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GOODREADS NEWSLETTER CONTEST > PLEASE VOTE FOR NOVEMBER'S GOODREADS' POEM

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message 1: by Amy (last edited Nov 03, 2009 05:35PM) (new)

Amy (AmyKing) | 556 comments Mod
VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST!


POQUITA

The lady sits on the park bench.
Her skirt is quiet around her legs
That are brown vases creased with blue veins.
Yesterday she stood up and sang
En mi viejo San Juan, cuantos sueños forjé
Her skirt was like the wind
In a hurricane -open and reckless.
And her eyes were glistening brown
Today the lady holds a golden Chrysanthemum
That blooms in the autumn.
While her cataract eyes turn into
White veined marbles

Light fades. The city bus’s headlights
Blossom
Children and parents walk by her bench.
They are small blue pinpoints
As they walk away from her down the darkened street
Holding hands

En mi viejo San Juan, cuantos sueños forjé
The lady sings holding onto memories.
Everything is disappearing
inaudible invisible and drifting.

The fragrance of pink and red hibiscus
In her mother’s vases on the windowsill
Aunts uncles, cousin Julie
The ocean against white sand
Her heart’s beat.

--Elizabeth P. Glixman

~~

Derelict Farm, Late Winter, 2009

“Worlds are altered rather than destroyed.”
-- Democritus

On the other side of the unused pasture
the black-and-white feral cat pads
across the upper rafters of the half-
collapsed barn, its socks and patches
the only brightness in the gray of late winter
though this morning's rain threatens
to change to snow and mask the mud
making everything appear again briefly clean.
What hunger must drive it there to risk a fall
and hunt whatever nests above the ground.
The farmer and his wife, too old now to work
have wrapped their house in plastic
against the bitter wind. In the field
the machinery of agriculture decays
abandoned and random, oxidizing in the slow
cold fire of rust. Eons from now, the iron
reclaimed by the soil, will rise from roots
to leaves and fortify the blood of deer
who in the fall come to forage from the pair
of ancient unpruned apple trees. All winter
I had not seen that cat, though my kids
assured its tracks had crossed the snow.
It must have sheltered during the day
from the hawks down from the tundra
who prowled the sky and rested, watching
in our trees, diving now and then for voles
I could not see except when dangling
from their fatal beaks. The world
is changing now, a bigger revolution
than the season's march, the globe's economy
collapsing like that barn, but faster. Hunger
threatens half of us, while fear of it tightens
the fists of those who have enough to share.
Is this the end? Spring will come when it comes
and not before. The thaw exposes all the mess
the snow had hidden. Let the sun warm more
than just this patch of frozen ground.

--Wendy Babiak

~~

PHOTO ALBUM


We are screaming and we are swimming near grass
of the graves that grew above the lives we planted
each day hoping that the shutter and flash would capture
what all of the gestures added up to when they were taken away
by page upon page of inflated pools overlaid
by burning birthday cakes, kids flying off
swingsets over grandmothers climbing stepladders
to hang birdhouses next to wedding gowns.

The drowned boy will always be four
in a last picture with his face against the sliding glass door.
When everyone was asleep he slipped from cottage to dock
and walked out of his life.

My wife and I will be floating happily inside the brandy glass
where a department store photographer placed our heads.
We could have gotten the star background but preferred to drown forever
in the moving spirits distilled from still memory.

If we are containers that contain ourselves,
if we are waiting on shelves to fall off,
defeat is as easy as never being able to see--
how we were smashed and what we were attached to,
who called our name and changed us
into each other and us all.

Gather dolls, squalling infants, clippings
of the fire that destroyed the Masonic Lodge, the daughters'
daughters, pet dogs, favorite coffins
and the first moon a child sees out the window
as she's riding in a car. . . .

It glows and follows to show that even it is alive.

Add stepmother's goldfish, a half-wit nephew,
brothers' lovers, a picnic basket on the lap
of the homosexual astrologer
with a cat born on Hitler's birthday.

there is a flash as we all remember
and are preserved in each other's embrace.

And a lingering, dumb prayer sent back fourteen years to the fifth page
where the neighbor's son woke up before anyone--

May there have been enough light at dawn for you to look down
into the water and see the reflection of the sky you were stepping into
instead of a boat.

--Matt Jasper

~~

The Beatitude of Swimming Nude

In Mazunte, where the ocean is dense
with phosphorus, I skinnydipped in a jacuzzi
forged by a spiral of rocks.
I was peeled and sea-salted at dusk,
ignoring the skywatchers who chanced to look my way.
John stood above at the craggy peak,
hands cupped to split the bellow of ocean,
howling that I must hurry into my trousers
for the sky had turned crimson above.
I scuttled up the rock wall, afraid I was going to keel off
into the surf. I'd almost made it
when the fabric of my pants scraped rock
and cleaved at my knees and backside.
I watched the sunset with the pale flesh of my rear
facing eastward toward Zipolite,
where it is permissible to swim in the nude.
May I never skinnydip lawfully;
may I be thoroughly baptized in this curious gospel;
may I always tear my finest clothes
rushing to something beautiful and quick.

--KWP

~~


Miari Area
(Seoul, South Korea)

the jizism girls
sit in their jizism
windows take your
faith & kick
it out the window
we'll clay our way
out of this dark
I'm working on
working on
erasing you
I'm on my loneliness
with my fat lips
I'm drumpy
you're simple
I'm considering
drinking
your ass juice
to whom do I
spread to whom
do I crack
open soften
inside slime
into the grind
a bliss cup
among the towers
pain became
a passage
a puppet
a muppet
a beauty bar
twigs in the twaggle
bakelight inside
the mouthcharts
don't make me
sweat do not wear
do not make me
make me wear
flares do not
make me
spit cherry pits
stick glass in
tummy munch
Rumi let us
then mate

--Marcus Slease

~~

Broomstick

By day I’m blind
head in the dirt
stiff as a pole
to the girl’s push, push at motey sunlight.

When master clips her
she chews her bonnet-string awhile,
returns to her tuneless humming.

By night I have a heartbeat.
The green in me courses
with the force that swings the tides
and we are up, up, up,
a hot frost of flying twigs and hair,
her laughter scaring owls.

She sings the night, cold and clear
as snaking river-light below,
dark as the calligraphy of trees.
We rise with Our Lady Moon,
a beauty-spot upon her face.

By day I’m blind
head in the dirt.
She keeps night folded
in her apron pocket;
we sweep the day into a corner
--a little pile of dust.

--Judith Allnatt

~~

The Princess’s Dilemma

When he leans over and wakes you
with a kiss, beads of sweat drip
onto your cheeks as you look up
into an ordinary face. His eyes,
the color of old pennies, are close set.
His clothes smell of a horse
ridden too hard too long.
He’s overweight. Pressed against
your chest, he steals your breath.
You sit up, call for fruit and wine,
and pray for piquant conversation.

"Do you like dogs?" he asks. He talks
about Stanley, his beloved
English mastiff; his rose garden
with twenty-four species,
floribunda—his darling;
tea with Mother in the afternoons.
She’s teaching him petit point.
He claims you’d never be bored.
Friday nights—bingo with the staff.
On Sundays they hunt unicorns.

You ask about governance, peaceful
coalitions, the well-being of his subjects,
patronage of the arts. He scoffs,
"Let those under me trouble themselves
with such headaches."

You can’t picture yourself married
to this feckless simpleton.
You’d lock your door at night
against his lust. You’d likely take up
with the winsome gardener.

Besides, his kingdom is far, far away,
across rivers and mountains. You know
you’d sorely miss your family
and friends. How to break it to him
without hurting his feelings
and ruining the end of the story…

--Jane Ellen Glasser

~~

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.

--S. Jane Sloat

~~

Day of the Dead


Let us celebrate the Day of the Dead:
Jesus coming down from the cross,
the decapitation of the saints.
I am the skull resting
at the feet of Jesus, dancing
in the hearts of lovers. My wife
steals my pain, her nails
torturing my flesh. She lights
another candle to the Virgin.
I taste the shadows of life,
visions of skulls rummaging
about in wooden graves,
soldiers dying in each other’s arms,
widows kneeling before the altar.
Light the match now. Burn
the souls of innocent children.
We are not God’s children,
only a shadow of his creation,
a pimple on a scarred face,
a forgotten planet at the edge
of the universe where nothing
is as it seems. And we all
search our collective memory
for guns and swords and skulls.

I cry again:
Let us celebrate the Day of the Dead:
So that Jesus will climb back
onto the cross. So that sinners
can dance through the gates
of heaven. So that priests
can paint pictures of prostitutes
and worship little boys. May
God have mercy on our souls.
I fight back the tears.

Let us celebrate the Day of the Dead.
Let us light candles to honor the dead.
Soldiers in body bags. Lovers
torn from their sleep. Knives
violating throats. Dreamers
nailed to crosses. I must
not forget. You must not forget.
We must tell the story. God
does not understand. He lives
inside a flower. Trampled
by the feet of the lost and damned.
I will light the candle in protest
of the bodies that lie at my feet,
at the wickedness that crawls
within my soul, of the darkness
that haunts the images captured
by cameras. We can not run.
We can not hide. Jesus, climb
back on the cross. Save us
from those who choose to
lead us down a path that
leads to our destruction.
Light the match, again and again.
Burn the flesh. Tattoo the heart.
Free the soul. Love the spirit.

I watch as the light
goes out of her eyes. I taste
the horror circulating through
her veins. I worship the dead.
I offer up fruit and vegetables,
like lambs to the slaughter,
like criminals to the gallows.
Celebrate the Day of the Dead!


— Harley King





message 2: by Erica (new)

Erica | 361 comments Grassland


message 3: by Siki (new)

Siki Dlanga (SikiDlanga) | 13 comments Day of the dead


message 4: by Trish (last edited Oct 29, 2009 02:56AM) (new)

Trish Lindsey (Trish_Lindsey_Jaggers) | 158 comments So many good poems were posted this month that I would not have wanted the task of whittling them down to nine . . .

While all these warrant merit, I am wowed by "Day of the Dead" and "Grassland." I'm not going to vote so quickly this early in the morning. I need more coffee, time to chew on them. This is a tough one, Amy!
tlj


message 5: by Dana (new)

Dana Miranda (unmoored) | 108 comments grassland.


message 6: by Allyson (new)

Allyson Szabo (revallyson) | 3 comments Definitely The Princess's Dilemma. :)


message 7: by Simon (new)

Simon | 40 comments poquita, yeah it got me.


message 8: by [deleted user] (new)

Grassland.


message 9: by Julie (new)

Julie (Altbreed) | 17 comments grassland


message 10: by Tiny (new)

Tiny ♥Hearts (TinyHearts) aww I loved grasslands...that done it for me ;)


TheGirlBytheSeaofCortez (Madly77) Two of my favorites are there: Derelict Farm, Late Winter, and Grassland, of course.


message 12: by Wendy (new)

Wendy Brown-Baez | 128 comments What a contrast: Grassland is lovely and fresh and just the lines "the angel who's due at my tent" would get my vote. Day of the Dead is powerfully dark and disturbing and worth more than one read.


TheGirlBytheSeaofCortez (Madly77) Day of the Dead is one of my favorites, too.

You're right, Wendy, one is very fresh and lovely, the other dark and disturbing. Quite a contrast. And both of them excellent and deserving.


message 14: by Gregory (last edited Oct 31, 2009 04:41PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) What a selection! We all enjoy the freedom of speech. But why a rhymed poem is not here to vote for?
I PROTEST. English poetry is not free verse only. I think we all know that and this has to be reflected on this site. For example:


Ocean ─ new life

Cooling breezes whisper
rustling leaves that talk
weathered trees of history
where crustaceans walk

Crystal ocean rolling
shades of blue or green
vibrant coral colors
paint a living scene

Mother oceans stories
moonlight shadows swell
gentle waves are speaking
hidden tales they tell

Vessels, rocking, thrashing
stronger winds now wail
drawing closer daily
ancient people sail

Virgin sand now they walk
in this morning dew
feasting seafood’s freshness
starting life anew.

David J Delaney
26/08/2009








message 15: by Kc (last edited Oct 31, 2009 09:11AM) (new)

Kc | 3 comments day of the dead, definitely!


message 16: by Emily (new)

Emily (emilyabenton) grassland


message 17: by Hannelore (new)

Hannelore (hanne) | 8 comments Definitley Derelict Farm, Late Winter


message 18: by Joan (new)

Joan Stearns (stearnsjet) "The Princess's Dilemma" or "Photo Album."

My vote(s)


message 19: by Gregory (last edited Oct 31, 2009 11:14PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Aria wrote: "woooow. all of these are amazing!!! are they written by people who are all in this group????"

Yes. But also we do have people who write in rhymes.


message 20: by Judith (new)

Judith Allnatt (goodreadscomjudith_allnatt) | 2 comments I love 'The Beatitude of Swimming Nude': particularly its economy. It says a lot with a little, the imagery is vivid and the language choices are interesting; for instance 'beautiful and quick' in the last line where 'quick' has both the sense of 'fast' and 'alive' (as in 'the quick and the dead'). Masterful.


message 21: by David (new)

David Delaney | 915 comments Thank you Gregory for your support of rhymed poetry & for using mine as an example, there was some truly wonderful rhymed poetry this month, but as I mentioned to another rhyming poet "don't to hold your breath on making the finals".

I will no longer be posting anymore of my poetry on this site, I will visit regulary to read some of the beautiful poems, I'll stick with my Australian sites, at least they are not biased.

BTW. if I had to make a choice for this months poem I would lean towards "Grassland"


message 22: by Gregory (last edited Nov 01, 2009 04:01PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Dave,dear friend,don't leave this site. It is not just American, it is English international. Besides American poetry is not just Whitman and his followers but Longfellow,Dickinson,Frost and we are their followers - those who rhyme.


message 23: by Choy (new)

Choy Casuga (ChoysChoices) | 6 comments 'The Beatitude of Swimming Nude'


message 24: by [deleted user] (new)

It's just been a couple of days since I've joined this group and I'm already loving it! Most of the works above are remarkable! I liked the most:

PHOTO ALBUM


message 25: by Gregory (last edited Nov 02, 2009 12:45PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Goodreads blues

Again old and boring anecdote:
The very secret panel choused them –
The poems for a secret vote –
All are in prose – no rhyme, no rhythm.

“Pass, poet, here is no place for you –
Entire parking lot is blue.”

For those who rhyme there is no spot:
“Who, Frost? Who, Dickinson? Longfellow?
For handicapped this parking lot –
Pass by, don’t stop, old-fashioned fellows.

“Pass, poet, here is no place for you –
Entire parking lot is blue.”

Again and again the rhyme is ignored
By ignorant – there’s little doubt.
This monthly routine could be bored
If it wasn’t poetry kicked out.

“Pass, poet, here is no place for you –
Entire parking lot is blue.”





message 26: by Andrew (new)

Andrew | 104 comments Gregory,

You're making a false distinction. A poem isn't good because it rhymes and it isn't bad because it doesn't. There are numerous qualities that make a poem good or bad (including subjective taste). Rhyme is just one of them. In the two and a half thousand years of recorded poetry very little of it is written in an "abab" rhyme scheme. Most of the traditional forms that some consider to be the true formal architecture of poetry were innovations created by the first vernacular poets trying to distance themselves from the Latin tradition. The rondel, the villanelle, the sonnet etc are not the necessary condition of poetry. They are thousand year old experiments made by poets who were often vulgar and often wrote frankly about "undignified" themes like sex and war. The poetry they were trying to escape, like this one say:

Passer, deliciae meae puellae,
quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere,
cui primum digitum dare appetenti
et acris solet incitare morsus,
cum desiderio meo nitenti
carum nescio quid lubet iocari
et solaciolum sui doloris,
credo ut tum gravis acquiescat ardor:
tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem
et tristis animi levare curas!


was not only not written in the so-called "traditional" form of poetry, but it was itself an innovation over older and distinct forms. Poetry is constantly reinventing itself. The reason there has been such a backlash against "rhyming poetry" is not because the great multitude of the unwashed have lost the sacred path, but because after 800 years of aping medieval song forms (to the point that by the 1850s poetry had become a sodden and nearly worthless parody of itself) very astute and extremely talented poets like Whitman and Rimbaud and yes Dickinson (whose near rhymes are as much a mockery of an evangelical allegiance to old forms as Whitman's free verse was) realized that poetry needed an injection of vitality. Poets like Ezra Pound and Guillaume Apollinaire and EE Cummings and Blaise Cendrars and Hart Crane weren't trying to kill poetry any more than Cervantes (or Dostoevksy or Melville or Flaubert) was trying to kill the novel. Like Cervantes, they were just trying to reinvigorate it.

But again, it's a false distinction to insist that rhyme = good and no-rhyme = bad. Plenty of both is bad, and plenty of both is good. What sets the good and the bad apart is far more complicated that formal structure. My impression, and I believe I share it with a lot of people, is that much of the formal poetry being written today is tone-deaf and riddled with cliches. In fact, I think you'll find that EE Cummings and Robert Frost have more in common than Robert Frost and some third-rate neo-formalist. Cummings and Frost were both writing beautiful poems. A third rate neo-formalist is doing little more than stuffing a corpse into a suitcase.


message 27: by Ruth (new)

Ruth | 5037 comments Andrew wrote: "Gregory,

You're making a false distinction. A poem isn't good because it rhymes and it isn't bad because it doesn't. There are numerous qualities that make a poem good or bad (including subjective..."


Bravo, Andrew.




TheGirlBytheSeaofCortez (Madly77) Andrew wrote: "Gregory,

You're making a false distinction. A poem isn't good because it rhymes and it isn't bad because it doesn't. There are numerous qualities that make a poem good or bad (including subjective..."


Said so well, Andrew!




message 29: by David (new)

David Delaney | 915 comments Oh! look! It's Andrew & Ruth our academic genius's, we only need Jim now to make it complete!


message 30: by Andrew (new)

Andrew | 104 comments David, we had this conversation already, didn't we? You want to ban all writing that isn't a family friendly rip-off of Tennyson, and you get very emotional when people disagree with you. I wish you'd channel some of your anger into your poems. They'd be much better.


message 31: by Gregory (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Andrew, are you writing poetry just for your poets-friends? If this is the case, I agree with you. But this site has much broader audience which includes followers of Greatest American poets I mentioned.
Many good rhymed poems were posted - not one was selected by the panel. Last month a beautiful rhymed poem almost won. Is it that the panel is afraid that a rhymed poem might win this month?
What do you think about quotations posted by Amy?

From discussion started by Amy
"Verse broadens the mind, scientists find"

”…the only way rap artists can remember all those lyrics
 is because they have rhythm and rhyme.”
" Also, children seem to be born with a love of rhyme and rhythm. Then
 something happens and by the time we see them in the first year at university
 many of them are almost frightened of poetry and clamoring to study the
 contemporary novel."
"Not many people pick up books of 
poetry anymore to read. You have to wonder if people find them too hard."



message 32: by Erica (new)

Erica | 361 comments Andrew, so well said! Gregory, I have to disagree with you on this one, since I think you're being rather harsh. I'm not at all doubtful that there were good poems entered into the contest that happened to rhyme, but that's just it -- there were also plenty that didn't rhyme that were just as good. Yes, poetry is almost completely subjective. Maybe the person who chooses the poems prefers non-rhyming, and that's a preference (although a limiting one - to deny anyone a type of poetry just because of its structure). But I could argue that no poems with the word "pickle" were chosen, either. (Obviously a ridiculous example.) No haiku, no sestinas, etc. It's not rhyme versus non-rhyme. It's all of them together, and I don't think the one who chooses them is AFRAID that a rhyming poem might win. His/her preference just leans more towards poems that happen not to rhyme. Nobody is out to get poetry; we are all on this site because we want to come together in our love of poetry - all kinds!


message 33: by Gregory (last edited Nov 02, 2009 05:28PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Yes, Erica, "we are all on this site because we want to come together in our love of poetry - all kinds!" - well said.
That's why one rhymed poem, considering we are in minority now, has to be presented. The panel has to be fair, not biased.
Please, tell what do you think about Amy's post.



message 34: by Andrew (new)

Andrew | 104 comments Gregory,

Thanks for keeping things civil. I really hate it when people refuse to have an open minded, honest, and polite discussion, even if they feel strongly about what they are talking about.

I think there's definitely a prejudice against "formal" poetry -- though there is a very strong cohort of neo-formalists who wield a lot of influence right now, in the US at least. In fact, to be fair, I'd say there's at least as much prejudice against truly experimental poetry as against hard-line formal poetry. As in most things, most people prefer the middle ground.

That said, I think the prejudice against formalism is justified because, in most cases, the forms that formalist poets embrace have worn out their inventiveness. When the sonnet and the rondel and the villanelle were invented, they served the music of their makers. That's true with many of the great poets you cite. Frost, for example, rarely feels constrained by his forms. Auden (one of my personal favorites) also somehow manages to be remarkably free within his forms. There are many, many others. However, in most cases, I think poems written in traditional forms feel constrained by their forms, not invigorated by them.

Think of music: if Mozart had written like Vivaldi, or Bach had written like Franchinus Gaffarius, not only would they not have been serving the muses well, but we would all still be beating out a 2/2 rhythm on hollow logs.

This the central point of my previous post: the root tradition, the basis, is not represented by what we consider traditional forms. Those are just medieval song forms that were invented to liberate poetry from the Roman legacy, and to maximize the strengths of the new vernacular languages.

What served Old French, however, doesn't necessarily serve contemporary English. For one, English doesn't have the same proclivity to rhyme. It is much easier to rhyme when half your adjectives end in "-a". English also has very different stresses that make for much more complicated meter. The beauty of the King James Bible, of Shakespeare's soliloquies, of Milton, of Coleridge, of Yeats has very little to do with end rhyme and strict metrics. They make the language sing. They manipulate the stresses to create a rough, athletic, energized poetics that, to my ear, is more akin to Whitman than to say Tennyson or Longfellow. Think of Milton, a deeply deeply educated man, who read Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and Old English not to mention French, Spanish and Italian. To write Paradise Lost, while highly familiarized with the long tradition of European literature, he chose not to employ rhyme. That was 350 years ago!

All I'm saying is, be an adamant defender of the long tradition of poetry. Fight for poetry. But don't confuse a few worn out 12th century ball gowns for the princess who used to wear them.


As for the quotes you cite:

1.) I don't think it's the job of poetry to entertain children or to make for easy reading. Students go to universities to get educated. If they don't like it, let them pick another specialty. If you don't like push-ups, don't join the Marines.

2.) I like rap. And yes, rhyme and rhythm help people remember the words. Like rap lyrics, villanelles and rondels and sonnets were originally sung.


message 35: by Erica (last edited Nov 02, 2009 05:32PM) (new)

Erica | 361 comments Gregory, which post do you mean when you refer to Amy's?


message 36: by Erica (new)

Erica | 361 comments Andrew wrote: "But don't confuse a few worn out 12th century ball gowns for the princess who used to wear them."

Outstanding phrasing, Andrew. I am in awe. What a way to describe it!




message 37: by Gregory (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Erica wrote: "Which post?"

From discussion started by Amy
"Verse broadens the mind, scientists find"

”…the only way rap artists can remember all those lyrics
 is because they have rhythm and rhyme.”
" Also, children seem to be born with a love of rhyme and rhythm. Then
 something happens and by the time we see them in the first year at university
 many of them are almost frightened of poetry and clamoring to study the
 contemporary novel."
"Not many people pick up books of 
poetry anymore to read. You have to wonder if people find them too hard."


message 38: by Wendy (new)

Wendy Babiak | 221 comments Gregory, as the poet who wrote "Derelict Farm, Late Winter, 2009," I have to confess I take offense at your calling it prose. I consciously chose to use prosody, which I've been studying. While I did not stick to a formal pattern, I made intentional choices involving stressed and unstressed syllables. Nursery rhyme it's not, but with its use of internal rhyme, rhythm, and assonance, it's hardly prose.


message 39: by Gregory (last edited Nov 02, 2009 06:02PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Andrew wrote: "Gregory,

Thanks for keeping things civil. I really hate it when people refuse to have an open minded, honest, and polite discussion, even if they feel strongly about what they are talking about.

..."


Glad to hear that, friend. Let's keep ourselves civilized and hello to you from Yesenin:

To Poets of Georgia

For poetry
An octave or iambus
Were used, but classic rhyme
Has blurred.
Today, remembering
The times passed,
Again the poetic horse
I spurred.

Land! Distant,
Misty foreign land!
The roads of Georgia paved with stones.
Like amber wine the moonlight went
Into my eyes, deep as blue horns.

The Georgia poets!
I remember you.
Good evening, everyone,
I drink to you!

Comrades in feelings,
My pen friends!
I love your festivals--
Words broiling.
The noisy meetings
I attend,
Like mountain rivers
Madly boiling.

I’m your northern brother
And friend.
In poets – the same blood is flowing.
I was also born in an Asian land
By all my deeds, words brewing.

That’s why in
The foreign land
I love you,
And can understand.

The centuries will mill,
As days will pass,
All languages in one compound.
A historian, compiling us,
Will smile,
When differences are found.

He’ll say:
“Upon my word!
On those days
The time put a laurel,
The nations were fighting in the world.
But poets –
Never even quarreled.”

There is a sign
On an ancient rock:
A poet to poet
Is kunak.* (* Friend in Georgian)

New times new ideas bring.
Traditions are observed
By new men.
In different languages we sing
Our feelings--common
To all human.

The poets of Georgia!
I remember you.
Good evening, everyone,
I drink to you!

Comrades of feelings,
Dear pen friends,
I love your festivals,
Words broiling.
Your noisy meetings
I attend,
Like a mountain river
Madly boiling.
1924





message 40: by Erica (new)

Erica | 361 comments I don't remember it, sorry. Post a link?


message 41: by Andrew (new)

Andrew | 104 comments awesome. your translation?


message 42: by Erica (new)

Erica | 361 comments My translation is that it embodies the exact opposite of what we seem to have on this site. In theory, the site fits into that poem, but in reality it seems many people are under the impression that poetry has to be one thing or another whereas this very poem is encompassing ALL poets as not only similar professions but comrades in their profession!


message 43: by Gregory (last edited Nov 02, 2009 06:26PM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Erica wrote: "I don't remember it, sorry. Post a link?"
Look in POETRY/FUN STUFF



message 44: by Gregory (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Thank you, Andrew. I translated Yesenin/Complete Poetical Works in rhythm and rhyme of the original.


message 45: by Gregory (last edited Nov 03, 2009 06:43AM) (new)

Gregory Brengauz (yesenin2000) Wendy wrote: "Gregory, as the poet who wrote "Derelict Farm, Late Winter, 2009," I have to confess I take offense at your calling it prose. I consciously chose to use prosody, which I've been studying. While I d..."

I am very sorry,Wendy. My fault. Will look harder. Don't be offended, please.
NEXT DAY: I like your prosody, Wendy. But I am not an authority on poetry and have no intention to become one and to teach. Don't be offended by someone who is not poetry teacher or editor.


message 46: by David (last edited Nov 02, 2009 07:25PM) (new)

David Delaney | 915 comments Andrew wrote: "David, we had this conversation already, didn't we? You want to ban all writing that isn't a family friendly rip-off of Tennyson, and you get very emotional when people disagree with you. I wish yo..."

G'day Andrew, mate, yes we did have this conversation & I was bloody sorry I started it, also I never said, and, would never say that any written word should be banned, if you can remember I said repeatedly "time and place" not to ban writings.

There are some prose & or free verse I do like reading as a matter of fact a very dear and close friend who is also a fellow of Trinity college London & has been tutoring poetry almost all her life writes beautiful prose and free verse I enjoy reading, far from the few I enjoy here.

My lack of education is obvious compared to yours & good on you for being able to achieve what you have, but despite my uneducated ways I love my poetry it might not be academically or technically perfect but as long as I make people smile (from the hundreds and sometimes thousands of people who attend my performances) I will continue to enjoy writng the way I do.




TheGirlBytheSeaofCortez (Madly77) Wendy wrote: "Gregory, as the poet who wrote "Derelict Farm, Late Winter, 2009," I have to confess I take offense at your calling it prose. I consciously chose to use prosody, which I've been studying. While I d..."

"Derelict Farm, Late Winter 2009" was one of my favorite poems this time round. I just love the images it evokes.




TheGirlBytheSeaofCortez (Madly77) Gregory wrote: "Andrew, are you writing poetry just for your poets-friends? If this is the case, I agree with you. But this site has much broader audience which includes followers of Greatest American poets I ment..."

Gregory, I don't mind if a poem rhymes or doesn't rhyme as long as it's a good poem. It's too bad there isn't enough space in the newsletter for every excellent poem. This month, especially, I think there were quite a few very good poems.




message 49: by Carrie (new)

Carrie (CarrieKing) | 41 comments Gregory I am with you!

I wonder if this is a Cultural issue?

I was born in England, so I am a thoroughbred Anglo-Saxon and all the memorable and famous English Poems are written in rhythm and rhyme.

I suppose it is easier to remember a poem written as a 'complete and self-contained piece of writing in verse that is set out in lines of a set length and uses rhythm, imagery and often rhyme to achieve its effect' (Dictionary definition of the word 'poem').

The poems I most remember learning at school are these listed:

The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe
I Said To Love by Thomas Hardy
Daffodils (I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud) by William Wordsworth
Sonnet To Liberty by Oscar Wilde
Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind by William Shakespeare

and they are all written in rhythm and rhyme!

I am not so familiar with American Poets, other than Edgar Allan Poe, so I looked up Walt Whitman (hush my mouth.....I had never heard of him until today), and I noticed he does not always adhere to the Old English way of rhyme and rhythm.

So there's the rub! Americans, to a humble English writer, enjoy the pleasure of reading and writing in what I, personally, would class as 'poetic prose'....not poems.

I would just mention once more....in my opinion, which I know not all will share.....if you want to write a poem that people will remember and quote freely and which may live on after you.....it is easier to remember verse written in rhythm and rhyme.

I am not a Poet, just a writer and I send you all my very best wishes in all you do!

Carrie



message 50: by Brian (new)

Brian Godsey (briangodsey) I agree with Judith above: The Beatitude of Swimming Nude

But I, too, am disappointed in the lack of rhyming verse. Where is it?


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