What is poetry?

So, what do you value in a poem?

I, myself, primarily focuses at its meaning - symbolism is very important to me - no matter how abstract the words might be. The more minimalist, the better. My favorite poem is a brilliant, two-lined work (in Danish sadly), where the wordplay, the meaning, and the mood is just perfect.

When I write poetry myself, I try to hit somewhere where people don't get the meaning unless they look at what the internals represent (Like the hounds above), and what it symbolizes. Most poems I make are lyrics anyways. I like to think of myself as inspired by Pink Floyd that lack wordplay, but have their lyrics just hazy enough to let one feel intrigued.

Beautiful poems? They can be very nice to read. But symbolism beats anything to me. Then wordplay.

Also, I'd like to distance myself from what I call "vampire poetry" - you know, that kliché emo crap that talks about moons, nights, tears and love that we've heard before way too many times. Let me enlighten what I'm talking about:

Is it love?
Ripped from DeviantArt. One of the most popular poems of all times...

If I hugged you,
would you never let go?

If I kissed you,
would you cherish that moment?

If I reached for your hand,
would you take mine gently?

If I needed a shoulder,
would you let me cry on yours?

If I needed to talk,
would you really listen?

If I needed to scream,
would you do it with me?

If I needed to go,
would you come with me?

If I fell for you,
would you catch me?
or just let me hit the pavement?

~-~

Woah. Deep. That's vampire poetry. That emo should shut up instead. *shudder*

I'm afraid I have bad news for JEELEN - the only poetry book I could find was - Spike Milligan!

I like this one -

A lion is fierce
His teeth can pierce
The skin of a postman's knee

It serves him right
That because of his bite
He gets no letters, you see!

did somebody already do the thing with the plumb? oddly enough I just noticed this thread.

it is a nice exercise in a classroom environment. the plumb thing that is...

hudson's shortcut

essentially you were in the way
we came sailed along on the dream
of a sod: that hudson said
he knew a shortcut to the east
immer gerade aus by the northpole
would lead you quickly to the indies
and we believed this guy, we followed
even when he coldly wondered: 'or westward...?'
captain hudson had been fired before
and when he at strange bay swore
to get to asia we only
had to sail straight through america
we sailed no more - steadfast stuck
from head to tail in the new continent

Ramsey Nasr

(A sonnet without rhyme - or anything, which makes it easy to translate - by the new Dutch national poet.)

I didn't read any of the thread, but my answer to the thread title is: Crap.. Unless it rhymes.

Here's another poem by Li Po (also known as Li T'ai-po):*


Quiet Night Thoughts

A bright light before my bed
I thought it was frost on the ground:
looking up I see the moon,
lower my head and dream of home.


I used both Idema's translation and Arthur Cooper's Li Po and Tu Fu for reference; both have 'moonlight' in the first line, which I kept for the third. Thinking of home is a relished subject in Chinese poetry.

* Idema gives Li Bai as his name, mentioning Li Taibai as an alternative. Li Pai and Li Bo (Pinyin) are also possible. Since he himself also used Tài Bó (Great White, i.e. Venus) we can also get Li Tai Po, Li Tai Bai, etc. Then there's the pseudonym Retired Scholar of the Azure Lotus (Qinglianjushi) and the nicknames Poet Transcendant and Poet Knight-Errant.

This is my translation of a poem by Constantin Cavafy:

Whoever has failed

Whoever has failed, whoever has fallen,
how difficult it is to learn of poverty
the new language and the new ways.

To the horrible foreign houses how he will go!
with what heart shall he walk in the road
and when he is to be found infront of the door where shall he draw
the power from, to knock on the doorbell.
For the lowly need of bread
and for the roof over him, how he shall thank!
How will he confront the cold looks
which will be telling him that he is a burden!
The once proud lips how now
shall begin to speak humbly
and the head which had rised up how now shall be lowered!
The comments how will he listen to that now tear
his ears with every word- but besides that
you should act as if you do not comprehend them
as if you are a simpleton and you cannot understand.

Anonymoose said:

I didn't read any of the thread, but my answer to the thread title is: Crap.. Unless it rhymes.

Click to expand...

Rhythm is almost always much more important than rhyme. Some of the best poetry in the world lacks rhyme, but rhyming lines with no structure (defined by meter, parallelism, cadence matching the meaning of the words, etc) pretty much always suck. Rhyme applied without reason can seriously detract from a poem by establishing and then quickly breaking patterns pointless to the work as a whole.

You can find it here: http://www.kavafis.gr/poems/content.asp?id=223&cat=4


Όποιος απέτυχε

Όποιος απέτυχε, όποιος ξεπέσει
τι δύσκολο να μάθει της πενίας
την νέα γλώσσα και τους νέους τρόπους.

Εις τ’ άθλια ξένα σπίτια πώς θα πάει! —
με τι καρδιά θα περπατεί στον δρόμο
κι όταν στην πόρτα εμπρός βρεθεί πού θά ’βρει
την δύναμι ν’ αγγίξει το κουδούνι.
Για του ψωμιού την ποταπήν ανάγκη
και για την στέγη, πώς θα ευχαριστήσει!
Πώς θ’ αντικρίσει τες ματιές τες κρύες
που θα τον δείχνουνε που είναι βάρος!
Τα χείλη τα υπερήφανα πώς τώρα
θ’ αρχίσουν να ομιλούνε ταπεινά·
και το υψηλό κεφάλι πώς θα σκύψει!
Τα λόγια πώς θ’ ακούσει που ξεσκίζουν
τ’ αυτιά με κάθε λέξι — κ’ εν τοσούτω
πρέπει να κάμνεις σαν να μην τα νιώθεις
σαν να ’σαι απλούς και δεν καταλαμβάνεις

Just read this one, it's by Ruben Dario:

SYMPHONY IN GREY MAJOR

The sea like a vast silvered mirror
reflects the sky like a sheet of zinc;
distant flocks of birds make stains
on the burnished pale grey background.

The sun, like a round, opaque window
with an invalid's steps climbs to the zenith;
the sea wind relaxes in the shade
using its black trumpet as a pillow.

The waves that move their leaden bellies
seem to moan beneath the pier.
Sitting on a cable, smoking his pipe,
is a sailor thinking of the beaches
of a vague, distant, misty land.

This sea-dog is old. The fiery beams
of Brazilian sun have tanned his face;
the wild typhoons of the China sea
have seen him drinking his bottle of gin.

The iodine and saltpetre foam
long has known his ruddy nose,
his curly hair, athletic biceps,
his canvas cap, his blouse of drill.

Surrounded by tobacco smoke
the old man sees the far off misty land
for which one hot and golden evening
his brig set out with all sails set ...

The siesta of the tropics. The sea-dog sleeps.
Now the shades of grey enfold him.
It is as if an enormous soft charcoal
rubbed out the lines of the horizon's arc.

The siesta of the tropics. The old cicada
tries out his senile, raucous guitar
and the cricket strikes up a monotonous solo
on the single string of his violin.

Another poem by Cavafy. This was found at that site, it is not my own translation:

Candles

Days to come stand in front of us
like a row of lighted candles—
golden, warm, and vivid candles.

Days gone by fall behind us,
a gloomy line of snuffed-out candles;
the nearest are smoking still,
cold, melted, and bent.

I don’t want to look at them: their shape saddens me,
and it saddens me to remember their original light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.

I don’t want to turn for fear of seeing, terrified,
how quickly that dark line gets longer,
how quickly the snuffed-out candles proliferate.