Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Adam M. Snow (4/7/2014 9:12:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    New Day
    Written by Adam M. Snow

    Yesterday is buried,
    - this moment, a cocoon.
    Tomorrow,
    birth of a new day.

    Replies for this message:
    • Gulsher John (4/7/2014 9:22:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      how this moment (present) be a cocoon.??? if past buried and we know tomorrow never dies. seems interesting...

  • Stan Grossman (4/7/2014 12:24:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Here's my 'ek' poem. I did it on Grant Wood's 'American Gothic'. I hope you enjoy it.




    Pitchfork

    I wanna stick this
    thing in Acker's butt.

    Replies for this message:
    • Gulsher John (4/7/2014 9:24:00 PM) Post reply

      Ahhh.... Stan

    • Mike Acker (4/7/2014 12:31:00 PM) Post reply

      It seems like Sherrie and Lamont have formed a queue. They may want you to get in line, I assume, Scotty Doggy or is it Dogg. Male or female? You are beginning to sound more and more female(not that ... more

  • Mike Acker (4/7/2014 12:04:00 PM) Post reply

    My entry for the " ek" challeng, using my own poem......I love the thrill of not knowing whether Sherrie and Lamont will love this or not!

    Oil On Canvas, Vancouver

    Strokes of ocean blue
    lap onto
    Dabs of forest green
    haloed by
    Tinges of snowing white
    all under
    A smear of cerulean
    - backdrop for
    the ravenous rapine

    Mike Acker

    Cheap

    No need for more than simple strokes,
    dabs, tinges and smears to tell
    the story of a nondescript town.
    She prostitutes herself to the highest
    bidder just to appear on screen, made up
    and dressed up like say, New York. All her
    regulars know its her, and how cheaply
    she sells herself. She is is actually
    plain, deep down, deep inside. As plain
    as dabs or smears or strokes can ever
    be. As with most others of her kind
    she is wanting to be liked, to be adored,
    but up to a point. They can't come too
    close. For she knows the stains of blood
    and gore have remained like old sores
    that need to be explained rather than healed.
    Mike Acker

  • Atheanga Tiomaint (4/7/2014 10:37:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I am so excited. Today we will be working on this bizarre poem by the randomly chosen " writer" Sherry Kolbehousenbunzenburnerkrachen..Dr. Dr. Herman Hermanlungen and I will give it the most neutral critique.

    Forum members are sick and tired of your animal manure, Sherry, have sent us more and more past postings or links to interesting insights into what makes you tick. You and Mr. Lamont Palmer, according to many members, have had a very negative influence on this forum. According to what we have received you and Lamont Palmer have used every trick in the book to manipulate, distort and attack innocent members who believe your posts after planting multiple negative persona posts. It is time you concentrate on your " higher education" and your illustrious and world -famous poet husband. There is doubt being cast now as to whether you even have an AA degree, Sherry let alone a BA or BS. Someone indicated that we will know in the very near future.

    It is simply time for you and your slimy gang of snakes to vacate here.

    Below are the types of poems flying around the Kolbenhousenbunzenburnerkrachen household. Yikes. After World War II, Argentina had a sudden rise in the number of disgusting poetry. Afeter some research it was discovered that the rise of terrible poetry forcing a decline in great Argentinian poetry was due to the massive migration of amnesic ex adolf followers. They brought this kind of poetry with them. Can you imagine adding HUND From HOELLE in a poem for a loved one. Well here you go enjoy...
    I would recommend having some barf bags close at hand.

    Of course, none of this is personal. It is after all is said and done, about the poetry.


    Für mein Sherrie, mein Dora

    ************************************************************
    I could not have written this Surrealistic poem to anyone but you, but you still may not like it much. Dora Maar may not have wanted to have her portrait done as a Cubist, Guernica-infused Weeping Woman, but she loved the guy, you know?

    yB

    ************************************************************
    There is a chocolate fondue fountain into
    which lovers could dip marshmallows, black-
    berries, or lovers, understanding that
    love, perfect undipped love
    can be metaphysical, should be;
    I will have it surreal, and love you
    as I am now, as I wish to perceive you,
    mindful, body-full, and full.
    It’s potent and paradoxical, like
    dreams of wizards or flying fish or
    looking at a sunrise in our windshield and not
    talking about fire.
    Only with you can I see these things
    with such clarity that they blind us
    and fill us with understanding.

    I will blaze unchocolated through your world, through; JUST WHEN YOU THINK YOU HAVE GOTTEN PAST THE WORST THIS COMES ALONG
    you into mine and together, AND THIS
    remembering a time unreal and true,
    long ago and never, when
    we would see fish in the clouds,
    I would become your wizard forever
    and we’d walk past the unvisited section
    of the ancient bookstore, past
    an unopened copy of
    Liebe ist ein Hund von der Hölle
    and remark with pure pleasure
    that had he lived, Freud
    could have read Bukowski.

    By Ben Cassel
    ************************************************************
    Every year for our anniversary, Valentine's Day, birthday, etc., my husband and I write poems for each other. This one was written in 2011, and since it's the 8th anniversary of our first date, and he's right smack dab in the middle of performance night of his high school play, I wanted to share this poem that, to me, said, " I know you."

    Replies for this message:
    • Gulsher John (4/7/2014 9:31:00 PM) Post reply

      Hola Docs, ich will nicht Sherrie und Lamont Tage bei PH nummeriert sehen. .. ersparen Sie sie bitte, die funkelten Sterne sind sie, wenn das Forum.

  • Kathleen Neff (4/7/2014 10:11:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Hey everyone guess what. I got over my stage fright, yeah. I am so happy and filled with joy. Oh I also put a song that I sung on Youtube. Just look up Changeling child by katie neff. Those exact words and I should be the first one to be shown.

    Replies for this message:
  • Sherrie Kolb Cassel (4/7/2014 9:30:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    One opinion of what poetry is, is contained in this poem. Great question to grace this forum again. It's been asked before and answered intelligently from time to time. Enjoy.


    Poetry Is a Sickness

    By Ed Bok Lee

    You write not what you want,
    but what flaws flower from rust

    You want to write about the universe,
    how the stars are really tiny palpitating ancestor hearts
    watching over us

    and instead what you get on the page
    is that car crash on Fourth and Broadway—
    the wails of the girlfriend or widow,
    her long lamentation so sensuous
    in terrible harmony with sirens in the distance

    Poetry is a sickness

    You want to write about Adoration,
    the glistening sweat on your honey's chest

    in which you've tasted the sun's caress,
    and instead what you get
    is a poem about the first of four times
    your mother and father split up


    Want to write about the perfection of God
    and end up with just another story

    of a uniquely lonely childhood
    If I had a dime for every happy poem I wrote
    I'd be dead

    Want to write about the war, oppression, injustice,
    and look here, see, what got left behind
    when all the sand and dust cleared
    is the puke-green carpet in the Harbor Lights Salvation Army treatment center

    A skinny Native girl no older than seventeen
    braids the reddish hair
    of her little four- or five-year-old Down's Syndrome daughter

    Outside, no blinking stars
    No holy kiss's approach
    Only a vague antiseptic odor and Christian crest on the wall staring back at you

    I didn't say all this to that dude who sent me his poems
    from prison

    You want everyone to feel empowered
    Want them to believe there is beauty locked in amber
    inside each of us, and you chip away at that shit
    one word at a time

    You stampede with verbs, nouns, and scalpel adjectives
    Middle-finger your literalist boss
    Blow grocery cash on library fines
    Sprain your left knee loading pallets all day for Labor Ready
    You live in an attic for nine years
    You go bankrupt
    You smoke too much

    Drink too much
    Alienate family and friends
    Say yes, poetry is a sickness, but f##k it
    Do it long enough, and I promise like an anti-superhero
    your secret power will become loss

    Loss like only old people must know
    when the last red maple on the block goes
    and the drizzle turns to snow
    Maybe the best poem is always the one you shouldn't have written

    The ghazal that bled your index finger
    Or caused your sister to reject your calls for a year
    The sonnet that made the woman you loved fear
    That slam poem you're still paying for
    The triolet that smiled to violate you
    through both ears

    But Poet, Sucker, Fool

    It's your job
    to find meaning in all this because
    you are delusional enough to believe
    that, yes, poetry is a sickness,
    but somehow if you can just scrape together enough beauty and truth

    to recall, yes, that Broadway car crash was f##ked up,
    but the way the rain fell to wash away the blood
    not ten minutes after the ambulance left
    was gorgeous

    Or how maybe your mother and father would sometimes scream,
    but also wrapped never-before-seen tropical
    fruit for one another every Xmas Eve

    How in the morning before opting out I watched
    that tiny Native girl fumbling
    to braid her own and her now-
    snoring mother's long black hair

    together
    in a single cornrow—
    If I can just always squiggle

    down like this:

    even half as much
    as what I'd otherwise need
    to forget

    maybe these scales
    really will one day tip
    to find each flaw that made us

    Exquisite

    Replies for this message:
    • Jim Hogg (4/8/2014 2:50:00 PM) Post reply

      This one kept me rapt from start to finish.... it darts about richly and unpredictably, but stays on theme, and has shadow, light and humour...

  • Teboho Petrus Ntaita (4/7/2014 6:39:00 AM) Post reply

    .hi i am teboho from bothaville but i am currently at klerksdorp,

    i am a poet that love to write about my life
    ....i like reading others poem
    only to get some ideas.

    , if i really love your poem...mayb one day you
    will hear me
    re-speaking
    it to the world
    .....like d.r maya angelour i love her poems and
    others i love to re-speak them to my classmates

    ....lol....ofcourse thats my job

  • Michael Hylton (4/7/2014 6:21:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I have a question for a discussion! What is poetry, and where did it originate from, and how did it develop into the art we are all trying to be a part of today?Can anyone enlighten me in this?

    Replies for this message:
    • Dan Reynolds (4/7/2014 7:11:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Hello Michael and welcome to Poemhunter Forum. This particular forum is one of the most exciting and educationally beneficial forums I have been fortunate to come across. The membership is predominan ... more

  • Michael Hylton (4/7/2014 6:03:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    It's funny! But I've been searching through the forums on this site, everywhere I look all I find is people posting their own poems. Is not the purpose of these forums to discuss ways and techniques in writing poems?Is not the purpose to create ideas on how to write?If so, then where are the discussions, where are the techniques and ideas. I have not found any advice, techniques or ideas on writing. Maybe it’s just me.

    Replies for this message:
    • Gulsher John (4/7/2014 11:40:00 AM) Post reply

      Don't worry dude, here you will taste all sort of Art: from Baroque to surrealist but hold on here........

  • Mike Acker (4/7/2014 12:03:00 AM) Post reply | Read 6 replies

    Change
    (revised)

    When the lofty creatures would descend, in all
    their splendor, I used to load up my needs
    and thoughts, then stack, and shift around
    what should never be taken along.

    Now, I just grab what I can of these indigo feathers,
    and hold on for dear life. I simply soar on the backs
    of these magnificent birds and let the rest of what
    must be made, be made.

    Mike Acker

    Replies for this message:
    • Alexander Rizzo (4/7/2014 2:14:00 PM) Post reply

      I keep hearing Crawfords name bandied about so naturally i was curious. OK, I did something I don't normally do - I read all 88 of his poems. I have to be honest, i was very disappointed and puzzled. ... more

    • Mike Acker (4/7/2014 11:53:00 AM) Post reply

      The polite way to do it is to ask first, if I would like your assistance. If you were Jim Crawford, based solely on my opinion of his poetry, as I don't know him, I would have been flattered. But Sher ... more

    • Mike Acker (4/7/2014 10:49:00 AM) Post reply

      Whenever the day comes, that I hear that either one of has flown a foot off the ground with those " nubs" of yours, I might take seriously what you have to say. Till then I must agree with ... more

    • Sherrie Kolb Cassel (4/7/2014 10:07:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Mike: It's almost like you choose to ign ... more

    • Frank Ovid (4/7/2014 9:52:00 AM) Post reply

      It's not very rhythmic. Yeah, better tak ... more

    • Lamont Palmer (4/7/2014 6:45:00 AM) Post reply

      'Hold on for dear life'. A HUGE cliche a ... more

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