Writing Poetry

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  • Tawfeeq Hasan Khan (1/30/2014 4:49:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I think that a poem should be like a dirty ocean whose depth cant be seen but can be felt only if you dive deep into it.

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    • Doris Cornago (2/1/2014 3:14:00 AM) Post reply

      An ocean is not dirty but deep and translucent. By all means, dive into it but be sure you know how to surface later. Writing poems is not just an ocean excursion - it is a beautiful adventure.

  • Faham Mengal (1/28/2014 2:28:00 PM) Post reply

    i think just flow with your feeling n write whatever you feel after all poetry is flow of feelings......

  • Gajanan Mishra (1/28/2014 7:00:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Writing poetry is the life-breath, respiratory system and a going on process.

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    • Doris Cornago (2/5/2014 8:39:00 AM) Post reply

      Yes. I do believe a poet cannot live without poetry; even the whisper of the wind has words for him.

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (1/27/2014 8:44:00 AM) Post reply

    I am very much interested to read and recite poems and trying to understand its meanings the poet supposed to understand by the reader. I think that poems beautifully created by the poets of eminence is really worth to social awakening in every sphere of life and making the reader so enthusiastic for societal obligations in right sense. Be it sorrow, enviornment protection, nature, river and any subject is so much interesting when it comes as a poem for an interested reader. Poets and poems are the real connectivity link for international human relations and humanity at large I think.

  • Dru L. (1/23/2014 12:44:00 PM) Post reply

    Hey, I'm inviting you to check out my site The Poet Society.Net. (http://www.thepoetsociety.net) . Also if you have any suggestions or comments on the site, you can email me at dru@thepoetsociety.net. CHEERS! ! !

    PS: Keep writing ;)

  • Doris Cornago (1/22/2014 11:00:00 PM) Post reply

    @ JC: The lines were good, but honesty was lost in alien words. Good poems are those which wish to connect with the least difficulty as possible. I dislike smoke-screening and pretense, but a full view of what's what is most appreciated by all. In simple understandable English like a good movie that makes you run or walk, depending on the cue.

  • Doris Cornago (1/22/2014 10:55:00 PM) Post reply

    @ Metamorphh: Yep. Rhymers are best in my opinion. They give poems that melodious quality that makes you feel welcomed by the poet. It is like sitting side by side together and going on the rhythm of bodies closely touching, rather than being pushed recklessly behind by the other, as some poems do. My poem is also somewhere in this page. See if you like the easy rhythm of waves rolling in and out.

  • metamorphhh (aka jim crawford) (1/22/2014 8:52:00 AM) Post reply

    While I enjoy reading all kinds of poetry, I particularly like writing rhymers. Creating within the strictures of rhyme I find to be challenging, exhilarating and just plain fun. So, a little challenge, maybe?How's about something a bit abstract?Here's my offering, and looking forward to seeing what you've got...

    Turf Wars

    Enter the beetle, the sickening shell
    hiding treasures of refuse and solace, as well.
    She enters through prospect, and exits through pain,
    spinning sugar from gossamer grafts to her brain.

    So, likewise her cousin, the centipede man
    waves at graves with his ninety-nine legs, as he stands
    a precarious balance on the one that won’t budge;
    he’s a pillar of porridge made of steel, and hot fudge.

    An insult, a blood feud, and the battle is on;
    it’s a race to save face on the magistrate’s lawn!
    The poppies stand pop-eyed, the marigolds melt,
    while the dahlias drown in the spades they were dealt.

    All the while, a mower’s blades can be heard in the distance,
    and the shouts of the doubters offer little resistance
    to the fact of the weed whacker inching behind...
    the garden hose knows, but is kinked, and unkind.

    The mailbox sputters a sentence or two,
    but is drowned in the sound of the Wandering Jew
    who is purple with power, and a home for the rats
    (their sh*t’s his salvation, so he shouts at the cats) .

    The leaves are all leaving, and the gutters are gutting
    all the gophers, whose guts are befouled, and besmutting
    the whole yawning yard, it’s turf slick with ennui
    (from the grease of the gopher guts’ grime, don’t you see?)

    The tumultuous trenchwar strikes a strident crescendo,
    as the Tao gouges eyes, recognizing no friend/foe,
    ‘til the stink of the battle stirs the cattle to feed
    on the trails of the snails whose slow go knows no need.

    The moles in their holes gauge a change in the air,
    as the clouds raining mushrooms rush to hush the affair
    with their fungus (among us, it is said, to this day,
    t’was God’s yawn blew the lawn, and the whole world away) .

  • Doris Cornago (1/19/2014 8:07:00 PM) Post reply

    Even when running a fever due to flu virus, also very cold water, the poet survived due to a poem she wrote. So, there aside from being balm to a grieving heart, poems can also be like an antibiotic. As she told another online seafarer last night in poemhunter, don't lose your grip on your craft and let go off nonessentials...The poem written in the throes of a fever:

    Taunting Me To Come

    I know how far are the stars
    I just have to reach out and there
    Your face is ever so clear, so near
    But you are staring hard and glare
    From laptop is hurting my eyes...

    Not tonight, I will not risk your ire
    Some other night when relaxed
    When eyes are upturned and squinty
    From playing with frisky Poochie
    The two of us can cuddle and share...

    Your happy heart is made for poems
    Your eyes can see beyond the shore
    Waters lap on sand things you adore
    On and off like pendulum on clock
    Sand in glass just pours unminded...

    Where birds dip below streams
    And come up with fish in beak
    They never tire of splashing water
    Where the sun never fades and
    Wind never breaks leaves from boughs...

    There is such a world you showed
    And I brought a red canoe for us
    You believed everything I told you
    And so we drifted companionably
    The word busy is not in your tongue...

    You were singing a wordless song
    More of a hum, and a laughter to fill in
    Now there is more of nagging silence
    Like dripping water from a faucet
    Rattling my senses, nonsensical....

    I am running a fever but I survived
    Just washing my face in clear water
    I caught in the palms of my hand
    You were laughing as you splashed
    Feet swift on sand, taunting me to come...

    (For my mentor and friend...)

  • Ryan Nur (1/19/2014 12:21:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I feel, I see
    dream of heaven in the hell

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    • Doris Cornago (1/19/2014 8:19:00 PM) Post reply

      @Ryan Nur: Do go on sir now that you have caught my attention. Do not tell me that you are just another tease?

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