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Discussion Starter · #1 · (Edited)
For the most part I'm 'meh' about the whole thing but every so often something comes along and breaks the mold (Like Southpark having you rethink musicals) to the point where you can get into it. Case in point:

When I came from Philly to the Big Easy in '72

in a baby blue Impala full of smack,

I was already pushing gray around the ears.

And I don't move so quick no more,

and the back gives me trouble,

and the hands are kinkin' up.

The hands are key.

So when the ***** hired me

to work the Quarter,

I got a big moulie shadow to do the bone work.

--------

So I went to hear his song

on a humid night in some bayou shithole,

and Che was huffin' on the accordion,

and another bony moulie

was beating time on a washboard,

and the shuffling, breathless racket

sounded like the time we leaned on Tiny Allen

in the homo bar

at the rotten end of Bourbon.

--------

So I'm talking to Little Mike on the phone

with Big Mike on the extension

and they say everything is jake back in Philly.

I try to explain the zydeco shakedown,

and how it's so different from

the tearful, slow Pagliacci pleading

when we'd bear down on the mark

like a lumbering toilet-paper mummy

in a Peter Cushing flick,

but they don't get it.

So I ask Big Mike if he remembers the time

we chopped down the glassblower over on Sullivan

the brrrrpt da bript brip chingle chingle bript

when we riddled his display cases with Mac-10s,

the nine-millimeter percussion

the tambourine tinkle of broken glass,

and I think he's starting to get zydeco.

And we laughed and laughed

and wondered if the Motor City fellas

do it to Smokey Robinson.

The poem is from Victor Gischler's Pistol Poets. I inserted the breaks (----) where prose interrupts the poem (In the book it's being recited at a public reading). I used to have the whole thing but lost it in a computer crash and can't seem to find it again. (I should mail Gischler or maybe some mean search monkey out there can find it for me)
 

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I was in an English 175 class which was titled, "Introduction to English Literature."

I think I was the only NT in that entire class of 40 people. All of the poetry that I liked and wanted to discuss in the class was the incredibly dark and somewhat morbid stories that nobody else in the class even wanted to remember reading.

In general I am not a big fan of poetry, but I do like some pieces here and there.
 

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l'm not able to read poetry for its intended purposes, if that makes sense. l really tried to read that one and couldn't.

All l can do is read it very fast to get the most simplified meaning from it, trying to interpret it beyond its literal form is difficult and bores me terribly.

l could do that with a short story or even a book, l just can't stand poetry. lt would be like if you spoke to me verbally and forced me to interpret your meaning by slowing your voice down.
 

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I like concise poetry. The obtuse and verbose poetry and prose produced by pedantic patricians means little (to me, in my opinion).

(the last part was a joke, in case anyone missed that. Honestly, pedantic patrician poetry, really?)


 

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Lyrics from Puscifer's 'The Humbling River'. Not sure if this is poetry by definition, but it works.

 
Nature, nurture heaven and home
Sum of all, and by them, driven
To conquer every mountain shown
But I've never crossed the river

Braved the forests, braved the stone
Braved the icy winds and fire
Braved and beat them on my own
Yet I'm helpless by the river

Angel, angel, what have I done?
I've faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
I've conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can't I cross this river?

Angel, angel, what have I done?
I've faced the quakes, the wind, the fire
I've conquered country, crown, and throne
Why can't I cross this river?

Pay no mind to the battles you've won
It'll take a lot more than rage and muscle
Open your heart and hands, my son
Or you'll never make it over the river

It'll take a lot more than words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

It'll take a lot more than words and guns
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

(Nature, nurture heaven and home)
It'll take a lot more than words and guns
(Sum of all, and by them, driven)
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
(To conquer every mountain shown)
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

(Braved the forests, braved the stone)
It'll take a lot more than words and guns
(Braved the icy winds and fire)
A whole lot more than riches and muscle
(Braved and beat them on my own)
The hands of the many must join as one
And together we'll cross the river

And together we'll cross the river
And together we'll cross the river

Nature, nurture heaven and home
And together we'll cross the river
And together we'll cross the river

Nature, nurture heaven and home
And together we'll cross the river
 

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I love poetry, and I find obtuse poetry to be fascinating to think about it. I really enjoy writing it as well. But c'mon. You all like music, so I'm guessing you all at least like poetry in that form. Some song lyrics, such as the lyrics that Mumford and Sons have come up with, is really quite good. Yeats has been a big time favorite of mine for years. So is Longfellow. And some awesome Yeats for you all:
 

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I love poetry, and I find obtuse poetry to be fascinating to think about it. I really enjoy writing it as well. But c'mon. You all like music, so I'm guessing you all at least like poetry in that form....Yeats has been a big time favorite of mine for years. So is Longfellow. And some awesome Yeats for you all:
Are/were you an English major? Though I haven't read much Yeats, I like Sailing to Byzantium.

I think poetry as an art is both under- and overstated. On the one one hand it can be inspiring and moving; on the other, I can't help but feel it's attributed some level of divinity which I don't think anything, art or otherwise, deseves. Epic and narrative poetry can both be absolutely freaking awesome. Even though it has its (many) problems, Rime of the Ancient Mariner is one of my favorite poems.
 

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Khalil Gibran's The Madman has a bunch of favorites of mine.

I've never actively sought any to read during my freetime, but sometimes I enjoy reading how creative people get with metaphors.
 
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Yes, and I make it myself too. I've taken a particular liking to absurd poetry. Darker, morbid, death related poetry I've read for many years. Nothing new

"the carnage in my mind
has no history
the scars on my skin
tell no stories
the darkness within
is a guilty pleasure
and the demons i bind
begin to fester"

"
Were you a girl?
Were you a boy?
I’ll never know
They’ll never tell
Dry dark eyes dry
You will see my face
For the first time
I will open your eyes
As you have opened mine
I know the irony
Killed by the very hands
That gave you life
Murderers
Hush, hush child hush
Soon I will begin
To give love again
You will see the light of day
Feel the calmness of night soothe
I will see you soon
In the afterglow
You are still alive
Inside
The warmth inside me
Protecting my form in the coldest days
You will never die
As long as I’m alive
As long as my soul is awake
"

"
Along the darkest cedar,
I reached for the raven
(Desperate for his darkness, helpless
Gestures, thoughtless)
But he was
Too far
Down the branch
Too close
To the edge
And I fell so very far,far
Too near the pyre
But you were there
Alabaster arms, marble hands
Reaching for my limbs which were
Truly bones
Awful, bleached things
You were there, but not to
Catch me, no you only wanted
To touch my flesh, my strange
Shadow like shape
Just once
Before I was impaled and ablaze
That is when I knew you
Were never meant to save me
But to be a witness to my fall
To my sacrificial ending
"

"
Gutted (a poem in haikus)
Insects are feeding
on the stomach and backbone
of a fallen wolf

It decomposes
by the cycle of nature
awaiting rebirth

Skin and fur asleep
saved from the taxidermist
returned to the earth

Sharp teeth remain bared
while the passage of time feasts
like a starving cub

Trees and mushrooms grow
the arctic body lifeless
had a graceful death"

"
First
and final
thoughts;
Breathing.
The first exalt,
it was all only tripe.
Everything was none;
a closed loop of existence.
My first conscious memory:
I just wish to be that blurred shade,
the muzzling blood red blackness in
the deep muted tones of the elsewhere.
The blur that was contained in itself since birth;
movement, thought and sound were irrelevant.
The time stood still in a perpetual mobius
of stretched taffy in a cellulite strip,
stored in a canister on a shelf
in a locked building
among the waste.
The first doing.
The last.
Shame.
That
will
not
be"

These aren't mine, these are just a few examples of what I like. None of it is of the absurd style I like, though


 

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I love poems like The Lady of Shalott and Maude Clare. I'm not fond of freestyle poetry overall - it loses something poetry with rhyme seems to have. I didn't realise I liked poetry until English Lit A-level - well, aside from some Edgar Allen Poe poems which my dad introduced me to (it was funny, I didn't know my mum loved poems until I told her I liked some, then she just got this massive poetry book of the shelf and started reading it out). I tend to like the romantic style of poetry, so things like Wordsworth over Blake, although Blake is pretty good.

Maude Clare:

Out of the church she followed them
With a lofty step and mien:
His bride was like a village maid,
Maude Clare was like a queen.

“Son Thomas, ” his lady mother said,
With smiles, almost with tears:
“May Nell and you but live as true
As we have done for years;

“Your father thirty years ago
Had just your tale to tell;
But he was not so pale as you,
Nor I so pale as Nell.”

My lord was pale with inward strife,
And Nell was pale with pride;
My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare
Or ever he kissed the bride.

“Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,
Have brought my gift, ” she said:
To bless the hearth, to bless the board,
To bless the marriage-bed.

“Here's my half of the golden chain
You wore about your neck,
That day we waded ankle-deep
For lilies in the beck:

“Here's my half of the faded leaves
We plucked from the budding bough,
With feet amongst the lily leaves, -
The lilies are budding now.”

He strove to match her scorn with scorn,
He faltered in his place:
“Lady, ” he said, - “Maude Clare, ” he said, -
“Maude Clare, ” – and hid his face.

She turn'd to Nell: “My Lady Nell,
I have a gift for you;
Though, were it fruit, the blooms were gone,
Or, were it flowers, the dew.

“Take my share of a fickle heart,
Mine of a paltry love:
Take it or leave it as you will,
I wash my hands thereof.”

“And what you leave, ” said Nell, “I'll take,
And what you spurn, I'll wear;
For he's my lord for better and worse,
And him I love Maude Clare.

“Yea, though you're taller by the head,
More wise and much more fair:
I'll love him till he loves me best,
Me best of all Maude Clare.
 

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Are/were you an English major? Though I haven't read much Yeats, I like Sailing to Byzantium.

I think poetry as an art is both under- and overstated. On the one one hand it can be inspiring and moving; on the other, I can't help but feel it's attributed some level of divinity which I don't think anything, art or otherwise, deseves. Epic and narrative poetry can both be absolutely freaking awesome. Even though it has its (many) problems, Rime of the Ancient Mariner is one of my favorite poems.
No. haha. I'm only seventeen right now. I've read a lot of poetry though, and my mom is an English major so I'm sure she's rubbed off on me some. This is mine though: Stories
Fallen leaves, a roughened rock, a blade of grass-​
What hidden stories do you hold within?​
What feet have trod this pebble smooth like glass?​
From what boulders did this rock begin?​
Yellow leaves flutter down upon a lawn​
Holding forgotten words of love and hate-​
Whispers of people the wind has not withdrawn.​
Who were these people, and what were their fate?​
Did some child gaze upon this very leaf?​
Their energy and stories have ebbed away,​
Locked away in a vast and jumbled sheaf​
That the sticks and stones will never betray.
 

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It is hard for me to read poetry and I cannot imagine myself reading it with my free will. On the other hand , when I hear some of my friends telling the poetry they write , I think it has lots of profound meanings.
 

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Fallen leaves, a roughened rock, a blade of grass-​
What hidden stories do you hold within?​
What feet have trod this pebble smooth like glass?​
From what boulders did this rock begin?​
Yellow leaves flutter down upon a lawn​
Holding forgotten words of love and hate-​
Whispers of people the wind has not withdrawn.​
Who were these people, and what were their fate?​
Did some child gaze upon this very leaf?​
Their energy and stories have ebbed away,​
Locked away in a vast and jumbled sheaf​
That the sticks and stones will never betray.
Not bad. Varied syllable count, but the poem flows. Only things I'll point out is that "was their fate?" sounds more natural than "were their fate", although it's not grammatically incorrect; and the "did some child gaze" verse kind of breaks up the progression of the poem: Who were these people? / (Did a child gaze upon this leaf?) / These people's stories have disappeared.. I'm not much for analysis though, so do take with a large grain of salt.
 

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No, not for its own sake. Poetry always seemed flat and empty to me. It almost seems like a way for a lazy person to feel they've accomplished something in terms of writing by just throwing a few lines on paper. To be more fair, it is entirely too subjective for my taste. Anybody can write any arrangement of words on a page and consider himself a poet, and you can never argue otherwise.

That's not to say I think it has no value. It just has no value to me in most cases. Music is the exception; it takes a lot of time, effort, and creativity to tailor your poetry to your music and vice versa, and the end product is, or at least has the potential to be, far more compelling.

Outside of the realm of music, I'm only interested in prose.
 

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Here's my best attempt at a poem.

I like bacon and ramen,
they make me comin'...,
in my pants.
I also like to dance,
in the shower,
and sing...,
in the shower.
I also like pizza alot,
something, something, in a pot.

As you can probably tell, I am the greatest poet of all time.
 
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