What is Poetry?

[Lauren Hynde]

To Write a Poem

The craft of poetry is itinerant as its design
(were it the silence of a poet on the triclinium)

To the wandering love, the sound of piano, metronome
better it were if he consumed the fire, eternal, adagio

But there are bullets, scenes, signs!
to kill and to die without verse

He knows to write is to wrap his soul
in a body of explosives, Al Qaeda-style

It is to play with fate in a passionate coil
as if it were a minor god, woven in silk.

 

[minsue]

To Write a Poem

The craft of poetry is itinerant as its design
(were it the silence of a poet on the triclinium)

To the wandering love, the sound of piano, metronome
better it were if he consumed the fire, eternal, adagio

But there are bullets, scenes, signs!
to kill and to die without verse

He knows to write is to wrap his soul
in a body of explosives, Al Qaeda-style

One of the best descriptive phrases I've seen in quite some time.

It is to play with fate in a passionate coil
as if it were a minor god, woven in silk.

Damn, woman. I just keep reading it all over and over again, like I'm trying to absorb it into my skin.

 

[champagne1982]

Poetry Happens

archived elsewhere

 

[echoes_s]

the verse of mind
at this time
now
a thought felt
to express
or confess
touch or share
release
tremulous care
turbulent air
scream
vented prose
or passions slipped rose
as petals fall
one by one
with words
until ink dries
and paper curls
aged with
it's own rhyme
sepia twirls

 

[Liar]

no really, let me in on this
I read, I rave the ruckus
for an answer
to the riddle of the p-word
and my cancer
of confusion growing
blowing this illusion
out of scale
inhale, exhale

breathe, bozo, breathe
search your mental sleeve
for that ace ever hidden
that could maybe
just maybe
explain
what poetic is
and artful ain't

when all I ever see
before I faint
from oxygen rush
is the same old
ghetto style enigma
to keep ma stylee
my blood ma jive
more true than you

and we ranble on
dream and dash by dot
trying to make it Real
but compared to what?


Apologies to Gene McDaniels

 

[Tathagata]

a search to express
the inexpressible
in words
so that all may say
" ahhhhhhhhhhhh"
and realize
they aren't alone


a search for validation
on the path of truth
the baring of tears
and laughter
for the good of all

the purging of sadness and sin
the washing away of randomness and cutting deep
to the essence of " what is"

a slight readjustment
of the readers gaze
to point out
what a wonder
lies in a sunset
or a childs laugh

your vision
of the world
no more
no less
misspelling
punctuation and grammar not withstanding
your reply to the universe asking...
" Why are you here?"

 

[Angeline]

I don't understand
why words spatter from me
like rain or birth tear me
apart put me back together

sometimes all I feel
crawls on a page first
life a primordial soul
needing only to create

whether free of stanza
floating moon in starless
black or rhymed pastel lace
proceeding like perfection

picnic on a green day word
joined to word neat as cake
baked in layers of Yeats
or Stevens iced like Eliot

asks how the world goes
who understands the secret
simply sits in the center
and knows like music feels

sway in word rhythm this
real freedom is all is
poem poem poem alone
answers you question

too much blur meaning
just write read with eyes
closed hear heart open
what else do you need

to know?

 

[Angeline]

Lauren you have some great stuff here--we should turn this into a same title challenge and submit under the title--

What is Poetry?

eh?

 

[annaswirls]

validate your parking ticket before you exit

poetry, art


simple evidence
that I exist


ease fear of fade Micheal J. Fox style
from universal family snapshot
if something is not siphoned from

<----------in here to out there------->


dip pen in puddles~
poetry happens


(at least that is what I call it)

 

[Kundalinguini]

poetry is
the skeleton
in the closet
of all things
stripped bare
bleached bones
how it looks
from the inside
to me
relayered
meticulously
lovingly
hatefully
even carelessly
flesh of words
blood of feeling
nerves of thought
one of myriad
painted faces
potentially worn
but wearing
an expression
refelecting
how it looks
sounds
smells
tastes
feels
now
to me

 

[The_Fool]

A fractured piece of glass
A stone
A leaf fresh-fallen from a tree
A vision of what I see
in the time
before I blink

Let me share with you
A thought
A moment in time
A glimpse
Of joy
Of pain

Words picked carefully
Or scattered carelessly
To entice
Excite
Incite
Another who comes behind me

Transient in my mind
Permanent on paper
Penned in black ink
On white paper
With blue lines
Lest I forget

Already forgotten

 

[echoes_s]

I know I already wrote one, but this came to mind after...

Poetry

a stroke of feeling across lined page
a sigh whispered
a moment aged
thoughts tumbling
trembled sage
words pert
or pertinent adage

the sunset glowing neon pink
behind silver maples
beyond kitchen sink
doing dishes
hand washes, mind thinks
distant reflections
or quick wit wink

pain so harsh, muted deep
boiling pots unwept
yet ink seeps
blotching paper with imperfection
as blemishes weep
emotions always pushing
hand to ruggedly steep

tea, and cup to pour
poetry flourishes an open door
this is my house
my heart within it’s core
please enter kindly
one more soul to explore

 

[OT]

poetry is
figments strung strong together
in intricate pleasant weave
poetry is
passion unleashed with deft subtlety
leaving its raucous abandon
to be discovered in myriad layers
poetry is

 

[minsue]

poetry is art art is images emotions stories that must be told trapped within seeking release
frustrating mocking my inept attempts to get them out of my brain and onto the page

 

[My Erotic Tail]

Poets?

I was watching a movie the other day..
I think it was Poncho Via~

They said "Poets were crazy people who
write puzzles hoping to find someone who
understands them..."

 

[gauchecritic]

Poetry is being seventeen.
A life sentence served
and dribbled blackly on white sheets.
Faith no more, Hope is just a name
hiding at the bottom of the box.

Poetry is youth eternal.
Hobbies turned to passion
yellowing stains on white sheets.
Always and ever, crushed hearts
and memories.

For wisdom read naivete.
For zest read ennui.
For a tortured soul
and two years more,
poetry is being seventeen.