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Poetics and Poetry Discussion

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  • Jefferson Carter (3/17/2014 11:26:00 PM) Post reply | Read 5 replies

    Here's a really perceptive comment by my publisher Charles Alexander about free verse; maybe Lamont will actually let himself learn something here: " I think part of the issue is that 'free verse' is not really free, or, is it free of what?Most free verse I know is not free of rhythm, though it may not have the same kind of repeating rhythms as in formal verse. It is not free of rhyme if rhyme is defined as the use of sound (including corresponding sounds and a lot more) in a poem." Yes, there are many different kinds of rhythm, not just Lamont's addiction to iambic patterns.

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    • Stan Grossman (3/18/2014 11:32:00 AM) Post reply

      I wrote a poem once about a snowman who had the carrot in the wrong place. Did not go over well. Not really one of my most popular ones. I tried though.

    • Lamont Palmer (3/18/2014 10:25:00 AM) Post reply

      In the interest of not putting out misinformation, the Wilbur poem, in no way, 'feels' like free verse. It is clearly a poem with strong meter and rhyme, despite the simple language. -LP

    • Lamont Palmer (3/18/2014 10:22:00 AM) Post reply

      I simply believe meter, or a strong sense of it, produces the best work. Ask a lover of poetry to recite a line or two off the top of his head, it'll no doubt be something from Frost, or Eliot, or Wil ... more

    • Mike Acker (3/18/2014 12:30:00 AM) Post reply

      Oh, I'd better get out of the way, . I ... more

    • Mike Acker (3/18/2014 12:27:00 AM) Post reply

      This poem has the feel of free verse but ... more

  • delilah contrapunctal (3/17/2014 6:24:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Racist loonies do not belong here...or anywhere, in my opinion....get your pathetic and stupid comments/attempt at who knows what out of here..NOW! !
    You have engendered only disgust and pity.... We do not want you here, regardless of under which inane name you post your stupid blatherings......LEAVE! ! get the help you so obviously need...your compulsion to jabber need to be curtailed....seek help, NOW! !

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    • delilah contrapunctal (3/17/2014 7:33:00 PM) Post reply

      whether or not you are a genuine racist, or you fancy yourself to be a comedian or a just a petty provocateur, your idiotic nonsense has no place here....you have failed....go away

  • Dan Reynolds (3/17/2014 8:42:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Ploughman, A Poem for Scotland
    by Scott Martin

    The year was 1941, my father told me,
    And by moonlight, as he ploughed the field,
    Plough and harness a dull grey silver
    The dark clouds parted, and revealed
    Nazi bombers, bound for Clydebank,
    High above over Abernyte,
    The boy below, frozen in furrow
    Reins in hand, awed by the sight.
    I never thought he was the weaker,
    In the face of brutality he never bowed down
    And the boy, with the horse and the plough, entrusted,
    Ploughed his seed into the ground.
    I saw a man, just like my father,
    In a field planting rice, in Vietnam.
    So small he looked, against the bombers,
    In the face of vain strength, a resolute man,
    A ploughman, like my father
    And a man of the land,
    Although cultures divide them,
    Together they stand.
    In Bosnia, I saw the children who fled,
    Their homes destroyed, their parents dead.
    Their fields unploughed and the seeds unsown,
    Their graves unmarked and their names unknown.
    They spoke to me of the moonlight man,
    Standing alone, with horse and plough,
    More than speeches or politicians,
    He led the way, he showed me how,
    That to stand alone is no great shame
    If something is taken in another’s name.
    And remember, always, that you are a man
    And the reins are held in your own hand
    And that children are seeds as yet unsown,
    Who may, come the harvest, be your own.

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  • Mike Acker (3/17/2014 12:28:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Lamont Palmer And His Fellow Mediocrities

    Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
    The recurring theme of the 'plasti' poets.
    Thousands sitting in ill-fitting poetry sites,
    and vacuum-laden forums making
    hydrogenated-fatty comments broadcast
    through a dispassionate, torpid ether,
    or stuffed into serpentine fiber-optic cables
    emitting lard laden signals that slow down
    and clog ever-bored photons grudgingly carrying
    this vacuous data to burned out screens just
    to display sent, read, unread, dead messages.

    Nothing really works, but the virile springs
    of keyboard letters, livelier than the words
    they form so well, morphing into flat,
    fat final locutions that reek of nothing, nothing, nothing.
    Empty shells of language used as currency
    to buy and sell the wasted moments of mediocrities.
    Self-congratulatory writing, good/bad writes,
    don't give up; the silent scream of
    the failed poets who, like the wingless birds
    flutter aimlessly on the ground unable
    to fathom what has happened.

    Jump, jump is all they can do now,
    the closest thing to ascension,
    but that is OK, no one really cares.
    With the droppings from soaring giants
    on their heads, some feel empowered
    to keep going, the stink of guano
    is their accolade from these gods,
    high above. How could they see,
    how can they know, in this mass of chaos,
    confusion and conformity. Who gives a damn,
    a letter here, a word there; one massive
    self-obsessed mind talking to itself, incessantly.
    Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
    Mike Acker

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    • Lamont Palmer (3/17/2014 1:05:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      If this is ever reprinted in the Gettysburg Review, I'll worry. But, err, somehow, I don't think that's ever going to happen. (snicker) . -LP

  • Lamont Palmer (3/17/2014 12:18:00 AM) Post reply | Read 4 replies

    'Mike', I decided to help you out with your terribly banal poem (without rewriting it) by giving it better line breaks, and cutting out some words to give it a little music, as it really had none. The essence of poetry is concision. I stopped short of finishing it because, frankly, the lackluster language bored me so. Maybe you have a career in journalism. But poetry ain't your forte. -LP


    Even those outside picked up on the buzz.
    They began to be agitated;
    excitable, inside the glassed in area.
    The unanswered question was how the woman
    had gotten to the roof. Her stay was uneventful.

    Things were done properly, they assured themselves.
    A major event, though not at all rare.
    Two headed to her room in the enclosed area;
    there wasn't much there, which is common here.
    They were, however, looking for something specific;
    maybe a clue of sorts. Giving up, turning to leave,

    one went back to the bed, pulled the covers, and raised the pillow;
    there it was, unfolded, very little on it.
    One could miss it against the white sheets.
    They went to show the rest. The one who found it
    read it outloud; it was harder than it seemed.
    She appeared to have difficulty writing it;
    It now became difficult to read.
    The first words made sense to her. The last?Unreadable.

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    • Alexander Rizzo (3/17/2014 2:25:00 AM) Post reply

      Oh Palmer, you sleight-of-hand man. What you did was put a formal polish on this. It wouldn't fit every poem, nor would I suggest you try it, but in this instance, it works well. Mr. Acker does have n ... more

    • Lamont Palmer (3/17/2014 1:41:00 AM) Post reply

      Not to be too self-congratulatory, (I know how much Mikey hates that) but this poem now looks so vastly different and better. It goes to show how certain poetic techniques are not dismissable; it act ... more

    • Lamont Palmer (3/17/2014 12:43:00 AM) Post reply

      Jefferson would help me?Why?He already likes a lot of what I do. I'm so glad to hear you worship his opinion. -LP Jefferson Carter (10/14/2013 10: 04: 00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Lamont, ... more

    • Lamont Palmer (3/17/2014 12:38:00 AM) Post reply

      Its the best I could do with such drab m ... more

  • Mike Acker (3/17/2014 12:01:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    A Clue - Dinner Time - Sunset
    as replies......

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    • Mike Acker (3/17/2014 1:24:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      A Clue Even those outside picked up on the buzz. They also began to be agitated, well, more excitable, I suppose. Inside the glassed-in area, the question yet unanswered was how the woman ... more

  • Steven Ralph (3/15/2014 9:24:00 PM) Post reply

    Hey, Acker! ! ACKER! ! ! ! ! I'm..... Lamont.

  • Lamont Palmer (3/15/2014 9:05:00 AM) Post reply | Read 6 replies

    One of my favorite contemporary formalists.


    Tale of Two Cities


    Sick as it approaches, sick as it departs.
    In fall the hulks of burned out houses stand unrazed.
    In winter bearded with fire truck ice they stand unrazed.
    The ice cream maker, the piano tuner, the ceramist and tile engraver, —
    The belovèd craftsmen turn up killed at their work places.
    And the river, stingy, greedy, shrinks and enlarges.
    And bumper stickers protest how people like it here. The hated city.
    And the loved city?Only at a distance can it be loved.
    How else do those mean little squares and boulevards sprouting their haystraw weeds
    Become the Champs-Elysées and Princes Street, except in memory?
    Shadowy byways and alleys, wildflower chain linked lots
    Where a lover turned and smiled and did more than kiss,
    And corners where small hilarities gathered, teasing,
    But singing in unison, —these map happiness.
    The hated city. The loved city. The same city.


    Mark Jarman

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  • Frank Ovid (3/14/2014 9:55:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Why does one side have to hate the other side anyway?In the music business, we don't do that. We embrace the other forms because we know how brutal the business can be. Folk, Rock, Blues, Hip-Hop. We all stick together. Who knows, maybe there's a poet who can meld the two forms together and create something even better. You're all poets and a lot of people could care less about you. Support each other! You're writers! The form doesn't matter one little BIT! Just write! ! Show your stuff to the world in whatever way YOU choose!

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    • Lamont Palmer (3/15/2014 9:30:00 AM) Post reply

      Nice ideal, Frank. Poetry is the only craft that almost all of the admirers of it are its own practitioners. There is no huge, separate audience for poetry outside of greeting cards and Maya Angelou. ... more


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  • Frank Ovid (3/14/2014 9:27:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    I enjoy writers from both sides of the argument. Formalists and Free Form. If a writer can write it doesn't matter what form they take it to. Novels, short stories, formal poetry, free form poetry...The form is probably decided by external factors, but inside, that guy/girl wants to write. They have a passion to write. To show us pictures, tell a story, express themselves, etc.

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