Rhythm and Rhyme Workshop

hi to everyone..
I'm looking for alternative translations of the poem 'Instants' by J.L.Borges
from its own language. if you have some alternative ones other than the known one please e-mail me: gkhnsvnc@yahoo.com

Mary your Nieces poetry is sweet. She's a natural for 13! :)

I don't blame you Sally! Mind if I join you? ? :) Mary

I'm now living in here......it's a much saner place! ! !

Love sally XXX

Herbert Nehrlich (2/27/2006 10: 03: 00 PM)

Hunters, Gatherers and Poets:

The verdict from our (anonymous) judge has come in, just this minute.
In the rhyming competition:

The bronze medal is shared by: Scarborough Gypsy, CJ Heck, DA Phinney
(score 7)


The silver medal is shared by: Craig Ewens, Rich Hanson
(score 7.5)

The gold medal is shared by: Max Reif, Raynette Eitel, John Kay

(score 8)

Now don't come chasing after me. I didn't even get a mention! ! ! ! !

Best wishes and thanks to all for entering.
H

I'd like to share a poem by Archibald MacLeish which I just love, because it expresses what I personally feel about poetry. Though there is very little rhyme, the little there is works just fine for the poet's purpose, which is what the poem itself is about. The poem is called 'Ars Poetica, ' Latin for 'The Art of Poetry.' Hope y'all dig.

Ars Poetica


A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind -

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs

A poem should be equal to:
Not true

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -

A poem should not mean
But be


-Archibald MacLeish

I thought this poem by William Barnes 1801 - 1886 was worth a read, I think it is rather lovely.

A Winter Night.

It was a chilly winter's night;
And frost was glittering on the ground,
And evening stars were twinkling bright;
And from the gloomy plain around
Came no sound,
But where, within the wood-girt tower,
The churchbell slowly struck the hour;
As if that all of human birth
Had risen to the final day,
And soaring from the worn-out earth
Were called in hurry and dismay
Far away;
And I alone of all mankind
Were left in loneliness behind.

Comments appreciated. Love Ernestine XXX

Here's another bit of satire: 'Modest Proposal Revisited.' If it is shocking, so is the ghastly ghost of hunger, poverty, & violence haunting the world today. Jonathan Swift, that Master of Satire, knew this well, & used his pen to expose the heartless exploitation, corruption, & decadence in the Ireland of his time. Sadly, three centuries ahead, the world still suffers from much the same social maladies Swift denounced.

'A Modest Proposal Revisited'

Several years ago, Jonathan Swift,
that Leviathan of the Pen, propos’d,
to strike out Famine, Poverty, & Plight,
to take the children of the poor to roast;
then, spiced up, well-dress’d, & tenderized,
to serve them at the table for a bite.
What best solution for the Brave New World
that’s dying to be born, the Brave New World
of globalized Commodities & Goods,
where nothing holy is but is for sale,
than end up Famine & increase our stock of foods—
a brand new meat to eat after cocktail!

Certainly the poorest nations of the world,
which see their markets flooded with Oriental
goods, their peasant’s hopes like trash being hurled
into the mud canals, would take this mirthful
chance to double, triple, & even quadruple
their incomes as they finally are able
to sell good, tender meat worldwide, & cater
to the delicate, sophisticated palates
of the Rich & Mighty with a meal that’s better
than pork, venison, or veal. With large frigates
going ‘cross the oceans, up & down,
with infants’ meat for Paris, London, & New York—
the poorest part of this poor planet would become
a Paradise on Earth, the Greatest Boomtown
in our Brave New Globalized & O so awesome
Cen – tu - ry!

Hello, I want to make a contribution to the 'Rhythm + Rhyme Workshop' with a satirical poem of mine. It's called 'What Was God Doing? '


'WHAT WAS GOD DOING? '

What was God doing when he first blew up
the nought & single-handedly begot
the aught in that terrible Big Bang?

Was He pondering on Sin, Repentance & Redemption,
while huge galaxies & worlds unfurl'd in cosmic radiation?
Did He dwell on Moral Law, Sexual Continence,
& life-long Matrimony while the choirs of angels sang?

Did he think of Life & Death, of Misery & Pain,
as his mighty dreadful hand stirr'd the cosmic brew?
In what genial, timeless moment did God engineer his Hell?
Did He watch all sinners roast in a fancy grand preview?

Could his Infallible Reason fully fathom how insignificant
human life would be in the scheme of Cosmic Time?
Did He stop to think of Just & Fair as He wrote his Passion Play?
What rating will He give it when He writes the end review?

And when everything's been said & done,

Will God just rewind the tape in one terrible Big Crunch?
Will He have the Passion Play re-played as He enjoys his brunch?

Hello, all. I was deeply moved by the poem Ernestine recently posted entitled, “Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep.” The last line in particular, “I am not there I did not die, ” inspired me to write the following, with rhythm and rhyme and even a bit of free verse. The thoughts seemed especially appropriate these days, as the latest polls show most Americans now feel they were purposely misled into war.

Nowhere To Hide

So it was just lies
The need to go to war
Intentionally created
Secretly debated
Subtly misleading
Endlessly repeating
Lies
Lies
Lies

Yet somehow we fell for it
The need to go to war
Presidentially purported
Congressionally supported
Journalistically followed
Publicly swallowed
Lies
Lies
Lies

Lies about the reasons
Lies about the treasons
Lies with every breath
Lies that led to death
Over and over
And over again
Lies
Lies
Lies

Somewhere the souls of thousands
Remember our need to go to war
Somewhere the souls of thousands
Cry in horror for ever more

They see through our justifications
Can no longer be fooled by our lies
The charade that we wanted to free them
Permanent bases carefully disguised

They know the war’s real reasons
Pivotal power from control of black gold
Contempt for the views of others
The value that each life holds

And they cry out to us now in shock and awe
To warn of the terrible price we will pay
If we keep swallowing the lies of our leaders
Till we join them on judgment day

Yes, somewhere the souls of thousands
See the truths we fail to grasp
And they hear the rattling bones of the dead
From the graveyards of empires past


Wayne Guy Butterfield