"The fact that completely different readers can be differently affected by the 'reality' of a particular text is ample evidence of the degree to which literary texts transform reading into a creative process that is far above mere perception of what is written. The literary text activates our own faculties, enabling us to recreate the world it presents. The product of this creative activity is what we might call the virtual dimension of the text, which endows it with reality."
While you´ll be sitting on the sofa red of love,
I shall ride the evil dragon of the present
And pray the prayer screaming pain,
As you are not here to hold my heart
To keep it safe,
Away from all the bad composing evil poems,
In ever ending days of hoping for a better,
I will not cry my tears to please the earth
So selfish thirsty for my flesh;
I want to leave now,
Paint the scarlet orange on horizon,
Where every man and every boy is walking hand in hand,
And all the bedtime stories can come true;
I will not turn around,
For this would be the very end of my existence,
No bricks to build the gentles dreams with you on side,
No waters making brightly shining buds to blooms,
Just you and I and future memories to hold,
To hold, and nothing more.
Can I tell you, still, while waiting,
To come with me on island of the constant luster.
I know you´re scared of own reflection
No need for mirror in my house on pole.
It´s all perception bound for dreaming
And no exception can bring difference;
It´s my world of ever lasting faith in love,
Love so sacred, so foreseen,
You shall not kneel, nor beg to feel.
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 exhale While you´ll be sitting on the sofa red of love,
I shall ride the evil dragon of the present
And pray the prayer screaming pain,
As you are not here to hold my heart
To keep it safe,
Away from all the bad composing evil poems,
In ever ending days of hoping for a better,
I will not cry my tears to please the earth
So selfish thirsty for my flesh;
I want to leave now,
Paint the scarlet orange on horizon,
Where every man and every boy is walking hand in hand,
And all the bedtime stories can come true;
I will not turn around,
For this would be the very end of my existence,
No bricks to build the gentles dreams with you on side,
No waters making brightly shining buds to blooms,
Just you and I and future memories to hold,
To hold, and nothing more.
Can I tell you, still, while waiting,
To come with me on island of the constant luster.
I know you´re scared of own reflection
No need for mirror in my house on pole.
It´s all perception bound for dreaming
And no exception can bring difference;
It´s my world of ever lasting faith in love,
Love so sacred, so foreseen,
You shall not kneel, nor beg to feel.
This blue is that reminds me on your walk,
It´s steady, calm but still so harsh,
Is there a colour that can hold you down,
stings the nerve and makes you cover up.
Strong doubts in one selve´s compatibility
Never change and never run away,
Why stay, when there is no connection
To you and me and phantom ghost.
Please help, so out of words for my defense
Ran out of errors, there are no more to judge,
Condemn my mind of being incoherent,
I´ll believe and I´ll stay still.
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 FinsburyParkCarrots You know this is beautiful, don't you?
Beautiful – the word I seek,
Too gentle, it´s a dream.
I will keep it on the bed frame
To help me sleep, make me serene.
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.
When you shall sense the energy to speak,
It´s on the grounds, it´s there to reach.
Turned into a better man I will forgive,
Forget, and then come back.
Picking up the crumbles of my broken ghost,
I will proceed with entreaty for all the past
That fell sometime in action because your perfection,
And you will host no smile.
I need a moment there to cogitate upon my self,
Was it worth to dive into the sea of admiration
Just to feel the wind float pass my body when you bow?
There is no end to questions all alike
I could go on and on and still abide
By searching for a glimpse of your eye;
But you would not give up your English humour
Because it makes you so unique, one of a kind
Ignore my face when seized with anguish,
You have seen the same before, not of your interest.
Need another challenge for a reward of many others
That will caress your arrogance too obvious to simple minds,
Don´t look for mine,
Since I´ve accepted what this bond can tender;
I will not give more before you pause
And lean your head on my palms.
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.
The day is starting after one more night,
I only wonder, how many of the same length will go by,
Should I not close my eyes at all
Or should I fight against the nature and get tired even more?
I feel, again, approaching the night of all the nights,
When all will drink and all will gorge as this was THE last chance;
I don´t grudge them, not at all, cause they assume correct,
It is the last amazing blast, their minds without protect.
I read his words, some time ago: “Chaos is come again,”
Your´re right dear Sir, no change at all, since you´ve put down this claim.
No peace was found, still shouting loud
The dream will still be hunt.
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.
I think you need to work on yoru poetry....man....(is that allowed....I mean I'm serious)
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
no, yoru...is a rastafarian friend of mine....heheheheheh....he's a boy with dreds
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
I've been thinking about this poem you wrote, exhale. If I were to chisel at it to find the soul that I know is there, I might shape this. I hope you don't mind my doing this. I mean well.
The day is starting again,
after one more night of sleepless starts.
And I wonder again
how many days of these -
these
days of sameness into night and day -
will go by,
and go by.
These days into night couple like hounds
but always, always
without the night's consent:
The moon cries endlessly
"There is no place for me to rest.
I cannot close my eyes at all.
Perhaps I should fight against nature
now,
burning into stillness, fighting sleep."
I feel, again
I am approaching the night of all the nights,
In this blank dull glaze of day-dust now:
Clouds of hope of sleep are burned away.
And as I watch
this dawn
without beginning,
a dawn shadowed by night's curse,
Where all drink the poison draft of ambition,
Hailing the the Sun of Man
In the last-chance saloon of the Final Day,
I can't begrudge the revellers.
No more.
Let them play the day.
I'm weary. Too weary to play.
I'll watch, and let chaos stay,
in hope of an end
to this endless end.
Is that okay? Forgive me for switching the words about a bit, exhale, as I've forgiven you for switching mine about, too.
Originally posted by ISN I think you need to work on yoru poetry....man....(is that allowed....I mean I'm serious)
why?
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.
I agree, exhale; we are all open to constructive or deconstructive criticism as writers, but remarks that are unsupported by any advocacy of aesthetic, linguistic or formal and thematic criteria indicative or even vaguely implicative of what should constitute a 'good' poem, don't count as something about which to be overly concerned. And as an academic in training, exhale, you shouldn't worry about the odd 'critical' fart in your thread, if it has no good theoretical sheeeeeeet behind it.
Carry on writing, exhale.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots I've been thinking about this poem you wrote, exhale. If I were to chisel at it to find the soul that I know is there, I might shape this. I hope you don't mind my doing this. I mean well.
Is that okay? Forgive me for switching the words about a bit, exhale, as I've forgiven you for switching mine about, too.
There is no need for you to apologize,
I shall rather consider myself privileged as your ´distant´ protégée.
thank you
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.
How'd you do those diacritics?
As in protegee? But with the squiggles?
The only fancy thing I can do on my keyboard is
€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€
see, i´m working with a german keyboard (doesn´t mean that i´m german though ) and so tere´s an extra key just for that mark.
however, i´m pretty sure you should have it on your keyboard as well but you´d have to press either ctrl or alt + appropriate key with the mark on it + letter
quite precisely now
hope it´ll work
if not, here are some - I don´t use them as often
´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´```````````````````````````````````````````````````
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.
Having second coffee, now, this morning,
Gods are crying, wooing all for dawning,
In my era voluptas dolendi covered thought
An absolute tranquillity, no after-sough.
Remotely, rumours, I hear voices dying
Burden, heavy with the grief and sighing.
For love that they´ve committed when two parts together grow,
Meet up with me, to save the souls, for it is not their fault.
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.
When you shall sense the energy to speak,
It´s on the grounds, it´s there to reach.
Turned into a better man I will forgive,
Forget, and then come back.
Picking up the crumbles of my broken ghost,
I will proceed with entreaty for all the past
That fell sometime in action because your perfection,
And you will host no smile.
I need a moment there to cogitate upon my self,
Was it worth to dive into the sea of admiration
Just to feel the wind float pass my body when you bow?
There is no end to questions all alike
I could go on and on and still abide
By searching for a glimpse of your eye;
But you would not give up your English humour
Because it makes you so unique, one of a kind
Ignore my face when seized with anguish,
You have seen the same before, not of your interest.
Need another challenge for a reward of many others
That will caress your arrogance too obvious to simple minds,
Don´t look for mine,
Since I´ve accepted what this bond can tender;
I will not give more before you pause
And lean your head on my palms.
I wasn't just criticizing willy-nilly........but it might be a language problem.....but what are crumbles....all that comes to mind are apple pies....do you mean crumbs.....crumbles is a verb.....half of it is illogical.....I could go on and on and still abide.....it just could be worked on a bit if working would help.....English humour surely is shared with most of England.....so how can it make someone unique......not of your interest is grammatically incorrect......it isn't a sentence......it might be a language thing, and if so then it's simply a matter of learning English better in order to try to write profound peoms in English.....the reason I commented is because I have a very good grounding in peotry and can see the effort behind these poems....which are tyring to be something....but not being it.....but still, if English is your second language, they are not too bad....but really, they are flawed
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by ISN I wasn't just criticizing willy-nilly........but it might be a language problem.....but what are crumbles....all that comes to mind are apple pies....do you mean crumbs.....crumbles is a verb.....half of it is illogical.....I could go on and on and still abide.....it just could be worked on a bit if working would help.....English humour surely is shared with most of England.....so how can it make someone unique......not of your interest is grammatically incorrect......it isn't a sentence......it might be a language thing, and if so then it's simply a matter of learning English better in order to try to write profound peoms in English.....the reason I commented is because I have a very good grounding in peotry and can see the effort behind these poems....which are tyring to be something....but not being it.....but still, if English is your second language, they are not too bad....but really, they are flawed
TONGUE-IN-CHEEK METACRITICAL DECONSTRUCTIVE ANALYSIS OF THE FOREGOING (NOT TO BE TAKEN TOO SERIOUSLY):
(1) The passage demonstrates an excessive use of ellipses.
(2) What might be the language problem to which you refer? 'It' doesn't relate to a proper noun in the context of this statement.
(3) 'Crumbles' is a noun as well as a present participle of the verb 'to crumble'. When I think of crumbles I think of ancient ruins, before pastry.
(4) I thought modernism ushered in an allowance of defamiliarisation techniques, linguistic play and illogicality in poetry.
(5) "Not of your interest" is not grammatically incorrect, though it is genitive rather than the conventional, dative "Not to your interest". I have no problem with the construction as it stands.
(6) Why does absolute mastery of the English language provide the means of producing a profound poem? If it did, then even I would be a good poet.
(7) I have a trained grounding in the study of poetry and I cannot presume to qualify or quantify the effort or intention behind a work. I deal with the words I read on the page or screen and my own responses to them.
(8) The more I learn about literature, the more ideologically bound critical notions of flawed poetry, or 'literary competence', seem to me.
Only teasing you gently, ISN. I lliked your sonnets on olderman's thread.
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
After a looooooong day at the university, as usually, I was waiting for the bus to go home. A girl I´ve never seen before approached and asked: “Excuse me, are you from Slovenia?”. Completely astonished by what I´ve just heard, I somehow managed to answer with a very short and quitet: “Yes, how do you know?”
“Well, I´m taking the same course as you and I heard Prof. K. asking you some questions about the ´voicing´ in your language. Anyway, could I ask you for a favour?”
“Oh yes, sure, no problem (stammering out this answer)”.
“Could you write down ´I miss you´ and ´best wishes´ in Slovene for me please?”- And so I did.
After a short conversation I found out that she´s got a friend from Slovenia… etc.
I´m open to any comment or critique of my texts, I don´t want anybody to mistake me. But I wouldn´t want to be so selfish, if somebody wants to learn my language.
I bet that you´ve never felt the same feeling as I have when that girl approached; I´m also quite sure that you never got gooseflesh when at the bottom of yout thread says: ´You know this is beautiful, don´t you?´ or ´Your poems touch my soul.´
I respect your knowledge and I admire your poems but I wouldn´t be so picky about the ´crumbles´, if I were you; especially if I wouldn´t even know where Slovenia is.
(i apologize, I didn´t get much sleep last night)
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.
you sound slightly miffed....you're obviously open to any comments and critiques of your 'texts'.....you have a fine grasp of English....I'm an English teacher....and don't speak any Slav languages....I speak some Korean and will learn Mandarin....obviously I'll be about 93 before I start composing in Mandarin.....I asked a Korean lady if there was any famous Korean literature.....she replied....'which Century?'....we can all get a bit touchy about our languages.....it's a fair comment to say that if you want to write profound and high literature in English...you would be well-advised to learn it thoroughly first.....but if you're learning English by trial and error...then I can certainly help you, if you're open to correction.....otherwise, it's the emperor's new clothes......so sollleeee
(I'll tell you a story....I remember trying to teach an Italian phd student English, so that he could complete his phd in that rever'd language.....the thesis he had chosen was, he thought, quite original....his thesis was why originality doesn't matter....he wrote hundreds of pages with footnotes, references and a bibliography.....yet because he couldn't come up with an original idea, this thesis was on the redundancy of originality....his English was quite good...in fact his English was a lot better than his brain...)
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Originally posted by ISN ....it's a fair comment to say that if you want to write profound and high literature in English...you would be well-advised to learn it thoroughly first.....but if you're learning English by trial and error...then I can certainly help you, if you're open to correction.....
No point working only with the already acquired knowledge, is it?
Besides, i wouldn´t expect a comment like your first one from someone that has ´a very good grounding in poetry´. He didn´t please me with his definitions, he only justified both points. I´m a teacher myself and that´s not the way you´d correct mistakes.
I write about my experiences (internal and external) and according to those I choose words and phrases. It is strange to make some prejudgments about them without knowing the background to the current situation.
However, thank you for making me aware of some facts and your comments are, of course, always welcome.
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 exhale
[B
I write about my experiences (internal and external) and according to those I choose words and phrases. It is strange to make some prejudgments about them without knowing the background to the current situation.
[/B]
amen to that... and it's not to say it's the only way... but it's yours, and it's mine, too
i'm cool when ppl say chop this, add more... those i can rightfully ignore... but i've been told not to swear in my poetry...
and i'm like, "yo mother fucker, why fucking not? fuck that fucking shit...." <walking away mumbling to self: motherfucking try to fucking tell me not to fucking cuss... sheeeyiiiiiit.... fucking ass...>
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.
brings back the smile on my face every time i read your lines
always welcome
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.
Comments
Wolfie
I shall ride the evil dragon of the present
And pray the prayer screaming pain,
As you are not here to hold my heart
To keep it safe,
Away from all the bad composing evil poems,
In ever ending days of hoping for a better,
I will not cry my tears to please the earth
So selfish thirsty for my flesh;
I want to leave now,
Paint the scarlet orange on horizon,
Where every man and every boy is walking hand in hand,
And all the bedtime stories can come true;
I will not turn around,
For this would be the very end of my existence,
No bricks to build the gentles dreams with you on side,
No waters making brightly shining buds to blooms,
Just you and I and future memories to hold,
To hold, and nothing more.
Can I tell you, still, while waiting,
To come with me on island of the constant luster.
I know you´re scared of own reflection
No need for mirror in my house on pole.
It´s all perception bound for dreaming
And no exception can bring difference;
It´s my world of ever lasting faith in love,
Love so sacred, so foreseen,
You shall not kneel, nor beg to feel.
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.
You know this is beautiful, don't you?
It´s steady, calm but still so harsh,
Is there a colour that can hold you down,
stings the nerve and makes you cover up.
Strong doubts in one selve´s compatibility
Never change and never run away,
Why stay, when there is no connection
To you and me and phantom ghost.
Please help, so out of words for my defense
Ran out of errors, there are no more to judge,
Condemn my mind of being incoherent,
I´ll believe and I´ll stay still.
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.
Beautiful – the word I seek,
Too gentle, it´s a dream.
I will keep it on the bed frame
To help me sleep, make me serene.
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.
It´s on the grounds, it´s there to reach.
Turned into a better man I will forgive,
Forget, and then come back.
Picking up the crumbles of my broken ghost,
I will proceed with entreaty for all the past
That fell sometime in action because your perfection,
And you will host no smile.
I need a moment there to cogitate upon my self,
Was it worth to dive into the sea of admiration
Just to feel the wind float pass my body when you bow?
There is no end to questions all alike
I could go on and on and still abide
By searching for a glimpse of your eye;
But you would not give up your English humour
Because it makes you so unique, one of a kind
Ignore my face when seized with anguish,
You have seen the same before, not of your interest.
Need another challenge for a reward of many others
That will caress your arrogance too obvious to simple minds,
Don´t look for mine,
Since I´ve accepted what this bond can tender;
I will not give more before you pause
And lean your head on my palms.
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.
i epsecially liked the last one
*S*
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
I only wonder, how many of the same length will go by,
Should I not close my eyes at all
Or should I fight against the nature and get tired even more?
I feel, again, approaching the night of all the nights,
When all will drink and all will gorge as this was THE last chance;
I don´t grudge them, not at all, cause they assume correct,
It is the last amazing blast, their minds without protect.
I read his words, some time ago: “Chaos is come again,”
Your´re right dear Sir, no change at all, since you´ve put down this claim.
No peace was found, still shouting loud
The dream will still be hunt.
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.
I'm not familiar with yoru. Is that like a clerihew?
The day is starting again,
after one more night of sleepless starts.
And I wonder again
how many days of these -
these
days of sameness into night and day -
will go by,
and go by.
These days into night couple like hounds
but always, always
without the night's consent:
The moon cries endlessly
"There is no place for me to rest.
I cannot close my eyes at all.
Perhaps I should fight against nature
now,
burning into stillness, fighting sleep."
I feel, again
I am approaching the night of all the nights,
In this blank dull glaze of day-dust now:
Clouds of hope of sleep are burned away.
And as I watch
this dawn
without beginning,
a dawn shadowed by night's curse,
Where all drink the poison draft of ambition,
Hailing the the Sun of Man
In the last-chance saloon of the Final Day,
I can't begrudge the revellers.
No more.
Let them play the day.
I'm weary. Too weary to play.
I'll watch, and let chaos stay,
in hope of an end
to this endless end.
Is that okay? Forgive me for switching the words about a bit, exhale, as I've forgiven you for switching mine about, too.
why?
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.
I agree, exhale; we are all open to constructive or deconstructive criticism as writers, but remarks that are unsupported by any advocacy of aesthetic, linguistic or formal and thematic criteria indicative or even vaguely implicative of what should constitute a 'good' poem, don't count as something about which to be overly concerned. And as an academic in training, exhale, you shouldn't worry about the odd 'critical' fart in your thread, if it has no good theoretical sheeeeeeet behind it.
Carry on writing, exhale.
There is no need for you to apologize,
I shall rather consider myself privileged as your ´distant´ protégée.
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.
As in protegee? But with the squiggles?
The only fancy thing I can do on my keyboard is
€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€€
and Pasta taught me that.
however, i´m pretty sure you should have it on your keyboard as well but you´d have to press either ctrl or alt + appropriate key with the mark on it + letter
quite precisely now
hope it´ll work
if not, here are some - I don´t use them as often
´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´´```````````````````````````````````````````````````
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.
Gods are crying, wooing all for dawning,
In my era voluptas dolendi covered thought
An absolute tranquillity, no after-sough.
Remotely, rumours, I hear voices dying
Burden, heavy with the grief and sighing.
For love that they´ve committed when two parts together grow,
Meet up with me, to save the souls, for it is not their fault.
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.
I wasn't just criticizing willy-nilly........but it might be a language problem.....but what are crumbles....all that comes to mind are apple pies....do you mean crumbs.....crumbles is a verb.....half of it is illogical.....I could go on and on and still abide.....it just could be worked on a bit if working would help.....English humour surely is shared with most of England.....so how can it make someone unique......not of your interest is grammatically incorrect......it isn't a sentence......it might be a language thing, and if so then it's simply a matter of learning English better in order to try to write profound peoms in English.....the reason I commented is because I have a very good grounding in peotry and can see the effort behind these poems....which are tyring to be something....but not being it.....but still, if English is your second language, they are not too bad....but really, they are flawed
TONGUE-IN-CHEEK METACRITICAL DECONSTRUCTIVE ANALYSIS OF THE FOREGOING (NOT TO BE TAKEN TOO SERIOUSLY):
(1) The passage demonstrates an excessive use of ellipses.
(2) What might be the language problem to which you refer? 'It' doesn't relate to a proper noun in the context of this statement.
(3) 'Crumbles' is a noun as well as a present participle of the verb 'to crumble'. When I think of crumbles I think of ancient ruins, before pastry.
(4) I thought modernism ushered in an allowance of defamiliarisation techniques, linguistic play and illogicality in poetry.
(5) "Not of your interest" is not grammatically incorrect, though it is genitive rather than the conventional, dative "Not to your interest". I have no problem with the construction as it stands.
(6) Why does absolute mastery of the English language provide the means of producing a profound poem? If it did, then even I would be a good poet.
(7) I have a trained grounding in the study of poetry and I cannot presume to qualify or quantify the effort or intention behind a work. I deal with the words I read on the page or screen and my own responses to them.
(8) The more I learn about literature, the more ideologically bound critical notions of flawed poetry, or 'literary competence', seem to me.
After a looooooong day at the university, as usually, I was waiting for the bus to go home. A girl I´ve never seen before approached and asked: “Excuse me, are you from Slovenia?”. Completely astonished by what I´ve just heard, I somehow managed to answer with a very short and quitet: “Yes, how do you know?”
“Well, I´m taking the same course as you and I heard Prof. K. asking you some questions about the ´voicing´ in your language. Anyway, could I ask you for a favour?”
“Oh yes, sure, no problem (stammering out this answer)”.
“Could you write down ´I miss you´ and ´best wishes´ in Slovene for me please?”- And so I did.
After a short conversation I found out that she´s got a friend from Slovenia… etc.
I´m open to any comment or critique of my texts, I don´t want anybody to mistake me. But I wouldn´t want to be so selfish, if somebody wants to learn my language.
I bet that you´ve never felt the same feeling as I have when that girl approached; I´m also quite sure that you never got gooseflesh when at the bottom of yout thread says: ´You know this is beautiful, don´t you?´ or ´Your poems touch my soul.´
I respect your knowledge and I admire your poems but I wouldn´t be so picky about the ´crumbles´, if I were you; especially if I wouldn´t even know where Slovenia is.
(i apologize, I didn´t get much sleep last night)
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.
(I'll tell you a story....I remember trying to teach an Italian phd student English, so that he could complete his phd in that rever'd language.....the thesis he had chosen was, he thought, quite original....his thesis was why originality doesn't matter....he wrote hundreds of pages with footnotes, references and a bibliography.....yet because he couldn't come up with an original idea, this thesis was on the redundancy of originality....his English was quite good...in fact his English was a lot better than his brain...)
A neologismic adverb.
No point working only with the already acquired knowledge, is it?
Besides, i wouldn´t expect a comment like your first one from someone that has ´a very good grounding in poetry´. He didn´t please me with his definitions, he only justified both points. I´m a teacher myself and that´s not the way you´d correct mistakes.
I write about my experiences (internal and external) and according to those I choose words and phrases. It is strange to make some prejudgments about them without knowing the background to the current situation.
However, thank you for making me aware of some facts and your comments are, of course, always welcome.
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.
amen to that... and it's not to say it's the only way... but it's yours, and it's mine, too
i'm cool when ppl say chop this, add more... those i can rightfully ignore... but i've been told not to swear in my poetry...
and i'm like, "yo mother fucker, why fucking not? fuck that fucking shit...." <walking away mumbling to self: motherfucking try to fucking tell me not to fucking cuss... sheeeyiiiiiit.... fucking ass...>
crumble on, exhale
thanks for the energy
much appreciated
looks like another crumbly day ...
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.
i'm sitting at my desk completely crumbled, so, yeah... i can totally relate
brings back the smile on my face every time i read your lines
always welcome
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.