VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST!
~~~

WHEN BERRYMAN DIED


He left his shoes, scuffed loafers,
on the bridge. A cordovan pair
he could have shed
anywhere: at the university
beside his desk, under Tate’s coffee table,
at the foot of a lover’s bed.

Every night he thought, tomorrow.
Mornings, he remembered
his suit at the cleaners, his essay
on Marlowe, students waiting
outside his office. January 7
reasons ran dry.

He bathed and trimmed his beard,
putting on a new shirt.
In eight degrees he walked
to the bridge.

-- Chella Courington

~~~


BODIES: THE EXHIBITION


Children’s bones grow quicker

in springtime, says educational

Vegas. We had some mis-

givings about keeping our eyes on

the carpet, the fuzziness of

a losing pattern. My favorite part of

our marriage was the circul-

atory system, preserved lit up

in its own dark room. Some relative

would spend half of February in

Florida and bring all us kids back

those suckers you force into

an orange, to drink its juice with-

out peeling it. What a lot of nerve

endings it takes to make a finger

tip, or any extremity, so far out there

that it is forced and expected to take

its cues from things external. To be

influenced by the exhibition, which

is to say the holding out.


-- Jen Tynes

~~~

NIGHT FRUIT


Worms in wallpaper are wet riders
without bitter graffiti. You travel

parallel on the mind-lit path to confirm
what’s already known—-the head is a jet

at night, with triple ‘A’ aphasia. Pretend drafts
try to take you, naked, to devilled ledges,

rock traps, insipid springs—one watery attendant
sits in the walnut chair, cracks each house

knuckle to read from The Book of Past
Conversations. Your quilted skin, its creased

casings—is mapable as onions. Last night’s
amputated argument is whole again. To avoid

this meteorologic you check into mountains.
The bed flowers out, walls hang unopened

-- Diana S. Adams

~~~

OVER THE BROKEN BONES OF FARMERS


Over the broken bones of farmers
They built their subdivisions,

Filling chests with wrinkle-
Free polyesters

That snapped to attention
Whenever the bosses

Filed in.
Gift-giving was reserved

For funerals,
Love-making

Was the province of stiffs,
And money, that hot bastard,

Burned holes in poems, creating
Islands of phonemes,

One of which they willed
To me.

I have lived there ever since, cultivating
Syllables and eating fragments.

On good days my shit
Makes sense.

-- Mark Melnicove

~~~~

OF ROCKS AND RUIN

When you're on one, these logging roads seem small:
narrow lanes, cleared of all but gravel, grit,
and usefulness. Number 1508 winds and climbs
from Lookout Creek toward Blue River Ridge,
innocuous as the green garter snake
crossing this bare space between the forests
with sibilant grace ahead of my truck.

To my right, vistas sink down through trees
old as this country, then span out toward Lookout
Mountain to the east. I shift down, drive up
another rise, pull sharply left, then ease
to the right, climbing even when it seems I'm not.

The scars of logging jar my sight: a rough slough
of bared earth scours the mountainside
where the fragile road clings like desperation
or hope to the bony ledge. Dashed
against the mountain’s crest, heavy clouds
split, their loads spilt with no amends
to tree or truck: water seeking its level,
roiling along the road in torrents, roaring
over ridges in brown rivers of rocks and ruin.

It's hard to tell now, if the road inclines or drops
slowly down, my sense of equilibrium
in this world of two-hundred foot trunks is skewed—
the only clue a slow lowering of perspective:
trees crouching closer to the hillside
as I round a slow curve, bank upward,
then stop short where a ten-foot pine stands
upright in the center of the road, where stones
and soil spill fifteen feet onto the roadway.

The hill’s slide embraces the doomed tree
as I once did my dying child: knowing the truth
of life’s fragility, not willing to give her up
to death. She lived. The tree will not. But
for now, ragged roots cling to this mound
of detritus torn from the clear-cut mountain’s
flank. I understand that fight to stand

upright when everything around is sharp
angles and precipices, when the only level
space is narrow and hard and full of driving rain
that sluices earth from underneath
your footing, and all that remain are jagged
stones and bare roots greedy for life.

I turn the truck around—pull forward, rock back—
daring myself to look over the precipice at the edge
of the road where the secret names of all things
below are "slide" or "loosen" or "release," where old
snags hunch close to the ground beneath
the umbrella of timorous fir, and bitter
rainwater whispers the only song it’s ever known
to the earth and to the listening stones.


Andrews Experimental Forest
Blue River, Oregon

-- Christina

~~~

getting to know you


maybe I felt forced
and perhaps a little awkward
about the way we danced
like two great airplanes
taxiing across the dim asphalt.

a pleasant breeze

blinking lights

and tired faces in the windows


-- Joe Lencioni

~~~

JELLYFISH

There are rooms underwater
we can’t imagine, pellucid rooms
we’ll never penetrate, gelid
chambers, fastened by lashes
to the tide. Dark sharpens
their sparkle, a trance of staircases
and chandeliers that traipse
and sway as those on ships
drawn far from shore.
Wade out and they come to you.
Wade out to palaces, wade
by dare, by drift, by lure.
Wade out by pendulum
that the slow bell of tide
may turn before you
reach out to beg
dazzled entry.

-- S. Jane Sloat

~~~

ABSENT DOMINICAN

I was born on an island full of palm trees,
Coconut and fruit.
I was to my island the funny one,
The outlandish one of mixed races.
And in each dawn I would look for the
Heart of my island Quisqueya,
In all the places of devotion and sanctuaries
Even below the very abyss.
On one night of a harsh wintery February,
I was separated from her.
And now in me,
In a cold dwelling with false heat,
I realize that you are no longer my possessor.
And not even rancor accompanied me
In that long departure.
And in the absence of my childhood,all my memories:
Mangu,like majarete,the criollo palate,died in me
beneath the white snow,of a city of skyscraper.
And I opened my soul and only saw
The red color of dried leaves in autumn
As your mountains.
A drop rolled down my cheek
OLD and tired through time,
As the color of your tropical sea, my beloved island.
I wanted to be faithful to nature,as the creator
Had planted for all of us, Dominicans;
But I never again left my footprints
When walking barefoot
Through the old pathways of my land,
To feel the steps of my ancestors, my dear Quisqueya.
I was the Judas that,with the old suffering of his infancy
I created a hate and became a bandit,
The one who sold out to his country and transformed
Into the ruffian who forgot his palm trees,
The free breezes of the Caribbean,the tamarind water
For the cold concrete and brick edifices,
Without windows,
With only decomposed,false air.
I sold out to my golden orange
To view instead gray sunsets.
I lost the nobility,the love of a nation.
And for a few foreign coins
I sold out like any degraded soul of the street.

-- Raymondo Polanco

~~~

"Night Fruit."

Jellyfish

Absent Dominican

VERY SORRY

I looked for rhythm, meter, rhyme.
Did find them. I don't give a dime.

I feel the same as Gregory none of these have rythme or rhyme and I am sad to say they arae definiately not getting a vote from me this is not profesional poetry writing at all very disapointed

A few notes --

1. Please vote in the poll - your vote does not count if it only appears here in the comments.

2. Goodreads' staff have informed me that membership is up to 2.5 million readers - the winning poem will be sent to more than two million people in the newsletter!

3. Previous Goodreads' newsletters may be viewed in the archives here:
http://www.goodreads.com/newsletter

4. Rhythm and rhyme do not a poem make, as has been previously discussed here:

http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/2552...

AND here:

http://www.enotes.com/poetry/group/discu...

AND here:

http://forum.p4poetry.com/topic.php?id=4...

and many other places. Ultimately, it all boils down to preference as there is no official definition of poetry that declares rhythm and rhyme as essential. Otherwise, free verse would not exist.

Not so incidentally, several of these poems certainly do have rhythm.

Angela use spellcheck, would ya! Cheesh...

I wouldn't worry too much about spellchecking thread comments. I never bother. But at least one of the poems could benefit from a check. Night Fruit contains 'mapable'.

My opinion: Rhythm and Rhyme makes a poem or song. "Don Quixote", "An Old Man and The Sea" are immortal poetry, however not poems. Here there is not a single poem to vote for.

I feel the same as Gregory, not one of the "poems" has beauty to it, some don't even make any sense. Sorry...

Certainly, different people like different things. There is good news for those who enjoy rhyme. Connie Arnold an I going to start a new topic RHYME(which is synonym to POETRY)

Actually, this was a difficult choice for me. I thought "Night Fruit" and "Jellyfish" were both excellent, but "Bodies: The Exhibition" does the most to give me the famous feeling as though the top of my head had been taken off -- Emily Dickinson's definition of poetry.

Sheesh, you guys. Haiku don't rhyme and aren't metered; in Japanese anyway, they're syllabics. By some of your definitions, Beowulf, despite its alliterative accentual-stress patterns, isn't POETRY either, I guess. And as for making sense, would somebody kindly explain to me the deep hidden meaning in Edward Lear's "There was an Old Man with a Beard"?

Dear Gwyn: There is no need to explain if you could return, please, from upside down position to normal you will understand.
Sincerely and respectfully,
- Greg

Dear Greg,

Since the photo of me in the aberrant position you describe is on the back of my book, I am contractually required by my publisher to hang upside down at all times. It makes teaching a wee bit difficult now and then, but thankfully English departments are quite understanding about that sort of thing.

With appreciation for your concern,
Gwyn

My condolences. I'm glad it is just on photos. The publishers and English departments have to make money.

In re form and rhyme,Kenneth Koch and Frank O'hara wrote in prose like forms back in the 1950's.and many poets still write like them.

What a headache!

How about we all meet in the middle of the road?

Make a contest for rhyming poems and another for non-rhyming poems?

I agree with Gregory and Angela's comments. There should be at least one poem in the contest that rhymes. Maybe it would be more appropriate if the contest were named "DEEP THOUGHTS." That is what I get when I read some of the entries, not poetry. I understand prose can be a very beautiful form of poetry, but I think that a rhyming poem should also be considered to vote on.

I think that if there is a division in the contest, it should be between poems in fixed form and those not, not merely those forms that privilege end-rhyme. Sestinas, for example, are extremely difficult to write well, regardless of whether or not you're doing the original Italian version that demands rhyme as well as a fixed pattern of end-words.

Instead of trying to rig the contest in favor of one form over another the contest should remain as it is, with excellence as the only criterion.

Right on, Ruth

Seconding Ruth. The beauty of this contest (if you see it as such) is it is open to anything and everything.

I would like somebody to explain me, why not to vote for this poem?

message 103: by Becca
08/23/2009 12:06PM

Nature's Beauty
by Becca

The snow fell softly, silently,
A river passed me by,
A poem rose inside of me,
My soul began to cry.

I'd looked before, yet did not see,
The twinkling of snow, or a blossoming tree,
I did not see the mountain so high,
I could not see the blue in the sky.

I would not stop to look around,
I would not listen to a peaceful sound.
The whisper of wind, the hum of a bee,
These blessings of nature I would not see.

Yet now I see, and now I know
To listen to wind, to watch the snow,
For now I know, and now I see
The beauty of nature surrounding me.

Okay, I'll bite. It's light, trite and my head didn't explode ... it's still on tight. And if you think this IS poetry, then I don't even feel a need to argue with you about it. Read, read, read.

I'll back Julia up. It's a good try, but no cigar. It's cliched and sugary and written by someone whose heart's in the right place, but who is unfamiliar with good poetry. Give her some time and a lot of study and she'll probably get there. But not now.

Gregory wrote: "I would like somebody to explain me, why not to vote for this poem?

message 103: by Becca
08/23/2009 12:06PM

Nature's Beauty
by Becca

The snow fell softly, silently,
A river passed me by,
A ..."

VOTE 001
I vote for Becca
- Greg

I do not care to argue. The poem NATURE'S BEAUTY is the birth of a poet. It is excellent. It did strike my heart as great poetry.

Sweet Jesus! Here we go again with the whole rhyming thing - it's like saying "To me, movies should be black and white and silent. Chaplin made black and white silent movies, and those were great. Adding color and sound just makes it a visual/audio collage, not a movie." That's obviously ridiculous (and yet I await the reply stating that anything made after Chaplin is not a real movie). I really don't know what else to say - maybe there should be a contest just for poems about flowers or for poems about the setting sun. I'm going to go eat a chicken patty right now.

The progress in art is by adding not taking away. Such as impressionists added brilliant colors to painting or as to movies color is added. To take away from poetry rhyme is to make it a prose. Mariam Webster definition: RHYME - synonym POETRY, antonym PROSE

As with other genres of literature, "beauty," or in this case "excellence," is in the eye of the beholder. I don't know how these finalists were chosen (I am a new member of this poetry group), but I will certainly cooperate by helping to vote for the poem that grabbed me the deepest, whether that be with imagery, emotion, or other. :-)

What is going on with the selection process for finalists? Usually I don't mind the increased number of finalists, as usually there's something that grabs my attention, and feelings, but these eight are a really strange selection...

"WHEN BERRYMAN DIED"
A charming piece, but was there really a "university beside his desk"?

"BODIES: THE EXHIBITION"
Sorry, I switched off at "mis-
givings" and "circul-
atory".

"NIGHT FRUIT"
There are parts I like and overall there's a lot to like about it, but "mapable as onions" and "To avoid this meteorologic you check into mountains." eh, say what??

"OVER THE BROKEN BONES OF FARMERS"
Some nice language, but don't get it. Don't connect. Like the sign-off, but it seems removed from the rest. In fact it doesn't feel like a cohesive piece at all... On good days my shit makes sense too, though.

"OF ROCKS AND RUIN"
Good descriptive writing, but is it poetry? Where the hell does this part come from and where the hell does it go? What a strange cameo reference??

"The hill’s slide embraces the doomed tree
as I once did my dying child: knowing the truth
of life’s fragility, not willing to give her up
to death. She lived. The tree will not."

"getting to know you"
It's like Joe wrote one stanza, then gave up. Is this really one of the best poems posted?

"a pleasant breeze
blinking lights
and tired faces in the windows"

"JELLYFISH"
Some merit here. Some odd line breaks though. I don't get it, but maybe I've been stung once too many times... "Wade out by pendulum"? A pendulum is fixed to one point at one end??

"ABSENT DOMINICAN"
Earnest self-deprecation, honest longing for home, but where is the beauty in the language? Where is the poetry? Does this make sense?

"I was the Judas that,with the old suffering of his infancy
I created a hate and became a bandit,
The one who sold out to his country and transformed
Into the ruffian who forgot his palm trees,
The free breezes of the Caribbean,the tamarind water
For the cold concrete and brick edifices,
Without windows,
With only decomposed,false air."

"RHYME - synonym POETRY, antonym PROSE"

Are you kdding? This is such nonsense, it's not even worth arguing with.

So many laughably clueless comments in these discussions....

Matt, I don't want to change you nor anybody here. But do respect poets who could rhyme. Don't say "this is such a nonsense."
I think the poetry without rhythm and rhyme is handicapped but I do respect handicapped if they are not rude.

Matt wrote: ""RHYME - synonym POETRY, antonym PROSE"

Are you kdding? This is such nonsense, it's not even worth arguing with.

So many laughably clueless comments in these discussions...."

If the comments are clueless Matt, then what is necessary are clues. Yes?

Perhaps it's time for poets to write commentaries on their poems so that the clueless can understand.

After Malcolm. Perhaps it is time to realize that a modern painting done in few seconds by throwing paints from cans on a canvas is NOT ART. Similar to throwing words not organized in harmony of a poem or song is NOT RHYME.

Matt wrote: ""RHYME - synonym POETRY, antonym PROSE"

Are you kdding? This is such nonsense, it's not even worth arguing with.

So many laughably clueless comments in these discussions...."

Hi Matt,

You're wasting your time - time that could be put to better use. Ruth and I spent precious hours trying to reason with some of these same people, and it isn't possible. They have no understanding of the differences in poetic forms or in some cases basic common sense. They only understand self-importance. The unteachable can't be taught. It might be best for you to think about moving on and forget the silliness. Based on his comments, Gregory still seems to believe you can't have rhythm in language unless the words rhyme at the end of each line. Even this small point about the difference between rhythm and rhyme and how one can and does work without the other is lost. How are you going to intelligently converse on the more subtle and nuanced qualities of writing?

Ruth and Jim are poetry teachers - who I suspect never rhymed.
Jim: "Gregory still seems to believe you can't have rhythm in language unless the words rhyme at the end of each line." Wrong, I never said something stupid like this. As for rudeness, Matt, you learned well from your teachers. Jim: "They only understand self-importance." (- poets who rhyme).

Gregory, I am a former college Art History instructor. You have just proved you are as ignorant of art as you are of poetry. There is nothing wrong with ignorance. But there is a great deal wrong with the stubborn refusal to learn.

You might start with this list of the 100 best poetry books of the 20th century. http://edwardbyrne.blogspot.com/2009/08/...

Ruth, I am saying to you what I said already to Jim: please, don't teach me - I am not going to pay you.

My goodness! Perhaps the "intelligent poets" should try harder to see what the rhyme-lovers are saying!!

Rhyming poetry is not just beautiful words. The artists must work harder than ever to put rhyme in, and to have the right amount of syllables in a line. In haiku, you have a certain amount of syllables per line. Rhyming poems take that to another level, a higher level. They include rhymes also.

To me, Ruth and Jim, it seems that you are trying to pound the rhyme OUT of poems. Trying to make people to write that stuff you call prose poetry. That's prose, my friends, not poetry. You could take a paragraph out of a beautifully written novel and call it a poem now (there's nothing wrong with beauty of words like that, but that's not a poem).

Poetry is losing it's true name...

Anyone interested in starting a group called "Preservers of Poetry with Rhythm and Rhyme"? LOL!

Ivy, if everything I said in the previous lengthy discussion on this subject about the fact that neither Jim nor I have any prejudice against rhyme, only against bad poetry, has failed to convince you to open your mind and try to learn a little, then there's obviously nothing more I can say to you.

Gregory, I wish you would learn, but I wouldn't try to teach you for a million dollars.

I think so too, Ivy. They wanted to do the same as it was done to football, which is now called soccer (at list not "sucker!") We have to leave them alone, I think, and do productive work. Let them name "poetry" by its antonym (PROSE) and we will name it by its synonym(RHYME)
We don't have to start a new group as I found out it exists already: RHYME AND REASON. I posted there today my poem under the topic GENERAL. See you there, friend.
Ruth, I know, it is hard teach an old dog new tricks.

Congratulations Amy, You may not haven gotten many votes, however this discussion was priceless. Did we solve your dilemma? Not really! But thanks to all the inpout, possibly going "back to the drawing board" could initiate a dynamic change that hopefully may benefit most of us next time.

Nathan wrote: "On good days my shit makes sense too, though."

*chuckles* Lucky you. On the best of days I write a heap of good nonsense. ;)

Matt wrote: "RHYME - synonym POETRY, antonym PROSE"

I think I have to agree with Matt on this one. I don't think the definition of poetry is rhyme, just as I don't think that poetry CAN'T rhyme. It can be either. I think even prose can rhyme, in some cases, without being poetry. Rhyme is just one form of writing a poem. There are so many others. I doubt anyone would argue, for example, that haiku is not a form of poetry, even if it doesn't rhyme. I also don't think the raw poetry written in freestyle that the dramatic teenager writes in his desperation to stand out is not poetry. I don't think it will become classic work, but that's not a definition of poetry either - to become a classic, that is. Just as much as I don't think the dramatic teenager writing in rhyme will be written in the books for brilliant writing. But again, that doesn't make it any less a form of poetry. Just a FORM, though, not the sole possible version of writing.

Gregory wrote: "But do respect poets who could rhyme. Don't say "this is such a nonsense."

Gregory, I don't think Matt meant that rhyming poetry is nonsense. I think what he called nonsense is the idea that ONLY rhymes can be considered poetry.

I also could not disagree with you more that to write without rhyme is a handicap.

Jim wrote: "They only understand self-importance."

It doesn't sound like self-importance. To me it sounds more like the importance of something they really believe in (i.e, rhyming poetry). When you have a passion for something, it's hard not to argue in its honor. *shrug*

We've had some examples of wonderful rhyming poetry at this site. But if Greg thinks this site is biased, I guess no one's going to change his mind because he has no desire to learn, as he stated. Why not create a site devoted to rhyming poetry -- it's a worthy cause! This is a site that is open to all types of poetry and we've seen some great work here. Again, all I can say is get a subscription to Poetry magazine.

in honor of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson is the master of rhythm and rhyming; especially end rhyming!

Emily Dickinson became a hidden treasure because of the rejection of people like you who refuse to appreciate rhyming poetry!

Yet you quote her words to define and defend free verses?....That's ironic!!!

But doesn't that tell you something? Only rhyming poetry is carved in time's memory.

Can anyone recite to us any "EXCELLENT" free verse?


I'm not against free verses...I've used all forms of poetry. I just think that rhyming verses are not given the chance they deserve in this contest!

The Red Wheelbarrow. That's just the first one that came to mind in a couple of seconds. An excellent poem without rhyming, timeless.

Erica wrote: "The Red Wheelbarrow. That's just the first one that came to mind in a couple of seconds. An excellent poem without rhyming, timeless."

can you recite it?

With my eyes closed. --

So much depends
upon

A red wheel
barrow

Glazed with rain
water

Beside the white
chickens

It was written by William Carlos Williams. It is absolutely famous. Drowned in meaning and life. There's also Blackberry-Picking. That I don't know by heart, but I could find it for you easily enough.