I’m not sure how these posting pages work but
according to the page headings I posted a poem
for each month of Sept, Oct and Nov.
September’s contribution never seemed to materialize
and I now have two entries showing for October
or is it November, I’m not sure?
Perhaps someone will sort it out.

Gwyn wrote: "Well, David J, stop making your publisher itch! Let them publish your book! It's more fun that way for both of you. I promise.


G'day Gwyn, I am about half way through my compilation selection of about 60 poems and am aiming for a release early next year.

Barry wrote: "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 ..."
"Kinky sex scandals"? Now that's a poetry topic! LOL!

Barry wrote: "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 ..."

Bravo, Barry! An excellent sample of modern poetry: no rhythm, no rhyme,impossible to understand free speech - very constitutional. Thank you. You have good chance to win,I think.

Lyme Regis, Dorset, Southern England



Cobbled Cobb curling,

Slack sails unfurling.

Greedy gulls soaring,

Spent sailors mooring.

Packed pebbles crunching.

Cheeky child munching.

Crammed cafés booking,

Clammy chefs cooking.

Pale people laying,

Soggy dogs playing.

White wavelets lapping,

Bronzed babies napping.

Many mums chatting.

Dads deftly batting.

Sun seekers glowing,

Body boards bowing.

Freckled friends eating,

Lost lovers meeting.

Close couples walking,

Giggling girls talking.

Barrack boys lobbing.

Bouncing Buoys bobbing,

Brass bandsmen playing,

Brown bodies swaying.

Men mackerel fishing,

Sad sweethearts wishing.


Sea swimmers splashing,

Wayward waves crashing.

Older men reading,

Younger men pleading.

Tasty tea sipping,

Tiny toes dipping.

Cornish cream licking,

Postcard pack picking.

Strappy shoes trying,

Souvenirs buying.

Ammonites finding,

Trilobites minding.

Salty sea gleaming,

Warm writer dreaming…

Lyme Regis.

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".

Michael wrote: "S. wrote: "Grassland

When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, i..."

Lovely if quite old-fashioned in language.

***jebbyjr*** wrote: "Ode to
Words
Words.
A simple word
Magnificent daring
Remarkable astonishing
Words
You live them
Yet you never notice them.
You throw them away,
And they get sad
Miserable despondent
Mournful cres..."

You must choose one poem and post that one . . . I'd offer a suggestion, but honestly, I don't know which I'd choose to leave. :)
Trish

Ode to
Words
Words.
A simple word
Magnificent daring
Remarkable astonishing
Words
You live them
Yet you never notice them.
You throw them away,
And they get sad
Miserable despondent
Mournful crestfallen
There are bad words
Falling from lips
Like rain from the sky
There are good words
Beaming
Smiling like the sun in the sky
Above us
Excellent outstanding
Superior great
Sometimes you are empty
And words
Fill you up
To the brim
Nowhere somewhere
Standing falling
You feel different
Words
All the time
Simple words
Life
Take on a great meaning
You wait for words to fill
Your brain
No luck
Here are some
Elaborate desire
Complete hero
You don’t notice them
But they notice you

THE SUNSET

The sun
falls
The light
drips
away
down
in darkness
no more

the moon
comes
light
shows
away, away!
asleep we go

The stars
glint
sparkle
you hear
voices
"'fist star"
and sigh

No more
gone
away
goodbye
but
more
the morning
the sun moon stars
come again
Hello!

THE CAT

sometimes
the cat
sits
purrring

sometimes
the dog
barks
angry

sometimes
the person
crys
sad


sometimes
we sit
zoned
unintentionally
lying
to
ourselfs



but sometimes
we don't


we sit,
happy
joyful
not knowing
the evils
in this worls
we sit
knowing
happiness
and nothing else

Real poetry! Thank you, Sharon, Stacey, Michael for giving us pleasure to read, your great contribution to GOOD reads.

Michael Newtson
Oh Sunshine Flows

Oh sunshine flows, the break of dawn
Of supple breasts, oh sensuous pews
Set high and firm, of this I see
Partaken by the lucky few

Thy back so lean so virgin flow
Thane sumptuous buttocks of my dreams
To lust its touch so soft, so smooth
The thought excites beyond supreme

To lie within thy limbs of love
besieged within its shinning glow
To slide within thy plum's sweet ebb
My tide of rushing love does flow

To wake beneath the dawns sweet light
Thane body shaped to fit my mold
I dream once more of lust erupts
To warm me of the mornings cold

S. wrote: "Grassland

When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, it st..."
Some very interesting and thought provoking imagery nicely arranged.

Jim wrote: "Barry wrote: "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-..."

A year in verse.

The tides of March do stumble out like a lamb,
Through a field of emerging green.
April's days are crouched and jammed,
In the weeks that lay unseen.

And then soon May, in warmth and buds,
Rushes to the fore.
Eager traffic ebbs and floods,
While clamoring for the shore.

June will toss a languid glance,
While lying in the sand.
Sunny rays serve only to enhance,
The torpor across the land.

Grills send up signals of smoky plumes,
In the throes of skittish July.
Dogged days and clammy nights loom,
While bursts of color fill the sky.

August reigns in a searing crown,
O'er a sluggish flock of souls.
A dense miasma threatens to drown,
As the hottest days take their toll.

September, confused, heralds a golden fall,
While still baking in the heat.
The harvest promises a splendid haul,
Though summer is not yet complete.

Nervous October may be balmier still,
As leaves cascade to the ground.
But autumnal gusts do assert their will,
While flickering gourds abound.

November is a heartier beast,
As holidays line up in turn.
They push and shove and will not cease,
To spend more than they earn.

December is sanguine and red in the face,
But drowned out by the noise,
Of insipid music and customs defaced,
By new and better toys.

January, though two-faced, it's true,
Is nonetheless strangely blind.
While being hopeful for the new,
It is careless of what's behind.

February is the coldest yet,
Holds August in its thrall.
The shortest month is the surest bet,
It's the bitterest of all.

I like our discussion but this topic is for posting poems not criticizing them.
I suggested time ago to continue our polemics on the topic started by Amy:"Verse broadens the mind, scientists find" in FUN STUFF. Adios! See you there.

David wrote: "Could everyone please just KNOCK IT OFF? This conversation, which has been erupting in topic after topic, is turning Goodreads into Viciousreads.

It seems to me that we're living in a world that ..."

David, I'll bet you teach--or at the least have led a writing workshop or two. Your tenets are perfect for this forum. Years ago, a group leader once told our fledgling group that just because a species is weak is no excuse to kill it--all the more reason to invest time and effort to save it. Those words stuck with me--as will yours.

I refuse to leave this board, as should you, if for no other reason than to witness for those who most need it.

Trish

Well said David

Well, David J, stop making your publisher itch! Let them publish your book! It's more fun that way for both of you. I promise.

Otherwise, but for Jim and Gabrielle, I feel a bit like I'm living in the Bizarro World occasionally visited by Superman. I might, indeed, hire a CPA to do my taxes this year; there's one locally who's quite expert. I will not, however, ask her to define narrative poetry. I will visit the medieval-lit expert in my English department and ask her about Beowulf and The Canterbury Tales. All of us like teaching Shakespeare, and read him on a regular basis. I might even offer to read The Cat in the Hat and Fox in Socks to my officemate's toddler son, who, thanks to his mother's occupation, is already quite the poetry connoisseur.

Or, since it's Halloween soon, I might go for a really well-known poem, one which named an NFL team, and turn to said officemate and muse: "Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore...." EGADS! Exposition in the FIRST LINE! Yet, look! Internal rhyme, bidding me stammer, flush, and flounder o'er the thoughts of some bean-counter, quoth the raven... nevermore.

Could everyone please just KNOCK IT OFF? This conversation, which has been erupting in topic after topic, is turning Goodreads into Viciousreads.

It seems to me that we're living in a world that views poetry with a jaded eye. That makes forums like this incredibly precious -- rare places where practicing poets can come together to celebrate the art and offer one another honest and direct but also thoughtful and sensitive feedback, places where new poets can come and try out new things in an atmosphere of safety and support.

This forum, however, with its increasing vitriol, is losing whatever it once had to offer. My guess is that young poets are fleeing this forum in droves, and I can't blame them -- but I do mourn losing them, since this is supposed to be a place where we can all express ourselves as poets and be heard. If they are staying, they're likely becoming more jaded and shut down by the minute. Here are some questions to ponder:

(1) Why continue arguing a point when it's become clear that you're not convincing the people you want to convince? The people advocating for rhyme and the people advocating for free verse on this forum are not persuading one another in the least -- so why continue?

(2) What are the goals, and what are the results, of using harsh, unconstructive language to describe the poetry of fellow posters? I tend to assume that every poet here is writing out of a love for poetry and thus deserves my respect and admiration. If I have critical feedback to offer, I hope to find words to express it that are constructive -- words that can be heard and that can engender an excitement about revision -- rather than judgmental and destructive.

(3) What good can possibly come from attacking one another as individual human beings, either in terms of our qualifications to speak on this open forum, or in our truthfulness, or anything else? How do those attacks further the goal of honoring and exploring poetry here?

(4) Why is it worth it to respond to another person's intentional provocation? Why take the bait? I'm seeing it happen over and over here: one person says something harsh and provocative and designed to push another person's buttons -- and then that other person, despite her- or himself, responds. Thus the war continues. My goal for myself is to let provocations die ignored rather than give them further life by responding in kind.

Okay. I've said more than enough. Perhaps it's a pointless post -- but I sat down to write this message when I realized I was about to discontinue my membership from this forum. My guess is that many others have already done so, and that many more will follow suit if we don't all try harder to make this a place where all points of view are expressed with candor but also kindness and where all are heard -- and responded to -- with respect.

We're poets. Can we please think more intently about the words we choose to use in this forum?

Gabrielle wrote: "I vowed to bow out of this discussion, but I do have to say one more thing to all the poets who've posted their work for the group.

No matter what you write, and this includes novels, short stor..."


Well said Gabrielle, I have found ( & I am sure others have as well) for every one person who does not like my work there are two that do, I wish everyone well.

I also suspect as an editor you wouldn't like my style of poetry but there is an American publishing company who is itching to publish my compilation.

Dana wrote: "S. wrote: "Grassland

When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, i..."

I agree. I really like that, too.

Trish Lindsey wrote: "Gabrielle wrote: "I vowed to bow out of this discussion, but I do have to say one more thing to all the poets who've posted their work for the group.

No matter what you write, and this includes ..."

You're welcome and hang in there. Just keep writing.

S. wrote: "Grassland

When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, it st..."

really nice. the first two stanzas were surreal haltings; every line rang of distorted breathes.

Gabrielle wrote: "I vowed to bow out of this discussion, but I do have to say one more thing to all the poets who've posted their work for the group.

No matter what you write, and this includes novels, short stor..."
Gabrielle,
Thank you for saying this. I've learned (having been forced) to take my knocks--first from the confines of a trusted writing group, then from the editors themselves.

Experience is a two-fisted teacher; that much is true. While some of us willingly sign up for these "boxing matches," others do not. I, like you, view this forum as a non-judgmental place in which all may "try" to have their work noticed. No one knowingly signed up to--nor deserves to--have their work "slammed" here.

Your gentle post is a reminder of these assumed tenets. Thank you again,

Trish Lindsey Jaggers,
a calloused, thick-skinned poet at this stage in the match :)

I vowed to bow out of this discussion, but I do have to say one more thing to all the poets who've posted their work for the group.

No matter what you write, and this includes novels, short stories, and poetry, there are going to be people who love it, people who feel it's "just okay," and people who heartily dislike it. You have to expect this. I know people who don't like Robert Frost, Pablo Neruda, Sylvia Plath, Francesco Petrarca. The list goes on and on.

Constructive criticism is part of the learning process. Hopefully, we're all always in the process of mastering our craft until the day we die. The WORST thing any of you could is to stop writing because someone didn't like your work. For everyone who doesn't like your work, there will be others who do. As a fiction editor, the manuscript I "just don't like" another editor will fall in love with and "just have to have." This will always be true because after all, neither I nor any other editor is the be all and end all when it comes to judging what's good and what's not so good. Literature is a very subjective thing. What speaks to one person will fail to move another.

Be assured that we realize it takes courage to post your work here or any place else, for that matter. Posting your work invites criticism as well as praise. It exposes a part of you because as writers, our work comes from some place deep inside us.

Poetry, in part because of it's enormous compression, is the most difficult literary form to master. However, it's one of the most rewarding. I very much appreciate all of the poetry that's posted here and the poets who took the time and effort to craft it.

Learn from constructive criticism, but in the end, remember that you have to write for yourself first and foremost. Don't change your style unless you feel it's right to do so. Know that none of "us" knows what's best for "you."

Good luck to all of you.

Here's one for you

She Cracked and She Fell

It all started with gas
leaking from my car.
I was so pleased it only cost
Fifty bucks to fix.

After that, the winds shifted
And the weather chilled;
My September tomatoes
Frosted on the vine.
In the morning, my husband
Noticed shards of glass
All over our deck –
Our tempered glass-top table
Couldn’t bare the strain
Of one more cold night.

Meanwhile, my thirteen-year old cat
Went to the vet for a check-up.
Just fine, my vet said.
Later, my cat started to slobber,
Uncontrollably.
For days I babied him, wiping the
Dribble spinning down his chin.

I thought his jaw was dislocated and
Took him back to the vet.
Unfortunately, he had an
Inoperable tongue tumor –
Sadly, we put him down on a Friday.

Monday, my youngest son was
The front passenger in a car driving
Forty miles over the speed limit on a
Two-lane windy country road.

The car slammed sideways into a
Telephone pole only 2 poles up from
A previously fatal motorcycle accident.
My son met the pole when it cracked
And landed on the car.
He survived with nine hours of surgeries –
Broke his femur and crushed his right pelvis.

I fell on a slippery (newly) waxed floor
While visiting him at the hospital –
On my bad hip and now my shoulder hurts.

When we got home from
The hospital late one evening
I noticed one of our trees
Was down in the backyard,
Resting on the fence.

Now, almost three weeks later
My son is home and recovering.
Arnold’s ashes and paw-print
Have been saved for a sweet
Spring day.

And the tree?
She cracked and she fell –
Guess I will have to cut
Her up later.

I wish I was
Making this shit up.
But times are strange,
This is some wicked period I’m in;
Most unlucky year
For a Rat.

Julie

Song Lyrics that won't ever be sung 'cause I croak like a frog! Was to my husband in hard times with my chemical imbalance. Title:...Let's Roll...
I "hear" it as a "New Coutry" type of song. Anyone write music? You're welcome to use this as long as I get a copy! Change outs would be fine for this.


…Let’s Roll…

Seein’ through your eyes…
it ain’t easy, I know.
Unforeseen highs see
unknown depths of a low.

Damn faulty ferris wheel,
jars and jolts as it turns.
The chance to get off
is all we all yearn.

Mind wounds won’t heal
and fade to a scar.
Scratchin’ off days
from a worn calendar.

Seein’ through your eyes…
you prob’ly just as soon run.
This whole marriage thing
prob’ly no longer much fun.

“Commitment” don’t mean
no more what it should.
When laughter is laggin’
lovemakin’s no good.

Run if you want, darlin’…
find new improved places.
Pain’s all too real, though,
in too many faces.

My love for you is forever,
pay my pains here no mind.
You’re here in my heart,
give up grievin’ the grind.

Hey, I’m okay at the moment,
my lips are showin’ a smile.
Let’s roll with it, babe,
stop the clock for a while.

A girl named Becca isn't modern art and poetry professor, or editor, or Nobel pries winner. She has a lot to study yet but she has already the heart of REAL POET.

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.

I think Becca have a potential to become Great American poetess. She deserves our encouragement.
Yet, her poem was not even selected for a voting.

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).

Grassland

When I could not get with child
I swallowed the egg of the meadowlark
who eats the daylight,
the mother of untangled grasses.
A long drop, the egg bore its root
in my foot, it stitched me
together with grain.

I am patient now; I am not damaged by waiting.
Languid as a coming rain, stalks
inch alongside my veins to the tips
of my fingers.

A grassland has thirst,
so does a fire,
a cup, noon,
the color of dough,
so while I sleep the moon creeps
between my poised teeth
to flood me with moonwater.
When I speak, the scent
of lengthening wheat overwhelms me.
Shoots rise straight up
and don’t droop as tears,
don’t fail like questions;
they get on with growing.

I hold a handkerchief
over my mouth to veil the clover
and bees that tickle my throat,
but the angel
who’s due at my tent
won’t catch me laughing.

A kiss would do it.
One sprinkle of milkwhite salt
and I’ll break like bread at your table.

Barry wrote: "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 ..."

It's so interesting that people who aren't poets or editors, those people that spend years writing and studying the art and craft, are always experts on poetry. Take Barry for example - he's a CPA and a lawyer - I guess that means he's an expert on brain surgery as well. Anybody want Barry to operate on them? I'm going to try Barry's logic, since I've spent years studying, teaching, and writing poetry and years working as a poetry editor, I'm going to open a law office. I could make a lot more money.

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!

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

P.S. When someone honestly critiques a poem that indicates they have adivice to offer that would help the writer improve the poem - specific, detailed information. Those kind of critiques prove valuable to the writer and establish credibility for the critic. "That's horrible" as an honest critique merely establishes the limitations of the critic.

And now, I've wasted two days again. So, I'll leave this discussion to the experts who have nothing to learn. Someone is actually paying me to fly to their campus in a few hours and give a lecture about poetry to their writing students. I guess they thought I was a CPA.

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!!

Pain is sorrow and sorrow is pain but will be of tommarow. As I lie in sudden pain what will be of my rain. Raining blood, Raining mud, Raining love all binding my soul to make my soul whole one not to be stoll for which I am whole. But yet when she goes by Im for not whole when she walks my soul is on its toll ready to be stole. Hard work dedication all is ready for her preperation. All of my day all of my night all I see is her in my sight.

Barry wrote: "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 defin..."

May be to look in Franklin Thesaurus might help:
"POETRY:a literary production patterned by rhyme or meter.
SYNONYMS:poem;rhyme;
ANTONYM:prose."

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?

I am (in series)

(1)

I am an emptying vessel

Scratched clean

Slow dissolve

Of Purity

Clubbed out

A hammering


Solstice of the page

I’ll swim up canals

Climbing like foam

From a sea, drained


I spoke to my hands

In a wrinkled way

Redolent words

Hung tightly on lines

On poems inside you


He was a vociferous husband

Chained like the night to my knees

Roaring animal

Unfastened

You taste foreign

A bark in a mouth of a child

Too simple for me


(2)

I am the roll of the hilltops

The stalk of the withering rose

Lived in lives over and over

Calumniate a simple time

You scavenge me for truths

Looking upward

Like a lamp

extinguished

Hoping for a glint of light.


I cannot bring you with me

I cannot bind you

Hard as I try

This weight in my skull

Lends an unfortunate response

To any and every

mark that is less than my own.


You cannot reach me

Slip in to me

And out the other side

Distilled and dismembered

Your head got caught in the door.


No song moves me

Trees burn dark

And dim

I shall not let you move me

You are faded

Thin.

I have no use for you.

Kenneth, I think Gregory opened a thread for those who'd like to discuss the issue.

I think I've said all I'll say. I agree with Ruth about not arguing with walls.

I wish Chella the best of luck with her work.

This discussion of Lynette's War is beginning to remind me of Ogden Nash's Purple Cow. I'd rather see than be one. Why don't we move the topic to its own discussion so that this one can keep focused on its original purpose?

Lynette's War is brilliant. Exposition can be a condensed series of objects or things lyrically wrapped to meet a certain version of poetic expectations, yet sometimes realia breaks through in the form of real people speaking and living. The arrangement becomes more complex then, yet it absolutely works here and, for example, in THE CHAINSAW DANCE by David Budbill. That book (like this poem) soars with plenty of plain speech, poignant detail, and startling vignettes.

I vowed I would not get into this argument again, after Jim's and my fruitless attempts here previously. One cannot argue with a wall. But I will say that I agree with Gabrielle, Jim and Gwyn. Good posts.

I am with Jim: I truly apologize on behalf of the entire group for the downright mean-spirited posts couched in attacking language ("abortion of a poem") against the truly fine poem "Lynette's War." I, too, stand on my credentials as the author of a book of poems; if anyone wants to know more details about this book, they are free to message me privately, as I don't think this thread is the appropriate forum to promote it.

Barry, if you really don't think exposition belongs in poetry, even regular, metered verse, I have a couple of men here named Beowulf and Hrothgar who would like to argue with you. Also, there's this guy Geoffrey Chaucer who used quite a lot of rhyme who would like to sit you down and tell you stories about people he went on a pilgrimage with. And then there's some man of dubious lineage named William, who says he comes from Stratford-on-Avon, who has these entire verse plays, and has retold, among others, the story of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. (Admittedly, his publisher typoed that as "Rpince" in one edition, but you know publishers.)

Without the aforementioned lads, none of us would be sitting here writing poetry, rhymed and metered or otherwise, in English. Barry, sir, where on earth have you been for the last several, heavily expository, centuries? Certainly not lending an ear to the midnight tale of Paul Revere, nor to the Song of Hiawatha (bizarrely culturally appropriative though it is), nor to the lengthy, positive, upbeat, rhymed and metered EXPOSITION of an immigrant named Theodor Geisel who wrote about headwear-fancying cats... under the pseudonym of, you've guessed it, Dr. Seuss. You will deprive me of my Dr. Seuss when you pry him from my cold, dead hands.

In short, let's play tricks with chicks and clocks, sir.

Here is my entry for the November Goodreads Contest.

Wishes in the Darkness

When it’s time to close my eyes
I call to those that hear my prayers
I’m scared of the darkened skies
I often wonder if anyone cares

I lock the door to keep the darkness out
I close my eyes and pretend I’m not alone
The fear I have makes me want to shout
But my fear escapes and chills me to the bone

I want my wishes in the darkness
For once to actually be answered
Let me sleep with peace in this blackness
And let my nightmares be caught and captured.

I like what Robert Frost said about poetry, and I do think "Lynette's War" fits with what this master of poetry wrote:

<<<A poem...begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.... It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.>>>

Robert Frost

Jim wrote: "Gregory wrote: "Barry wrote: "That piece called Lynette's War that won the poetry contest was beyond horrible. The people who voted for such an abortion had no taste or the competition must have be..."

I agree, Jim, and very well said.

Wendy wrote: "We already had this discussion about poetry a few months ago, what is good poetry, what is not. It is basically subjective...and hopefully, one of the reasons we post here is not only to be read bu..."

I agree with your post, Wendy. I think Chella should be encouraged to develop her unique voice, to keep expressing herself honestly, and to write what moves her. Forget us and our reaction, at least for now. I tell young authors every day to write for themselves first, for us later.

Though "Lynette's War" wasn't the poem I voted for, I did think it was an honest poem and I wish Chella all the best with her work.

Barry wrote: "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 defin..."

LOL Thanks so much, Barry. I'll look into that. 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. Don't want any "holes in my confidence/holes in the knees of my jeans." I might not be able, in your opinion, to tell prose from poetry, but I do know a zeugma when I see one.

And once again, it's not "my" definition. It's simply one I found on the Internet. I wanted to see what other people thought. It doesn't say poetry is "impossible to define," but rather "almost impossible." I think there's a shade of difference there.

If you write, perhaps you should make a concerted effort not to send your ms. to me. ;) But thanks for making my day with that post.

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.

David J wrote: "I know exactly how you feel Barry!!

I went back & intently read "Lynette's war" & found it a very well written STORY, to me it showed great imagery & was written with great heartfelt passion, bu..."

And me. I generally do not like rhyming poetry (there are some exceptions) and I heartily dislike love songs. ;)

Barry, that's no my definition, though I go along with it. It's one I found on the Internet.

I especially like the part that says poetry is almost impossible to define. ;)

No matter what book group I've belonged to, on the Internet or in "real life," there's always a dispute about what, exactly, poetry is. And no general consensus is ever reached.