Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Rookie - 504 Points The Pundit (11/26/2014 2:17:00 PM) Post reply
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  • Freshman - 1,859 Points Melikhaya Zagagana (11/26/2014 3:37:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    You must be one of the seniors in this business, thanks for coming down to earth and shine in the dusk.

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  • Rookie - 96 Points Timothy Walters (11/25/2014 9:24:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    The Poor Boy

    Without money or clothes,
    Down the streets he goes,
    Begging for recompense,
    Just fifty pence,
    To make him feel better,
    And maybe look a little fatter;
    So that he can sleep well,
    And soon dwell,
    Far away in a dream,
    That many may deem,
    Too fantastical,
    And remarkable:
    A place where rivers flow,
    And daisies grow;
    A place where life seems to slow,
    And leaves behind all woes;
    To put on a new show,
    And avoid all deadly blows,
    That could disrupt,
    And also corrupt,
    The divine order of Nature,
    That we Earthly creatures
    Owe penance to.
    But the skies that were so blue,
    Have now vanished,
    Only to find himself banished,
    From this forbidden land,
    As he looks down at his hands,
    Devoid of joy,
    Realising that he is, after all, just a poor boy.

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  • Rookie - 96 Points Timothy Walters (11/25/2014 9:08:00 PM) Post reply

    The Torture

    To behold a sight so true,
    A calling foretold,
    A hearing he knew,
    That he kept to himself, like gold.

    Astray he went,
    Like rivers bent,
    He saw not,
    A disastrous plot.

    Treading on a skinny pole,
    One foot before the other,
    Holding on dearly to his soul,
    Crying out loud for his mother and father.

    But darkness fled,
    And light returned,
    Looking up, body bled,
    His judgement adjourned.

    To behold a sight so true,
    A calling foretold,
    A hearing he knew,
    That he kept to himself, like gold.

  • Rookie - 96 Points Timothy Walters (11/25/2014 9:00:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    The Formless Form

    Killing time,
    Precious it is, like a dime,
    Forget all memories gone,
    And all deeds that ride on,
    Be like the wind,
    Howling past trees aligned;
    Yet be like the echo,
    That reverberates to and fro,
    Mirroring my thoughts,
    Hurt I cannot, so am free from faults.

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    • Rookie - 96 Points Mandolyn ... (11/26/2014 1:31:00 PM) Post reply

      (I knew a Timothy Walters once, but his a was an o) suggestion for alternate ending: forget memories, they are deeds riding on the wind - - i think this poem could be tossed more. be crea ... more

  • Rookie - 67 Points Poetry Hound (11/24/2014 9:58:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Not A Poem

    Not that you have a chance, but if you could dedicate yourself to any Olympic sport in the hopes of competing in the Olympics, what event do you think you'd have the best chance at?How about sailing?You don't even have to be in good physical shape to compete in that.

    You don't have to be in good shape to ride a horse or steer a bobsled either.

    Maybe badmitten, although the Chinese would clean your clock. Maybe you could be on the bronze medal team. Nah. Forget about badmitten. It's too lightweight. You have to be quick but you hardly have to move. If I was forced to play badmitten all day, I'd probably kill myself.

    What about weightlifting?You could probably get all bulked up, but what a boring way to spend precious hours and days of your life. Besides, no one really cares how much you can lift.

    Archery would be a possibility. You just have to practice at not shaking. Anyone can aim, but not everyone can not shake. One time, I asked my boss for a raise. I was really shaking and he took pity on me. Unlike the Olympic judges. Those guys take themselves way too seriously.

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  • Rookie - 12 Points Vikash Pathak (11/24/2014 6:06:00 AM) Post reply

    test

  • Rookie - 87 Points Rocky Lizardi.brown (11/23/2014 8:46:00 AM) Post reply

    I have noted in a couple of different poems the metaphor of poets opening their mouths wide and 'being breathless with inspiration'. So that bring up my question to you all, does poetic inspiration consist of divine inspiration, or do they have nothing to do with each other?

  • Freshman - 1,241 Points Mike Acker (11/23/2014 2:54:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Stripes

    Like a soldier's hard-earned stripes, his cuts
    run across his arms, their raised shine standing out.
    I am mesmerized by the number and depth
    of these now-healed scars. I can not fathom
    what would drive this young man
    to slash his own flesh.

    Then I think, like me, he must get
    some sweet relief from the self-inflicted pain.
    As I turn to walk away, I perceive
    myself as cowardly, and yet grateful
    that my self-inflicted wounds, are well-hidden,
    in the depths of my soul.

    Mike Acker

    Replies for this message:
    • Freshman - 1,241 Points Timothy Walters (11/25/2014 10:28:00 PM) Post reply

      You seem almost too conscious of your own writing- it's as though you care more about the words themselves than the lyrical qualities of the poem that were already lost from the very first line.

    • Freshman - 1,241 Points The Pundit (11/24/2014 8:04:00 PM) Post reply

      This is awful. You come across like you want to be viewed as some kind of hero, but the reader is just laughing at you behind your back. First, the writer says that he " can't 'fathom'- such and ... more

  • Rookie - 504 Points The Pundit (11/22/2014 2:22:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    I chewed Ma’s fat while the
    gang checked widows for law

    and saw shrubs growing out of
    boulders.

    The melody frightened her as the
    cabin exploded in slow motion

    sounding like black mud sucking
    the galoshes off someone’s feet.

    Ma had a long hair growing out of
    a mole and I had a cigarette

    hanging out of the corner of
    my mouth.

    A close up of her eyes revealed
    our terror and

    the whole scene became warm
    plastic.

    Four November leaves fell from
    the very top; rusted, orange,
    and red.

    It felt like when Dorothy was still
    aroused in that crazy, spinning

    farm house.

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 504 Points The Pundit (11/23/2014 3:02:00 PM) Post reply

      No problem Johnny. Wasn't too sure myself. You never know though until you throw them out there, do you?

    • Rookie - 504 Points Gulsher John (11/23/2014 1:49:00 AM) Post reply

      Pundit, I love ur critiques (u made here) but not this one, agree with both PLUMS.

    • Rookie - 504 Points Havilah Dammette (11/22/2014 6:12:00 PM) Post reply

      Your poetry bring warm urine out of me. Wish to hold hand on you. Look into eye and inahle black lung of you. My farm house is you farm house. Shrub grow from my armpit yes Galoshes leave me and no ... more

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