Barry's comments

Barry's comments from the ¡ POETRY ! group.

Note: Barry is no longer a member of this group.

What a site! Now the self-righteous and very,very pious, in long diatribes, are attacking the attackers before they are even proven guilty, he,he. How abusive, unfair and unconstitutional! Who has appointed any of them as this site's moral keeper? And, what is more disgusting than the self-righteous? Are they not the ones we see most often involved in kinky sex scandals? Oh my!!

Indeed;a good subject for the poet.Please!- someone take it up. How about a title like, "Goodread's Holier Than Thou".

Jim wrote Here's some prose exposition (according to Barry and Gregory's explanations). The writer of this exposition was some idiot named Neruda, Pablo, I believe. He wrote his prose so well he even fooled the Nobel Prize committee. Even when he wrote in Spanish, it didn't always rhyme, some of it had questionable meter, and some was pretty doggone negative - the fool!

Well Jim one thing about litigation and being a CPA we stick to the facts and don't make deliberate misrepresentations. I have read that Poet some time ago and really like him. However, the poetry you cite is clearly not exposition by any definition that you can quote from me herein. Either put up a quote from me to document your claim that I would call that piece "exposition" or retract your misrepresentations (a polite legal term that we use when the opposition attorney is a chronic liar).

Gwyn exposition is a separate form of media than poetry which may contain some of its charateristics but the two are certainly distinguishable. To say otherwise, as you have, is to disagree with a classic distintion that has been taught in every English class for 100 years.Reread the pieces that you cited.

And a strong statement of distaste for a piece is hardly "mean-spirited". It is MY PERSONAL OPINION that AS POETRY that Lynette's War was horrible! If people should only say good things about all writings that is hardly honest critique.And it would require a population of moral wooses!!

Gabrielle wrote- You do know I'm a senior fiction editor at a major New York publishing house, right? Lucky I have daily access to a top publisher to set me straight. And I'm a prize-winning short story writer and poet, though I'll admit, I won the prize some years ago and I've not kept up my poetry skills, which is why I'm studying at the present time.

WOW, OH MY GOD GABRIELLE I DID NOT KNOW THAT!- I am a mere CPA, litigator and published non-fiction writer (on the spiritual path). I should not have disagreed with such an important person. I bow!
P.S. I guess i had better avoid your publishing house with my novel, huh?

Gabrielle- Since you say that you especially like the part of your poetry definition that says "that poetry is almost impossible to define", the part that admits that your definition is not a definition, are you saying that you cannot distinguish between poetry and exposition? Or novels, short stories, non-fiction and poetry? If so, any course in basic English at any university, or any publisher, can help you out. Poetry can at least be defined by what it is not.

Gabrielle wrote-Poetry is an imaginative awareness of experience expressed through meaning, sound, and rhythmic language choices so as to evoke an emotional response. Poetry has been known to employ meter and rhyme, but this is by no means necessary. Poetry is an ancient form that has gone through numerous and drastic reinvention over time. The very nature of poetry as an authentic and individual mode of expression makes it nearly impossible to define.>>>

Gabrielle your definition in effect is saying its impossible to distinguish poetry from exposition!!! It is a definition that avoids definition! Lynette's War" was beyond free verse it was exposition. I am also of the opinion that subject matters such as incest between father and son (discussed above) and those dealth with in Lynette's War are outside of the traditional understanding of what poetry deals with. And the fact that such writings may "win awards", or be called "poetry", by some, only tells me that there is confusion as to what poetry is about.People often want to think that they are "liberal", i.e. "Anything goes".Generally speaking, I think poetry has a transcendental quality. And, while I am spiritual (I identify with Mary's I've Seen You Dance-above) I have no religious beliefs whatsoever. However, like Christianities' St. Paul "All things are lawful to me, but not all things are helpful" i.e., write what you wish but put it in the appropriate media.

Damn! I started a riot which is not hard with this group! First I meant my last words for Jim the self proclaimed poetic expert not Gregory.My apologies Greg. Poor Jim would find a picture of cow dung art.But we are all at differnt levels of spiritual development,he,he.He is doing the best he can.

Gabrielle like Jim you misquoted me. I did not say that in all cases poetry must bring forth a positive emotion. Reread my message.

My comment on Lynette's War had nothing to do any of the assumed criteria that self proclaimed poetic authority Gregory attributed to it. My objection was that Lynette's War was exposition not poetry. For me poetry is an art form that uses brief well chosen words to move the human spirit in some often positive fashion.

Mary wrote in message 202- I've Seen You Dance.
Mary-I know of what you speak, it's true- we dance eternally on starlite nights on an island in the gulf stream. The sky is always filled with coconut stars and our love is always sweet and tender. The dance is always you. BARRY W

AMERICA, AMERICA
America, America, god, how I love you! How can I ever begin to express my many diverse feelings about you?

Perhaps your true loveliness is seen most poignantly in your constant struggle with your corporate sins.In your many investigations into scandal, your smoke-filled Congressional hearings. In the revelations of your newspaper reporters.

Your Constitution protects the infamous Ku Klux Klan, yet you throw open your sea-rusted portals to foreign merchant ships carrying precious cargoes of blacks, yellows, and browns.

How lovely is the freedom torch of Lady Liberty silhouetted against a dark moonless New York skyline! How sweet and secure is her maternal embrace!

You burned colonial witches and then opted for religious tolerance. You brutally enslaved a million blacks in the torturing hot sun of your Southern cotton fields and then shed your blood to set them free.

During the Second World War you disgraced the Bill of Rights by
imprisoning Japanese-Americans in desert camps. Then, you confessed your wrongs and sought to make reparation.

Always you struggle to be more civilized! How often, though, have you clothed your national interests in the red, white, and blue guise of patriotism and then violated the rights of other nations. But when you conquered Japan you were magnanimous in your victory.

You are one of the wealthiest nations on earth yet thousands of homeless walk your streets and millions more live in your squalid slums and go hungry.The Communists call American social injustice a disgrace, and they are right. But let private industry bid on social programs, and let Presidents negotiate peace to free resources, and American capitalism will surely be vindicated.

Your high taxes and budget deficits are a serious threat to freedom and a heavy burden on the backs of men and women and your thousands of computer files invade every citizen’s privacy, yet you struggle on to preserve your tradition of freedom.

My dear sweet Lady Liberty, I often wonder if you will survive the technological onslaught. What will become of personal freedom when all payments must be made with plastic cards? When the government will know where every person is, at all times. When a simple computer command could shut off anyone’s ability to survive.

No government, not even a democratically elected one, should have such concentrated central power! Lady, how is your vision? Do you see these dangers? For sweet freedom’s sake I pray that you do!

by Barry W

DAYBREAK
The first yellow light of dawn hurries across rich brown fields. Rice shoots cast faint shadows on irrigation water. A cock crows.

In the small mud hut a shivering Chinese woman lights the morning fire,dried rice bundles crackle, their bright yellow flames illuminating an infant’s face. The woman’s soft maternal eyes glisten, her heart is full. Savory odors of green tea, fresh pork, and brown rice finally rouse her husband. She smiles at him tenderly.

High in the Alps an ancient monastery nestles in the snows, its weathered tower bell tolls morning prayers. A crystal clear metallic peal dances on the thin icy air, echoing back and forth among the jagged peaks. In his cell a solitary monk contemplates the freedom that Christ has given him, he is overcome with feeling. His body shivers like a man witnessing a lovely sunrise from a wind-blown, early morning peak.

On the Russian frontier a young couple awakens, their big feather bed is soft and warm. Outside the window of their wooden farmhouse the prairie is an ocean of wildflowers stretching for a thousand miles.Larkspur, red Indian Paintbrush, Bluebell, and yellow Wallflowers sway slowly in the early morning air.

The young woman is lovely. Her hair is long and pale yellow, her eyes the clearest blue, like the sky mirrored in prairie pools after a cool spring rain.Tenderly he caresses her soft warm body. She yields! Passionately they celebrate their troth, their youth, and daybreak.

By Barry W

From Barry W-

Gregory pathetic! You need help.

My name is Barry W and I wrote the poem "Daybreak" I would not be caught dead "impersonating" the other Barry!

DAYBREAK
The first yellow light of dawn hurries across rich brown fields. Rice shoots cast faint shadows on irrigation water. A cock crows.


In the small mud hut a shivering Chinese woman lights the morning fire,dried rice bundles crackle, their bright yellow flames illuminating an infant’s face. The woman’s soft maternal eyes glisten, her heart is full. Savory odors of green tea, fresh pork, and brown rice finally rouse her husband. She smiles at him tenderly.


High in the Alps an ancient monastery nestles in the snows, its weathered tower bell tolls morning prayers. A crystal clear metallic peal dances on the thin icy air, echoing back and forth among the jagged peaks. In his cell a solitary monk contemplates the freedom that Christ has given him, he is overcome with feeling. His body shivers like a man witnessing a lovely sunrise from a wind-blown, early morning peak.


On the Russian frontier a young couple awakens, their big feather bed is soft and warm. Outside the window of their wooden farmhouse the prairie is an ocean of wildflowers stretching for a thousand miles.Larkspur, red Indian Paintbrush, Bluebell, and yellow Wallflowers sway slowly in the early morning
air.


The young woman is lovely. Her hair is long and pale yellow, her eyes the clearest blue, like the sky mirrored in prairie pools after a cool spring rain.Tenderly he caresses her soft warm body. She yields! Passionately they celebrate their troth, their youth, and daybreak.

THE GULF
A lone Mexican fisherman slowly paddled his two-ended dory out into the early morning fog. Azure blue, Sea of Cortez water, hurriedly dripped off the ends of his grained, sun-bleached oars making small circles on the mirror-like surface. Somewhere out in the mist a fish broke the surface with a splash—a sea
bird cried urgently.

Last night Juan had drank deeply of Maria’s dark loving eyes. The barren desert landscape had been lit by a thousand shooting stars and the rich staccato
sounds of a Spanish guitar had strut across the soft velvet Baja night. He rowed in the afterglow of last night’s ecstasy, the cool sea mist felt good
on his warm face.

Far away in Mexico City people were already fighting their way through the morning traffic. They had houses, cars and urban stress—Juan had a shack, a
dory, and Maria. His sensuous imagery was suddenly interrupted—a fish had hit the troll line.

He smiled gratefully at God.

TIME WARP

My body is aging but my heart lies helplessly in an eternal time warp.
When I close my eyes I see Walt Disney’s Tinker Bell, flying across an
ebony black night sky.Her sparkling wand spews brilliant stars in every direction.
I am young forever, it’s magic!

My body is aging but my heart swims in the warm Gulf Stream. It lives on an island in the Gulf with a beautiful young girl. At night sweet trade winds blow from the south, the moon is always full and coconut star dust falls from the night sky.

Clear azure blue waters lap gently on the shore as we walk hand and hand on moon lit nights. Soft romantic music floats gently on the moist night air from the patio of a restaurant on the beach. Later, her hair falls and her body rises to meet mine. We are one.

Impossible you say?

I think not! For deep in my heart it knows a place like this outside of time. A place where I am one with who I love. Where love is a thousand lovely dawnings’ and never dies. Where the waters of the Gulf are always warm and the trade winds always sweet!

Barry Walshe