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I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman, for Christ's sake. Can anyone REALLY break down his poetry and say it was great because it followed some time-honored form? It was great because he had something powerful to express that spoke to so many people.

Just another take on it.
(05-27-2014, 11:44 PM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman, for Christ's sake. Can anyone REALLY break down his poetry and say it was great because it followed some time-honored form? It was great because he had something powerful to express that spoke to so many people.

Just another take on it.

You are claiming that Walt Whitman didn't study or use craft in poetry?
(05-28-2014, 12:27 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-27-2014, 11:44 PM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman, for Christ's sake. Can anyone REALLY break down his poetry and say it was great because it followed some time-honored form? It was great because he had something powerful to express that spoke to so many people.

Just another take on it.

You are claiming that Walt Whitman didn't study or use craft in poetry?

No.
"Cadence" is the word I believe you are looking for. You might also compare Whitman's "Song of Myself" With Blake's "Milton".

"I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
this air"

-------------------------------------------------------------
"Let the Bard himself witness. Where hadst thou this terrible Song.?

The Bard replied: I am Inspired! I know it is Truth! for I Sing

According to the inspiration of the Poetic Genius,

Who is the eternal all proteding Divine Humanity,

To whom be Glory & Power & Dominion Evermore."

excerpt from Blake's Milton- pp 11-12 verses 45-50
(05-28-2014, 12:52 AM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 12:27 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-27-2014, 11:44 PM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman, for Christ's sake. Can anyone REALLY break down his poetry and say it was great because it followed some time-honored form? It was great because he had something powerful to express that spoke to so many people.

Just another take on it.

You are claiming that Walt Whitman didn't study or use craft in poetry?

No.

Then I have a difficult time reconciling this statement

Quote:I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman,
(05-28-2014, 03:22 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 12:52 AM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 12:27 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]You are claiming that Walt Whitman didn't study or use craft in poetry?

No.

Then I have a difficult time reconciling this statement

Quote:I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman,

I'm sorry to hear that.
(05-28-2014, 05:21 AM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 03:22 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 12:52 AM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]No.

Then I have a difficult time reconciling this statement

Quote:I don't know. The craft of poetry is very interesting. But there's also the poets (great ones) who said the hell with it, and largely made their own forms and styles. Look at Walt Whitman,

I'm sorry to hear that.

I think you might want to consider writing it more clearly.
(05-28-2014, 05:36 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 05:21 AM)NobodyNothing Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 03:22 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Then I have a difficult time reconciling this statement

I'm sorry to hear that.

I think you might want to consider writing it more clearly.

I'm going through a lot now, just don't have much of my wits.
Writing poetry is living in the suburbs of New York and knowing that the important things in life are stainless steel appliances and granite countertops and well-trimmed lawns and one day looking around and seeing that everyone is the exact same and wanting to maybe be a little different so you decide to go on an adventure and you get on a plane and fly to Africa so that you can be different from all the people in your sub-division discussing the importance of picking out the correct blinds. And poetry is hating the dusty heat of Africa that makes your skin itch and the smell of the people and the animals all mixing together and sleeping in a tent when it is so hot you can’t breathe and the mosquito netting and agreeing to go on a night time safari even though you really just want to stay back at the hotel and drink gin.

And then it happens to you - poetry is that wonder of seeing a wild horse appear on that safari and being amazed at its indifference as it flexes its moon-dappled flanks and then it’s gone but you suddenly have a need to share it with others but you don’t know much about horses or have the skill you need so you make a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you fly back to New York and you meet up with others who have kids-crayon-drawings of horses and they remind you of that moonlit safari in Africa and your own wonder so you tell them how great it is and some people try to tell you it’s not that good and they have these expertly drawn pictures of boring old plough horses and they may be good at drawing but their boring old horses aren’t your magical horse which belongs to only you. And hopefully you can continue to be happy drawing crayon pictures of horses and sharing them with others in your knowledge that they are good and they are unique and they are your own but . . .

Some times you will wake up and see the kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and realize that it isn’t actually your horse at all so you get on a plane and go back to Africa and you search the plains until you find that magical horse and you build a farm and chain that horse to a plough and study that horse every day. You feed the horse and the horse feeds you by pulling that plough and you learn about horses and how they really are and the horse’s silky mane turns the dun color of dust and its flanks grow stouter and it is beautiful in its honesty. So you fly back to New York and you draw perfect meticulous drawings of plough horses that show each line of wear on the tack and the dirt of the plough is so expertly rendered you can smell the earth and you share it with others and you all share your great pictures of plough horses and occasionally someone shows a kids-crayon-drawing of a horse and you roll your eyes because you remember when that was you and hopefully you can stay this way forever happy in your superiority but . . .

Some day you may look at your drawings of plough horses and remember that one magical night on moonlit safari in Africa when you saw that one wild horse so you fly back to Africa, back toyour old horse and your old farm and you stay so long that the horse can’t pull the plough anymore so you hitch yourself to the plough and you feed your old friend and keep his hay sweet and give him oats when his old toothless gums bleed and one day your old friend lays down for his last time and you stay there with him until he expires and maybe, in that last moment, you can see him as the majestic creature he once was – that beautiful horse that appeared in the moonlight so you go back to New York and now you are Keats and you spend the rest of your life writing about everything that’s beautiful with your perfect precision and your beautiful words and people read your writing and they want to display you in their galleries in Soho or have you speak at their functions and you are happy forever.

Well, I hope that is you. But maybe, and I certainly hope not, but maybe in those last moments with the horse, as you are with him and he is dying, maybe as your mind recaptures the beauty of that horse in the moonlight the scene zooms out and you see something else – a man seeing that horse for the first time and that is when you come to the terrible realization that your poem was never a horse at all but the horrible story of a man that saw something wonderful and spent his life trying to communicate with others. Your poem is the terrible loneliness of mankind and you stay in Africa all alone trying to find yourself or some way to break free from yourself and smash your body against time like the waves against the shore in the hopeless desperation that is man – lost and alone. Well, I hope that isn’t you, but if it is, I sure would like to read your poem.
hoowhee, two laughs and an empty pit. Beautiful read.
I could do better.
(05-27-2014, 10:49 AM)Tiger the Lion Wrote: [ -> ]I am very impressed with the comments on this thread. Leanne's first post was especially inspiring. I am so happy to have found this forum even if a little intimidated. I'm almost more nervous to post a poor criticism than a poor poem. Ha ha. But I like the change in paradigm. As a Newbie, it's thrilling to see that more seasoned artists are reading new work, and giving honest criticism. Thank you all in advance for helping me improve.

I am also very impressed with this tread, not that I have been exposed to mass volumes of them, but this is one of those captivating moments. Like I have wondered into a deep dark jungle full of the unknown, and just when total panic is about seize me; I begin to hear calm voices talking of this same fear, they once faced themselves, and why they are so happy that they stayed.
As you listen they begin to explain the names of trees and flowers, the animals and the parts played by them all, and now I know why I wondered into this beautiful jungle called poetry. The Hope of possibilities for all.
I've always had a certain anxiety about trying to do justice to something I've been moved by enough to attempt to express. All in the game, I guess.
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is ...

Wonderful metaphor. While the cuts from NY to Africa are quite good;
the horse, in each stage of its evolution, is sublime.

A novel in six stanzas.



P.S. In my own life, I think I've made it to the end of stanza two. Though there are a few differences: I can't afford
stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, or trips to Africa. I yearn to be normal, not different. Instead of crayon
drawings of horses, I draw red triangles and proclaim them to be real horses. I consider being lost and alone an advantage
as it limits the number of assholes I have to put up with to one. I hope the real truth - that I'm a red triangle -
is never revealed to me.

(05-28-2014, 10:00 AM)rayheinrich Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is ...

Wonderful metaphor. While the cuts from NY to Africa are quite good;
the horse, in each stage of its evolution, is sublime.

A novel in six stanzas.



P.S. In my own life, I think I've made it to the end of stanza two. Though there are a few differences: I can't afford
stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and trips to Africa. I yearn to be normal, not different. Instead of crayon
drawings of horses, I draw red triangles and proclaim them to be real horses. I consider being lost and alone an advantage
as it limits the number of assholes I have to put up with to one. I hope the real truth - that I'm a red triangle -
is never revealed to me.


No kidding. If he tells me that he knocked that off at work during a few moments in-between, I think I'll shoot myself.
(05-28-2014, 10:00 AM)rayheinrich Wrote: [ -> ]
(05-28-2014, 06:35 AM)milo Wrote: [ -> ]Writing poetry is ...



P.S. In my own life, I think I've made it to the end of stanza two. Though there are a few differences: I can't afford
stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, or trips to Africa. I yearn to be normal, not different. Instead of crayon
drawings of horses, I draw red triangles and proclaim them to be real horses. I consider being lost and alone an advantage
as it limits the number of assholes I have to put up with to one. I hope the real truth - that I'm a red triangle -
is never revealed to me.


Well, I know that's not true, but thanks for reminding me that there was something i wanted to do.



                [Image: Cow.jpg]



i've been lucky, i've been the horse and the lonely man and i enjoyed the being of both. being them was easy explaining how, or why, is my Achilles foot part. sadlly my life is also full of cliche that binds me in unoriginal clingfilm. great write milo
I think that one practices different skills and techniques until they become internalized, something akin to the balance we learn when learning to ride a bike. There are just too many things to rationally control, but when inspiration hits these things have become so ingrained we use them as though they were intuition. There are just too many variables to be thinking about each one. This is not an uncommon process seen in many fields. When playing the piano, I do not think about the keys or how to group a cord, my mind automatically puts them together. The same with typing. It would take me forever if I had to find each key anew each time. It is all just a matter of doing something over and over. This is what allows us to get out of the way for what ever wishes to be made manifest or be born if you will.

dale
Hopkins spoke of the Parnassian and the inspired. Parnassian is what any half-decent poet can knock up at will, though the process can take from anywhere between a few minutes to a few days.
But inspired poetry is purely a function of variables beyond the poet's control, since inspiration can't be forced, but rather comes about as a result of complex interaction of hundreds of psychological variables.
So inspired poetry is flippin hard to write.
I was going to launch into a rambling account of how I came to be a poetic pretender, but I'll do that in verse some other time.
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