Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Debra Robinson (6/15/2014 5:06:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    Arlington National Cemetery

    In the rolling hills of Arlington
    White headstones stand row by row.
    A sacred trust—
    Bestowed upon these hallowed grounds.
    Through the decades, the battles and wars,
    A blanket of eternal rest.

    “The day is done, gone the sun”
    The bugler stands alone.

    In a demonstration of an ethos,
    A horse-drawn caisson will pass—
    Among the headstones,
    To a final resting place.

    The precision of clicking of heels in the distance,
    Paces matched—
    Stride for stride,
    At the tomb of the unknowns.

    “The day is done, gone the sun”
    The bugler stands alone.

    Straight line formations—
    Where honor and valor have come to rest.
    For these soldiers,
    Their last call sounded,
    Through the eyes of history.

    Now in eternal slumber,
    Surrendering to the emotion,
    The sounding of Taps—
    Their final tribute.

    Stand down; rest easy
    Soldier, Sailor, Airman, Marine

    “The day is done, gone the sun”
    The bugler stands alone.


    © June 14,2014
    “The day is done, gone the sun” opening lyrics to Taps

    Replies for this message:
    • Alexander Rizzo (6/17/2014 7:53:00 PM) Post reply

      sorry, whoever you are. i'm no one but alex, and pretty proud. and i know a bad poem when i......smell one


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  • Gulsher John (6/14/2014 11:47:00 PM) Post reply

    the Old Nick

    On the life's canvas
    wallpapered by colours, shining bright,
    We, the inhabitants of the ARID zone
    (making waves with all wet ideas)
    set a stain upon its grace.
    (an occult phenomena, is viewed with sardonic skepticism) .
    like an Old Nick
    we aren't raised from the Hades
    to threaten the 'angelic peace'.
    but they don't know
    we are (like forgotten genomes)
    only survive
    on the margin line
    of space and time.

  • Mike Acker (6/14/2014 3:10:00 PM) Post reply

    Precarious

    A young boy sits at the edge of his abyss,
    with his feet dangling precariously,
    and comfortably. A girl waves at him
    and smiles. It is gray around her, the gray

    of depth and darkness. Her tiny feet must be
    struggling under the surface to keep her
    head above. He smiles back and waves.
    These exchanges become their tales and torments.

    The waves try to sync their souls. Both their eyes
    reflect the other; hers, his bright smile,
    while his, her grimacing lips. Often, silent
    massive waves will hide her face from his view,

    but he waits forever, and she reappears
    no less than before. She can't swim to him,
    for there are no longer mermaids in the sea.
    He can't fly to her, as men can not soar.

    For her, sink, she must. For him, fall, he will.
    What they found was too perilously still.

    Mike Acker

  • Debra Robinson (6/13/2014 4:10:00 PM) Post reply | Read 6 replies

    Poems
    A sharing with others
    Of all that you are—
    Or dream of being.

    Words probing the boundaries of your spirit
    In reflection of your soul
    Surviving individual readings-
    An interpretations

    Forever immortalized on paper.

    © 1987 Debra Kay Robinson

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    • Peter Stavropoulos (6/15/2014 5:18:00 PM) Post reply

      Hi Debra, I see that you have had a few other comments since I posted my comment. Jefferson's comment should be taken seriously, especially if your desire is to be published. He is more than qualified ... more

    • Professor Plum (6/15/2014 3:26:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Jefferson is correct. Read and study some great poetry and you'll see where some of the problems lie. There's so many people on here (and other poetry sites) that do not know what good poetry is. It' ... more

    • Jefferson Carter (6/15/2014 12:09:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

      Debra, this is hard for me to experience because it's so loaded with abstractions. Read some good contemporary poets, Mary Ruefle, Heather mcHugh, etc., and see what can be done with concrete particu ... more

    • Peter Stavropoulos (6/15/2014 4:18:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Hi Debra, like your poem, especially the ... more


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  • Sherrie Kolb Cassel (6/13/2014 11:16:00 AM) Post reply | Read 6 replies

    Good morning, PH Peeps! Hope you're all well. I'm back in school, but I peek in from time to time to see if you all are allowing the idiots to keep running the show...and....I see that you are. Have fun...


    As I Grew Older

    by Langston Hughes


    It was a long time ago.
    I have almost forgotten my dream.
    But it was there then,
    In front of me,
    Bright like a sun—
    My dream.
    And then the wall rose,
    Rose slowly,
    Slowly,
    Between me and my dream.
    Rose until it touched the sky—
    The wall.
    Shadow.
    I am black.
    I lie down in the shadow.
    No longer the light of my dream before me,
    Above me.
    Only the thick wall.
    Only the shadow.
    My hands!
    My dark hands!
    Break through the wall!
    Find my dream!
    Help me to shatter this darkness,
    To smash this night,
    To break this shadow
    Into a thousand lights of sun,
    Into a thousand whirling dreams
    Of sun!

    Replies for this message:
    • Frank Ovid (6/17/2014 8:44:00 AM) Post reply

      @Peter, correct. That middle section is the best part of the poem. In fact, the more I read this poem the better it gets. At first glance it does seem pedestrian, but something about the desperation i ... more

    • Peter Stavropoulos (6/17/2014 5:41:00 AM) Post reply

      For my 2 cents worth, it seems the words - " Shadow. I am black." - transports this poem to another level.

    • Jefferson Carter (6/15/2014 12:10:00 PM) Post reply

      I'm surprised how much this poem SUCKS! ! ! Melodramatic, trite, yuck. I know Hughes has written much, much better poems.


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  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (6/13/2014 9:34:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    It was an interesting experience to read and recite the great poem from Maya Angelou " I Know why the caged bird sings" . She wrote beautiful lines likeThe caged bird stands on the grave of dreams and his shadows shouts on a nightmare scream are really felt in my mind. Also the expressions pertaining free bird leaps on the back of wind till current ends....The great poet has expressed the feeling in such words of beauty and perfection and I respect the poet and poem very much.

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  • Gulsher John (6/13/2014 9:09:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    FORUM: Poetics and Poetry Discussion | Delete this message

    Carter this not just a poetry (though pregnant with lots of sentiments and cliches) but beyond it, this is a life song, Tragedy that happens here in this part of the world...
    i just wanna share their anguish.

    swine swears for pigs pride
    (a story of woman's vilification)

    In a land that is blessed with bounteous beauties of nature
    but where gloomy wind blows and EVILS outgrow. I saw the throwing stones,
    targeted the tender bodies of VIRGINS in veil; as they were blamed of sin:
    uttered a word of love and stepped out of iron cells, where they were supposed to be stay till death.
    (a deadly SIN in the patriarchal world) .SHE has no man at all: brother, father or a husband.
    (only herself and the suffocation dark) i saw her blood spilt through her raptured skin, that soaked in the underneath soil,
    And upon her flashes the hovering vultures feast. Since infancy,
    SHE was taught to kill her fancies. In the name of chastity, she was held in disdain, and was chained
    in the suffocated land by the insatiate pigs-their lords. Her cries always unheard and her tears unseen.
    And SHE knows, she is distant to be stoned or burnt alive, for the sake of Man's HONOUR.
    - - - - - -
    oddly enough, the fornicate male is often spared

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    • Jefferson Carter (6/13/2014 11:01:00 AM) Post reply

      John, this is INCOHERENT, and not in a good way. Admirable sentiments written poorly do not make a readable poem in English.

  • Jefferson Carter (6/12/2014 2:15:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    John, becoming comfortable with uncertainty is an intelligent modern person's goal, I'd say. Contemporary poetry should reflect on and confront this reality. Otherwise, the art will smell like a recently exhumed grave.

    AND, Paul, sometimes one can de-fathom the unfathomable-ness of modern poety (like Eliot's) by going to a foreign language dictionary. It's not THAT hard! ! !

    Replies for this message:
    • Paul Butters (6/13/2014 12:00:00 PM) Post reply

      True enough. Studying poetry is lots easier with the internet at our fingertips. When I first studied Eliot we had no computers even. Another excuse from me! Ha ha

    • Professor Plum (6/13/2014 10:41:00 AM) Post reply

      PS, you don't need a dictionary. Just copy and paste the passage into your browser and the translation will appear. FYI. Or better yet, read Eliot's foreign words as just figures on the page. Wind ... more

    • Professor Plum (6/13/2014 10:28:00 AM) Post reply

      I don't think we should accept uncertainty ]become comfortable?[, much less make it our goal. Fight the power. Accept nothing, and make sure your poetry is a harsh reprimand for the idiots causing all ... more

  • Gulsher John (6/12/2014 6:29:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Paul and Carter...

    lets juxtapose the adjective POETIC and cavil lil bit

    I often see at new poetry as 'Alice in the wonderland'. Before this, IT was looked a child's play or a flabbiest show, and i worshiped the " iambic pentameter and heroic couplet" (but my love never dies for Alliteration) And when i got it (slowly) it took me to the wonders of a deep blue ocean, where i explored new dimensions of amusement and ecstasy. And surely its spell bound simplicity catches hearts, then why it's so hazing to sight and it feels as black and white, as without stars a night, And a rainbow behind the clouds...?yet one can smell the true poetic fragrance that clams and relaxing the weary minds. They say" poetry is a reflection on life or at least a person's life" .
    but when i read ' this new' it seems a book of history, plainly composed, without any eeriness and mystery... Then i asked and was told: " you are living in the AGE of uncertainity, where letters killth and passion lies, And its very hard Mr. John, to catch any RHYTHM coated in Rhymes.

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    • Paul Butters (6/12/2014 8:15:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      MMM This reminds me of when we studied TS Eliot. I complained that many verses were written in a foreign language. My teacher replied that that was deliberate because life's like that: sometimes unfat ... more

  • Adam M. Snow (6/12/2014 2:28:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Little Bird
    Written by Adam M. Snow

    Does the little bird not
    know sorrow?
    It drifts alone in the open air,
    untouched by either
    blue of the ocean
    or the sky above.
    Untouched by the bloodshed stains
    of the earth below.
    Does the little bird not
    know sorrow?
    Like the tears
    of unborn children,
    dead before birth with
    their question burning
    forever, " Why?"
    Does the little bird not
    know sorrow?
    Perched on a tree,
    watching man fall
    before its eyes.
    Is there no compassion
    from that little bird
    towards humanity?
    Does the little bird not
    feel sorrow?
    Like the tears
    of millions of hungry children,
    cold without a home.
    Their voice muted,
    by the wars of greed;
    their deaths in vain,
    blood on our hands.
    Does the little bird not
    know sorrow, like we do?
    Unable to fly
    so freely like the bird,
    lost in our own way
    of life;
    the endless greed,
    the pointless bloodshed,
    millions of lies.
    Does the little bird not
    know sorrow?
    Always flying so freely,
    freedom on its wings.
    Untouched by either
    blue of the ocean
    or the sky above.
    Untouched by the bloodshed stains
    of the earth below.
    Does it feel sorrow?
    That little bird,
    who greets the morning
    with a song,
    always cheerful.
    What does the little bird feel?
    Is it sorrow?

    Replies for this message:
    • Peter Stavropoulos (6/13/2014 4:09:00 AM) Post reply

      There seems to be echos of " Jonathan Livingston Seagull" in this poem. “It was morning, and the new sun sparkled gold across the ripples of a gentle sea.” Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston ... more

    • Jefferson Carter (6/12/2014 11:20:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Adam, awful as usual. Does the little bird not know how to write poetry? Will the little bird stop squawking and start reading good contemporary poets? Will the little bird ever take his desire to s ... more

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