Hey, guys! I know that poetry is supposedly a dying art form and whatnot, but I love poetry... So, I'm curious to see if there are any other poem-lovers like myself. So, here's how I'd like to start this. I'll type up a poem that I like. Then, the next person can talk about that poem, then share one of their own. Then the next person responds to that poem, shares another poem then so on. I thought this would be fun and I hope at least one person out there finds this interesting too. Btw, feel free to post more than one poem and at different times too. I'd love to see more poems! Thanks! So, here's mine to start. This poem is by Joshua Beckman, called "The Birds Know." I've already posted this somewhere else, but I really like it. The birds know. The wind knows. Call me. I'm always in the same place watching the same thing. The sound of water, of wind, of flags, of the birds' deserved babies crying for rain. The birds know. Translucent is the wallet that holds the money on its way. Children stop. Pilgrims stop. Tugboats drift. The wind knows. I'm always in the same place watching the same thing. You know. The blue bridge opening for no one. The water knows. A translucent wallet filled with water. Flags flapping at the sign of water. We know. We start singing at the sight of the translucent wallet holding water. It's singing. It knows. It's always in the same place watching the same thing. The blue bridge opening for no one. The rain is on its way to a wallet of water. The birds know. Always the same place, the same thing.
I commend you for starting this thread and really hope that it gets the traction it deserves! I will, however, keep my thoughts to myself when it comes to other people's poems; all I know how to do is systematically break down and analyze but I am not enough of an artist to rebuild that which I take apart. I would not openly subject anyone's art to that kind of unfeeling scrutiny. That said, I do have a poem of my own, if that's alright with you: Spoiler: anyone lived in a pretty how town anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn’t he danced his did. Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone’s any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain — E. E. Cummings Cheers! ( :
Wow! I love that poem! I especially liked the lines, "all by all and deep by deep/ and more by more they dream their sleep." That's really neat. It has that interpretive feel that I really like in a poem. I'd like to post another for the heck of it. And it's actually a poem of my own, titled, "Phoenix Eyes." There is a child, down by the ocean bay, Sweet as a daisy, silent as a grave. Her sapphire eyes glimmer as wings of fae As she sits in her chair, too late to save. She sits and ponders her weakening heart As the hourglass strips her of her wings. Death comes to rip soul and body apart. Meanwhile, under her rasping breath, she sings. "Death, you cannot take me, cannot have me. Wings you took, but my Phoenix eyes see ye."
I love poetry. I certainly don't think it's a dying art form. I'm a Lit nerd some I'm a fan of old school romantic poetry. Keats, Byron, Shelley, etc. I have a ton of favorite poems from all of them. One of my very favorites though is "Bright Star" by Keats. I think it has one of the most beautiful ending lines in a poem ever.
How marvelous! This thread has allowed all of us to share what we love about poetry and also broaden our horizons of what poetry entails by being exposed to the poems that others are passionate about. I find it so remarkable that all of those classic poets are still relevant for you today, and am particularly moved by the line "Awake for ever in a sweet unrest," from that poem you mentioned. On that note, I find it so courageous of you, Estelle, to share an original poem of yours with us and I hope that your example will inspire others to follow suit. I am personally not quite ready for that, though I am much more inclined now than I would have otherwise been. I absolutely loved your style and the fantastical elements; it reminds me of "Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas except with a paranormal twist to it that really complements the tone. I'll leave you all with a favorite of mine to continue the tradition and perhaps the shortest poem you'll ever read: In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd: Petals on a wet, black bough. — Ezra Pound
Oh, cool! John Keats is a great poet. “Bright Star” is a good one of his. Here’s another poem, I suppose: “so you want to be a writer?” by Charles Bukowski. It’s an inspiration to me.
Oh my, I've never used this phrase before, but I'm feeling a little personally attacked by Charles Bukowski's poem! XD I really do understand where he's coming from and completely agree that writing is no place for being disingenuous with yourself; I think that the poem is actually really well done. It's inspiring for me as well in the sense that I want to prove that you can be original, passionate, and true to yourself while still giving your poetry the thought and deliberations it deserves by musing on it and rewriting if it comes to that. Consider me even closer to being able to share at least one of my poems on this thread! Haha Almost forgot to contribute another poem to the cycle! This one's a bit of a free roll as it's already in my signature but here's the whole thing for your viewing convenience: Spoiler: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. — T. S. Eliot
I'm not really a big fan of poetry. I blame secondary school. Spending two years analysing every word of around 36 poems by 6 different writers can leave you hating it. Even if the two female poets on the course were lesbians, it didn't show through their poems. I like funny poems like one we looked at when I was younger. I think it's called Hazel tells Laverne. All that time of teachers saying 'what do you think the poet meant by that line'. For some reason the answer never was 'he meant what he wrote'.
And that's fine if you don't like poetry a whole awful lot. I'm happy that, despite that, you still responded with your thoughts. If you like funny, direct poems, you might like Shel Silverstein's poems. One that I like in particular is "Messy Room." Whosever room this is should be ashamed! His underwear is hanging on the lamp. His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair, And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp. His workbook is wedged in the window, His sweater's been thrown on the floor. His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV, And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door. His books are all jammed in the closet, His vest has been left in the hall. A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed, And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall. Whosever room this is should be ashamed! Donald or Robert or Willie or-- Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear, I knew it looked familiar!