Poetics and Poetry Discussion
(6/28/2005 7:24:00 AM)
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Yo there dudes,
Can anyone translate a phrase in Czhec to English for me? ?
A friend sent me a very short email in Czhec and will not tell me what it say's because they were a bit tipsy at the time of writing.
I am of course intrigued.
Gyp'sReplies for this message:
(6/28/2005 10:51:00 PM)
Oh, I forgot. Do you like the circus? We could go and watch the monkeys. And be reminded of some of the clowns. Did your friend from the East reply? Hxxxx
Alice Vedral Rivera
(6/28/2005 8:48:00 AM)
If you mean Czech - I can. E-mail me. avr
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- Herbert Nehrlich1 (6/28/2005 10:51:00 PM) Post reply
(6/26/2005 7:45:00 AM)
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Yes, well it was lovely to talk to you all. I must go now and get on with dinner. Thank's for all your responses and comments to all my poems. They are very well received. I have tried to delet the joke ones I posted a few weeks ago but unfortunaley they will not delete. Oh well, never mind. I will talk to you all again soon.
Lots of love
(6/24/2005 10:03:00 PM)
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Dear Members of the Forum:
I am a an Eastern where the sun is burning our hearts and lugns now a days. But it is a fact that I have a habit of writing rather trying to write poetry and that is my only problem. As English is not my native language so that I can not avoid errors in poetic themes and language. I am trying to polish my poems and need help from all of you, young and old people, good and honest people. Please sujjest me a book that can help me to be a guru of English poetry. Your positive response will be a bunch of flowers and thaks to humanity. Many Many Thanks! Have a nice time!
(6/24/2005 7:54:00 AM)
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Brilliant...loved the Billy-Sherrie link!
Next time, we could do the same but have an announced subject which we could all relate to? Would make it less 'surrealist' but more like an integrated poem?
(6/23/2005 8:32:00 AM)
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'Exquisite Corpse No.1'
Who'll jive alive the exquisite corpse of Poetry?
Poetry hidden upon a sun-soaked blanket
under an old oak in a park when there was really nowhere
left to turn once the light shone brightly on all the bridges burned.
It was there we suddenly found ourselves - each, an island,
nevermore a part of the main.
Poetry is like being consumed by the feathers and vassal of the sea
the sea, a cradle of fear for padres without water-wings
At whose funeral, caterwauling catatonic clerics congregate
Beneath high arches ancient and austere;
As from an abattoir knells such cacophonic lamenting:
'I know that there will never be another ewe.
A Shepherd's life is lonely, I'm pleased you are relenting.'
'Know before you lay a final kiss
the birds I hear will only sing for you.'
In tepid tones of salient sanctuary
Where whimsical willows wave welcome wands
Where streamlets meander and wander through meadow and lea,
There I lay with my love in my arms all that long summer day
the earth an altar and we
the sacrifice of daily bread.
At other times, a God held our thoughts up to the light
Revelling in the unspoken regret of the prosaic sun when the sad rays in the sad sky
cried a river of blood,
as time ticked by to the faltering beat of a dying heart
….beat of a dying heart
the torn-up crab that hangs on
to life on my palm.
My heart’s defeat, a shadow-beat of what it was before,
Still stirred a pulse of faint results within the shredded core—
A Lazarus-hope outlined a center of the circle
A circle of stormy emotional arguments, cruel recriminations
Ever thunderously repeating and keeping me in prison-like unhappiness.
abandoned by music, rainbows, comfort of dreams,
my soul whimpering to be set free.
I am not just another failed zygomatic bone
This forced paparazzi smile is not the real me
Behind this ever jubilant facade, is a vulnerable child with tears in her heart.
My mortality is dancing on the stage of middle summer and I wonder
how long will it be til I greet autumn leaves and welcome winter slumber
My body from which thoughts are being tapped
like rubber, is a condom where I’m trapped
prophylactic zoning, filaments apt
conspiring desiring over drive
you know they will call this buried alive
And yet, our seasons;
mine of autumn brown,
yours of summer gold
beneath a midnight sun.
To an outsider the sun
is but another faint star
bouncing in his indigo sky
burning, dying, exploding again
with new life, new fortune,
same low prices.Replies for this message:
David Nelson Bradsher
(6/23/2005 8:59:00 PM)
Thanks for the invitation, Andrew. You really pulled it off. I hope we can do it again sometime.
(6/23/2005 8:36:00 PM)
This was FUN! ! ! Thank you Andrew for taking us poets where we should always be...all collaborating and throwing about our creativity! ! ! TOGETHER WE ARE UNSTOPABLE! ! ! !
(6/23/2005 10:48:00 AM)
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A triumph for the Forum Boys' Kollective...
Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler
(6/23/2005 9:12:00 AM)
LOL, that was Great! it is as brilliant ... more
- David Nelson Bradsher (6/23/2005 8:59:00 PM) Post reply
(6/22/2005 1:36:00 PM)
I can't bear to do a rewrite, but I did also mention Lee Li-Young as a fine example of a poet who can write two pages (in 'Cleaver') of carefully-written 'prosey' intoduction, through which the emotional ground of the poem slowly breaks the surface to make the 'poetic intention' apparent... and this also in the shorter poems. I wouldn't give up one for the other.
(6/22/2005 12:41:00 PM)
So Jefferson, what was your problem with Max Reif's poetry? It was your utter dismissive attitude toward his work that started this debate. On one hand you defend prosey poetry, yet you attack another poets work who is as prosey as you are. Somewhere Sally Field is jealous of your Sybill-like performance. (smile)
(6/22/2005 12:08:00 PM)
I don't want to get too involved in the debate...Lamont, Jefferson, Michael...but I am, as you know, a bit troubled by a rather 'brick wall' distinction between poetry and prose. I have only read a couple of Bruce's pieces but I think there is room for all kinds of poetry on the site (I'm aware that nobody suggested a contrary view to that) ...and in the 'real' poetry world, all kinds of poetry is accepted whether it is more prose-like (in terms of its feel...I mean, prose can be very poetic and have lots of internal rhythm, something that is often overlooked) ...poetry can appear to be whimsical and there be a lot going on beneath the surface...giving the impression of whimsical prose when there is, in fact, a clever eye behind the typewriter...
(6/21/2005 2:14:00 PM)
Yo bruvs, tookalooka him Grandmaster Flash, yeah? thass one cool dude, read him Da Message, ri'? i'm sayin', sem-in-al rap, knowwhaameanmaan? an Them Jeans now thass sassy yeah? bu' big Black Caddy now thass sumpn else maan, one lo-o-o-ng ex-ten-ded met-a-phor honky-speak-like...thassome wri-tah yeah?
(6/20/2005 5:11:00 PM)
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Guys, one of you messaged me about studying philosopher-economist Mandeville and.....Hobbes was it? a day back and I've wiped it. Was it you, Andy? Now Mandeville (who's seldom mentioned these days) is my urgent research figure, would you believe. Help please. How did he fit in the story for you? I've got my version, but secondary sources vary.
Funnily enough, I was going to suggest you looked at Max Reif...