Poetics and Poetry Discussion

HELLO POETS, .......pLEASE READ AND COMMENT AND GUIDE AND MAKE ME A POET, this IS THE opportunity YOU HAVE, DON'T BLAME LATER ON THAT I MISSED. I AM SURE YOU WILL HAVE TO SAY look we made him a POET

Hello poets,

It would be greatly appreciated if you would take a second to read and rate a few of my poems!

Thanks!

-Dexsta

Titi is awesome! ! Make sure you pop over to see her work.

Just stumbled across an awesome poet! Seriously amazing and you all have to have a look at Terry O'Leary! ! Bloody BRILLIANT! !

We have little to say

so we talk slowly

and make our words count

still we enjoy the silence while it lingers

because when you say

I used to

sparks glitter from the

far off places where I store my memories

and phrases fog my mind

like

I wish you still did

even though I don’t

and I can see you

radiant and full once again

I just don’t want to be alone anymore

hello bards
posted my new poem" the song of Hypatia"
a fascinating story of a forgotten legend of 5th century AD,
also filmatized as " Agora"
Hypatia a philosopher scientist and a very kind teacher, murdered by that time christians fanatics
plz do read and comments
tnx

http://youtu.be/2nu9fIqtJYo

Jeebono Moroner Seemana Charaye Bondhu He Aamar Royecho Dandaye.

There are poets and then there are magicians. Rabindranath was a magician and a poet and adept in both. To squeeze an Upanishad, and fit its soul into a seemingly harmless song was his signature tune. It is seldom that a genius of this nature is gifted, and it is rare further for such a genius to choose to be a poet. Poetry acquires its majesty when it becomes reusable. What you read and make of it as a child, and what you make of it or rather what it makes of you when you are older, is always a different chemistry at work, the equation is different, the reagents are different, but the poem remains the same, it works on the same being, but it works different. This is the hall mark of literature which is alive, it transcends time, time not in terms of centuries, who lives to see that?What substantial difference does it make?Time of your life time, the time which matters, the time which to you is the only time that ever existed and will ever be. I often wonder what gave Rabindranath that reach?What empowered him to climb the hills and mountains and see from their peaks those fantastic views which ordinary souls could not ever dream to see, and what I find even more bewildering and humbling beyond what words can express is the exceptional generosity of this man to make the effort to devise, invent a vehicle of Rabindranath Sangeet by which he could share what he saw with his brothers. Such men are indeed hand crafted by lord himself, it is futile to dissect his poems, it is futile to unnecessarily work on them, all that is needed is to surrender to them, and let the poems work on you to give you even for a fleeting moment his majesty.

Across

I turn the page of the day,
writing what I'm told
by the motion of your eyelashes.

I enter you,
the truthfulness of the dark.
I want proofs of darkness, want
to drink the black wine:
take my eyes and crush them.

A drop of night
on your breast's tip:
mysteries of the carnation.

Closing my eyes
I open them inside your eyes.

Always awake
on its garnet bed:
your wet tongue.

There are fountains
in the garden of your veins.

With a mask of blood
I cross your thoughts blankly:
amnesia guides me
to the other side of life.
Octavio Paz
Submitted: Thursday, April 15,2010


What does it take to get under the skin of emotions, tear away layers of dead epithelial cells and be an Octavio Paz of the moment which made him conceive this poem?What does it take not to copy styles not to copy the walk talk and the intelligence (I don't think Xerox makes intelligence copiers) but to understand the art of delving into the torrential storm of emotion and being rooted like a mangrove sitting and soaking the storm in, as if the storm is a being and you are engulfing it, allowing it to penetrate your soul, and then assimilating it into your eternal self. Mind blowing is the throbbing sensitivity of Octavio what a superman who never had to wear his undergarment on display, as he had his soul exerted out, soaking the sun of a millennia and tanning the truth right in. Bravo Octavio Paz.

hi

hi

Hope you are doing well. I have penned a new poem ' Survivors of War'. It will be great if you can leave your valuable comments and vote for the same.

Regards

Sridatta Gupta

Hey guys looking for some inspiration I usually write about the good things in life that and my faith however i want to be able to come up with some of the darker things in life things that aren't really talked about and kind of ignored stuff like addictions, death and such but to do that i need inspiration from other poets so I guess what i'm asking is that y'all recommend some of the darker works of poetry that I can read and study so I can come up with my own stuff so if you guys can recommend anything to read in terms of poetry that'd be great

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
Charles Bukowski
Submitted: Monday, January 13,2003

I love this poem. It has its own personality. It is alive. It walks, talks, has preferences. If she chooses to walk into High Street she may decide what brand to wear and when. She has an attitude. Not borrowed, not stolen, but that of her own. And she flaunts it without the slightest of hesitation. Supremely confident in her poise, and when she has had one to many yet graceful in her swagger. I continue to admire her and envy Bukowski for keeping her with him.