Poetics and Poetry Discussion
(6/5/2005 7:38:00 AM)
Chris, I would like to submit my poem 'Why' to your competition, also I think you would probably like 'Global Psychosis' and maybe 'Birth of Despair'
(6/5/2005 6:39:00 AM)
It looks like 'Beauty Imposes' is about the wonders we percive of Beauty and also its true irrevalance.
BTW I am not a proffesionall poet I am just a teenager who wrote a few poems, during one particularly unusual February
(6/5/2005 6:35:00 AM)
Sorry to bother you all but I would just like to say that I am thankful for the responses to my poems on this site and that I am still awaiting comments on 'Guilt' and 'I am what I am, What am I'
(6/5/2005 6:13:00 AM)
I need to know if anyone has read the poem called 'Beauty imposes' by John Shaw Neilson and if you can give me your interpretation of the poem.
(6/5/2005 6:01:00 AM)
who knows John Shaw Neilson? He is an Australian poet.
Allan James Saywell
(6/4/2005 10:32:00 PM)
sorry mister snow just my black sense of humour, maybe a rush of blood
as you say i have no quarrel with you, i am humble in my sorrow
(6/4/2005 1:44:00 PM)
Wow, thanks Andrew. I think I maybe kinda sorta get it.
(6/4/2005 12:45:00 PM)
| Read 3 replies
I, in the spirit of helpfulness, rewrote a poem for JC in order to illustrate what I felt was a lack of music in his version. The first is JC's version, the second is my own. I didnt add anything or put my own spin on his idea, I merely did a little cutting and rearranging. Its also a nice reflection of varying styles of writing...sort of a microcosm of the Modernist/Post-Modernist debate.
Four a.m., the hour when
depressives can't go back
to sleep. I'm stroking the cat
who's buzzing beside me
in the dark, static electricity
crackling under my hand.
I imagine myself in a meadow,
lying there like one of those
minor 18th-century Bedlamites
who listens to them call
his name as he watches the
heat lightning beyond the hills.
Four AM, when depressives cannot sleep,
I stroke my cat who buzzes near me
in the darkness; static electricity attacks my hand.
I am lying in a meadow of rolling green, or so my mind tells me,
like one of those minor 18th century Bedlamites;
listening, listening, to those who call his name,
watching heated lightning beyond the hills.Replies for this message:
(6/5/2005 8:21:00 PM)
JC, I wouldn't have normally brought the subject up! Except what you both describe is obviously a manic phase. Hmmm let me see if I can help enlighten you a little.... This would be my slightl ... more
(6/5/2005 5:16:00 PM)
Sorry, Lamont, but I find your 'version'to be like a prose 'explanation'of JC's poem, which does not present the images to the eye as well as the mind, and contains at least three grammatical errors, ... more
To read all of 3 replies click here
- Sue Casey (6/5/2005 8:21:00 PM) Post reply
(6/4/2005 10:05:00 AM)
Oh, in reviewin this message, I noticed that I had left out the names of our current and last poet laureate, Ted Kooser and Billy Collins. They are worth reading, in my estimation.
(6/3/2005 9:11:00 AM)
For those who may have missed this in the Parekh flood, there was this gem of a poem by new member Kate Murray. Sorry about the length, but I thought folks might enjoy it.
Come, fickle Muse, ungracious Bitch
Come, fickle Muse, ungracious Bitch,
Sing to me of the anger which
Rifles the broken heart for words
And leaves it prey to dogs and birds.
Let them take what they will take,
I still spit venom for your sake,
Regurgitating vicious verse
Each time things go from bad to worse.
Claiming direct descent from Lust
And his uncomely spouse, Disgust
(the chance of some adultery
with Indolence and Vanity
Exists) , it is my chief delight
To perpetrate in all men’s sights
Anthologies of sins, and hei-
nous acts of carnal poetry.
Youth naked in the beckoning bed,
The Bitch is waiting to be fed:
Come, come, and come, and try your luck:
All she needs is one good f***.
The ones before you failed (they tried)
To keep her three mouths occupied:
The ruse that served Ulysses well
When he got out alive from Hell.
The way is long, the way is steep,
And at its foot the pit is deep:
Fall, foolish bugger, be my guest,
Assume the pose my Muse loves best:
Buffoon of the eternal farce
Spread-eagled, with your upturned arse
Exhibited for all to see
In Catherine Murray’s poetry.
A score and six of years like these
(Filled mostly with depravities)
Defame my Muse to not a few:
But when she says “Pay up! ” I do.
Painters of the Madonna make
Her set her foot upon a snake,
But my lubricious Muse is wise
And breaks its back between her thighs.
Likewise the Virgin in the yarn
Receives devotion in a barn:
Going one better, my barren Muse
Plunks backward on the straw and screws.
Rage and revulsion lace the art
Of us she treasures in her heart,
Our dearest gift, that while you curse
Our acts, our Lady, or our verse,
We slip the latch and break the gate
To all that you abominate,
Stoke up your heart to fog your head
And drag you by the balls to bed.
Better to give the bitch her due:
As Ovid and Catullus knew,
And Sophocles, and Sigmund Freud,
She isn’t gentle when annoyed.