Complete the following: A poem is....

[PrinceMyshkin]

....like a train
with a drunken engineer
at the head of it, whose wife
just left him for another
woman!

His kids never call.
One of them’s a stock-broker,
the other’s an addict and a
thief - and he doesn’t know which
is worse!

And in the caboose
is the rowdiest gang of roisterers
you ever knew, all feeling
each other up and singing:
“Eff the rules! Eff the rules!
Oh, Eff the effing rules!"

[firefangled]

....like a train
with a drunken engineer
at the head of it, whose wife
just left him for another
woman!

His kids never call.
One of them’s a stock-broker,
the other’s an addict and a
thief - and he doesn’t know which
is worse!

And in the caboose
is the rowdiest gang of roisterers
you ever knew, all feeling
each other up and singing:
“Eff the rules! Eff the rules!
Oh, Eff the effing rules!"

I so love it when a poem is absolutely true to itself and this is. And now that the railroads have done away with cabooses, those effing roisters hang out in the effing dining car!

I don't know if I am reading something into this, but I think you made excellent choices as to what you put in the first two stanzas. The first I see an event that would create that urgent motivation to write...then comes the hard part of deciding what makes the poem continue. Just excellent!

[PrinceMyshkin]

I so love it when a poem is absolutely true to itself and this is. And now that the railroads have done away with cabooses, those effing roisters hang out in the effing dining car!

I don't know if I am reading something into this, but I think you made excellent choices as to what you put in the first two stanzas. The first I see an event that would create that urgent motivation to write...then comes the hard part of deciding what makes the poem continue. Just excellent!

However it would appear that you and others may have not understood or were not at all tempted: I hoped that this would start a train of responses each providing a continuation from "A poem is..." (whatever)

So Guzzle me up a poem about what a poem is, if you will...

[Pendragon]

A Poem Is…

emotions set aflame—
out of your hands in a instant
what you may see doesn’t always reveal.
To those who drink at the fountain you leave them—
just a sip of lignified life…

Rorschach tests passed to the world,
what will they discover within?
Dreams written as lines on parchment,
vocalized visions silently seen—
reflections and shadows of what used to be…

Poetry gives people wings…

Pendragon
© 7/19/07

[Bakiryu]

A poem is......

A swirl of letters like a whirlwind
Setting the mind aflame with a tremulous kiss
A song made of quick, flowing sentences
A whisper of what could've been

Music caught forever in paper
Dancing forever unseen to the eye
A word containing a thousand sentences
A poem is a life
Made to live forever eternal.

[PrinceMyshkin]

A Poem Is…

emotions set aflame—
out of your hands in a instant
what you may see doesn’t always reveal.
To those who drink at the fountain you leave them—
just a sip of lignified life…

Rorschach tests passed to the world,
what will they discover within?
Dreams written as lines on parchment,
vocalized visions silently seen—
reflections and shadows of what used to be…

Poetry gives people wings…

Pendragon
© 7/19/07

Many thanks for this, for the thoughts and the wonderful way they flow. And for obliging me to look up "lignified"!

[PrinceMyshkin]

A poem is......

A swirl of letters like a whirlwind
Setting the mind aflame with a tremulous kiss
A song made of quick, flowing sentences
A whisper of what could've been

Music caught forever in paper
Dancing forever unseen to the eye
A word containing a thousand sentences
A poem is a life
Made to live forever eternal.

Stunning, I think, especially


A whisper of what could've been

Music caught forever in paper

[PrinceMyshkin]

...what pain would be
if pain were a stand-up comedian.

A poem is neither false, nor true.
You do not read a poem:
it reads you.

[motherhubbard]

A secret
cloaked in smooth words
Hidden in imagery
Shared, divulged, but kept safe.
Cupped in the hand of Calliope
And whispered into the ear of the poet.

(I also smile at your wit, Prince!)

[firefangled]

a drunkard
from sleep’s solitude
leasing me...
a tenant,
who leaves footprints
in my ears,
comes home nights
feeding my dreams,
an unseen face
creaking the floors,
paying me
in wildflowers,
left pressed
between
my gray bones
like rainbow skies.


I would like to say thank you on behalf of the group and ourselves and I hope we've passed the audition. -JL

[PrinceMyshkin]

Many thanks, Mother H and Firefangled and how nice that the two of you should drop in virtually together!


A poem is
what you forgot to say
the last time
you debated with God.

[CdnReader]

Everyone above, these are all fabulous. Firefangled, directly above, magnificent. I hate to even try to follow that. :)

(...but I will ;)...)

-----

A poem is like the ocean tides...
rushing into my mind
with the force of a 50-foot wave
that crashes through all other thoughts
with impunity.

A poem is like a calm pool...
ideas and emotions
raised from the depths of intimacy,
floating free to the surface.

A poem is like waves on a sandy beach....
interconnected words that swirl and twirl,
rise and fall with the seasons of the moon,
and collect in shallow depressions of the soul.

-cdn-

[kiz_paws]

...the person within me
who is kept quiet
most of the time
until the pen
meets the paper...

[motherhubbard]

They are wonderful. I’m glad I don’t make a habit of trying to measure up to others or I would have to leave the forum in shame.

[Bii]

My offering:

A poem is
a moment,
or a thought
caught in a web
of words.

A poet is
the spider weaving,
entangling
an unsuspecting
prey.


Motherhubbard, don't be so down on yourself - you write lovely poetry.

[ampoule]

A poem is a poultice
that draws me out of myself,
tears that cleanse,
laughter that quiets,
thoughts that teach,
and even anger,
the heat of which burns
the stubborn infection
that keeps my soul from growing.

[Countess]

the orgasmic exstasy of divine presence or mental medieval torture rack.

It really depends.

[motherhubbard]

the orgasmic exstasy of divine presence
Maybe that’s why I like it so well! :thumbs_up

[PrinceMyshkin]

Maybe that’s why I like it so well! :thumbs_up

Could I have a wee bit more time to come up with a smart-a*s*s* answer, please?:D

[Debrasue]

A poem is......

A swirl of letters like a whirlwind
Setting the mind aflame with a tremulous kiss
A song made of quick, flowing sentences
A whisper of what could've been

Music caught forever in paper
Dancing forever unseen to the eye
A word containing a thousand sentences
A poem is a life
Made to live forever eternal.
Wow!!! Bakiryu!....Beautiful! I like your Muse....much more than the Demanding, commanding, 'Don Juan' who seizes my thoughts & compels me to write of his mad desire...no gentle muse is he...Ha!...Why do I get the strange one.....LOL!

[Il Penseroso]

A poem is...
the task of measuring air
chuckled by a chorus
of small children.

It is the rubber bounce
of blossoms to the eye,
the mad careening
of objects melted in reply.

A poem is what's expressed
in whispers to our loves,
the last words we wish
before we die.

[kiz_paws]

A poem is...
the task of measuring air
chuckled by a chorus
of small children.

It is the rubber bounce
of blossoms to the eye,
the mad careening
of objects melted in reply.

A poem is what's expressed
in whispers to our loves,
the last words we wish
before we die.
Bravo, Il Penseroso -- I particularly LOVED the last stanza ... :thumbs_up

[quasimodo1]

To Ampoule: Another great piece which follows the rule we often have conflicts with, i.e. we all take something from our reading but our writing must be strictly something we own alone. See the audio posting in the e.e.cummings thread. quasimodo1

[PrinceMyshkin]

a tether
attached to everything
and nothing

[Granny5]

A POEM IS:

blankets of quietness around me
coffee and smoke and keyboard
thoughts that have no
outlet in daylight or dusk
my heart and mind race to
spill forth the inside me that
only I can see in the darkness
of this early hour

[PrinceMyshkin]

A POEM IS:

blankets of quietness around me
coffee and smoke and keyboard
thoughts that have no
outlet in daylight or dusk
my heart and mind race to
spill forth the inside me that
only I can see in the darkness
of this early hour

I'll be having a chat later with MH regarding the "coffee and smoke," but this is so graceful and spontaneous!

[Granny5]

I'll be having a chat later with MH regarding the "coffee and smoke," but this is so graceful and spontaneous!

You are kind no matter what mother says.

[ampoule]

To Ampoule: Another great piece which follows the rule we often have conflicts with, i.e. we all take something from our reading but our writing must be strictly something we own alone. See the audio posting in the e.e.cummings thread. quasimodo1

Thank you quasimodo1. I will look for it.

[symphony]

*The li'l south-asian peeps in....* :p
erm...if i were to answer...

A Poem is…

Thinking the thoughts,
Voicing the voices,
Feeling the feelings—
Till the pen encounters a nervous bite.

And then there it is—
An image unforeseen
Designed with care,
Till a word becomes a world,
And a dot-
A thought.

The whiteness of the canvas
Reveals from within
All the colors there was in it
All the colors there ever will be…

And there’s no stopping it
Once the emotions are in motion.

The parchment shivers
As the quill jots down its
Imperfect efforts.

A feeling has been felt,
A voice has been voiced,
A thought has found a face—
A poem has been penned down.


The second last stanza is taken from one of my posts in the "all haikus are welcome" thread. Lately I've not been able to participate in all the threads active at the moment, school's keeping me a bit busy and buzzy, this topic caught my eye and I found it quite interesting :) . Thanks PrinceMyshkin for putting it up.
:)

[PrinceMyshkin]

These, I thought


nervous bite.

Till a word becomes a world,
And a dot-
A thought.

All the colors there was in it
All the colors there ever will be…

The parchment shivers
As the quill jots down its
Imperfect efforts.



were particularly good!



a no-man’s land
between insanity
and that other place
where you wander,
asymmetric to your root,
always a little to the left
or the right
of where you ought to be.

In your hand are maps
as trustworthy
as reason
or religion.

Neurons fire
(but at what? At whom?),
criss-crossing old
established routes,
scoring new paths as if
to some other mind.

A poem is
for you, the reader,
mon semblable,
to complete.

[firefangled]

Words are not the poem,
they are only an echo, or shadow
of something real,

a cage for what is wild,
and fleeting. Look how it paces its walls,
wanting escape.

Listen: In the frail air
above the earth, where all cries are whispers,
the hawk, feathered hyphen, rises,

vanishes, an illusion
in morning blue. Ask yourself what is this,
if neither wing nor eye.

[motherhubbard]

I’m not myself tonight so I shouldn’t post anything I’m thinking, but I will anyway

A soft subtle touch
That sneaks up and caresses the nape of your neck
Causing you to think about something else
Something more

A poem is the strong embrace of a memory
To secret to express in mere words
To treasured to share with another
It longs for release and burns its exit in your sanity

A poem is the gleam that hides in the eye of
One who knows or who has known
The secrets of life and has triumphed
Even in sorrow

A poem is what lies beneath
Sinister, lurking, threatening
To speak up.
A peom is what leaves your
Soul exposed for all to walk upon

[PrinceMyshkin]

Gee, I was really liking this until it took that nosedive at the end...Everything before that was either neutral or up-beat. Apart from myself I could name you a whole lot of people here who would probably never think of walking n your soul!

[motherhubbard]

sorry Jerry, like I said i'm not myself. I'm in the dumps a bit.

[PrinceMyshkin]

sorry Jerry, like I said i'm not myself. I'm in the dumps a bit.

Mightn't it cheer you up if you were to call a friend? Like, a really good friend?

[kiz_paws]

A poem is ...

the set of footsteps
that take you on a journey
of delicious abandon
and catches you off guard

[apples of gold]

Jerry, et al, I'm delighted to discover this thread. As soon as I noticed it I started reading some of the other poems by the posters here. I'm humbled by the awesome writes, everyone. And inspired to try to overcome my muselessness.


That Poem is ...


A walk that took him
from where he rested in the arbor
through an embowered doorway
partly shaded in the recess

How could he not have noticed this before

A moment’s hesitation
fell from his crouched knee,
groping vines entangled as he passed under,
the phloem leaking from the leaves
stung his shoulders

As he rose on this side
eyes squinting to the lightness
he stood suddenly wider and taller
in the expanding synthesis
of an immense expiration

He wanted to pin his relict leaves
to something substantial
over there in the thicket
a long way off,
a step away

[PrinceMyshkin]

Jerry, et al, I'm delighted to discover this thread. As soon as I noticed it I started reading some of the other poems by the posters here. I'm humbled by the awesome writes, everyone. And inspired to try to overcome my muselessness.


That Poem is ...


A walk that took him
from where he rested in the arbor
through an embowered doorway
partly shaded in the recess

How could he not have noticed this before

A moment’s hesitation
fell from his crouched knee,
groping vines entangled as he passed under,
the phloem leaking from the leaves
stung his shoulders

As he rose on this side
eyes squinting to the lightness
he stood suddenly wider and taller
in the expanding synthesis
of an immense expiration

He wanted to pin
his relict leaves to something substantial
over there in the thicket
a long way off,
a step away

Permit me to comment that I was speaking with Ms Apple possibly an hour before she posted this, urging her to revisit the site. The foregoing poem did not exist at that time. Even the thought of writing a poem, so far as I know, did not exist in her mind.

And now, here it is,



a long way off,
a step away

[PrinceMyshkin]

A poem is ...

the set of footsteps
that take you on a journey
of delicious abandon
and catches you off guard

I overlooked expressing my admiration for this!

[kiz_paws]

:blush: Thank you kindly :blush:

A poem is the string of the
kite that can touch all
which we aspire
but our feet
are firmly
on the
ground

[apples of gold]

crumpled and burning on the barbie
computer was down for a bit
that was the only other place
I could think of putting it
this being too hot a day
to light the fireplace

[kiz_paws]

crumpled and burning on the barbie
computer was down for a bit
that was the only other place
I could think of putting it
this being too hot a day
to light the fireplace

Sweet! I loved this, apples! Kizzo :)

[Riesa]

very enjoyable reading all of these! as if I read a few dozen earnest compliments about the love of my life, all with lights trained on different aspects that I may have noticed but never defined, it's inspiring to feel the love shared for darling poetry, if that makes sense.. great stuff. :nod:

[PrinceMyshkin]

a finger of the sub-conscious
poked in the eye
of wakefulness;

the triumph of form
over catastrophe;

a door slammed hard
in the face of the eternal salesman
offering what is
at cut-rate prices...

[PrinceMyshkin]

a place where to misbehave
is a kind of elegance
and we get a reprieve from playing
‘house’ or ‘citizen’
or ‘believer'...

[Pendragon]

A Poem Is My Grace

A poem is the place I write on paper words that I am afraid to say,
For the world misunderstands so often what is meant with good intentions.
I write them down in the winsome hope that they might be read someday—

Maybe when this shattered broken body lies somewhere sleeping in the clay.
They will go through all my things and find the words among my meager possessions…
A poem is the place I write on paper words that I am afraid to say,

For each time I open up my mouth it seems that something inside always blocks the way,
And it tells me just to let it all go, that you cannot live a life on repercussions…
I write them down in the winsome hope that they might be read someday—

That maybe they will see the struggle within my soul that grew harder day by day.
Did they take me for a fool and think I never knew about their dark discussions?
A poem is the place I write on paper words that I am afraid to say,

For if I stood up and faced them with the things I know, only God knows why I stay away.
So I just let the world go on, let my body heal, and I learned forgiveness is conclusion.
I write them down in the winsome hope that they might be read someday—

They might not ever know it, but there’s someone they’ve forgotten who still prays
For them every night. Holding grudges is no answer; I don’t call it noble, just tradition.
A poem is the place I write on paper words that I am afraid to say,
I write them down in the winsome hope that they might be read someday—

Dale Harris
© Sunday, July 29, 2007

[CdnReader]

This is really lovely, Pen. Thanks for sharing....

[PrinceMyshkin]

A poem comes in many forms you can go and purchase ready-made,
But you, dear Pen, prefer your villanelles all made to measure.
For some the cookie-cutter mold will never make the grade

There are things we buy, things we own and some we’d never trade
The last are those that mostly give us pleasure.
A poem comes in many forms you can go and purchase ready-made,

The things we truly own are those for which we’ve dearly paid
Which we hold more dear than gold or monetary treasure
For some the cookie cutter mold will never make the grade.

Your truths are those from which you won’t be swayed.
The wholeness of your spirit is what you give full measure.
A poem comes in many forms you can go and purchase ready-made,

Let your love be counted and your good deeds be weighed.
Living gladly is all you ever need of leisure.
A poem comes in many forms you can go and purchase ready-made,
For some the cookie cutter mold will never make the grade.

[firefangled]

a poem is the needle
and the eye
a poem is the thread

and then the eye again

[firefangled]

It has been awhile since visited this thread. I just spent the last good while reading and lost rack of the time everything is so wonderful.

Nice thread Jerry!

[Logos]

a poem is of
the last domain that I shall
ably use my pen :p

(I'll continue to enjoy reading everyone else's though :) )

[littlewing53]

a poem is...
little bits of right now
hidden on pieces of time
written on palms turned upside down
of unknown certainty

[Sweets America]

A poem is
The misunderstood word
Which laughs at your perplexity,
Hidden behind dark bushes in the writer’s heart,
And carrying on endless conversations with your unconscious,
Secretly,
Behind your back.

[PrinceMyshkin]

A poem is
The misunderstood word
Which laughs at your perplexity,
Hidden behind dark bushes in the writer’s heart,
And carrying on endless conversations with your unconscious,
Secretly,
Behind your back.

...a surprise
tucked away in your heart
by your distant or absent lover
waiting to spring out at you
when you need it.

Lovely poem, Ms Sweets, and like so much of you, always more than I expected!

[Pendragon]

A poem is individual,
Bound for eternity to its author,
Part of his or her life’s blood
Splashed upon unforgiving parchment
In lines of words that convey emotion—
Often misunderstood—
Or perhaps, too well understood—
People then cannot face the mirror
That the poem holds and presents:
For they fear to behold their reflection in the glass…

Pendragon
© 10/15/07

[schadenfreude]

A poem is sometimes when I type words
really quickly or as fast as I can go
about everything in the world or about
nothing in particular
without putting in the full stops
and I can watch the words filling up the spaces
like a fast-paced tetris where all the blocks don't fit
but where still win anyway
and sometimes
I abhor what I write and sometimes I don't but
there is some satisfaction letting words roll
out without caring about all the conventions
that come with writing
because grammar and punctuation no longer
matters although
later I may come to regret
the lack of care and foolishness and worrying
that I may have offended someone but
shouldn't poems allow us to break
free of all the restraints holding us
back in our lives?

Then at the end, I go back
and press 'enter' at random places in this poem.

[PrinceMyshkin]

A poem is sometimes when I type words
really quickly or as fast as I can go
about everything in the world or about
nothing in particular
without putting in the full stops
and I can watch the words filling up the spaces
like a fast-paced tetris where all the blocks don't fit
but where still win anyway
and sometimes
I abhor what I write and sometimes I don't but
there is some satisfaction letting words roll
out without caring about all the conventions
that come with writing
because grammar and punctuation no longer
matters although
later I may come to regret
the lack of care and foolishness and worrying
that I may have offended someone but
shouldn't poems allow us to break
free of all the restraints holding us
back in our lives?

Then at the end, I go back
and press 'enter' at random places in this poem.

This
is brilliant!
the rush of feeling
or thought without the intervention
of anxious or 'helpful'
mother, father, school-teacher,
editor or any
of those other super-ego
'friends' who are there
to improve us. Sometimes
we don't want to be
'improved' but just
to be the random,
maculate slobs
or anarchic kids
we are
for better or worse.

This
is a poem!
the rest
is political and every other sort
of correctness.

Bravo!

[Pendragon]

Snapshot

A poem is the magical transference
by written language,
of a frozen moment in time—
from the mind of the writer
to the mind of the reader—
in which both manage to share the emotions
of that captured vision long since past;
forever a snapshot in the words of the poem.
Who says you cannot go home again?

Pendragon
© 11/11/07

[PrinceMyshkin]

an I.O.U. issued by your sub-conscious,
claimed by your conscious self
at a moment of despair
or winsomeness...

[symphony]

A poem is…

a growing wonder.
The pen’s delight
at having touched the paper,
etching its dreams in it
in ink.

A poem is…

the secret sun,
with me, within me,
its zeal too bright
to see with mere eyes.

[NickAdams]

A poem is ...

A White Whale,
that which I chase.
A leg was claimed
And cursed my fate.

A poem is ...

Prey.
Ye O' dreaming lions,
whose bellies kiss
their spinal columns.

A poem is ...

"Words charged with meaning."

[Naya Cos]

A cause
That's never given a pause,
True breath
That outlasts this good earth.




That muse
Whom I may so amuse,
One calling
That I can not at all refuse!





My pulse
Seeing it could not repulse,
The soul
In search of a new a syllable.
(Thank you, double double youuu)

[symphony]

...Ephemeral worlds

caught in

Eternal words...

[PrinceMyshkin]

The naked truth
partially hidden
under threadbare underwear
and a motley of one’s finest clothes
thrown hastily over
a declining body
as one gets ready for the ultimate ball
where the Prince or Princess Charming
will finally and definitively
not appear.





Jerry Newman © 15Nov07

[Pendragon]

Wit of the Stairway

A poem is a stairway
Connecting the planes—
Reality and Imagination,
Fantasy and Fiction,
Are caught in one of Escher’s drawings
And proven to exist.

The stairway leads anywhere,
Never really fastened down,
Going up may be coming down;
The prospective eye of the writer,
Changes direction of the stair.

The stairway might have be built,
Out in the Winchester House in ‘Frisco,
Where the stairs may go anywhere,
Or nowhere at all…

Every poem a stairway,
Even Escher might have had trouble painting,
The crisscross intersections
Of stairways new and old.

Cast across the endless void
Beyond all human reason—
The stairways continue to be built,
And none can say they have climbed them all.

But I’ve climbed a few which left fond memories,
And some which lead to darker places,
And now and then to cross the void,
I have built a few myself.

The stairways all lead somewhere, eventually.
Set your foot upon the first tread,
And watch carefully for the one’s that
Come to a sudden end, Davey Balfour!

Mind the railing…

Pendragon
© 11/19/07

[cracking muse]

...a birthmark, plastered on your skin forever.
Like a sunburn that you itch until you bleed
and posion ivy that just won't go away.
Like a life cut short -

The crackling loudspeaker:
There's an emergency,
there's been a death.

[PrinceMyshkin]

...what it is

and sometimes,
all too often,
what it is not.

[PrinceMyshkin]

...a birthmark, plastered on your skin forever.
Like a sunburn that you itch until you bleed
and posion ivy that just won't go away.
Like a life cut short -

The crackling loudspeaker:
There's an emergency,
there's been a death.

It's tempting to praise this on account of your age but I want you to know how much I admired this before I looked at your profile! Damned fine! Why not start a thread with other of your poems?

[PrinceMyshkin]

a letter that had got misplaced,
never before opened,
from a former lover
you thought had dropped you
so you wept, you gnashed your teeth
you told the story over and over again
to your most patient friends
and then
you found your second best,
your plausible other
and you settled in to loving her.
And you did a pretty good job of it
until, one day, you discovered that letter:
My dearest, most beloved,
I will always...

[QuietMurmurings]

A poem is......

the highest form of intimacy obtainable
liquid thoughts spilled onto parchment dry
allowing all to peer into my deepest
darkest recesses, completely naked

[PrinceMyshkin]

what's left
of a crude
ungainly chunk of marble
after all the extraneous bits
have been chipped away

[thechampion]

great poets die in steaming pots of ****.

[CdnReader]

.

A poem is....

An offering of filtered
wisdom, undeterred by
the inadequacy of my
humanity.

A shaft of brilliant sunlight
piercing the grey shadows
of my darkened and silenced
heartbeat.

An opened palm,
accepting.

.

[PrinceMyshkin]

.

A poem is....

An offering of filtered
wisdom, undeterred by
the inadequacy of my
humanity.

A shaft of brilliant sunlight
piercing the grey shadows
of my darkened and silenced
heartbeat.

An opened palm,
accepting.

.


Way to go, my friend!



A poem is
yet one more attempt
at serenity,

perfect serenity.

[CdnReader]

A poem is
the empty place
in my heart
and the fullness
of my soul.

[Pendragon]

a poem is a spark
that ignites the flame of imagination,
then carefully controls the burning,
for we seek not a forest fire,
neither do we light a smudge pot,
but a beacon to draw others
to the place the fire burns...

Pen

[cjm12345]

.....