' Live-Poets Society ' – A Corner For Poetry

[AC Benus]

Tim and Dugh,

 

I've actually wanted to write this type of verse for years, ever since I heard a short story read on the radio where a teacher's student recites a poem about summer plums. I cannot recall any details, other than the plums were sweet, so the poet ate them. 

 

It was very inspiring, as it speaks to the eternal through the experience of the now. 

 

Things just fell into place for me this morning, and I popped onto this thread to jot it down 'Live'

 

Thanks for your feedback. 

[Mikiesboy]

Tim and Dugh,

 

I've actually wanted to write this type of verse for years, ever since I heard a short story read on the radio where a teacher's student recites a poem about summer plums. I cannot recall any details, other than the plums were sweet, so the poet ate them. 

 

It was very inspiring, as it speaks to the eternal through the experience of the now. 

 

Things just fell into place for me this morning, and I popped onto this thread to jot it down 'Live'

 

Thanks for your feedback. 

I think it's a great idea... food and poetry both nourish us. I love it. 

[AC Benus]

Dear Live Poets! I wrote the study for a Rubaiyat this morning for a chapter I'm working on. I'm not too sure - perhaps it's best to think of it as only the opening of a longer piece (?) - but I do want to practice this form more. 

 

Any feedback you may have is welcomed. Cheers!

 

----

 

Views shuffle and change,

the dealt cards always seem strange

to the one before whom they're laid –

'fore it's our chance to rearrange.

 

When the dealer's paid,

when the trump-holding bet's made,

and thoughts of loss are tossed like quoits –

who's to say we bluff unafraid?

 

And thus is my choice

chosen by another voice

who has the genuine control –

and for me will weep or rejoice.

[Mikiesboy]

Dear Live Poets! I wrote the study for a Rubaiyat this morning for a chapter I'm working on. I'm not too sure - perhaps it's best to think of it as only the opening of a longer piece (?) - but I do want to practice this form more. 

 

Any feedback you may have is welcomed. Cheers!

 

----

 

Views shuffle and change,

the dealt cards always seem strange

to the one before whom they're laid –

'fore it's our chance to rearrange.

 

When the dealer's paid,

when the trump-holding bet's made,

and thoughts of loss are tossed like quoits –

who's to say we bluff unafraid?

 

And thus is my choice

chosen by another voice

who has the genuine control –

and for me will weep or rejoice.

:heart: Wow.. interesting. I like it. The rhymes are really work and i love the word quoits.  As to where this is best used, I can see it as the opening of a chapter or a story. Why not a chapter, it says so much. 

[AC Benus]

:heart: Wow.. interesting. I like it. The rhymes are really work and i love the word quoits.  As to where this is best used, I can see it as the opening of a chapter or a story. Why not a chapter, it says so much. 

Oh, thank you. It does open the third section of a chapter. 

[Emi GS]

　

The waterlily

 

I do love the white water-lily,

because she is so pale and so quiet her crown

unfolds in the light.

 

Rising up from dark-cool pond soil

she has found the light and then opened up

joyfully the golden heart.

 

Now she rests musing on the water surface

and wishes no more....

 

That was just felt like a cure for my aching heart, right now. Its so pure and peacefulness embraced me reading it. It lifted some of filthy mood off, or otherwise it would have ended a nasty day for me. Thanks for sharing me...

[Emi GS]

The nature of poetry...

 

Yesterday I baked a loaf of bread,

nothing special, just a sandwich loaf.

This morning I sliced it, and it was perfect.

Perfectly risen, perfectly baked - soft as silky memory.

I got out two conserves, peach and apricot,

and ate it remembering the bread

Marian and Dolores made when I was a child;

It was that good.

 

These are the moments poetry

was invented to try and capture

forever.

 

Oddly, I heard the same thing on my local PBS this morning. I have forgotten the name of the poet being interviewed but she said people often ask why she writes about mundane ordinary things. Her response was, my life is filled with mundane and ordinary things so that is what I write about.

I mostly written my poetry out of nature and out of misery. But I never written, other than the cycling one to get my Dad's phone, from the things I had done. But I'd definitely agree with you guys like a dot. Simple things make a great world out of us.

 

Thanks guys, for letting us know your opinions and that a very yummy poem Ben, and now I want eat something...

[Emi GS]

Dear Live Poets! I wrote the study for a Rubaiyat this morning for a chapter I'm working on. I'm not too sure - perhaps it's best to think of it as only the opening of a longer piece (?) - but I do want to practice this form more.

 

Any feedback you may have is welcomed. Cheers!

 

----

 

Views shuffle and change,

the dealt cards always seem strange

to the one before whom they're laid –

'fore it's our chance to rearrange.

 

When the dealer's paid,

when the trump-holding bet's made,

and thoughts of loss are tossed like quoits –

who's to say we bluff unafraid?

 

And thus is my choice

chosen by another voice

who has the genuine control –

and for me will weep or rejoice.

I can see its not a 10 syllable poem. Beats??? Don't ask me about that. Beats just beats me off every time. So I have nothing to say on that part of the form. Coming rhyming, they are just perfect and adjacent. And I was expecting/hoping for the fourth stanza that rhyming alike. That too if you wanna continue with it...

 

Nice Rubaiyat and I am waiting for a complete one if it was a new story. If its new chapter, I have to followup for the before ones...

[AC Benus]

...for the end of summer...

 

 

At 12 o'clock in the afternoon

    In the middle of the street –

        Alexis.

 

Summer has all but brought the fruit

    to its perilous end:

        but the summer light & that boy's look

 

did their work on me.

    Night hides the sun.

        Your face consumes my dreams.

 

Others feel sleep as feathered rest;

    mine but in flame refigures

        your image lit in me.

Meleager

[Peter Whigham, translator]   

Edited August 5, 2016 by AC Benus

[J.HunterDunn]

...for the end of summer...

 

 

At 12 o'clock in the afternoon

    In the middle of the street –

        Alexis.

 

Summer has all but brought the fruit

    to its perilous end:

        but the summer light & that boy's look

 

did their work on me.

    Night hides the sun.

        Your face consumes my dreams.

 

Others feel sleep as feathered rest;

    mine but in flame refigures

        your image lit in me.

Meleager

[Peter Whigham, translator]   

 

Hard to believe that was written over 22 centuries ago. Its beauty survived the ages.

Edited August 6, 2016 by J.HunterDunn

[AC Benus]

Hard to believe that was written over 22 centuries ago. Its beauty survived the ages.

...only words are tougher than bronze... Thanks, Peter. I do so love the classics 

[Mikiesboy]

...only words are tougher than bronze... Thanks, Peter. I do so love the classics 

It is timeless.. i absolutely love it 

[Emi GS]

Hard to believe that was written over 22 centuries ago. Its beauty survived the ages.

I am shocked by learning the truth. That long!!!

 

...only words are tougher than bronze... Thanks, Peter. I do so love the classics

Yes they are. You are absolutely right Ben...

[Mikiesboy]

2 poems for a Saturday afternoon

[AC Benus]

2 poems for a Saturday afternoon

Read, reviewed and recommended

[Mikiesboy]

Read, reviewed and recommended

[dughlas]

2 poems for a Saturday afternoon

I have read and reviewed as well.

[Emi GS]

2 poems for a Saturday afternoon

Read and Reviewed...

[Parker Owens]

I got back from vacation last night.  Rather than send everyone bits of messages (there was no internet in the north woods) or post terrible pictures, I wrote a short poem each day to capture something worth remembering. I am posting these Postcards and Snapshots to Occasional Poetry. I hope you like them better than blackened marshmallows.

 

They are here...  https://www.gayauthors.org/story/parker-owens/occasionalpoetry/37

[Emi GS]

I got back from vacation last night. Rather than send everyone bits of messages (there was no internet in the north woods) or post terrible pictures, I wrote a short poem each day to capture something worth remembering. I am posting these Postcards and Snapshots to Occasional Poetry. I hope you like them better than blackened marshmallows.

 

They are here... https://www.gayauthors.org/story/parker-owens/occasionalpoetry/37

Read And Reviewed...

 

Those are Amazing poems and I Loved them all. You are so captured them with your poems. Congratulations on that...

[Mikiesboy]

I got back from vacation last night.  Rather than send everyone bits of messages (there was no internet in the north woods) or post terrible pictures, I wrote a short poem each day to capture something worth remembering. I am posting these Postcards and Snapshots to Occasional Poetry. I hope you like them better than blackened marshmallows.

 

They are here...  https://www.gayauthors.org/story/parker-owens/occasionalpoetry/37

I liked em, like toasted marshmallows too ...

[dughlas]

I got back from vacation last night.  Rather than send everyone bits of messages (there was no internet in the north woods) or post terrible pictures, I wrote a short poem each day to capture something worth remembering. I am posting these Postcards and Snapshots to Occasional Poetry. I hope you like them better than blackened marshmallows

For me it was the loons ...

[Parker Owens]

Here is a response to the Ballade poetry prompt...any comments?

 

Across the crowded floor I see your face,

but if I want to watch, I must be sly;

you mustn't get an inkling or a trace,

for if you did, then all would go awry;

so every moment I must turn my eye,

parenting interest in my host's guitar;

lest he detect me holding back a sigh,

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

You move amidst the crowd depicting grace,

while on the margins, tongue-tied, standing by,

and knowing that I look so out of place,

to fade into the woodwork will I try,

and slip into the night without goodbye,

so I might make my way out to my car

before another guest could ask me why

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

Yet even as my longing I efface,

your voice rings out behind me, asking why;

and turned to you, my head hangs in disgrace,

I mumble my excuses in reply;

but even ad I babble and supply

a convoluted personal histoire,

you take my arm, and dumbly I comply,

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

When in the night, conventions we defy,

for you have left your chamber door ajar,

I wonder if the gods can hear me cry,

and all the world must know what fools we are.

[AC Benus]

I knew you'd excel at the Ballade form, Parker. For what I am assuming is your first poem in this form, it's truly impressive; your narrative is crystal clear; your rhymes flow smoothly; and it looks like you've created a touching and heartfelt emotional world for the reader to inhabit. Bravo   

[Emi GS]

 

Here is a response to the Ballade poetry prompt...any comments?

 

Across the crowded floor I see your face,

but if I want to watch, I must be sly;

you mustn't get an inkling or a trace,

for if you did, then all would go awry;

so every moment I must turn my eye,

parenting interest in my host's guitar;

lest he detect me holding back a sigh,

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

You move amidst the crowd depicting grace,

while on the margins, tongue-tied, standing by,

and knowing that I look so out of place,

to fade into the woodwork will I try,

and slip into the night without goodbye,

so I might make my way out to my car

before another guest could ask me why

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

Yet even as my longing I efface,

your voice rings out behind me, asking why;

and turned to you, my head hangs in disgrace,

I mumble my excuses in reply;

but even ad I babble and supply

a convoluted personal histoire,

you take my arm, and dumbly I comply,

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

When in the night, conventions we defy,

for you have left your chamber door ajar,

I wonder if the gods can hear me cry,

and all the world must know what fools we are.

 

My first instinct ~ Check on the form

 

As for my Second ~ I have to agree with Ben, how your poem excelled on rhymes and picturing the story or song.

 

And from me personally ~ As I can understand. Its revealing a sad song(?). I felt the urge but the fear. I can see the serenity and the curiosity filled with tension. Its a ball of mixed emotions, finally resulted in sad. Is it complete there, or yet to be started!!!

 

Wonderfully done my friend...