What is a poet?

bronzeage

I am a river to my people
Joined
Jun 20, 2005
Posts
49,685
Exhibit A:
Walt Whitman.

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I have to propose Lord Byron Anyone who was said to be mad, bad and dangerous to know has to have something about him.

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
 
well that's a good start - my two most favourite poets!

there're many to date i've never read, but these two have penned stuff that rate them highest
 
I am a little confused here. Are we considering "what" is a poet, or "who" is a poet?
 
I am a little confused here. Are we considering "what" is a poet, or "who" is a poet?

run with it in the direction you choose... the examples given so far might be "who's" but what they embody are "what's" :cool:

for example: rebellious, anti-establishment, unique, original, skilled, brave, articulate etc etc etc
 
lol you quoted me before i thought i'd better elaborate for clarity - you knew whats i meant though... who's da moo? dis chicken da moo!

I do know. :rose:

Some of these discussions of late really put me in mind of this. ;)
 
I do know. :rose:

Some of these discussions of late really put me in mind of this. ;)

That's funny. :) But the discussions aren't misunderstandings, they are conflicts of belief. Which is good, I think, as long as people can respect different beliefs.
 
I have to propose Lord Byron Anyone who was said to be mad, bad and dangerous to know has to have something about him.

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

Seriously?

For his sword outwore its sheath?
Were they so fondly attached,
He could not find another
So exquisitely debauched?

You'd think a poet could deal with a little sheath wear and tear.
 
Seriously?

For his sword outwore its sheath?
Were they so fondly attached,
He could not find another
So exquisitely debauched?

You'd think a poet could deal with a little sheath wear and tear.

He's really referring to a sword's scabbard. He's basically saying he's bedded so many women, he's fed up of it.
 
He's really referring to a sword's scabbard. He's basically saying he's bedded so many women, he's fed up of it.

He should have said his sword was worn out then.

Sword dulled from over sheathing

And here I thought he was complaining about wearing some poor woman out.
 
No, he is just observing and describing nature's engineering.

and what is he/she using to do just that?

the attempted construction of the word-bridge is the poet's attempt to span the gap between all that is beyond man and the mud in which he (mankind) stands
 
and what is he/she using to do just that?

the attempted construction of the word-bridge is the poet's attempt to span the gap between all that is beyond man and the mud in which he (mankind) stands

That sounds pretty lofty, butters!
I agree with you about the poet's attempt, but not about the gap. I mean, there is some quite enjoyable mud out there in the world about which the poets sing.
 
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That sounds pretty lofty, butters!
I agree with you about the poet's attempt, but not about the gap. I mean, there is some quite enjoyable mud out there in the world about which the poets sing.

i'm not arguing that (the mud); the point i'm trying to make (badly, it seems) is that - as so-called 'poets' - we attempt to build that connection between all that is considered lowly, everyday stuff and loftier ideals, the metaphysical. that's not to say all poetry has to do this, but for it to be considered poetry at all (imho) there has to be more to a piece than boorish grunts or ideas so unreachable as to be completely beyond any connection, sympathetic understanding....

a writer can write about seemingly mundane events/aspirations and yet instil them with something beyond that.
 
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