Writing Poetry

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  • Jm T (2/7/2014 2:20:00 AM) Post reply

    I find that certain structured rules of poetics confines, restricts and stifles the more purer imaginative forms from inspiration as it limits innovative originality. Of course not to do away with technicality but to take away the assumed academic expertise of what constitutes poetry for poetry cannot be constituted to only linear forms. As the inspiration comes from beyond its forms.

  • Rookie - 134 Points Terrance Tracy (2/4/2014 7:50:00 PM) Post reply

    To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you and your private heart is true for all men, – that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, and it shall be the universal sense; for the inmost in due time becomes the outmost, and our first thought is rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judgment familiar as the voice of the mind is to each the highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton, it's that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke not what men, but what they thought. A man should learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, more than the luster of the firmament of bards and sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, because it is his. In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us on with a certain alienated majesty. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson for us than this. They teach us to abide by our own spontaneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. Else tomorrow a stranger will say with masterly good sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our own opinion from another.

    A dose of reality I could have not expressed this any better than Emerson

    Terrance Tracy

  • Rookie - 134 Points Madhab Rudra (2/2/2014 12:28:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

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  • Rookie - 134 Points Emma Field (2/1/2014 5:09:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    hey can i have some tips on this poem i have made plz its called " your loved"

    Laying there day and night
    Not ever feeling happy or alright
    You fake a smile for your family and friends
    You make it look like a popular trend
    All you want to do is cry and weep
    And all you want is to be free

    You get called names by people at school
    So you made a blade a cutting tool
    You used the blade on your skin
    You wanted to destroy the pain from within
    But I hope you know that your not alone
    Call me by picking up the phone

    Stop cutting with that horrible blade
    No one wants you too fade
    We all love you so very much
    We all no you so we wont judge

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    • Khairul Ahsan (3/3/2014 12:36:00 AM) Post reply

      The poem seems to have been written on someone you know so well, a school friend perhaps, who is depressed being subject to bullying or unkind behaviour. I appreciate your efforts at cheering him/her ... more

    • Har Srishty (2/8/2014 10:32:00 AM) Post reply

      EMMA. A WONder ful poem successfully conveyed ur feeling. Please edit your poem. " to fade" not too fade it is because i read ur poem carefully. I AM NOT A CRITIC BUT A FRIEND. Thanks

  • Rookie - 134 Points Shelley Stanworth (2/1/2014 3:09:00 PM) Post reply

    When paper,
    meets ink it highlights,
    little things that don't matter
    Often splits,
    society into rich or suffering,
    oblivious all are the latter
    Baffled when,
    confronted with random,
    puzzle pieces to be connected
    As life,
    is like a jigsaw,
    except the end result is the unexpected
    Like a ripple,
    on the surface
    let unfold through us whats meant to be
    Calm still,
    waters below watches,
    peacefully, true love is let free
    Caught in,
    turbulent rapids
    by limits put on our existence
    Deep eternal
    empty, engaged but
    to perciece is our substance
    Blindfolded we are,
    in life, hidden from our eyes,
    our pure true power within
    That the world,
    is just our mind
    which creates, suffers from and plays in
    And it drains,
    our spirit that we dont
    grasp with our fingers
    the chains,
    on the door, control isn't gone,
    yet anxiety lingers
    In insecurity,
    we wont open,
    conditioned to block
    Out the light,
    inside ourselves
    has always been the key to the lock
    These strict,
    limitations on life,
    minds came together and insisted
    Physical life,
    is short yet
    time endless so we have barely existed
    We needed,
    rules and regulations
    to give life and death importance
    To strive,
    use time and get
    presumed born lacking self acceptance
    Spitting fire,
    regardless of the human
    races, the planets great fatality
    It is our
    mind that keeps
    on dreaming, circling this reality
    Our conflicted,
    involvement in ever
    changing surroundings unrefused
    within the already
    present power and strength, confused
    We keep on
    living a dream we're unaware
    we're in, sleeping is our waking
    What is,
    considered real,
    our known, is just us mistaking
    That control,
    isn't ours, each going
    rouge fighting in battle alone
    Against fate,
    mind created when a path
    was already laid out in stone
    True reality,
    is waiting,
    in the unknown, not the dream which is fake
    We're dreaming,
    all night then
    to dream again, never choose to wake
    And simply,
    forgetting the truth
    inside that we have known
    And to
    remember all in life,
    all we become attached to or are shown
    Is ever
    changing, inconsistent,
    yet has already been and died
    Our true,
    self is before,
    time and space had its title, meaning or divide
    Light, pure,
    love using our lives
    here to express, engage and pursue
    A harmony
    we and all life crave,
    a unity and not to be split in two

  • Rookie - 0 Points Doris Cornago (2/1/2014 3:11:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    In my opinion, you need interaction to write powerful poems. This poem is in response to LP's poem 'Blowjob By The Tracks'. Whether this poem is autobiographical or not is a matter for creativity. One should never question the motive or the background for the poem. Just allow me to make a statement on this matter of 'paid love'. Men look for love in the most unlikely places, but women find it everywhere, and help themselves to it. Many might disagree, but such is my observation of the difference in the genders and their quest for that be-all of existence. If I can hold on to one thing before I go, I would choose that person who has shown me the utmost example of love - without boundaries and definitions, no commitments, no measures, just the pleasure of being together. If you have found such a person - hold this person tight, he/she is the one.

    Utter Ignorance
    By: Doris F. Cornago

    What do you know of love
    Something that is peddled
    As wares on a side street
    by perfumed women in tights
    and low cut bodices - their
    dead eyes fastened on bread.

    Or the course one takes
    Upon seeing a new face
    Meeting eyes in a crowded room
    a nod of understanding
    hurry out of the room
    before somebody senses.

    An excuse from boredom
    A rubbing of flesh
    A grapple, a cry of pain
    She has mistaken you
    for somebody more gentle
    Now she is screaming poison.

    We are strangers from start
    we pretend we need love
    to unmask others, make them
    conform to the person we want
    In our utter ignorance, love
    turns from unmasking to deception.

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  • Rookie - 15 Points 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.

  • Rookie - 15 Points 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......

  • Gold Star - 12,222 Points 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.

  • Bronze Star - 6,632 Points 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.

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