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Poetics and Poetry Discussion

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  • Jefferson Carter (3/13/2014 9:02:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    The Hecht poem below is a little creaky and slightly maudlin, but the man sure can handle rhyme and create fresh diction. This isn't as ggod as " A Hill" and " Lizards and Snakes, " a few of his best poems.

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    • Lamont Palmer (3/14/2014 2:26:00 AM) Post reply

      You're probably right though I prefer his unrhymed pieces. However, in my opinion, Merrill was better than Hecht and Wilbur combined. Its hard to find anything stronger than 'Lost in Translation'. -LP

    • Frank Ovid (3/13/2014 10:31:00 PM) Post reply

      Hecht was a heck of a poet........ (I think I better get back down to the Rhythm and Rhyme Workshop. Sorry about that.)

  • Lamont Palmer (3/13/2014 7:51:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    I was pleased to hear a shout-out in favor of one of my favorite poets, Anthony Hecht. His supple formality made him one of the most honored poets of his day. -LP

    A Letter


    I have been wondering
    What you are thinking about, and by now suppose
    It is certainly not me.
    But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering
    Blood knows what it knows.
    It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea.

    Of course, it is talking of you.
    At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights,
    The sun plants one lithe foot
    On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming through
    Its warm Arabian nights,
    Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.

    Who shall, of course, be nameless.
    Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my best,
    As I'm sure you have, too.
    Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless
    Whose names are not confessed
    In the ceaseless palaver. My dearest, the clear unquaried blue

    Of those depths is all but blinding.
    You may remember that once you brought my boys
    Two little woolly birds.
    Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding
    Your thrush among his toys.
    And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words.

    There is not much else to tell.
    One tries one's best to continue as before,
    Doing some little good.
    But I would have you know that all is not well
    With a man dead set to ignore
    The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.


    Anthony Hecht

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    • Stan Grossman (3/14/2014 2:42:00 PM) Post reply

      His 'ductile protocol' made him an honored poet... might be a better term for Hecht. Come on! Lamont!

  • Jefferson Carter (3/13/2014 10:00:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    John, the description of poetry and music below is pure horsepucky. He's flogging formal verse, which, these days more often than not, gives off that stuffy museum odor. This was written by someone who not only can't spell (rein, not reign) but knows little about the past and the present of poetry. He's as perceptive as the " critic" who wrote " art can't be judged, only interpreted."

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    • Lamont Palmer (3/13/2014 3:16:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Nice pic of Mallarme. Most free verse today is not written the way Whitman or Eliot or WCW intended it to be written. Those poets would shudder at some of the stuff being passed off as poetry now. -LP

    • Stan Grossman (3/13/2014 12:50:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Jeff, are there any poets over the last 20-30 years (or so) doing formal verse that you enjoy and would recommend?And, why is poetry moving in the direction of free verse?Are writers getting lazy bec ... more

  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (3/13/2014 9:56:00 AM) Post reply

    Poetry I think is the very interesting communications of ideal society and expressions of inner feeling, societal awakening against injustices, words of courage for human reformation, kindness, sympathy and different emotions those are vital for human mind and its development which we have passed through the centuries. It is the only effective medium where there is unity in diversity, human compassion, inner awareness and such qualities that make this world wonderfully beautiful. From Dante's divine comedy to Ravindra Natha Tagore's Geethanjali I have experienced good feeling and compassionate inner awareness and the futility of amazing wealth beyond ones own needs. To make this society and countries perfectly liveable in a give and take attitudinal behaviour it is necessary to make the people to read and enjoy good poems for today and tomorrow and coming centuries which there is no death to the poems and poets in essence otherwise only in body factor only.Let us have good poems and poets irresepctive of continental and language barriers.

  • John Zwerenz (3/13/2014 9:22:00 AM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    ON THE ART OF POETRY
    The best poetry a poet can create must resemble effluent streams, containing as its quintessential necessity above all else- music.
    Music is the key to exalted verse, in its meter, in the sonic quality of the words employed, and in its conveyance of meaning, especially through the use of imagery. This last aspect gives birth to the mystical dimension of visual music. Only in poetry is this transcendental perception of visual music given full reign. The objective of the poet is to transfer the ineffable into a descriptive philology, through the use of rhyming, mellifluous verse. Prose cannot achieve these objectives, because prose, by its constrictive nature, lacks the essential prerequisites for the more musical expressions of what is most aesthetically bright, true, beautiful and eternal..Yet rhyming verse can achieve the miraculous. Truth is beautiful in itself, and poetic verse which, through its music, can marry reality with romance, is above all else a conveyor of the sublime. ~ John Lars Zwerenz? Posted 3/13/2014

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    • Jim Hogg (3/13/2014 12:45:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      " effluent" streams? Even effulgent is a stretch given that much of the focus of this is on the auditory..?Not a good start.. And streams?... rarely possessed of rhythmic qualities... Prose ... more

    • John Zwerenz (3/13/2014 9:24:00 AM) Post reply

      Posted by John Lars Zwerenz March 13,2014 / Taken from an essay on poetics via Google Inc. (C) 2014

  • John Zwerenz (3/13/2014 9:18:00 AM) Post reply

    ON THE ART OF POETRY
    The best poetry a poet can create must resemble effluent streams, containing as its quintessential necessity above all else- music.
    Music is the key to exalted verse, in its meter, in the sonic quality of the words employed, and in its conveyance of meaning, especially through the use of imagery. This last aspect gives birth to the mystical dimension of visual music. Only in poetry is this transcendental perception of visual music given full reign. The objective of the poet is to transfer the ineffable into a descriptive philology, through the use of rhyming, mellifluous verse. Prose cannot achieve these objectives, because prose, by its constrictive nature, lacks the essential prerequisites for the more musical expressions of what is most aesthetically bright, true, beautiful and eternal..Yet rhyming verse can achieve the miraculous. Truth is beautiful in itself, and poetic verse which, through its music, can marry reality with romance, is above all else a conveyor of the sublime. ~ John Lars Zwerenz?

  • Mike Acker (3/12/2014 11:52:00 PM) Post reply

    Mesmerized

    I took a poem once, that I loved,
    and after carefully peeling off its backing,
    gently placed it in a clear flask.

    Ever so slowly, I poured a light acid onto
    this verse. Gradually, some stanzas began
    to detach and in spite of a strong bond, separated

    from one another. I added more of the caustic
    liquid, and lightly shook the clear container, I could
    see lines beginning to flow away from their stanzas,

    albeit hesitantly. More, slow stirring broke some
    words off their lines, and here and there letters
    began to float reluctantly to the surface.

    Eventually, the majority of the letters had become
    loose and were rising to the top, forming a thick soup
    of letters and punctuation marks.

    Just as the last of the letters were ascending, a gel-like
    substance, minute and barely visible, began to take
    shape close to the bottom.

    It was scintillating and translucent, colorful and vibrant
    as if alive. It would change shape as I looked from different
    angles, until, suddenly, I was completely and utterly mesmerized.
    Mike Acker

  • Kyle Loveya (3/12/2014 10:16:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    As a reply:

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    • Kyle Loveya (3/12/2014 10:23:00 AM) Post reply

      From H.D. Trilogy....The Walls Do Not Fal.... a fragment... be firm in your own small atatic limited Orbit and the shark-jaws Of outer circumstance Will spit you forth: Be indigestible har ... more

  • Dan Reynolds (3/11/2014 4:32:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    Did you hear about the world’s 1st pregnant man?

    At the point of ejaculation something very strange occurred
    He thought he must have dreamt it, as the memory’s rather blurred.
    But it would seem it happened, and he won’t forget this deed
    As her egg shot up his willy and made headway for his seed.

    There within his bollock, a wee embryo began
    And scared the living shit out of the world’s first pregnant man
    It grew so fast, it grew so big, he never hurt so bad
    It looked like a Spacehopper, as he straddled his gonad.

    Proud at first, he’d bragged and bragged, before the eigth month doubt.
    Twas then it finally hit him. How the f*ck would it come out?! ! !
    “Oh no, my friend! Not my bell-end! ” he pleaded to the Doc.
    With fingers strumming, he said, “It’s coming. Now, would you prefer arse or cock?”

    But as a bloke, this was just his wee joke,
    and like a true humanitarian.
    He put the poor basturd out for the count,
    because EVERY man WOULD choose caesarean!

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  • Cassaries Johnson (3/11/2014 8:56:00 AM) Post reply

    It just started getting warmer in Chicago, so I decided to write about it.

    Signs of Spring

    Oh how Spring has finally come
    and poked out her flowery head,
    from the shed she calls her home
    in the bitter cold that is Winter
    I see the bright face of the sun,
    as it looks at me with a wondrous glow
    through my window after a long run
    of hiding its face from me

    Winter dressed the world in white,
    Now Spring changes its dress to green,
    But in between, it looks like a fight,
    A fight of fire and ice.
    The remains of winter litter the scene,
    Horrid slush where once lay snow,
    Tomorrow they say that Winter will strike
    once again, forcing Spring to flee,
    to bury the world forever

    Cassaries Johnson

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