Writing Poetry

I believe the best way to write poetry is to express what you feel. First, write it down in simple words. Then, you need to exaggerate the truth so only you are able to figure out what the truth in your poem means to YOU. After that, you should go back to it and fill the poem with descriptive adjectives that will give it life. Once you have that part, re-read it to yourself so you can fix the errors you committed. Once you did those simple steps, there comes the most important part: DO NOT BE AFRAID TO SHOW IT TO THE WORLD. Even though some people will try to make fun of it or say bad things about the poem, you need to make those negative words invisible. What counts is not the opinion of others, but the rate you yourself give to your poem :)

There is no doubt poetry is of words, their sounds, their meanings, the feelings they evoke, and the memories they drag from all other possibilities, and they can be marshaled into special lines, decorated with rhymes and metaphors, alliteration to call back and forth amongst their companions like songs arising from marching troops.but once assembled into whatever form they may assume, regular or ragged, if they do not live like Frankenstein's monster out of some mysterious electricity of the universe, they are merely words and nothing more, and certainly not poetry.

FYI: Deleted all poems from PH......seeking a new creative outlet. It's been fun. Talked to some cool folks but allowed myself to get pulled into One-Two-(Three is a charm, or three-strikes-and-yur-out) arguments, agitating my soul, and defeating my purpose for being here. I think it's time to get off the PC, break out the sewing machine, and get into my long-planned handbag making project.

when you write, every words counts.
WORDS, FORMAT and PUNCTUATION are the three basic things you should bare in mind when writing.
the words, format and punctuation set the tone and mood of your poem.
in order for you poem to be written just the way you want others to read it, it must meet those three things (purposely not using punctuation also sets a certain tone.)
there are endless tones a poem can have, and setting yours on the EXACT one may take a while, but believe me- it will be a complete master work if you dedicate the time.

this horizon is now surrounding my
lost eternity, as i'm trying to run
ten thousand miles to get to you.

I find that poetry is a calming, yet intense, art. When you write what you're thinking of you get some amount of closure. However, if you are writing about something you are passionate about you get an intense feeling of anger, fear, happiness, etc. That is why poetry is the most unique of all arts.

My writing is my therapy.

Life is painful & joyful, stressful & pleasurable, difficult & marvelous.

Conflicting experiences and feelings get tangled together in my center, (where it feels that my soul resides within me, and morns for the mess that I am) .

Sorting out the different ideas; emotions; and subjects; separating this hodgepodge of feelings into appropriate words, then giving myself permission to put them into print for others to see, to read, critique, like or dislike, feels clarifying and brave and liberating.

And if anything I write might happen to be helpful or encouraging to anyone, it can be left behind when I'm gone. I like the idea of leaving pieces of myself scattered about the earth after I've left it.

Poetry is art of words. There are no rules with poetry, feel and allow yourself to express whatever it is you feeling.
Some of the best poets were unmasked after heartbreak.
story of my life.

Hi,
I think the poetry should have a good idea and subject.
It should be formed in paragraphs with equal lines.
It should not be a long one or paragraphs with unequal lines in each.
We can write first, we should not post immediately.
Look for suitable words, suitable rhymes, take some time, even a few days.
You can arrange, rearrange and finalize the poem.

I am interested in writing poems of Shakespeare style, but I think it needs lot of training.
V.K.Kanniappan

Hi! i'm Niki Nicholas Nkuna, a novice in the poetry writing field. I would very much appreciate comments on my poems. I had comments that are encouraging but with no tips. As a new comer I believe my poems can't that great. Comments will be very much appreciated. Please have a look at one of my poems below:
Hazy view
I’m wide awake in the sphere of my capability,
Hazy brain, Hazy vision,
I manoeuvre in the sphere of my capability,
Wobbling and falling,
My mother’s hands, my trestle and guide,
I’m wide awake in the sphere of my age,

Out of all I see, I see my mother clear,
My eyes and brain stretched,
To fathom maternal teachings,
I see through the mist all things,
And people around me,
My mother always in the clear,
Clad in angelic white dress,
I’m wide awake in the sphere of my height,

I hear so many voices around me,
Some melodic, some monotonous,
All meaningless to my brain capability,
Their smiles louder than their singing,
Unlike my mother’s lullaby song,
Louder, clear and fathomable to tender age,
Only in her presence,
Do I see clearly with my insipid brain,
I began to smile back to the apparitions,
Sometimes laughing like a Chinese shaken teddy bear,
I’m wide awake in the sphere of my brain,

My excitement belie understanding,
Of what’s happening around me,
My laughter camouflage my poor,
Attentiveness all the time,
Laughing at nothing like nutting,
Becoming a joke in the face of clarity,
I’m awake in the sphere of my attentive level,

In some environments my small eyes,
Ears and brain were respected,
I saw nothing and heard nothing,
That could damage my age,
Occasionally I would defy respect,
And got myself hurt,
In the present and long time to come,
Some things my parents let freedom reign,
Letting me see everything,
My brain muddled in the flood of events,
Parents’ car taking me to the shop or to church,
Everything else moving backward,
I never understood it and never asked,
Thanks to the years of brain growth,
That coincides with the steadying of the objects,
That moved backwards,
While my parents’ car moved forward.

I began to talk, see better,
But with less understanding,
A nuisance I became with my small motor mouth,
Answers I sought but with no patience to hear,
I shot not with shrapnel of bullets but a staccato of bullets,
I became a laughing stalk or a derisive object,
All I heard louder was, puerile,
Knows nothing, stupid, nutting,
Too small to understand,
My small brain became a glutton,
Gulping at everything bitter and sweet,

My reaction clownish assuaging intended pain,
Giggling in hidden places and crying at times,
Being overwhelmed by disregard and aplomb,
Bitten at times for encroaching on forbidden deeds,
My fragile age was to blame all along,
That forced everything to recoil into my tender brain,
It never let loose the ill-gotten contents,
For I’m the only one who held the key,
I’m wide awake in the sphere of my capability,

Inquisitiveness brought me light, thus I cling to it,
Despite the thorny answers I got at times,
Beatings, scolds and chasings, I grew up nevertheless,
Nobody could prevent that,

Reaching adulthood I came to know,
How to distinguish the colours,
What to ask, what not to ask,
And grew up with hidden feelings,
Nevertheless persevere in the storage of goods,
I dispensed the goods with the age of courage,
Received what I bargained for,
Or short changed at times,

Now I’m faced with the same situation,
My mother myself, my parents myself,
I have become, with horror I realised,
Let the tender motor mouth blabber,
I will answer them in the sphere of their brain,
In all respects, small, medium and large,
Now I know they never threw away anything,
That got through their eyes, ears into their brains,
They have small brains but complete in make,
That should be respected like a small car,

N Nkuna, May 2012