Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Freshman - 1,579 Points Mike Acker (2/28/2015 9:28:00 PM) Post reply
    5 person liked.
    0 person did not like.

    Let Me Go

    Please, let me go.

    You've got me hanging from a cross.
    For god's sake, let me down!
    I died, now let me go my way.

    Let it go.

    I was a Jew, I am a Jew.
    I was never one of you.

    Let me go, let it go

    You've killed my folks,
    the ones you claim murdered me,
    but you won't let me die.

    Just let me go,

    let me die in peace.
    I am not your god, I never was.
    I was just a Jew, a simple Jew.
    I've never met you,
    yet you won't let my blood run dry.

    Let me go, let it go.

    You eat my flesh and drink my blood.
    You've got to let it go. You've got to let me die.
    About my father; I never claimed I was his son.
    I died, now let it go!

    Please, let me go!

    Mike Acker

  • Rookie - 0 Points Lyle Wagner (2/27/2015 12:17:00 AM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    I have just jointed PoemHunter and Submitted one of my poems.... when does it appear on the site?And where do I find the reviews of it?I have written close to 300pieces of poetry... and a few short stories... want to work on a novel about my life, I have over 100pages in long hand.... it helps that I was a printer by trade, and my Mother was a proofreader by trade....I am very proud of my first book and it being registered with the library of Congress..... love and peace to all, I am looking forward to new friendships.

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 0 Points Tony Miller (3/1/2015 1:47:00 AM) Post reply

      yes, nothings there

    • Rookie - 0 Points Hugh Everard (2/28/2015 1:35:00 AM) Post reply

      Hi Lyle this has happened to me now and again its no big deal check your posting rules and resubmit

    • Rookie - 0 Points Soul Watcher (2/27/2015 2:04:00 AM) Post reply

      Hi, I found nothing in your page! Are sure that you've added your poem?! Check your site and make sure of this.

  • Rookie - 0 Points Lyle Wagner (2/27/2015 12:17:00 AM) Post reply

    I have just jointed PoemHunter and Submitted one of my poems.... when does it appear on the site?And where do I find the reviews of it?I have written close to 300pieces of poetry... and a few short stories... want to work on a novel about my life, I have over 100pages in long hand.... it helps that I was a printer by trade, and my Mother was a proofreader by trade....I am very proud of my first book and it being registered with the library of Congress..... love and peace to all, I am looking forward to new friendships.

  • Rookie - 21 Points Danya Qattea (2/26/2015 5:08:00 PM) Post reply

    Hey Guys,
    please check out my latest poem (Harsh Words) . Thank You! !

  • Freshman - 1,225 Points Dan Reynolds (2/26/2015 2:19:00 AM) Post reply

    Latest breaking(almost) news form Madonna's fall at the Brits. Apparently she was making a tribute to Michael Jackson, but could only find a leather mitten. She admitted afterwards, " it's hard to justify my glove?"

  • Rookie - 423 Points ... Dog God 8hate (2/25/2015 8:59:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    +

    life o' MEAT and
    no CONFECTION


    So ...

    shifting with juncture demands
    i'm checking for a loose shoe-lace
    (too, plodders may trip
    due to, cagily-pitted paths)
    i'm hardly convinced, though,
    a deficit due, my careless tie.

    Momentarily, it's a bad place,
    there's less than
    a penny's-pence in pleasure.

    And so ...

    perfectly formed decorum
    appears where, in this land o'
    catty-stealth that steals?
    Yet, justification's wing
    fly's a distance unknown
    not even god goes there.

    Like all ...

    i'm subject mental shifts.
    bullying gods push with ease
    such anemic souls
    of this more-than-by-now
    10,000-year ... thrashing.

    Despised variously
    by Heaven n' Hell
    fate has eaten these rebuffed
    flesh n' soul like candy
    there's naught but empty
    wrappers, now

    We need more-than justified
    CONFECTION, after all those
    perfidious bites, of ...

    raw ... MEAT!

    . .

    Replies for this message:
    • Rookie - 423 Points Tony Miller (3/1/2015 1:37:00 AM) Post reply

      gibberish. a bunch of clich├ęs put thru a blender in a search for 'originality'. or at best, Geoffrey hill at his worst

    • Rookie - 423 Points Professor Plum (2/26/2015 8:52:00 AM) Post reply

      I love this one. I've read it before, no?Maybe you reworked it or something?Great poem!

  • Silver Star - 8,757 Points Rajnish Manga (2/25/2015 12:48:00 AM) Post reply

    Two wonderful poems, having (in parts) a striking similarity of outlook towards life and its search of peace, has caught my attention. I request all friends to read both these poems in full and enjoy their immense poetic beauty and value, though It is not my intention to compare the two poems. Here are the extracts from these poems by two eminent poets:

    Farewell by Valsa George (Feb.24,2015)

    Weep not dear ones, sigh no more
    From all anguish, life at last set free
    The vessel has anchored on its port
    Cutting across waves that roar

    Now I sleep gently, sleep in peace
    **
    Life's Story by Sandra Feldman (Feb.25,2015)

    Life is but a battered ship,
    With painful, ragged sails,
    Looking for a port to rest,
    To escape the Wind's cold wails.

  • Freshman - 1,579 Points Mike Acker (2/21/2015 7:41:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Sunday Mourning

    Real butter, for a change, melts on my toast
    with apricot jam, spread thickly, like I like it.

    Cold, caloried cream swirls in my fresh brewed coffee,
    with a teaspoon of real sugar, stirred.

    Habits die hard, having just cooked an omelette
    for two, only one may eat.

    Glasses slide low on the bridge of my nose,
    Sunday paper ready to go.

    The pool's blue tiles glisten under
    this early sunshine.

    What a glorious morning this could have
    been, had she not packed up and left me

    with this Sunday mourning.

    Mike Acker

    Replies for this message:
    • Freshman - 1,579 Points The Pundit (2/21/2015 8:27:00 PM) Post reply

      Dandy visuals in this one. This sounds exactly like my Sunday morning, only I smoke a fat joint with my toast.

  • Gold Star - 27,910 Points Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr (2/21/2015 12:49:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    A wee succinct 'yarn' if you will
    on a very early Saturday N.Y. morn...

    Lessons Fom Cat's... ]^.^[


    Siamese Cat's perched on eaves,
    sans the slightest movement of vertebrae -
    sit ossified like creation's by Nengah.
    Below them they sense the same air above them,
    but only because they understand freedom.

    Replies for this message:
    • Gold Star - 27,910 Points ... Dog God 8hate (2/21/2015 3:36:00 PM) Post reply

      . . . . OH ... Nengah Sudarsana? Yeah, carved cats .... Nengah, Ireland could spawn cat-content/feline-felicity ... maybe? ^_^ - - -?#?@??

    • Gold Star - 27,910 Points ... Dog God 8hate (2/21/2015 11:15:00 AM) Post reply

      . . Tipperary may foster such ... fecund cool. New York? Hmm? Regions upstate ... remote zones void (the) squalid vigor. And yet ... Central Park has curious cats ... free ... fat fro ... more

  • Rookie - 144 Points Shifty Moriarty (2/19/2015 12:20:00 PM) Post reply

    First Love[translation]

    by Joan Margarit

    In the dreary Girona of my seven-year-old self,
    where post-war shop-windows
    wore the greyish hue of scarcity,
    the knife-shop was a glitter
    of light in those small steel mirrors.
    Pressing my forehead against the glass,
    I gazed at a long, slender clasp-knife,
    beautiful as a marble statue.
    Since no one at home wanted weapons,
    I bought it secretly, and as I walked along,
    I felt the heavy weight of it, inside my pocket.
    From time to time I would undo it gradually,
    and the blade would spring out, slim and straight,
    with the convent chill that a weapon has.
    Hushed presence of risk:
    I hid it, those first thirty years,
    behind books of poetry and, later,
    inside a drawer, in amongst your knickers
    and amongst your stockings.
    Now, about to turn fifty-four,
    I look at it again, lying open in my palm,
    just as dangerous as in childhood.
    Sensual, cold. Nearer my throat.

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