What is not a poem?

[PrinceMyshkin]

The breakfast I had this morning
with two visiting, much-loved friends:
Ruth, the hidden-child survivor of the Holocaust
who somewhat compulsively
advises me what to write,
whom to love, how
to manage my health;
Cecil, her husband of some fifty years
who sits by, smiling Bodhisattva-like
at his wife’s inveterate
managerial impulse?
My morning ritual bowel movement?
My eagerness on the drive home
to get here and write it down,
write it all down,
every blister and jolt?






Jerry Newman © 01Nov07

[ampoule]

I remember Aunt Shecky had some good comments about this subject. I need to go and find them....something about just throwing things down on the page. I know my poems are too 'prosey' so I often think I should just elaborate and put them in short stories.
It's a mystery to me. I used to truly believe that a real poem was like 'roses are red, violets are blue....' with perfect rhymes and catchy meters.
Of course, your question is probably just rhetorical and I'm a babbling fool showing what a dodo I am.

[blazeofglory]

The breakfast I had this morning
with two visiting, much-loved friends:
Ruth, the hidden-child survivor of the Holocaust
who somewhat compulsively
advises me what to write,
whom to love, how
to manage my health;
Cecil, her husband of some fifty years
who sits by, smiling Bodhisattva-like
at his wife’s inveterate
managerial impulse?
My morning ritual bowel movement?
My eagerness on the drive home
to get here and write it down,
write it all down,
every blister and jolt?






Jerry Newman © 01Nov07

Friend, everything is a poem, but the difference between poetry and prose is there are of course more elements of the subconscious in poetry but in prose what crops up at the subconscious is filtered, screened and censured by the conscious.

Or else any expression can be a poem.

What comes or wells up from the depth of the heart is directly wired to the reader.

Everybody is capable of being a poet if one is honest to his expression, or if one does not depict artificiality.

[symphony]

Uhm...I dont think PrinceMyshkin's talking about the difference between prose and poetry in here. Somehow it feels like he's posing the question as to "what" in his daily life is not a poem. I think he's talking about how every person or object or ritual is a piece of poem by itself, waiting to be felt and written down.
But of course u can ignore me, since i'm a total loser when it comes to understanding poetries. ~_~

[aashishameya]

which does not touch heart, is not a poem

[Sweets America]

which does not touch heart, is not a poem

You should elaborate a little, I think. I see what you mean, but I think we should keep in mind that every poem is not going to touch everyone's heart. It depends on everyone's history and sensibilities, and perhaps on other things. So, if a poem doesn't touch my heart, it doesn't mean that it's not a poem.

Jer, your poem was interesting and raised questions. It was interesting, apart maybe from the fact that I read this line about your bowel movement while I was having my breafast. Thank you, dear. :sick:

[aashishameya]

how can you describe fragrance of flower? it should be feel rather then discuss....

[Sweets America]

how can you describe fragrance of flower? it should be feel rather then discuss....

I'm not sure I get what you mean?:confused:

[ampoule]

Uhm...I dont think PrinceMyshkin's talking about the difference between prose and poetry in here. Somehow it feels like he's posing the question as to "what" in his daily life is not a poem. I think he's talking about how every person or object or ritual is a piece of poem by itself, waiting to be felt and written down.
But of course u can ignore me, since i'm a total loser when it comes to understanding poetries. ~_~

I knew he wasn't discussing poetry/prose. As I said, I was just babbling on as to what poetry is and isn't. And you are NO loser girl! I think you are right on the money about 'every person or object or ritual is a piece of poem by itself, waiting to be felt and written down'.
Doesn't anyone ever read a poem and just 'get' the feel of it, not necessarily the meaning? Or even understand it for yourself but unable to explain it to anyone else?

[TheFifthElement]

Doesn't anyone ever read a poem and just 'get' the feel of it, not necessarily the meaning? Or even understand it for yourself but unable to explain it to anyone else?

Every time I read Stevens I have this feeling, and on each successive reading I feel I get closer, but so absorbed in the words and the rhythm that the meaning slips out of my grasp, a slippery little fish. Even if I think I understand I am probably wrong.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Uhm...I dont think PrinceMyshkin's talking about the difference between prose and poetry in here. Somehow it feels like he's posing the question as to "what" in his daily life is not a poem. I think he's talking about how every person or object or ritual is a piece of poem by itself, waiting to be felt and written down.
But of course u can ignore me, since i'm a total loser when it comes to understanding poetries. ~_~

Permit me to say...that this is a brilliant answer to the question I posed! On the other hand I do NOT think this


But of course u can ignore me, since i'm a total loser when it comes to understanding poetries. ~_~

is appropriate in the least. Face up to it: you are NOT in anyway that I know a "total loser" nor even a partial loser. Whether you liker it or not, you are a person of judicious intelligence far beyond your years, and a good-hearted person at that.

[PrinceMyshkin]

Every time I read Stevens I have this feeling, and on each successive reading I feel I get closer, but so absorbed in the words and the rhythm that the meaning slips out of my grasp, a slippery little fish. Even if I think I understand I am probably wrong.

But your experience when reading Stevens or any other poet IS a poem whether it is precisely the experience you were intended to have or not.

[PrinceMyshkin]

You should elaborate a little, I think. I see what you mean, but I think we should keep in mind that every poem is not going to touch everyone's heart. It depends on everyone's history and sensibilities, and perhaps on other things. So, if a poem doesn't touch my heart, it doesn't mean that it's not a poem.

Jer, your poem was interesting and raised questions. It was interesting, apart maybe from the fact that I read this line about your bowel movement while I was having my breafast. Thank you, dear. :sick:

Well, there, have you not proven my point? Reading about my bowel movement while having your breakfast is surely one sort of poem, whereas if you had been reading it while having one of your own (you DO have bowel movements, I assume?) would be an entirely different experience and hence another sort of poem, more of a shared thing, if I may say so.

[firefangled]

how can you describe fragrance of flower? it should be feel rather then discuss....

"a perfume, immense and living." -Juan Ramon Jimenez






Please excuse that this follows a discussion of bowel movements, also often immense and living.:lol:

[Sweets America]

"a perfume, immense and living." -Juan Ramon Jimenez






Please excuse that this follows a discussion of bowel movements, also often immense and living.:lol:

:lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:
Now that is very funny. :D

[PrinceMyshkin]

Iraq, some would say
but a poem need not be pretty.
Indeed, if it is suitable for a Hallmark Card
it is probably not a poem!
By which measure, I suggest,
the Holocaust, Rwanda, Darfur
are among the greatest
if most horrifying poems ever.

[firefangled]

Sometimes the poet goes out
into the streets,
with their indifference
and noise:

He sees the empty case,
the music
with a face of longing,
beautiful
and displaced.

Who finds a crumb,
my birds,
in such a crowded place,
tossed with mournful words,
by a lonely hand.

And these scant trees
that wish for wings
instead of roots,
who cares for them –

Who cares for them?

In evening light,
how does this make a poem,
he writes, and
searches for the black
to make his white.

[PrinceMyshkin]

This
is not a poem.
It is my heart’s blood
that will not be contained.

It is about a love
that changed (that had
to change, perhaps, although
which of us is wise enough to judge?)
and that could not be changed
back again. It is about
one lover whose eyes or heart
were turned and the other
who remained mesmerized by her.

It is about the effort
to salvage something from the ruins,
the memory of a shared joke,
the first or last time
we made love,
the time she cried uncontrollably
because she could not or would not
say how she was hurting,
the shoulders so thin
I might have felt pity for them
were I not overcome with desire,
her eyes wide open
as we made love
as if it was our eyes
that penetrated each other,
nothing else.

Please,
do not call it a poem.






Jerry Newman © 02Nov07

[firefangled]

This
is not a poem.
It is my heart’s blood
that will not be contained.

It is about a love
that changed (that had
to change, perhaps, although
which of is wise enough to judge?)
and that could not be changed
back again. It is about
one lover whose eyes or heart
were turned and the other
who remained mesmerized by her.

It is about the effort
to salvage something from the ruins,
the memory of a shared joke,
the first or last time
we made love,
the time she cried uncontrollably
because she could not or would not
say how she was hurting,
the shoulders so thin
I might have felt pity for them
were I not overcome with desire,
her eyes wide open
as we made love
as if it was our eyes
that penetrated each other,
nothing else.

Please,
do not call it a poem.






Jerry Newman © 02Nov07

OK, if you say so.

[PrinceMyshkin]

OK, if you say so.

[deleted] [censored] [censored] [deleted] [censored] [censored] [deleted] [censored] [censored]! (+ the requisite 5 characters):bday_2:

[Sweets America]

:lol: :lol: Funny answer, Firefangled.

Jerry, this poem is SO WONDERFUL!!! You know how I feel about it, after all that I just told you!

Oh, do not forget to correct the little error. :p :D I thought you would never notice it!:D

[CdnReader]

.

This is not a poem.

This is the heavy silence
of early-morning alone.

This is the ache
that filters...inexorable...
through the fibres and the crevices
searching for a release
that doesn't exist.

This is the blood
pooling in my ankles, my knees,
my wrists, and
seeping out between my fingers

lost

This is the voiceless cry
of my soul's demise,
rent from its moorings,
set adrift.

This is the black swath
of my night
and missing you.

But this
is not
a poem.

.
cdn/04nov07
.

[PrinceMyshkin]

.

This is not a poem.

This is the heavy silence
of early-morning alone.

This is the ache
that filters...inexorable...
through the fibres and the crevices
searching for a release
that doesn't exist.

This is the blood
pooling in my ankles, my knees,
my wrists, and
seeping out between my fingers

lost

This is the voiceless cry
of my soul's demise,
rent from its moorings,
set adrift.

This is the black swath
of my night
and missing you.

But this
is not
a poem.

.
cdn/04nov07
.


My God, dear friend! How powerful this is! Every stroke like that of a heavy hammer striking the anvil with terrible force!

[ampoule]

Oh Cdn...that is absolutely wonderful!!!

[firefangled]

It has been in parentheses before,
and thus poetic, in a twisted sense;
even if you fight the fight, no faith
exists for the recoil of battle, the off-cycling
of what could be —

anathematic no longer gives me hope,
with children of my own, now of age,
feminine (the only word), and equal,
receiving enticing mailers to be all they can
be —

I rake the leaves, and pile them high —

there still lives the softest deep-down things —

I have the fire, this is the true Anathemeta ! —

and you know something is happening here,
but you don’t know what it is; do you, Mr. Jones —

This is the way the world begins, with a spark…



~~~



Mommy,

What is war?

[Pendragon]

Truth Is A Cracked Mirror…

This is not a poem,
Be silent and you will hear the cries,
Shut your eyes and see the tears,
Touch nothing and you will feel the pain--

This is a dirge
The rocks will not remain silent forever,
Mass graves cannot wipe away blood spilled
The voices return on the wind in the night asking why

Don't call it a poem
The whispers echo through time's fractured mirror
Always has it been that man destroys man
Misguided belief that it's just their destiny—blood never dries...

Voices of ageless sorrows...
Crosses line the Appian Way by the thousand.
At Masada they died without succor or hope.
Vald Tepes often dined while around others died by impaling.

The People’s voices rise in a death chant
From places like Sand Creek, the plains, and Wounded Knee.
Thirty-six sing as they are all hanged at one moment for “uprisings”,
Echoes of sorrow drift still along the Trail of Tears…

The voices sing on of sorrows unbearable,
Brother fought brother in many Civil wars… Antietam, Gettysburg...
We then thought we had fought the War to end all Wars;
But the shadows of Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, and Ravensbrück had not yet grown…

This is a record of human agony,
The horror of man reduced to the grim beast inside.
Toss off the thin disguise of modern educated humanity;
Man becomes monster thirsty for blood of his own fellowman...

Call this whatever you want to--
Don’t call it a poem..

Pendragon
© 11/4/07

[PrinceMyshkin]

Truth Is A Cracked Mirror…

This is not a poem,
Be silent and you will hear the cries,
Shut your eyes and see the tears,
Touch nothing and you will feel the pain--

This is a dirge
The rocks will not remain silent forever,
Mass graves cannot wipe away blood spilled
The voices return on the wind in the night asking why

Don't call it a poem
The whispers echo through time's fractured mirror
Always has it been that man destroys man
Misguided belief that it's just their destiny—blood never dries...

Voices of ageless sorrows...
Crosses line the Appian Way by the thousand.
At Masada they died without succor or hope.
Vald Tepes often dined while around others died by impaling.

The People’s voices rise in a death chant
From places like Sand Creek, the plains, and Wounded Knee.
Thirty-six sing as they are all hanged at one moment for “uprisings”,
Echoes of sorrow drift still along the Trail of Tears…

The voices sing on of sorrows unbearable,
Brother fought brother in many Civil wars… Antietam, Gettysburg...
We then thought we had fought the War to end all Wars;
But the shadows of Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, and Ravensbrück had not yet grown…

This is a record of human agony,
The horror of man reduced to the grim beast inside.
Toss off the thin disguise of modern educated humanity;
Man becomes monster thirsty for blood of his own fellowman...

Call this whatever you want to--
Don’t call it a poem..

Pendragon
© 11/4/07

Good Lord, Pen - if I were NOT To call this a poem (and a magnificent passionate one), I'd be reduced to referring to the Trans-Canada Highway as a thin, overgrown forest trail!

Salute yourself, man! For me and (I hope) for the many others who are going to come across this and stand in awe!

[TheFifthElement]

Wow Pen!!!


(this is me being speechless!)

[PrinceMyshkin]

What is not a poem
is dross, the ho-hums and
why-nots and might-as-wells
of a life without savour
or favour or purpose,
the dispassionate ticking
of an assemblage of stale-dated
organs...







Jerry Newman © 04Nov07

[Sweets America]

Truth Is A Cracked Mirror…

This is not a poem,
Be silent and you will hear the cries,
Shut your eyes and see the tears,
Touch nothing and you will feel the pain--

This is a dirge
The rocks will not remain silent forever,
Mass graves cannot wipe away blood spilled
The voices return on the wind in the night asking why

Don't call it a poem
The whispers echo through time's fractured mirror
Always has it been that man destroys man
Misguided belief that it's just their destiny—blood never dries...

Voices of ageless sorrows...
Crosses line the Appian Way by the thousand.
At Masada they died without succor or hope.
Vald Tepes often dined while around others died by impaling.

The People’s voices rise in a death chant
From places like Sand Creek, the plains, and Wounded Knee.
Thirty-six sing as they are all hanged at one moment for “uprisings”,
Echoes of sorrow drift still along the Trail of Tears…

The voices sing on of sorrows unbearable,
Brother fought brother in many Civil wars… Antietam, Gettysburg...
We then thought we had fought the War to end all Wars;
But the shadows of Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Dachau, and Ravensbrück had not yet grown…

This is a record of human agony,
The horror of man reduced to the grim beast inside.
Toss off the thin disguise of modern educated humanity;
Man becomes monster thirsty for blood of his own fellowman...

Call this whatever you want to--
Don’t call it a poem..

Pendragon
© 11/4/07

WOW, wonderful!!!! The ending killed me.

[Granny5]

Pendragon, this is just wonderful! I love the entire poem. It's so moving and full of truth. Outstanding job.

[Pendragon]

And my thanks to you all for your kind words. The sting of the truth is often not well accepted, which is why I ended on:

Call it whatever you will
Don't call it a poem


Still in our pride and our arrogance
We try to brush the many horrors of the past
Into dark corners and pretend they never happened.
Since the time of Abel's murder by his own brother,
Blood has cried from the ground for vengeance.
No weapon ever made was an intelligent killer.
Man kills man.
Perhaps it's because they have something others want,
Or because others consider them inferior,
Or just sheer cruelty: but I'll tell you this.
The world now sits behind arsenals of weapons that could blow the planet apart. Someone makes one wrong move and presses one wrong button
And the Earth goes to hell in atomic fire of our own making.
That isn't poetry either...

[TheFifthElement]

It is the dark state
before waking,
the shadow just outside
of view.

A long breath

exhaled.

The acquiescence
of sleep.

It is the moment
of expectation
with pencil
unsharpened,
a cold cup of tea.

This is the void
before poetry.

A voice.

The unwritten sheet.

Speak for me.

[Beverly S]

Not sure what you're trying to say here.

[PrinceMyshkin]

It is the dark state
before waking,
the shadow just outside
of view.

A long breath

exhaled.

The acquiescence
of sleep.

It is the moment
of expectation
with pencil
unsharpened,
a cold cup of tea.

This is the void
before poetry.

A voice.

The unwritten sheet.

Speak for me.





This is wonderful as is the state you describe, insofar as I have known it myself, a moment when one is at liberty somehow from the quotidian demands of the day, of being a citizen, mother, wife or friend, Christian or Republican...

Do read if you haven't done so already the glorious novel The Horse's Mouth by Joyce Cary, the scene in which the possessed Gulley Jimpson stands before a blank canvas, anticipating that first slash of paint that will bring something like an entire universe into being. If you've seen Alec Guiness' excellent adaptation of the novel, do read it anyway as there are elements of Gulley's restless, Blake-obsessed mind that could not be translated to film.

[TheFifthElement]

Do read if you haven't done so already the glorious novel The Horse's Mouth by Joyce Cary, the scene in which the possessed Gulley Jimpson stands before a blank canvas, anticipating that first slash of paint that will bring something like an entire universe into being. If you've seen Alec Guiness' excellent adaptation of the novel, do read it anyway as there are elements of Gulley's restless, Blake-obsessed mind that could not be translated to film.

This sounds interesting - especially if it involves Alec Guiness (a great actor, and brilliant Obi Wan Kinobe!). The restlessness is strange, isn't it? Almost as though if you sit down and start writing, those words which have been forming will simply slip under the chair and out of the door...

[AuntShecky]

Every time I read Stevens I have this feeling, and on each successive reading I feel I get closer, but so absorbed in the words and the rhythm that the meaning slips out of my grasp, a slippery little fish. Even if I think I understand I am probably wrong.

I am in total agreement with you on this!

[Virgil]

Originally Posted by TheFifthElement
Every time I read Stevens I have this feeling, and on each successive reading I feel I get closer, but so absorbed in the words and the rhythm that the meaning slips out of my grasp, a slippery little fish. Even if I think I understand I am probably wrong.

I am in total agreement with you on this!

Make that three of us. :) But I still love his poetry.

[firefangled]

It is the dark state
before waking,
the shadow just outside
of view.

A long breath

exhaled.

The acquiescence
of sleep.

It is the moment
of expectation
with pencil
unsharpened,
a cold cup of tea.

This is the void
before poetry.

A voice.

The unwritten sheet.

Speak for me.




Very well stated, Fifth. Love the last two lines!

[Pendragon]

A voice.

The unwritten sheet.

Speak for me.

There is so much said in just three short lines and 8 words, Fifth. Masterpiece!

http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l108/AbsalomKane/Four/Boguet.gif