Poetry Lounge

Discussion in 'Education & Personal Growth' started by Cimorene, Sep 4, 2016.

  1. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    Do we need any introduction. Let's go.
    Rules: Post only discussions on English poetry.
     
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  2. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    I recently read "The Prophet" and "The Madman" by Lebanese-American poet, Kahlil Gibran. Delightful reads! Kahlil is renowned for his "prose poetry" i.e poetry which is written in prose instead of verse. Yet the writing is so lyrical that you can almost tune the poem to a catchy impress in your mind. If I have to chose one poem, that would be "Said a Blade of Grass". There can be several interpretations of the poem. You could view it as a poem to sneer at self-righteousness of a pipsqueak or to demonstrate how we are the product of the company we keep. Have you found any other interpretations?

    Said a Blade of Grass

    Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”

    Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”

    Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again—and she was a blade of grass.

    And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.”

    — Kahlil Gibran
     
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  3. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    "Death", "Tragedy", "Depression", "Separation", "Pain" are the words murmured when this poet walks in. Her poetry is beautiful, intense and dark. Here is Sylvia Plath's "Mirror" in which the personified mirror, unlike the magic mirror of the evil queen from "Snow White" tale, is not a pleasant thing to look at because it does not gratify with "You are the fairest" but makes you cringe having robbed your youthful looks. The only reason I selected this poem is because of the last two lines which I find terrific.

    Mirror

    I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
    Whatever I see I swallow immediately
    Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
    I am not cruel, only truthful-
    The eye of the little god, four cornered.
    Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
    It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
    I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
    Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
    Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
    Searching my reaches for what she really is.
    Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
    I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
    She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
    I am important to her. She comes and goes.
    Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
    In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
    Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.


    — Sylvia Plath
     
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  4. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    If Kahlil Gibran wrote prose poetry, you can only imagine what others might have knocked up. I came across George Herbert while reading about "concrete poetry", also known as shaped poetry: words in the poem are arranged to form a visual. Such ingenuity! George Herbert is a 17-century priest so his poems flare up with religious devotion. Here is some sample poetry.


    EasterWings.png

    Altar.png

    I found the below visuals from millennial contemporary poetry more amusing.

    ConcretePoetry.png
     
    Last edited: Sep 4, 2016
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  5. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    What is it like to marry a medieval French poetic form with a cartoon character?
    If you thought that was fanciful and insanely cool then John Ashbery is your man.

    So here's sestina:

    Sestina is a type of a poem that contains six stanzas, each stanza having six lines, while the last seventh stanza has three lines. Unlike other poetic forms, sestina does not "rhyme", however, has the repetition of six "end words" (key words) that repeat in every stanza .

    And here's

    Popeye.png

    John Ashbery's "Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape" is a jabberwocky of the modern poetry. Don't look for any penetrating meaning because it is so crackling in its form and incoherent storyline that to seek any meaning is to lose out on the nutrients from gnashed Spinach.


    Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape


    The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits in thunder,
    Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,
    From livid curtain’s hue, a tangram emerges: a country.”
    Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: “How pleasant
    To spend one’s vacation en la casa de Popeye,” she scratched
    Her cleft chin’s solitary hair. She remembered spinach

    And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
    “M’love,” he intercepted, “the plains are decked out in thunder
    Today, and it shall be as you wish.” He scratched
    The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
    Seemed to grow smaller. “But what if no pleasant
    Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country.”

    Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
    Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
    When the door opened and Swee’pea crept in. “How pleasant!”
    But Swee’pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. “Thunder
    And tears are unavailing,” it read. “Henceforth shall Popeye’s apartment
    Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched.”

    Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
    Her long thigh. “I have news!” she gasped. “Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country
    One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
    And all that it contains, myself and spinach
    In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
    At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant

    Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
    Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched
    Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder.”
    She grabbed Swee’pea. “I’m taking the brat to the country.”
    “But you can’t do that—he hasn’t even finished his spinach,”
    Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.

    But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
    Succumbed to a strange new hush. “Actually it’s quite pleasant
    Here,” thought the Sea Hag. “If this is all we need fear from spinach
    Then I don’t mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over”—she scratched
    One dug pensively—“but Wimpy is such a country
    Bumpkin, always burping like that.” Minute at first, the thunder

    Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
    The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
    His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.

    — John Ashbery

    To neurites: Can you identify the six words that are repeated in every stanza?
     
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  6. Viswamitra

    Viswamitra IL Hall of Fame

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    I am fascinated by this poem no matter how many times I read this. His steps to own this planet is daunting? How do I practice what he teaches here? Depth of these words are captivating.


    If you can keep your head when all about you

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;

    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

    Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

    If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;

    If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;

    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;

    If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

    If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

    And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,

    And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

    Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,

    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

    If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

    Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

    And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!

    - Rudyard Kipling
     
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  7. kaniths

    kaniths IL Hall of Fame

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    Why amusing? My friend group enjoys shape poetry very much. :)
     
  8. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    "more amusing" the comparative modifier was to contrast the sedate 17-century poets with the contemporary hipsters drawing pandas and world maps.
     
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  9. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    Ah! Kipling! And another of my favourite happens to be

    "I Keep Six Honest Serving Men ..."

    I KEEP six honest serving-men
    (They taught me all I knew);
    Their names are What and Why and When
    And How and Where and Who.
    I send them over land and sea,
    I send them east and west;
    But after they have worked for me,
    I give them all a rest.

    I let them rest from nine till five,
    For I am busy then,
    As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
    For they are hungry men.
    But different folk have different views;
    I know a person small—
    She keeps ten million serving-men,
    Who get no rest at all!

    She sends'em abroad on her own affairs,
    From the second she opens her eyes—
    One million Hows, two million Wheres,
    And seven million Whys!
     
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  10. Cimorene

    Cimorene Platinum IL'ite

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    Slyvia Plath's "Mirror" had dark connotations of velvety youth snatched away by a silvery fiend. Next, Dorthy Parker exalts that painful imagery in her Resume. The poem is hardly eight lines however the poignancy she induces in the reader in that sparse lines is incredible. There is no portrayal of death or suicide yet she manages to induce something more dreadful just by conjuring the misery of the misbegotten plan with mere contemplation.

    Resumé

    Razors pain you;
    Rivers are damp;
    Acids stain you;
    And drugs cause cramp.
    Guns aren’t lawful;
    Nooses give;
    Gas smells awful;
    You might as well live.

    — Dorothy Parker
     
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