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Poetics and Poetry Discussion


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  • Micheal Olaniyi Rookie - 1st Stage (6/17/2014 4:36:00 AM) Post reply

    Hello gentlemens and ladies. Please i am kindly inviting you to come and read my poems, and i would love you comments. Thanks

  • Sherrie Kolb Cassel Rookie - 1st Stage (6/16/2014 3:49:00 PM) Post reply

    Hello, everyone, especially, my stalker Otto Schtupen...hope all is well. I see nothing constructive is happening here...miss you all so much. See you after class.

  • delilah contrapunctal Rookie - 1st Stage (6/15/2014 9:01:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

    Hey, (mis) management...gonna delete a wink?...or only if it is used thusly: ']) .....seriously inane censoring happening here....fun gone! !

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  • Debra Robinson Rookie - 1st Stage (6/15/2014 5:06:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    Arlington National Cemetery

    In the rolling hills of Arlington
    White headstones stand row by row.
    A sacred trust—
    Bestowed upon these hallowed grounds.
    Through the decades, the battles and wars,
    A blanket of eternal rest.

    “The day is done, gone the sun”
    The bugler stands alone.

    In a demonstration of an ethos,
    A horse-drawn caisson will pass—
    Among the headstones,
    To a final resting place.

    The precision of clicking of heels in the distance,
    Paces matched—
    Stride for stride,
    At the tomb of the unknowns.

    “The day is done, gone the sun”
    The bugler stands alone.

    Straight line formations—
    Where honor and valor have come to rest.
    For these soldiers,
    Their last call sounded,
    Through the eyes of history.

    Now in eternal slumber,
    Surrendering to the emotion,
    The sounding of Taps—
    Their final tribute.

    Stand down; rest easy
    Soldier, Sailor, Airman, Marine

    “The day is done, gone the sun”
    The bugler stands alone.


    © June 14,2014
    “The day is done, gone the sun” opening lyrics to Taps

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    • Alexander Rizzo Rookie - 1st Stage (6/17/2014 7:53:00 PM) Post reply

      sorry, whoever you are. i'm no one but alex, and pretty proud. and i know a bad poem when i......smell one


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  • Gulsher John Rookie - 1st Stage (6/14/2014 11:47:00 PM) Post reply

    the Old Nick

    On the life's canvas
    wallpapered by colours, shining bright,
    We, the inhabitants of the ARID zone
    (making waves with all wet ideas)
    set a stain upon its grace.
    (an occult phenomena, is viewed with sardonic skepticism) .
    like an Old Nick
    we aren't raised from the Hades
    to threaten the 'angelic peace'.
    but they don't know
    we are (like forgotten genomes)
    only survive
    on the margin line
    of space and time.

  • Mike Acker Rookie - 1st Stage (6/14/2014 3:10:00 PM) Post reply

    Precarious

    A young boy sits at the edge of his abyss,
    with his feet dangling precariously,
    and comfortably. A girl waves at him
    and smiles. It is gray around her, the gray

    of depth and darkness. Her tiny feet must be
    struggling under the surface to keep her
    head above. He smiles back and waves.
    These exchanges become their tales and torments.

    The waves try to sync their souls. Both their eyes
    reflect the other; hers, his bright smile,
    while his, her grimacing lips. Often, silent
    massive waves will hide her face from his view,

    but he waits forever, and she reappears
    no less than before. She can't swim to him,
    for there are no longer mermaids in the sea.
    He can't fly to her, as men can not soar.

    For her, sink, she must. For him, fall, he will.
    What they found was too perilously still.

    Mike Acker

  • Debra Robinson Rookie - 1st Stage (6/13/2014 4:10:00 PM) Post reply | Read 3 replies

    Poems
    A sharing with others
    Of all that you are—
    Or dream of being.

    Words probing the boundaries of your spirit
    In reflection of your soul
    Surviving individual readings-
    An interpretations

    Forever immortalized on paper.

    © 1987 Debra Kay Robinson

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    • Professor Plum Rookie - 1st Stage (6/15/2014 3:26:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Jefferson is correct. Read and study some great poetry and you'll see where some of the problems lie. There's so many people on here (and other poetry sites) that do not know what good poetry is. It' ... more

    • Jefferson Carter Rookie - 1st Stage (6/15/2014 12:09:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies

      Debra, this is hard for me to experience because it's so loaded with abstractions. Read some good contemporary poets, Mary Ruefle, Heather mcHugh, etc., and see what can be done with concrete particu ... more

    • Peter Stavropoulos Rookie - 1st Stage (6/15/2014 4:18:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

      Hi Debra, like your poem, especially the last three lines - " Surviving individual readings- And interpretations Forever immortalized on paper." I feel there is original insight t ... more

  • Sherrie Kolb Cassel Rookie - 1st Stage (6/13/2014 11:16:00 AM) Post reply | Read 6 replies

    Good morning, PH Peeps! Hope you're all well. I'm back in school, but I peek in from time to time to see if you all are allowing the idiots to keep running the show...and....I see that you are. Have fun...


    As I Grew Older

    by Langston Hughes


    It was a long time ago.
    I have almost forgotten my dream.
    But it was there then,
    In front of me,
    Bright like a sun—
    My dream.
    And then the wall rose,
    Rose slowly,
    Slowly,
    Between me and my dream.
    Rose until it touched the sky—
    The wall.
    Shadow.
    I am black.
    I lie down in the shadow.
    No longer the light of my dream before me,
    Above me.
    Only the thick wall.
    Only the shadow.
    My hands!
    My dark hands!
    Break through the wall!
    Find my dream!
    Help me to shatter this darkness,
    To smash this night,
    To break this shadow
    Into a thousand lights of sun,
    Into a thousand whirling dreams
    Of sun!

    Replies for this message:
    • Frank Ovid Rookie - 1st Stage (6/17/2014 8:44:00 AM) Post reply

      @Peter, correct. That middle section is the best part of the poem. In fact, the more I read this poem the better it gets. At first glance it does seem pedestrian, but something about the desperation i ... more

    • Peter Stavropoulos Rookie - 1st Stage (6/17/2014 5:41:00 AM) Post reply

      For my 2 cents worth, it seems the words - " Shadow. I am black." - transports this poem to another level.

    • Jefferson Carter Rookie - 1st Stage (6/15/2014 12:10:00 PM) Post reply

      I'm surprised how much this poem SUCKS! ! ! Melodramatic, trite, yuck. I know Hughes has written much, much better poems.


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  • Gangadharan Nair Pulingat Veteran Poet - 3rd Stage (6/13/2014 9:34:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    It was an interesting experience to read and recite the great poem from Maya Angelou " I Know why the caged bird sings" . She wrote beautiful lines likeThe caged bird stands on the grave of dreams and his shadows shouts on a nightmare scream are really felt in my mind. Also the expressions pertaining free bird leaps on the back of wind till current ends....The great poet has expressed the feeling in such words of beauty and perfection and I respect the poet and poem very much.

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  • Gulsher John Rookie - 1st Stage (6/13/2014 9:09:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply

    FORUM: Poetics and Poetry Discussion | Delete this message

    Carter this not just a poetry (though pregnant with lots of sentiments and cliches) but beyond it, this is a life song, Tragedy that happens here in this part of the world...
    i just wanna share their anguish.

    swine swears for pigs pride
    (a story of woman's vilification)

    In a land that is blessed with bounteous beauties of nature
    but where gloomy wind blows and EVILS outgrow. I saw the throwing stones,
    targeted the tender bodies of VIRGINS in veil; as they were blamed of sin:
    uttered a word of love and stepped out of iron cells, where they were supposed to be stay till death.
    (a deadly SIN in the patriarchal world) .SHE has no man at all: brother, father or a husband.
    (only herself and the suffocation dark) i saw her blood spilt through her raptured skin, that soaked in the underneath soil,
    And upon her flashes the hovering vultures feast. Since infancy,
    SHE was taught to kill her fancies. In the name of chastity, she was held in disdain, and was chained
    in the suffocated land by the insatiate pigs-their lords. Her cries always unheard and her tears unseen.
    And SHE knows, she is distant to be stoned or burnt alive, for the sake of Man's HONOUR.
    - - - - - -
    oddly enough, the fornicate male is often spared

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    • Jefferson Carter Rookie - 1st Stage (6/13/2014 11:01:00 AM) Post reply

      John, this is INCOHERENT, and not in a good way. Admirable sentiments written poorly do not make a readable poem in English.

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