Poems of Life
Loveb4Life
Posts: 26
"A Song of Beauty"
An artist, a poet a
Woman of beauty
Hair flowing
Breeze blowing
Sits staring at the beach.
Beside her a man
A detailer prestige
Eyes closing
Doubts posing
A culture’s disease.
The poet stands up
Overcome by the sound
Waves crashing
Sunlight splashing
And begins a fair song.
“Red fires of sun
How you dance
In the dawn,
Melting in ocean
As lovers so young.”
“Black water of praise!
Your loving embrace
Has showered
Us blessings
And life!”
Annoyed by the song
The doubter moves on,
And opens
His eyes
To the sand.
A speech he does
Speak, for songs
Are so meek!
And he stares at the
Grains of the shore.
“Listen young hag
Just look at this shore!
Or have you eyes to see?
The white beach grains
Ugly, bland
Clash with those of gold!”
Angered by her smile
Her neck touches file
And yet her smile remains.
“Speak, speak
Young hag
Why do thee grin?
When this shore
Be a sin of granule
Im-perfection!”
“Why, why
Just speak
Or god you shall meet!
Why? WHY!”
She drops to her knees
Flies the sand with the breeze
And answers the man’s desperate call.
“My dear sir, haven’t you heard?
That is the beauty of it all.”
An artist, a poet a
Woman of beauty
Hair flowing
Breeze blowing
Sits staring at the beach.
Beside her a man
A detailer prestige
Eyes closing
Doubts posing
A culture’s disease.
The poet stands up
Overcome by the sound
Waves crashing
Sunlight splashing
And begins a fair song.
“Red fires of sun
How you dance
In the dawn,
Melting in ocean
As lovers so young.”
“Black water of praise!
Your loving embrace
Has showered
Us blessings
And life!”
Annoyed by the song
The doubter moves on,
And opens
His eyes
To the sand.
A speech he does
Speak, for songs
Are so meek!
And he stares at the
Grains of the shore.
“Listen young hag
Just look at this shore!
Or have you eyes to see?
The white beach grains
Ugly, bland
Clash with those of gold!”
Angered by her smile
Her neck touches file
And yet her smile remains.
“Speak, speak
Young hag
Why do thee grin?
When this shore
Be a sin of granule
Im-perfection!”
“Why, why
Just speak
Or god you shall meet!
Why? WHY!”
She drops to her knees
Flies the sand with the breeze
And answers the man’s desperate call.
“My dear sir, haven’t you heard?
That is the beauty of it all.”
“DON'T TELL ME this IS REAL because it is the edge chunk of what I feel!”
-Michael McClure
-Michael McClure
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
-Michael McClure
No hatred, my friend. This is the first time I saw it. Must have missed it the first time around.
My opinion (lord knows I'm full of them) is that you need to work on the rhythm. This is a pretty story poem that has promise. And my personal taste dictates that long story poems benefit from good rhythm. You start off with it, but it starts breaking down and then it's out the window.
Hone the rhythm, and I think you've got something.
I'm turning this forum into "Tim's Poetry Workshop"... sorry.
I personally just like people's poems as they are--I feel no need to tell them to add or take away anything as I believe that poetry is whatever you want it to be. I, as the reader may not interpret it the same as the writer meant it to be but that is what makes poetry beautiful to me. I feel that if someone wrote those words, then they are as the writer meant them to be--to me that's poetry. It has nothing to do with style, flow, rythym,...that's so limiting and I think poetry should be limitless, boundryless and totally free (so few things in life are as free like are thoughts are).
Thanks for sharing your thoughts Loveb4Life!
And CranMalReign--don't appologize for being asked for an opinion and then giving it----you are free to do so!
Yes, poetry is ultimately what the writer decides, I agree. And I guess in a loose, very liberal and noncombative way, you can say that anything thrown down can be called poetry. Just like anything can be art. That definition is dependent upon the intent of the creator and not the skill.
And I pretty much agree with it. I'm a strong propent of the fact that poetry is not meant for the readers so much as for the writer. I mean, I have some really bad poetry I've written, but I wrote it for me and it did what it was supposed to do.
And while I agree that the poetry is the author's decision, I got the impression that he was trying to come up with something here and needed just a little help in doing so. Granted, it's all a question of style and taste. I don't mean to come off as saying someone's poetry isn't as good or is wrong or anything like that. I just wanted to help out. He's perfectly willing to take my advice or leave it.
My motto is "Everything is poetry. None of it is perfect." There's always room for improvement in every poem, I believe. Just trying to help out.
And now I'm getting defensive, and probably needlessly so, so I'll shut up.
Oh... one last thing... if loveb4life is a girl, all the times I said "he" I meant "she".
Here's another little ditty I wrote the other night. Peace and love.
"An Ode to the Stars"
Damn these lights!
Fading my celestial brothers
Into the ebony abyss.
How I yearn for the days of young
Where in the open field
I would gaze at my sparkling friends.
Thousands of beautiful stars
Filling the somber night sky
With flaring luminescence.
But not here.
Even when the night is clear
The moon can claim few companions.
The fingers of my hands outnumber
My shining sisters
As Milwaukee awaits the coming dawn.
-Michael McClure
Yo, don't sweat the "no poetry class" thing. I've written some of what I consider my best stuff before I ever had a poetry class. And when I finally had my one and only semester, it only served to open me to new poets. I took nothing in the form of meter or rhyme or anything.
My opinion: If you write what poetry class teaches you to write, it's not poetry, it's mechanical.
I know I seem to contradict myself, but I promise you, I'm not. Hang out around here, around other places, grab a few books (oh dear lord God I recommend the Outlaw Bible of American Poetry) and some of the unspoken rules and suggestions will rub off. Pick and choose and you'll develop a personal voice which can be both easy to read and wonderful to contemplate.
That being said... Good work on Ode to the Stars. I must suggest, however, that you change "days of young" to "days of youth"... just because... idunno... "days of young" doesn't even make sense to me.
Maybe it's a dialect thing. Otherwise, I think you've picked some good imagery and descriptions here. Keep it up. And don't hold your breath for poetry class to define and refine your style!
Is this real?
The blood pumping,
Pumping in veins so blue.
Or is it something else
That day by day
Gives life anew?
The minds, the thoughts,
The ideas that continue!
For in some distant day
Of which no reality can say:
The blood dries and the body dies,
But forever in life,
The spirit lies.
-Michael McClure
However, I didn't understand the "her neck touches file" line in the ninth stanza.
And, I dunno Cran my man, rhythm is mechanical too.
Poor choice of words on my part, I guess. Yes, rhythm is mechanical... but poetry class is a machine. Difference, there.
Makes sense in my head.
those are the lines that come out of this, to me
the most beautiful moments in this prose...
but the synergy of the piece reads like a sonnet might have been sung in some medieval castle type thang...
and i like medieval castle type things, so
if i may, i think "her neck touches file" is the doubter holding a knife up to her neck threatening to kill her for her happiness, but it doesn't phase her...
she is innocence...
(i know, i get a little dramatic sometimes
I took a class that compared poetry to music... music turned into poetry... poems turned into songs...
Not sure that I learned anything, but the beauty of that class was getting to hear people's interpretations, and also, of course spewing my own endless opinion
I discovered Porphyria's Lover in that class. If you haven't read it... go look it up...
It's one of my all-time favorite poems.... ever.....
He holds a file up to her neck. Like a nail filer only sharp.
-Michael McClure
BTW, I consider this forum a poetry class, so to speak. Except, of course, there are no teachers, no officers, no authoritay. Only inmates. Happy sexy drunky monkey inmates. Or would that be primates? Who knows/cares???
LOL!
OOOOOOO, OOOOOOOO, OOOOOOOO,
AAAAAAAAA, AAAAAAAAAA, AAAAAAAAAA
*jumping up & down scratching head*
*falling down (drunk)*
*catches striped pants on snag*
*pants go down around ankles*
*presenting self to other inmates*
Although, her user name is strangely apropo for this kinda thing....
LIAR!
Besides, some threads sort of unravel but are then woven back to "normal" again anyway.
And certainly no offence meant to Loveb4Life.
Wow I suppose I've been rather amibiguous with my gender. I'm a guy. Don't worry I'm not offended.
"Never met a wise man, if so it's a woman..."
-Michael McClure
"A Song for the Future"
Rejoice all you sons and daughters of the coming age
For you were born with hopes to engage.
You have been chosen to be liberators of this land
You will be the cleansers of humanity’s blood-stained hands.
In years of past battles have been fought,
Wars have been started, and valor has been sought.
Children and elders, peasants and knaves,
Have perished in battles, but not in vain!
For if we look to those days for the merits of war,
Through all the lives, that have died by the sword
An ocean of sorrow, dread, might, and sin
Love will finally conquer, and change our direction.
-Michael McClure
The sun rises on the
Blue-green calm of the north Pacific,
The prairies and the ghettos,
The tundras and the deserts.
Its light reaches the proud savannahs
Of central Africa, the snow-capped
Mountains of Siberia, and the lush
Green cloud forests of Central America.
But what of this matter?
Do not the other eight planets count
The rising sun in their own deserts, storms,
Mountains and canyons?
The beauty that the sun does rise
Lies solely in our watching eyes.
For what of art that remains unseen
Worthless measures, unfit even to dream!
-Michael McClure
"Shards of my Soul"
Oh my clouded soul!
Ruptures and sins
Vices and dinge
Taint my life like silent venom!
Oh the purifying kiss
How I long
For its curing tenderness
Its sweet shadow beckons my heart
Like a shooting star longing for home!
Oh the desperate shards of my soul!
Lying dismayed, disgruntled,
Searching for their brothers!
Hating the immense fog
Of my own loathsome weakness.
-Michael McClure