Poets should be lawgivers; that is, the boldest lyric inspiration should not chide and insult, but should announce and lead, the civil code, and the day's work. But now the two things seem irreconcilably parted.
'As Beethoven composed his lyrics with his spirit, it became superb. As john Miltion wrote his works, it became masterpiece, As August Rodin sculpted stones, it became living figures, As william shakespeare wrote his poetry, it became marvelous, as Leonardo da vinci made paintings, it became the greatest art. As Goethe wrote philosophy, it became universal so do something in an unique way that will dazzle the whole world like them'
Racism goes in America much and always. I do not mean that racism does not go in other countries of the world instead of America. But in America it is obvious. Sometimes it causes horrible chaos. Still racism goes. I am afraid, whether most of them believe in racism. Then, what's 'no racism'? Is it a lyric only? Is 'no racism' a valueless speech? Or, is racism an ever prediction of an old, cursed astrologer there? Or, some satanic techniques always fall there on racism.
What is poetry?
'Poetry is the finest of the arts, more than words that rhyme or lines in verse. Poetry is the rich language of the soul, saying something meaningful in a few words, a concentrated language that create images. Read a few words of poetry and it will conjure images within the mind that inspires the imagination. Poets have strong feelings about the topic of their poem and want people who read the poem to experience the same emotions as they themselves experienced when composing the poem. Poetry often has a strong rhythm or beat, like lyrics to a song. Poets use words to paint a picture in the head. The Chinses say a picture is worth a million words. The poem is a springboard into the soul where readers enter to appease their request to share in the joys and sorrows of being human and the complexities of love.'
Colin Ian Jeffery
'When I walk into a bookstore I do not look for books by famous authors who have already proved themselves in the belles-lettres. I usually pay attention to new names and books that have appeared quietly, without any pomp. All those books have different fates that are entwined with our lives. On the floor below a book shelf I saw a book with a cover of an angel writing verses in his own blood. I lifted the book, wiping the dust off it. The book was by a Saša Milivojev. I glanced through a couple of symbolic verses full of dramatic conflicts of the lyric subject and a dark picture of the world. It was enough for me to buy the book and take it home, hoping that I would find a ray of light in it, but I was disappointed with the lyrical exaggerations. However, when I turned the last page of the book, I realised that the author was very young and forgave him right away. More than two years later, he called me saying that he wanted me to hear his poems. He read a couple of poems that took my breath away. I saw a firefly that was gone and moved away from him like 'The light speck/And the shore remains deserted, ' the shore on which the young poet was carrying the light in his hands and had the role of a healer.'