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A place for Poets to discuss their craft

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  1. What's new in this club
  2. Myr is looking to expand the genre tags into more specific categories, with a primary genre followed by specific subgenres. The poetry tags need a lot of work, so we're looking for suggestions. I've already done some consulting and have come up with a list based on their feedback. Please let me know if there are any other suggestions to include with the poetry tags. NaPoWriMo Translation Haiku Limerick Epic Blank Verse Free Verse Counted Syllable Forms Sonnet Lyric Mixed Forms Erotic Other Forms
  3. This poem came to me in an old, inexpensive volume of his collected essays. He heads most of those essays with original poems, like this one for "Friendship." It's possible the poems from the essays were not reprinted in Emerson's collected verse. This one has certainly never shown up in any of the dozen or so anthologies of Gay verse I have...and it should!!!
  4. _ What a marvelous poem, and one more reason to read Emerson again.
  5. . A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs; The world uncertain comes and goes, The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled, And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again – ‘O friend,’ my bosom said, ‘Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth, And is the mill-round of our fate A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair.’ _
  6. I ran across this poem recently. I wish the poet were alive today to talk about it. Shall hearts that beat no base retreat In youth’s magnanimous years— Ignoble hold it, if discreet When interest tames to fears; Shall spirits that worship light Perfidious deem its sacred glow, Recant, and trudge where worldlings go, Conform and own them right? Shall Time with creeping influence cold Unnerve and cow? The heart Pine for the heartless ones enrolled With palterers of the mart? Shall faith abjure her skies, Or pale probation blench her down To shrink from Truth so still, so lone Mid loud gregarious lies? Each burning boat in Caesar’s rear, Flames—No return through me! So put the torch to ties though dear, If ties but tempters be, Nor cringe if come the night: Walk through the cloud to meet the pall, Though light forsake thee, never fall From fealty to light. - Herman Melville, The Enthusiast
  7. And people wonder why it's so important to save and read letters. This reads like a wonderful poem.
  8. . I feel the truth in his body Later: Everything is okay again and I didn't have to move downstairs after all. He slept alone on the beach [last night] because he needed some sleep. Doesn't get much with me. But that's his own fault for being so incredibly beautiful. We wake up two or three times in the night and start all over again[.] The ceiling is very high like the loft of a barn and the tide is lapping under the wharf. The sky amazingly brilliant with stars. The wind blows the door wide open, the gulls are crying. Oh, Christ. I call him baby like you call Butch, though when I lie on top of him, I feel like I am polishing the Statue of Liberty or something. He is so enormous. A great bronze statue of antique Greece come to life. But with a little boy's face. A funny upturned nose, slanting eyes, and underlip that sticks out, and hair that comes to a point in the middle of his forehead. I lean over him in the night and memorize the geography of his body with my hands — he arches his throat and makes a soft, purring sound. His skin is steaming hot like the hide of a horse that's been galloping. It has a warm, rich odor. The odor of life. He lies very still [on his back] for a while, then his breath comes fast and his body begins to lunge. Great rhythmic plunging motion with panting breath and his hands working over my body. Then sudden release — and he moans like a little baby. I rest with my head on his stomach. Sometimes fall asleep that way. We doze for a while. And then I whisper "Turn over." He does. We use brilliantine [hair oil]. The first time I come in three seconds, as soon as I get inside. The next time is better, slower, the bed seems to be enormous. Pacific, Atlantic, the North American continent. — A wind has blown the door open, the sky's full of stars. High tide is in and water laps under the wharf. And now we're so tired we can't move. After a long while he whispers, "l like you, Tenny" — hoarse — embarrassed — ashamed of such intimate speech! — and I laugh, for I know that he loves me! — That nobody ever loved me before so completely. I feel the truth in his body. I call him baby — and tell him to go to sleep. After a while he does, his breathing is deep and even, and his great deep chest is like a continent moving slowly, warmly beneath me. The world grows dim, the world grows warm and tremendous. Tennessee Williams,[i] 1940 The picture of himself Kip gave to Williams that summer [i] “I feel the truth in his body” Tennessee Williams, July 29-30 letter to Donald Windham from Provincetown, Massachusetts. Included in The Love of Friends by Constance Jones and Val Clark, New York 1997, p.383 _
  9. May I say each is lovely in it's way for the feelings evoked. Thank you for sharing them.
  10. Two poems from Robert Nichols. During the First World War, Nichols was often anthologized and greatly admired as a soldier poet. Some of the graphic scenes I've read from him are worthy of study and remembrance today. Here are two poems from him: the first, a War Sonnet; and second a rhapsodic piece he wrote in 1918. In context of one another, they are very telling. Begin, O guns, your giant requiem Over my lovely friend the Fiend has slain From whom Death has not snatched the diadem Promised by Poetry; for not in vain Has he a greater glory now put on Since, bound with cypress black, his boyish head Shines on Death's crowded groves as none has shone Since Sidney set a-whispering the dead. Begin, O guns, and when ye have begun Lift up your voices louder and proclaim The sick moon set, arisen the strong sun, Filling our skies with new and noble flame. The Soldier and the Poet now are one And the Heroic more than a mere name. Robert Nichols,[i] 1915 --------------------------------------------- The Consummation There is a pigeon in the apple-tree And when he moves the petals fall in showers And O how low, how slow, how rapturously He croons and croons again among the flowers! Above the boughs a solemn cloud-bank climbs, White, pure white, dazzling, a shield of light; Speck on its space, a lark, whose quick song chimes With each brief shake of wings, vaults t'ward the height. Below, a beetle on a stook of grass Slowly unharnesses his shuttered wings. His tiny rainbow wings of shrivelled glass. He leaps ! He whirrs away. The grass blade swings. Faint breezes through the branches wind and call. It is the hour. This perfect hour is His, Who stooping through the depth, quiet, joy of all Prints on my upturned face a silent kiss. Robert Nichols,[ii] 1918 [i] "Begin, O guns, your giant requiem” Robert Nichols Invocation: War Poems and Others, London 1915, p. 18 https://archive.org/details/invocationwarpoe00nichiala/page/18/mode/2up [ii] "The Consummation” Robert Nichols The Budded Branch, London 1918, p. 24 https://archive.org/details/buddedbranch00nichrich/page/24/mode/2up
  11. Hey Parker 🖐! Thank you for taking time to read and comment! You are always so sweet and kind. Be well in all you do!
  12. I'm a puzzle doer by nature. Nothing more puzzling than spinning words in 17 simple syllables. Sometimes silly, often blue... Wild curlies pearled in dew. Tonight, though, waxed me coifed in an entirely different cloth. Any thoughts out there? Rebuttals? Walked on...back, then forth One too many passes swept Know your footsteps well Faggots lost in haze Tendrils wisp ethereal Embers crackle; PoP! Naked before God Pearly gates were closed to me Entered from arrears
  13. Thank you, grazie, for thinking about this poem. I love the way you put it: nothing is sexier than a man dressed in confidence.
  14. Begs the question, what makes a man? The finery (or roughness) of his clothes or the finery of the man himself... mind, body and soul? I say nothing is sexier than a man dressed in confidence...although a nice pair of pants wrapped about a sweet apple'd ass never hurts🤔😇! Meow MeYuM Thanks for the thought provoking poem...awesomeness! Enjoyed molto!
  15. Ahhhh I haven`t seen it earlier, when we talked about it. But now I see it. It is "das (junge) Blut" ihm (Possesivpronomen to Dativ dem Blut) he brews the poison for the "junges Blut"= means a young person. That`s the grammatical possebility. (Maybe a young hill climbing annyoing overly jolly Bavarian 😄)
  16. Hehe, I now understand verter better. One, it means to specifically move substance/content/energy/grace from a large to a smaller body or vessel. Two, in the poem, I figured out the correct translation verb is "to shed" -- as in to shed thy grace on thee
  17. Seeking the input of all German speakers The following poem is by Bruno Quandt. Believe it or not, I have a handle on "Mistbeet" 🤣 but in the final stanza, the poem suddenly begins referring to a "him". As in the line "Dann brau ich heimlich ihm verruchten Trank". I have a couple ideas who this may be in regards to, but any idea you'd like to toss out there, I'd be happy to see and discuss So wie ein Mistbeet will ich meine Seele halten Und sorgsam hegen ihrer Pflanzen schwarzen Flor. Sie wachsen, seltsam lauernde Gestalten, Aus dem durchjauchten Humus üppig vor. Nachtschatten, in metallisch schimmernden Kulturen, Vom Haß gesät, in jedem Kelche jähen Tod, Dann laure ich auf frische Frohnaturen, Auf junges Blut, die Wangen rund und rot. So rot, als ob es aller Gifte lache, Dann brau ich heimlich ihm verruchten Trank, Daß ich ihn stumm zur stillen Leiche mache, Zu eklem Aas und giftigem Gestank. _
  18. Thank you, Parker. It's a mountain of a poem to climb. I hope this translation of an early 19th century Romantic poem is readable. I always think it can be better though...
  19. @AC Benus How I enjoyed reading this! You made me want to wander those places and greet those people you describe.
  20. Anyone have any thoughts on this free-form poem...? A Peregrination you're as fortune-blessed as your sister, Lombardy yonder set, with a hundred streams across you. And groves aplenty, snow-blossomed and crimson, foreboding woods, beset by wild, deep-green leaves -- and the Alpine ridges of Switzerland's shadow neighboring you; for near the earth of the houses abide you, and hear within the silv'ry sacrificial bowls whose wellsprings burst, pouring forth by spotless hands, when acted on. over crystalline ice, transforming, via the gently coaxing light upon snow-laden ranges, anoint the earth with the purest of waters. That's why innate loyalty is yours. Hard left is land so close to one's natal crib. And your offspring, the far cities, and those by the distant lake, upon river pastures, or the Rhine, will all account, there is none that makes a better place to live. because I still hear it said upon the breeze: be free, poets, like the swallows. What's more, one of their kind confided in my younger days that once, once upon a time, my distant parents, a randier breed, stepped away from the waters of the Danube, along with the sun's children on the worst of the Dog Days, with wanderlust in mind, and together sought out shade where they could terry on Black Sea's shores; proving it's not for naught the place is known as welcoming. Some others drew near; and our party sat them down by the others, intrigued, under the olive trees. But as their raiments glared with distraction, and neither heard the other speak their own words, spreading misunderstanding; a spat might have sprung, but from above came dispassion through the branches that can smile cool on the faces of those who might want to stir up an argument. and then while gazing up, they held out hands to hold each other in love. And soon the precious goods of their houses; they exchanged their troth as well. And also the doting fathers left nothing wanting for the wedded bliss of their children. For from these holy unions sprung a generation more beautiful than the people who have come before or since. But where, where do you live, my dear kinsmen, that we may revive this covenant in remembrance of our loved ancestors? trees, or on the plains of the mighty Cayster, where cranes, happy in that ether, enclosed within the circle of twilight mountains, there were you as well, O most beautiful ones, who tended the isles of wine too crowned in the full springtime glory and song most full; while others dwelt upon mount Taygetus, or the too boldly bloomed Hymettus. Or the golden springs of Parnassus whose streams girt Tmolus endlessly in strains of song; and when there rustles the sacred woods and groves all appears heavenly mild when stirred and played in unison. by magenta cherry trees, or when, sent by thee, the swelling peaches ripen green in my vineyard, and the swallows come from afar to build their houses in my walls and tell me many tales in the days of May, even under the stars remembering me of you, O Ionia. But people hold the present dear, so I've come to see you, your islands, and you, O mouth of mighty rivers, and, O you, of the Halls of Tethys, and your forests, and you, drifting clouds of Ida! for too difficult and hard to win o'er is the withdrawn one from whom I've escaped, our mother. one of her sons, the Rhine, tried to force his way into her heart, and from whence, he vanished, the wayward one, no one knows where, into the wan distance. But I harbored no wish to part from her side, and did so only to entreat you to come to me, O thou Grecian Graces, you daughters of what's heavenly, if the journey's not too argerous, and terry with us, you fair ones! _
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