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Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Michael Shepherd (5/18/2005 12:51:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    I suggest: public question, public answer; private question, private answer. That is, where we pose a question we would like everyone's answers or responses to, the answers should be in the main body of the forum here, not on a thread, which gets swept away by the flotsam. That way, we can keep the unresponded questions (which are quite a few by now, by the way...) in view. OK?

  • Raynette Eitel (5/18/2005 10:15:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies Stage

    This poem reminds me of Carl Sandburg's 'Chicago.' The first line of Sandburg's 'Hog Butcher for the World, ' seems the same as 'Tuesdays were pigs.' It never ceases to amaze me that a poem can be made of any topic. It can be aesthetic or brutal, earthy or ethereal, and the poet can make it work. (or not) This poem gave me a glimpse at a part of life I'd rather not know about. On the other hand, I suspect there are people who raise hogs and take them to market and then go home and read poetry or listen to Bach. It is usually people on the outside to pin labels on others.

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    • Michael Shepherd (5/18/2005 12:59:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      Incidentally, Rich Hanson, who has recently withdrawn from the site but may (hallo, Rich....) be dropping in from time to time, writes serious, researched poetry in leisure hours between family, ball ... more

    • Michael Shepherd (5/18/2005 10:38:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      Thanks for the response, Raynette (who I note, has thrived on poemhunter so far?) ... for me it is a well-presented 'slice of real life' which, though I wouldn't be up to it myself unless raised to it ... more

  • Michael Shepherd (5/18/2005 6:43:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Someone, was it JC? suggested that we might apply ourselves more usefully to discussing a poem by one of our members - who could then reply to the comments. I would suggest that we might look at James Mills' poem 'Tuesdays were pigs' which is currently up there.
    I suggest this because it seems to me to be a good example of what Wallace Stevens called 'the search for what will suffice' - which I take to include what suffices to the poet's capabilities, as well as to the poem itself; Poemhunter opens its doors to all levels of poetic skill or lack of it. I won't offer my own judgment of the poem further than that.
    Also I might mention that no-one's taken me up on that Cincinnatti poetess and her poem on 'Slate' online mag.? That I'll certainly not comment on...

  • Allan James Saywell (5/18/2005 5:47:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    haute do you and your cronies need a bit of human company occasionely
    it must be hard being a hermit, with no friends perhaps i could sing you a song
    tiptoe through the tulips with meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

    Replies for this message:
    • Michael Shepherd (5/18/2005 12:54:00 PM) Post reply Stage

      Allan, when did you last make a sincere, kind, useful, positive comment here, and one that didn't relate back to yourself?

  • mother baxter (5/18/2005 1:43:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    dont you do your poems in five minutes, like ajs and herbie it just flows out of them

  • Allan James Saywell (5/17/2005 11:32:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    it's a weapon dear one, you got the message, you lost the WAR the empire is gone
    go home ET

  • Allan James Saywell (5/17/2005 5:28:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    remember the war of independence brits, think think harder dont worry i have a poem all about it, you can read it, remember when you had power

  • Bernard Chenier (5/17/2005 4:17:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    |chaleureuse| de l'étoile de |regardais| de Je, |parcours| de |le| de |sur| de |flottait| de poèmeElle de |mon| de |dans| de |promenant| de |se|, de me les voiles de |échappées| de |rêves|, |ciel| de |le| de |dans| de |remontait| d'Elle de me |yeux|, le |dérive| de |sa| de |avec| d'étincelle,
    Dans son noyaux d'or et de feu pesant
    Si lourde, pour mon regard, cette étoile dans tes yeux et cette lumière
    Qu'elle s'enfonce en moi, dans des reflets mouvants
    Et son vide absorbe, l'étrave de son flambeau
    Qui déchire, la surface de la nuit
    Encor plus dense que les matières, de feu qui s'allume
    Elle coulera dans tes veines, par son brasier d'absence.


    La mèmoire des hommes, et celle de l'espace éclaté.
    Gardant encor, le peu de décor du temps,
    Et l'étoile dans ton regard, glisse comme une écume
    Sur le bord, des vagues sombres de tes pensées,
    Ton privilège de tes rêveries montantes,
    A la lisière, de ton visage illusoire de ce qu'il fut
    Tout scintillant, dans ces revers d'ombres,
    Je n'existait désormais, que pour elle maintenant.


    La nébuleuse de notre amour est cette comète,
    Qui passe avec un certain espoirs,
    dans les étoiles dansante de tes yeux
    Sur la meute des vagues du ciel,
    Leurs firmaments, ciel de vie,
    se chargant de trous noirs.
    Chenier

  • Allan James Saywell (5/17/2005 3:38:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    sorry good morning, i think i'll have a swim this morning just took a huge gulp of fresh air, we do have it here, clean crisp day, morning vermin yes you heard me
    oh it's so hard to find fresh material, all the cowboys are dead
    no point writing about them, breakfast time have to go, ignore yesssssssssss

  • Allan James Saywell (5/17/2005 3:33:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    benidict that is a knew name sounds like a priest or a pope, some guy from lismore yes boys and girls i'm up with things

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