meaning takes precedence in my little world of poetry
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
If one argues that meaning takes precedence in poetry, then one is engaged in the business of trying to represent "signifieds" in "signifiers", to limit the concept to words, to define the semantic parameters of meaning in language. To say one writes because one can't define meaning is taking a contrary methodological tack, born of Derrida.
There's a paradox here, if not a cop-out.
Now, I hope that's over. A person could start to get bored.
A word to poets: Do not care.
Just sit awhile and see.
You poems will grow nicely, there.
Just watch, and let them be.
remember ?
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Damned peculiar fellow, Holmes.
He drank from a musket gun.
Kept false teeth in his knickers and shouted out poems
To chat up Ophelia's nun.
When anyone cried "Book 'em Danno"
He'd hide like a felon, undressed.
They found him beneath a piano
with beans rubbed all over his chest.
I do believe he works for MI6
Planning ways of tickling Hans Blix.
Coming down, slowly
searching for the sign in her breath,
a small mistake in fixed intervals.
Blending her motions, bounding the meshes,
will she be able to escape?
Treacherous shine in his eye.
Floating on feathers she learned in the fields
no thirst for death, no hunger for life.
Just there, nowhere,
she´s waiting for him to come by.
... good morning
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by cicatrice up 'til today, the only other person who read that was my ex (now friend), it was good to get an un biased view. and fast, brutal and in your face was the aim. so, thank you,oh first critic of mine.
it would just be nice if everybody's autobiographical writings were about fluffy kittens and pretty flowers. boring, yes, but...
im really glad you shared this poem and really glad i got to read it. thanks heaps.
Ophelia's nun is looking pale
It wasn't the tomato
But since she's looking rather ill
(from poisoning by play-doh)
She needs a break until she thinks
Normality is back.
Right now she must take forty winks
And sleep off this attack.
Dirty Frank used to get them motioning a bit after they went in the blender. Now that Dirty Frank was a badmothershutyourmouthhey
i'mjusttalkin''boutdirtyfrank .....
I´ve accepted your thoughts, that´s why I´ve chosen this thread as well.
you want to keep it safe and private,
no colours from a different portrait,
that´s fine.
keep up with the purple!
thanx and good day to you too
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
To provide colours from a different portrait you have to steal them from someone's canvas first, picking their dried crust off flake by flake and hoping to stick them onto another painting by sheer violent pressure. It won't work.
Neither will imitating too closely or aberrantly decoding the compositional hue of another's work, work. The off-orange degrades itself in its aim of tainting the original.
But fresh paint of any colour is welcome. This is an interactive (but, I hasten to add, not a communal!) effort, in pursuit of capturing the true light and dynamics of Ophelia's nun's mythical red tomato. True vivacity of fusing creative energies across the world is our artistic dream. But some negative interaction impedes this multicoloured web of mixed-media affinities. Love is all we need anywhere to make work work.
that quality of force, emotional or physical, which registers on any given person or thing's being.
a hammer means something to the nail
the nail means something to the wood
my love means something to me
my love means something to my Ex
my love means something to my mother, inadvertently, because her daughter is happy to share in it... but she is as of yet, unaware how deeply it strikes me.
but my love means nothing to my brother, who is a cynic by day and a pessimist by night... my love has no meaning there
my poetry has meaning, but...
to me, most, first
to you, perhaps second, third, whatever
and none whatsoever to everyone who hasn't wasted their time with it...
. . . you know far too many long words. . . i mean . . . i know sum long words . . .but (being 15) i tend to have trouble incorperating them into everyday life . . . or spelling them, for that matter.
I'd love to make some valuable comment . . . but i'm not going to. Adios.
I wanted to rhyme.
But didn't have time,
my shoe is inanimate,
i'm gonna somke that hallibet.
ah ha ha ha ha. Yes . . .maybe i'll change thingy now . . .
i'd share some poetry, but my poetry book got lost somewhere, which i am gutted about, oooh, maybe it was stolen, like eddies lyric book.....yeah i bet. :rolleyes:
Comments
meaning takes precedence in my little world of poetry
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Better still, define meaning.
They don't define.
I'm asking you to define meaning. And I ask you to enjoy yourself in the process of constructing this product of definition.
that´s why I write....
endless cycle, neverending story...
glad you listen,
thank you
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
There's a paradox here, if not a cop-out.
Now, I hope that's over. A person could start to get bored.
Just sit awhile and see.
You poems will grow nicely, there.
Just watch, and let them be.
remember ?
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Good day to you.
HAMM: We're not beginning to ... to ... mean something?
CLOV: Mean something! You and I, mean something! Ah that's a good one!
Beckett, "Endgame"
He drank from a musket gun.
Kept false teeth in his knickers and shouted out poems
To chat up Ophelia's nun.
When anyone cried "Book 'em Danno"
He'd hide like a felon, undressed.
They found him beneath a piano
with beans rubbed all over his chest.
I do believe he works for MI6
Planning ways of tickling Hans Blix.
searching for the sign in her breath,
a small mistake in fixed intervals.
Blending her motions, bounding the meshes,
will she be able to escape?
Treacherous shine in his eye.
Floating on feathers she learned in the fields
no thirst for death, no hunger for life.
Just there, nowhere,
she´s waiting for him to come by.
... good morning
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
im really glad you shared this poem and really glad i got to read it. thanks heaps.
Forever and ever ....Pearl Jam
.......
It wasn't the tomato
But since she's looking rather ill
(from poisoning by play-doh)
She needs a break until she thinks
Normality is back.
Right now she must take forty winks
And sleep off this attack.
Dirty Frank used to get them motioning a bit after they went in the blender. Now that Dirty Frank was a badmothershutyourmouthhey
i'mjusttalkin''boutdirtyfrank .....
I'M a lover of life, i hope that's good enough for this thread......:D
"Come to this house, be one of the luvverleee people."
Ed quoted Johnny Winter: "Bad news travels like a wild fire..Good news travels slow." Let's have some slow burnin' grace and good happiness.
you want to keep it safe and private,
no colours from a different portrait,
that´s fine.
keep up with the purple!
thanx and good day to you too
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Neither will imitating too closely or aberrantly decoding the compositional hue of another's work, work. The off-orange degrades itself in its aim of tainting the original.
But fresh paint of any colour is welcome. This is an interactive (but, I hasten to add, not a communal!) effort, in pursuit of capturing the true light and dynamics of Ophelia's nun's mythical red tomato. True vivacity of fusing creative energies across the world is our artistic dream. But some negative interaction impedes this multicoloured web of mixed-media affinities. Love is all we need anywhere to make work work.
Love to all,
Fins
that quality of force, emotional or physical, which registers on any given person or thing's being.
a hammer means something to the nail
the nail means something to the wood
my love means something to me
my love means something to my Ex
my love means something to my mother, inadvertently, because her daughter is happy to share in it... but she is as of yet, unaware how deeply it strikes me.
but my love means nothing to my brother, who is a cynic by day and a pessimist by night... my love has no meaning there
my poetry has meaning, but...
to me, most, first
to you, perhaps second, third, whatever
and none whatsoever to everyone who hasn't wasted their time with it...
so, following this line of thought,
everything that affects me has meaning
meaning is that which affects
love and peace to the lurver's
Thanks, Pasta babe!
I'd love to make some valuable comment . . . but i'm not going to. Adios.
I wanted to rhyme.
But didn't have time,
my shoe is inanimate,
i'm gonna somke that hallibet.
ah ha ha ha ha. Yes . . .maybe i'll change thingy now . . .
Ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong yiddle eye po
Ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong yiddle eye po
Ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong ying tong yiddle eye po"
Ah, the genius of Spike Milligan!
Thanks, Jon!
i'm glad you like halibet. . .
i'm very bored
i'm going to eat soon
my legs have been clawed
buy a cat that is . . . fat. . .
So, albino_rocker, when are you and corduroy going to share some more lyrics with us?
i'd share some poetry, but my poetry book got lost somewhere, which i am gutted about, oooh, maybe it was stolen, like eddies lyric book.....yeah i bet. :rolleyes:
was it you?
nah we'll put some on, when we feel we have it a high note!