I've been on OS for a relatively short time and am really enjoying the wealth of talent, divergent views (sort of), humor, pathos, and funny comments that I've found. It's clearly a community of people that respects each other (mostly), and I like being a part of it. Warm and fuzzy almost, (even Tink), and even if I'm still sort of on the outside looking in.
It's made me start writing and feels like a much better use of my time than ignoring prayer requests on Facebook.
But, that being said, and with due respect to all the people who write and put themselves out in cyberspace for all to see, I have to admit that I find myself passing over the poetry.
I'll click on a title that sounds interesting, wait for the page to open, see that it's a poem, and boom, I backspace. I'm out of there.
The close set eyes
stare blankly back
at....
Well..., frankly, I'll just never know, because I haven't stayed around to see. And to all the poets, I apologize. I may be helping your view numbers, but I'm doing absolutely nothing for your ratings.
It's not that there's no respect. It's just that I don't have a clue as to how to determine what's good. Oh sure, I kow what I like. But what I like is usually off color limericks, the poems that rhyme, or the ones that are good and funny. Which means that I probably completely overlook the ones that are actually good.
It's partly because I remember dipping my own toe into writing poetry back in my teens and early twenties, with all the self absorbed drama that came with that time. I'll run across those poems on occassion in old boxes and am kind of intrigued, but mostly I'm just embarassed.
And I know that good poetry is more than that. Yet, somehow I can't get beyond the belief that poetry is a sort of lazy type of writing (and here again, I apologize, because I know it's my own ignorance, and I know how long you struggle over a single word). But to my ear, any good prose can be read to sound like good poetry. And if that's the case, then isn't a poem really just a lazy man's prose. A shorthand, so to speak.
But just when I think I have it figured out, I remember that really good prose takes out all the extraneous words. And I start thinking that maybe poetry is the best type of prose. Good prose taken to its very bare bones limit. Perfect prose. And, once again, I'm confused.
Which is why I keep passing over the poetry. Because, really, I don't have a clue.
In one of those old boxes, I found a poem that my sister wrote in high school. And, again, I apologize just in case she didn't actually write it , but took it from a book of Rod McKuen or Susan Polis Schutz or somebody. But it goes like this.
I saw a leaf
fall from a tree
And I wrote about that leaf
And called it a poem.
But later,
I wondered,
Was it a poem
Or was it only a leaf.
"Exactly!" I say. "Well done."
Which is why I keep passing over poetry.


Salon.com
Comments
Trying to analyze why I wrote a poem for the post I put up Saturday, it occurs to me I wanted to distance myself by using a less personal voice. Could have done it with prose, of course, but I wanted the impersonal voice to try to capture, less obviously, a moment that was very personal for me. My intention was to use a viewpoint that was as much hers as mine. Had I tried to do this in straight prose I fear it would have come off as either awkward, self indulgent or cute. Maybe the poetic approach does, too, but it didn't seem so at the time.
Another writer here who occasionally gives us strong Bukowski-like lyrics is Scanner. Nothing esoteric or lazy about his voice, which is raw, honest and powerful.
Read Shelly and W. Wordsworth ref:, poetry.
Those two really 'blew' my Alpaca socks off.
P.S.
I tried to comment here earlier. Comment?
It no go`gin. Ask Kerry? He eat and blow nose.
Huh?
Never wipe your nose (Rita) on a linen tablecloth.
Use?
Ties
Socks
I bathed.
I go shop.
I but socks.
I buy Rita socks.
Alpaca socks are soft.
I Hope this commeny go.
still very little forgiveness in thy heart
for the bald editor.
oh! mz. jlasthre! sorry to intrude on yer blog.
re . poetry: bunch lazy peepul who cannot bother to use
good grammar. or syntax.
like the above gentleman.
mr. art james.
as for Poetry, twas robert frost who said
"A poem...begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
It is a reaching-out toward expression;
an effort to find fulfillment.
A complete poem is one where
an emotion finds the thought and the thought finds the words."
see how easy it is!?
(yikes.)
then again:
"To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie —
True Poems flee —"
Emily Dickinson.
Poetry i leave to Poets. i strive to make a voice heard.
one of the many in my head.
poetry?
prose?
words!
fun!
Robert Frost, letter t
`
I am sorry
folk are hubris
some persist
hamartia is
self-ruins
`
James M.E.
at a brunch
He sneezes
Mucus on tie
`
Kerry walks in wind
he blows down to ground
and hyperventilate as he
hold on to dirty mop wig.
`
Kerry robs others wigs.
He searches dark closet.
Kerry steal wig for head.
And as one who has met Romantic Poetess, I would suggest you read her posts whenever you can.
Try a little Billy Collins ( "Workshop" ) & see if it chimes :
I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.
It gets me right away because I’m in a workshop now
so immediately the poem has my attention,
like the Ancient Mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.
And I like the first couple of stanzas,
the way they establish this mode of self-pointing
that runs through the whole poem
and tells us that words are food thrown down
on the ground for other words to eat.
I can almost taste the tail of the snake
in its own mouth,
if you know what I mean.
But what I’m not sure about is the voice,
which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,
but other times seems standoffish,
professorial in the worst sense of the word
like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.
But maybe that’s just what it wants to do.
What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,
especially the fourth one.
I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges
which gives me a very clear picture.
And I really like how this drawbridge operator
just appears out of the blue
with his feet up on the iron railing
and his fishing pole jigging—I like jigging—
a hook in the slow industrial canal below.
I love slow industrial canal below. All those l’s.
Maybe it’s just me,
but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.
I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?
And what’s an obbligato of snow?
Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.
At that point I’m lost. I need help.
The other thing that throws me off,
and maybe this is just me,
is the way the scene keeps shifting around.
First, we’re in this big aerodrome
and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,
which makes me think this could be a dream.
Then he takes us into his garden,
the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,
though that’s nice, the coiling hose,
but then I’m not sure where we’re supposed to be.
The rain and the mint green light,
that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?
Or is it a kind of indoor cemetery?
There’s something about death going on here.
In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none.
But then there’s that last stanza, my favorite.
This is where the poem wins me back,
especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.
I mean we’ve all seen these images in cartoons before,
but I still love the details he uses
when he’s describing where he lives.
The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,
the bed made out of a curled-back sardine can,
the spool of thread for a table.
I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work
night after night collecting all these things
while the people in the house were fast asleep,
and that gives me a very strong feeling,
a very powerful sense of something.
But I don’t know if anyone else was feeling that.
Maybe that was just me.
Maybe that’s just the way I read it.
I think some people just think linear.
Your BIO tells us you studied `Law.
`
How do you think poets read lawyers?
They read over and over`gin and weep.
Reading (lawyers not all of them) them?
`
It like trying to sing and dance like Cubans.
Lucy loved Desi Arnaz. Reader get so dizzy.
I may change (in my mind's eye) Kerry L..
Kerry G. G- for Grace. Kerry A.? Alice?
He (Kerry) needs (if he wants) to get DVD.
`
Alice's Adventure in Wonderland. Look?
Kerrry etc.,can Look In The Looking Glass.
Kim Gamble? smile. You ever read a book?
Read `The Little Red Hen. REad ads. Oho!
And my second thought is, "How did you come to the mind set that your decision to over look poetry at Open Salon, for whatever reason, was somehow of interest to anyone else?"
The spring wind comes from the east and quickly passes,
Leaving faint ripples in the wine of the golden bowl.
The flowers fall, flake after flake, myriads together.
You, pretty girl, wine-flushed,
Your rosy face is rosier still.
How long may the peach and plum trees flower
By the green-painted house?
The fleeting light deceives man,
Brings soon the stumbling age.
Rise and dance
In the westering sun
While the urge of youthful years is yet unsubdued!
What avails to lament after one's hair has turned white
like silken threads?
Someone had to do it, Bard. Someone had to tell it like it is.
But I've decided to invited ms. jlsathre (how DO you pronounce that?) over to my place for refreshments.
Come by. There'll be plenty for everyone.
I'd love to hear a bit of Satie, but not much.
jlsathre is a mystery ~ I just call her Jo.
I used to get hung up on discovering the "deeper" meaning of a poem and for a time, felt about poetry the way I feel about algebraic word problems. NOOOOOO!!! Intimidated. Then I read something by a poet (don't remember who it was) who said, forget that, sometimes there is no deeper meaning, sometimes there's multiple meanings, sometimes only the poet knows what it means. Just read it and feel it in your gut. That's how I read a poem now. And although yes there are the more complex ones, that require study and analysis, at heart it's always an emotional reaction. I think it's the highest form of writing; it's like sculpting words into shapes and new creations; that is no easy feat. It's making words do double & triple duty, to convey sometimes huge concepts into mere lines or stanzas.
-SHOUT OUT TO OS POETS HERE-
I admire poets more than any other type of writer because it is so very difficult to choose the right words; to say so much with so little. The emotions and ideas conveyed in some poems are the equivalent of novels. It's an impossible thing to do! I admire those who translate poetry too, from one language to another. That's an art in itself. And I admire the poets on OS for knowing they most likely will never get an EP (boo) but still put it out there because they are so very good and they are adding the blossoms & color to the garden that is OS, in my opinion.
Here's one of the first things I read that made me think maybe I'd give poetry another try and not be so scared of it:
This anonymous writer could have said, I miss my lover, Imiss my home, I'm lonely, I'm cold. Instead, he says this:
Western wind, when wilt thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ, if my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
- - - -Oxford Book of 16th Century Verse
And in those 4 lines, tells us so much more about himself.
Now here's another one that had a huge impact on me:
A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
How do you feel after reading this? That's how you determine what's good. Like looking at a painting. Go with your gut.
I'd say don't dismiss the poetry on OS just yet; try again. There are many different styles here, some you'll like some you won't. Just like writers. But poetry I've found is good for your soul and once you start enjoying it you crave more.
So that's tonight's lesson on WHY READING SOME POEMS IS GOOD FOR YOU.
Now lets see what kind of a mess they've left us in the kitchen.
I think the editor agrees with you :)
One nice thing about poetry is that you can puke up your darkest fears and get an attagirl for it. If I added more words, would the meaning be any different? probably... Laugh, that is the greatest thing about poetry, you can be puking and convulsing away and someone else can come up and go "I LOVE flowers" and you think- cool...you got flowers from that, you rock.
Poetry makes me feel connected, not just here, but with past generations as well. The first time I read Rumi I cried with my less aloneness. If that is due to someone's inability to find more words, I'm all good with that.
Jo (can I call you Jo? JL?) you're a sweetheart for letting the goateed, bereted, sunglassed hangers-on gather for a pre-holiday... hey WHAT are they DOING over there (excuse me... pssst. Hey, do you two want a um, towel or something?)
Sorry.
Margaret, I have a deep love for poems that have no deeper meaning on the surface, as it were. They get extra points if they're written in normal, everyday language as though it was just someone talking over drinks at a party (yes, I'll have another please... thanks) but also just HAPPEN to scan perfectly. Little Kate did one in 2010 I think - I can't find it just now, but I'll ask her. As for Langston Hughes, I wanted to do some settings of his stuff when I was composing, but after reading his complete I was so depressed I couldn't write a note. His voice was commanding, and the pain his stuff came out of was overwhelming to me.
But you know what I like about that one from the Oxford Book, this line:
Christ, if my love were in my arms
...because right there in front of me, from 400+ years ago, is someone swearing exactly like I would, right now, today. And in meter, of course. Same language, same meter, same sentiment, same way of expressing it, same poetic sensibilities, FOUR CENTURIES AGO.
I guess that's a note to Julie as well. Past generations and all.
Hey, there's coffee at my place this morning.
http://open.salon.com/blog/little_kate/2011/03/15/the_little_girl
The line that got to me was this:
Some days were good; but, God, some days were bad.
Sharp, unmistakable, and extremely familiar sentiment. Plain, everyday language, like it was just tossed off. And perfect iambic pentameter. Yum.