Poetics and Poetry Discussion

" Clarity, clarity, surely clarity is the most beautiful
thing in the world.
A limited, limiting clarity
.
.
I have not and never did have any motive of poetry
but to achieve clarity
.
.
George Oppen

What happens

'What happens to bad poets when they die?'
'Aye, tis a good question, ' says the sotted
brute wavin his hand whilst spittle flyin
with most syllables.
'I yam told bad poets stew in alphabet soup,
and get eaten by old grannies for all eternity.'
'I eard that one, but seems a waste of good soup.'
'Aye, and why de grannies get involved, it's a
misog, misog, a ting against women I'll bet.'
'Well then, what might you think?' says the innkeeper
to the quiet sod at the end of the bar.
'Eh, I should think they go with the good ones,
cuz I'd be damned if I can tell the difference.'
'Aye, ' says all, 'aye.'

Lyn Pendleton
2012

Hi friends your suggestions are valuable to me.


Nature's Makeup

Scorching heat of summer
Burns the earth like a fire
Followed by wrinkles and cracks
Make it more worst.

Drizzling rains cleanses the earth
And make it cool and lively.

Snowy cover of winter heal the burns
And cover the wrinkles
And soothes its cracks
And make the earth more pretty and lovely.

Sunny autumn make it more romantic.

Spring waiting for its turn for the final touch,
It covers the earth with beautiful flowers.
And now the beautiful bride is ready with lovely smile.

Patience of the earth is often tested.
But it wait patiently for the seasons to come and heal.

If nature can heal itself,
So we can!

Hi friends, please read my poem. Your valuable
Suggestions are most welcome. Thanks for your
Time and support.

Mirage

Mirage is so beautiful
Just a glance of it
You get trapped in it's beauty.
Like a spider in web.

It will make you feel that
you are about to hit your target
And few steps ahead
you will touch your target.

You realise it too late that
you left everything behind
And have come so far
That you don't have a magic stick
to take you back,
to enjoy those moments
of which you were a part of it.

You wanted something in life
But you got another one
With which you were never happy
And you choose to run behind it.

Have you ever thought
to put a little break
And spend some time with your loved ones!

Life is only one
to enjoy with your loved ones.
The moments gone is gone
But still it's not too late
To relish a few beautiful moments
With your beloved ones!

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My friend, Charles Bukowski once told me,
and years ago in the old Los Angeles public library,
and where we both frequented, " that reality renders
its own design, and this shit-hole planet has its virtue,
but not in humanity's kindness, promulgate with
curious craft, and be sure to delineate... COLOR! "

He then said, " goD doesn't (really) care, and...
most important, neither do I."

I took that to heart
and have assimilated
inherence...

I'm good....

gD-ate

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I have nothing against the dedicated followers of fashion (no matter how insane some new styles seem to be) but some lines from my favourite poet W.H.Davies spring to mind

I take not my state from other people's eyes
What's in my mind not on my body
Or theirs I prize.

My Horror Story

The lights went off all over
the city. Everything was down.

Becoming eerily disconnected
from the world, we began to thaw,

so the four of us sat around a table
with flashlights under our chins,

like children, laughing in the dark,
when it was suggested that we tell

each other some horror stories.
My turn came, and I declined,

as the only horror story I knew
began long ago- as a love story.

looking for tomas de faoite on PH...want to read. anyone know who he is writing under?

I read a piece by Dylan Thomas the other day about his thoughts on Poetry.

" Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry,
prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle,
makes you want to do this or that or nothing,
makes you know that you are alone in an unknown world,
that your bliss andsuffering is forever shared,
and forever on your own.

Love the bit about making toe nails twinkle! I wish I had the talent to do that
. But I can read the poetry that does! !

The Arrangement



Perhaps my emptiness is greater than your own.
To test these levels is a testy thing;
Bruises from wayward love scraped against
My aching face, and yes, there are stages to it:
Always grief and its sister emotion, ‘want’,
Which takes the belly-fire to new rooms
Of strange beds, moody dressers, mirrors
Unattended by masters of the given house.
Lust truncated; it is a wild dove kissing
The masses, as they stare bemused into
Unknown faces and unknown territories.
What can I give but wholeness: my own heat,
Like doing sixty-nine till the moon sighs and sleeps.