your life with its tender hand
and binding you with a million
infinitely fine lines, to focus you
like some precisioned instrument,
ready now, although often bloody
in the exchange? But you clean it off:
the bright red imaginings,
hot with heart’s intensity;
washing worldly affections,
clean and smooth with flowing water
from the tap of your mind.
Can you clear your eyes of all those
perceptual confusions, sadnesses,
that make you feel
so very useless and inadequate?
All is gestation and bringing forth,
pregnant with pain and soon-to-be-born,
hopes for the future; all is waiting
with deep humility and patience
for developing clarity, ripening,
waiting for the sap: no forcing here.
It will come. It will come.
This is not an arriving;
and love the difficult, the unsolved,
as you grow in and through them.
Use experience, here and now,
to rally toward exalted moments later,
toward the cleansing, the grace,
the quaffing of wisdom, the emptying out.
Life must be seen as difficult, serious
and approached with reverence:
not all this lightness, frivolity,
endless playing. Creative thoughts
come from many thousands of nights
and days of love and striving, endlessly:
filling thoughts with sublimity and exaltation.
The surface is so often bewildering;
go to the depths where meaning unfolds
like the petals of roses, a jacaranda
at last will be in bloom. Everyday
is a new beginning as we suck
the sweetness out of the trivial,
the profound and the funny;
while Thy servants who have gone,
work through us as part of our destiny,
as predisposition, as pulsation, gesture
rising out of the depths of time,
helping us hold to what is difficult.
FRESH CENTRE OF RICHNESS
I have a faculty...for burying an emotion in my heart or brain for forty years, and exhuming it at the end of that time as fresh as when interred.
-Thomas Hardy, Notebooks, in The World of Poetry: Poets and Critics on the Art and Functions of Poetry, Clive Sansom, selector, Phoenix House, London,1959, p.26.
Some would say that’s not a good idea, Thomas;
confusing burying with repressing is understandable.
For me burying is an unconscious process
associated with memory, so that remembering
is like creating something anew,
not always mind you, experiencing it
for the first time, again and again.
If I have any gift as a poet it is this
and it extends from strong experiences
to minute observations. This is the fresh centre
of richness which feeds imagination,
feeds the present with charged particles,
with blood and bone, with glance and gesture
and the poem rises and goes forth like a phoenix
from ashes where emotion lies burried,
exhumed fresh and tasted as if in some other world
by some other me, as if for the first time.
17 September 1995
14 October 1995
(7/15/2005 4:35:00 PM)
Hey I'm brand new to this site and most of what I write is freeform. I'm looking for and would greatly appreciate some ideas, thoughts, comments, etc. so that I can develop and grow. I only have a few poems up right now but I will add more when I get a few minutes.
(6/21/2005 6:36:00 AM)
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You see it all the time I suppose. All of us newbies, declaring our newness. Asking for a bit of attention. I must be so self absorbed that I need your approval. Well, I guess I do then. My sister is the English major, not I. She seems to think that I should persue writing, but all that ever comes out of me seems childish and simple. I need to know if this is something that I should abandon. I don't want to waste anyone's time, and so will post only one, in hopes that I lure you willingly to read the others. Of course, if you don't like the first, I probably won't be getting any visitors any time soon. Please, if you have a moment, I would greatly appreciate your (anyone's) input.
(6/12/2005 12:43:00 AM)
I am new to this site and looking forward to developing a better understanding of myself and the world around me through poetry. While I do not consider myself a good writer or even a good poet some of my professors and friends have suggested that I have an innate talent for the written word. So after many years of procrastination, I am attempting to explore the idea that I possibly may have some sort of natural ability, and should therefore develop it.
That said, it has been years since I have actively studied litertature, grammer, anything to do with writing or the written word. I am a film tech who specializes in digital restorations of photos, film scanning, and other photo related tasks. So if I'm not in front of a computer all day I'm either behind a camera shooting headshots for friends or just lounging around doing what I do best...nothing. Well, maybe not exactly nothing but many people do not consider playing video games a very productive way to spend time.
To be perfectly honest, I hate writing. I am extremely lazy and if there is an easy way to accomplish something, that is usually the way for me. But sometimes I am compelled to write. So I am here to understand why and to explore the possiblity that maybe I am suppose to write (which seems very dreadful and requires a strong sense of determination and drive) .
Hopefully I have not driven anyone to boredom by this post but I felt compelled to present a small snapshot of myself and who I am. Now that I have done so here are two of the poets that I am currently reading: Pablo Neruda - 100 Love Sonnets, Odes to Opposites, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair
Yusef Komunyakaa - Dien Cai Dau, Copacetic, and Neon Vernacular
I am beginning my journey here (freeform best describes how I write) but I am interested in learning what it takes to write Sonnets and Haiku. If anyone has any suggestions on these two forms or know of some excellent contemporary poets that excell in these fields I would love to open a correspondence.
Looking forward to reading and hearing from anyone here. Thatnks for your time.
(5/31/2005 8:18:00 AM)
And losing hair.
My toothbrush slowly dies.
(5/28/2005 6:05:00 PM)
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I believe the best poets are those who have studied their craft well enough to master every type of poetry. The poets who have really made their mark on the world can write a sonnet just as quickly as freeverse. They decide which sort of poem best fits what they want to say. It is not enough to just feel deeply about something. Look at the many poets on this website who obviously feel deeply but have not mastered language enough to say what they feel. There are too many who decide not to be careful with language, spelling, grammar; yet all of these are tools a poet must master before the poem can be done. Imagine an artist who decides not to learn how to manage a paintbrush or mix colors! Poetry is an art form and if we are true poets, we will search out ways to master it. I agree that more people need to read as many poets as possible...and not just on this website. Raw emotion is not enough for a poem; neither is a careful, detailed description. Look for metaphors, similes, unusual, haunting words that make what you want to say sound different. And never once imagine that poems that have meter and rhyme are the lazy way out. Only the poor ones...but to find just the right word...and just the right rhyme...Oh, there's the rub!
RaynetteReplies for this message:
(1/4/2009 4:50:00 PM)
I don't think a poem is ever done. What about some one who truly loves to write and is enjoyed by the people around them? Does it really matter if they are grammatically correct or whether they succes ... more
(2/10/2007 9:24:00 PM)
This is not a poem
(11/10/2005 8:53:00 PM)
I couldn't agree with you more Raynette. Your criticism of some of the works on this site is spot on. What I do find irritatating are some of the comment that are left about poems. There seems to be a ... more
(11/7/2005 4:30:00 PM)
Bravo! Raynette. We're mostly on the sam ... more
Velmar Pewee Hale Johnson
(7/17/2005 11:36:00 PM)
Not necessarily so. Though I do have a F ... more
(6/13/2005 3:35:00 PM)
That post should be nailed on the door o ... more
- Autumn Jones (1/4/2009 4:50:00 PM) Post reply
(5/26/2005 10:58:00 PM)
To (Aashish Ameya) A response,
A true poet writes not because he wants to, he has to. There is something deep seeded within that makes them quite different from everyone else. They are pushed and driven by this thing that becomes their existence and their being. They are passionate and are able to pick up a simple flower and see what not is in the hand but the flower itself. They are able to see every grain, , every petal, the existence of the flower, the fragrance and what it represents. They then are able to, written in their own words, share what it is they see, feel, or touch. It makes no difference wether it is a flower or not. So what is a Poet? A poet is one who allows others to see what it is they see, feel, touch, imagine, smell, or dream, and they do it in only words. When the one writes down his passions onto paper, whatever it may be, the one becomes a poet. For a poets work is the passions and existence of himself shared to others.
I am going to share with you a story, , , , A teacher told her class, 'Today class, We are going to be visited by a wonderful poet, but first I am going to read to you a wonderful story he has written.' She then began reading the story 'The Leprechaun Tree'. The children grew very quiet as they listened and clung to every word. They could vision the characters and for a spell were no longer in the classroom but far away on some enchanted land. Not a sound was made until the teacher looked up at the class and said, the end. The children said, 'Wow, that was a good story, that was really great! ' Then they asked, 'Do we get to meet the poet now? ' The teacher replied, 'Don't you see, you just did! '
In response to your second question. (What is the soul of a poet?) I believe you already know the answer to that. Just look within your own self.