Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Rookie - 192 Points Shifty Moriarty (2/10/2015 12:43:00 PM) Post reply
    4 person liked.
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    They say I lie or feign
    in all I write. Not true.
    It’s simply that I feel
    by way of imagination
    the heart I never use.

    Fernando Pessoa

  • Rookie - 0 Points Gyongyi Mcdonnell (2/8/2015 8:23:00 AM) Post reply

    Hi, Does anyone know if there is a translation of Az Alfold by Petofi Sandor?

  • Rookie - 34 Points Mongezi Rocksy Mo-fusion (2/7/2015 9:13:00 AM) Post reply

    a hustler's bible by Gyton Mcchenzie, in all the books I've read this was the first from an author who originate in South Africa and I greatly confess it has changed my life, especially coming from an 'ex-con' who has made it big dispite his criminal record.

  • Gold Star - 24,818 Points Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (2/6/2015 9:32:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    No more cliches written by Octavio Paz the great poet's poem read today in the forum and it is a good poem that is dedicated to women. More poems of Octavio Paz is welcomed for reading and understanding.

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  • Freshman - 544 Points Adam M. Snow (2/3/2015 8:20:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I've been working on this poem since Sunday night... The fog that morning was what inspired me.

    A Visitor in the Morning Fog
    Written by Adam M. Snow

    Oh, what a stage this morning break;
    on waking to a misty light.
    My heart is weak, I feel it ache
    upon this morning sight.

    So thick the fog the dawn opaque,
    which blocks the morning bright.
    Unlike the sun my heart won't hide,
    nor in the fog where it dwells.

    And even though with all my pride,
    this hateful heart, I knew so well,
    had left this man alone to stride
    in this small smoky hell.

    But in this fog a creature stirs,
    with wings to which to flutter.
    And though my eyes a blur,
    I hear those wings begin to sputter.

    But if it is as I should infer,
    'tis some black bird aflutter.
    To be here now where I have stood
    amidst the winter's fog.

    It perched itself upon a wood,
    a branch that fell into a log;
    as nature shaped itself, it would
    remove the gowans frae the bog.

    O blackened creature piercing eyes,
    It pierces my soul and steals my heart.
    I hear its scornful cries
    as it rips my soul apart.

    As truth be told, I dare not lie;
    I cannot cease this beating heart.
    The crow that craves its carrion,
    can never hide from me.

    The pair of us shall carry on
    in this fog, no men can see.
    Nor shall they hear its clarion,
    its squawking in an offset key.

    It mocks me with its devilish stare,
    in this fog upon this stage.
    Such risk this foulest bird would dare,
    then as to assuage
    the gripes of this a smoky air
    in a fog-like cage.

    It speaks to me on this wise,
    " I shall never let you die."
    said he with his scornful cries,
    spreading wings now as to fly.

    That ol' bird now on arise,
    soaring to the sun on high.
    Now I'm left alone to ponder,
    who or what that crow may be.

    Alone am I left to wander,
    while that bird is flying free.
    In the mist now yonder,
    I am stricken with this misery.

    For it twas I the darkened bird,
    that tore my soul apart;
    Stole my voice, my words,
    my virgin beating heart.

    I feel this day absurd;
    cursed me since the start.

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    • Freshman - 544 Points Dan Reynolds (2/4/2015 7:42:00 AM) Post reply

      Taking a life of its own now Adam. I toyed with the play between " carrion" and " carry on" myself, but had liitle time to respond on YAP.

  • Rookie - 360 Points Jeremy Horsford (2/1/2015 5:48:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    7th Day - Reality


    Day 1: We awoke as unknowns.

    Day 2: We awoke as unknowns. We crossed one another whilst
    attempting to fulfil our commitments.

    Day 3: We awoke as unknowns. We crossed one another whilst
    attempting to fulfil our commitments. You smiled, I tripped and fell.

    Day 4: We awoke as unknowns. We crossed one another whilst
    attempting to fulfil our commitments. You smiled, I tripped and fell.
    You offered me a helping hand.

    Day 5: We awoke as unknowns. We crossed one another whilst
    attempting to fulfil our commitments. You smiled, I tripped and fell.
    You offered me a helping hand. We departed.

    Day 6: We awoke as unknowns. We crossed one another whilst
    attempting to fulfil our commitments. You smiled, I tripped and fell.
    You offered me a helping hand. We departed. I stared.

    Day 7: Only if...

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 360 Points Jeremy Horsford (2/8/2015 3:18:00 PM) Post reply

      There are times when life slips through our fingers and are times when we should not allow it. The poem represents one of the times when we should not.

    • Rookie - 360 Points Professor Plum (2/1/2015 7:46:00 PM) Post reply

      Interesting to a point...but, what's the point?Not a knock, but how is the reader's life impacted?

  • Gold Star - 24,818 Points Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (1/31/2015 9:08:00 AM) Post reply

    I read today the famous poem of Rudyard Kipling " If" and it is marvelous and a human touch is there.

  • Gold Star - 34,396 Points Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr (1/29/2015 3:28:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    A Visit To Your Home Amongst A Field of Stone...


    Thought it was time I stopped by to visit
    and yes, I brought flowers, don't you dare laugh!
    Habitual manners from an Irish upbringing,
    'Never visit one's homestead, uninvited or empty handed',
    that's what Mum always said, so I heed.

    Flowers are always freshest when laid
    upon mornings dew, while the Sun is still sleeping,
    yet, by noon, they'll be wilting by its hot yellow eye
    in the August haze, dying, decomposing.
    And my mind takes to thinking to itself
    how morosely apropos, these flowers be,
    considering the conditions beneath me.

    I knee-touch the bare soil, still settling,
    place the spray against your freshly cut stone.
    Flowers cannot speak, nor can you... or can you?
    I sense a breeze pass the nape of my neck, is it you?
    It must be, it has to be, for if not...
    I'm just standing here alone amongst a field of stone,
    listening to the breeze wisps behind me.

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  • Rookie - 192 Points Shifty Moriarty (1/28/2015 5:28:00 PM) Post reply

    From The Book of Nightmares

    Galway KInnell

    4

    This is the tenth poem
    and it is the last. It is right
    at the last, that one
    and zero
    walk off together,
    walk off the end of these pages together,
    one creature
    walking away side by side with the emptiness.

    Lastness
    is brightness. It is the brightness


    gathered up of all that went before. It lasts.
    And when it does end
    there is nothing, nothing
    left,

    in the rust of old cars,
    in the hole torn open in the body of the Archer,
    in river-mist smelling of the weariness of stones,
    the dead lie,
    empty, filled, at the beginning,

    and the first
    voice comes craving again out of their mouths.

  • Freshman - 642 Points Nathan Beery (1/27/2015 7:26:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Peripathetically

    I recall upon a somber tone,
    A quiet night I sat alone
    Watching quietly the circle's pinnacle
    Seraph's song or Inferno's shackle-
    Perhaps not; then the endless circle?
    Behind the Rigor's door-
    Clamor cried, and somnolent silence...
    What lies on the distant shore?
    A poisoned wave, a solemn or shallow grave?
    I ruminate this grand hour late-
    Does a paradigm await the late?
    And now I pace, I pace-
    I pace from place to place,
    What awaits?That distant place?
    Nothing to show and less to set the pace-
    It is a quiet fear
    Not to know where we go-
    I doubt, I won't sleep to wake and not to wake
    To wake somewhere near...
    Is it tacit?Is everything sophistry?
    There is not one syllable of synopsis, nor
    Snippet of certainty, so I ponder and wander on, peripathetically
    on this paradoxical question now, eternally-

    Replies for this message:
    • Freshman - 642 Points The Pundit (1/27/2015 9:55:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      This is an admirable effort in many ways, but a poem that doesn't make sense should be at least interesting. The poem seems like words thrown together without purpose. Sorry. Too fancy-schmancy.

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