Poetry

England, you have been here tooo long,
And the songs you sing are the songs you sung
On a braver day. Now they are wrong.

Plenty of imagery but for it to be poetry it must have a form, metre, and a rhyme scheme, in my opinion. Poetry puts a constraint on the structure of your writing, it is forced to fit into a shape.

Poetry doesn't need any of that to be poetry, what it needs to be is a good story that has charisma and a reason to exist in words, not just another grocery list of moldy cliches

To Brooklyn Bridge by Hart Crane

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
—Till elevators drop us from our day ...

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,
Foretold to other eyes on the same screen;

And Thee, across the harbor, silver paced
As though the sun took step of thee yet left
Some motion ever unspent in thy stride,—
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!

Out of some subway scuttle, cell or loft
A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets,
Tilting there momently, shrill shirt ballooning,
A jest falls from the speechless caravan.

Down Wall, from girder into street noon leaks,
A rip-tooth of the sky’s acetylene;
All afternoon the cloud flown derricks turn ...
Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,
Thy guerdon ... Accolade thou dost bestow
Of anonymity time cannot raise:
Vibrant reprieve and pardon thou dost show.

O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
(How could mere toil align thy choiring strings!)
Terrific threshold of the prophet’s pledge,
Prayer of pariah, and the lover’s cry,

Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift
Unfractioned idiom, immaculate sigh of stars,
Beading thy path—condense eternity:
And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

Under thy shadow by the piers I waited
Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.
The City’s fiery parcels all undone,
Already snow submerges an iron year ...

O Sleepless as the river under thee,
Vaulting the sea, the prairies’ dreaming sod,
Unto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend
And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

I am not that user and I concur, but at what point does poetry stop becoming poetry? In other words, what are the bare minimums? A line/stanza structure and sensibly short lines? Condensed meaning? What about prose-"""poems?"""

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I guess I just roll my eyes when people like Rupi Karr call their writing poetry when it doesn't even come close to having any rhyme or metre. So called Free Verse as well is just an excuse to call writing "Poetry" when the writer can't write any of the original modes or elements of poetry.

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/clear throat

A /k/ haiku:

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG
BANG BANG BANG BANG click

here's a random choice from what I've been writing

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what the fuck is this shit? it sucks

>click
That was really powerful

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose
Not spake, nor moved their eyes
It had been strange even in a dream
To see those dead men rise

Rime of the Ancient Mariner

I like it.

Posted in a writing thread, but re-posting for poets

If someone actually gave me an icepick lobotomy, would the voices stop? That’s where the line is less than a matter of black and white. A matter of gray, if you will.

That was the first time I laughed at my writing in months. Both in the context of the character Mark laughing at his poem, and the author himself writing the character within the fictitious universe of a writing exercise

if you, the reader, want to get really meta about the whole thing.
“How much of this journal is actually Mark’s?” I ask myself, being deliberately vague about who is asking who’s-self the question.
Technically, all of it. Technically, none of it.

Maybe, in the context of the story, he’s just listening to his voices right now, writing them down verbatim, and I, the author, am one of those voices.
Maybe Mark is one of my voices, and I’m listening to him as I write, doing the same exercise simultaneously.
Maybe this whole thing is about both of us, and one of us is just too scared to put our name on it.
Maybe the other one didn’t get to make that choice.

Poem by Olivia Ofrenda

With bony hands I hold my partner,
on soulless feet we cross the floor,
the music stops as if to answer,
an empty knocking at the door.

It seems his skin was sweet as mango,
when last I held him to my breast,
but now, we dance this grim fandango,
and will four years until we rest.
The View from Halfway Down

The weak breeze whispers nothing
The water screams sublime
His feet shift, teeter-totter
Deep breath, stand back, it’s time

Toes untouch the overpass
Soon he’s water bound
Eyes locked shut but peek to see
The view from halfway down

A little wind, a summer sun
A river rich and regal
A flood of fond endorphins
Brings a calm that knows no equal

You’re flying now
You see things much more clear
Than from the ground
It’s all okay, or it would be
Were you not now halfway down

Thrash to break from gravity
What now could slow the drop
All I’d give for toes to touch
The safety back at top

But this is it, the deed is done
Silence drowns the sound
Before I leaped I should’ve seen
The view from halfway down

I really should’ve thought about
The view from halfway down
I wish I could’ve known about
The view from halfway down

>fandango
>regal
Time to go to the movies

I have written a poem, but it is quite long, Xie.

freetexthost.net/EFDTuPw

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Based

My beard feels thinner than in the photos
My hands fit softly undearth a few rows of My ribs
The women from two streets down
With her dog and her hospital gown
Her cigarettes and her yellow dye hair
Hasn’t looked in my eyes, now
months fell one by one

Cringe
Didn't read though

i'm reading pound's cantos with a roastie, but she refused to read mauberley because it seemed lame in comparison. the incipit is awesome though:
For three years, out of key with his time,
He strove to resuscitate the dead art
Of poetry; to maintain “the sublime”
In the old sense. Wrong from the start—

No, hardly, but, seeing he had been born
In a half savage country, out of date;
Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;
Capaneus; trout for factitious bait

>actually
remove, consider "Trotsky'd me"
>voices stop, or get louder
>... line [drawn] is less [] a question of black and white, so much as being a grey matter concern, [so to speak. alt: "a question of grey matter"]
alliteration/flow. "if you will" can now be used without being insufferable; it's an eyesore icepick used as is

>at my own writing ... the character (Mark) laughing at his poem, the author-himself writing Mark in this fictitious excuse of a cosmic writing exercise, you and I, here and now --

Want to go further, and metanoia over the meta thing?
>[really] belongs to Mark? I ask myself, nesciently vague as to whose Self is asking whom, and the verity of that Self in question, existent or naught.
>Yes: technically all (in essence: none).

>In the tale, he's listening to these voices, taking them down verbatim like a good stenographer (no short hand) -- and I, the Author, am in their midsts.
>Suppose then Mark is one of my voices: he is only listening to internal cues furnished as I compose his inner life, the echo of a palimpsest written over, and tracing my words through the robotic rigamarole of this panegyric a moment after my own, in this self-deifying inner monologue -- Mark is an utterly determined being, vestigial, -- my second appendix (and only marginally more useful).
>Mark (our dialogue here, and now) is perhaps more than the sum of its parts in superposition.
>Maybe Mark would like to have ideas of his own, existence of his own. But I'll be damned if it isn't better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
>If the signal is lost but not the power, nothing changes -- we are suspended in static, not alive, not dead.

the meter is not quite there. are these all supposed to be eighters?

i'm saving my best for lit quart submissions because i am an utter faggot, but i thought this was a nice pol crossover:
Despite talk, we did not get to preppin’
Covid-19 is a bioweapon
They have somehow mistakenly released
And it will not stop until we are all deceased.

Coleridge’s aesthetic and image is so cool to me. Love the Rime.