Poetry and Prose for any season

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Door Closed, Forever Lost Key

Sitting among the ruins,
in a valley of hollow trees
Mind lost in sad thoughts
raging upon stormy seas

Future hopes stolen now,
as heart refuses to cry
She ran far, far away
hell if I'll ever know why

Sleeping amidst this scene,
where fate laughs at me
Her love forever gone south
door closed, lost is the key

Soul saddened in a lost stand
No pleasure in this evil Land

Robert J. Lindley, 04-18-1976

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Soul Seeks Its Maker
(Scent of My Soul)


Soul seeks its maker for great relief
from grave doubts in spiritual belief
Mysteries sent to tantalize the mind
journey forth the true light to find

Little voices singing in ones head
suggesting other dark paths instead
My Soul giving its answer so firm
only the light I seek can ever affirm

Scent of my Soul floating in my heart
each beat grants it a newborn start
As my heart slows for a restful sleep
my brain journeys forth into the deep

Destination unknown, course rightly set
spiritual butterflies caught in my net
Answers are given in the flapping wings
Soul given rest as beauty stirs to sing

Music springs lovingly in rhythmic time
thoughts and joys given so truly sublime
My Soul then wakes to each newborn day
with love and its spirit holding sway

10/12/2014, Robert J. Lindley

(Scent of My Soul) contest......

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Shades of Poe , Speaketh

Shades of Poe oft run in my veins
dark, dirty little splashing stains
No Raven stirs my battered heart
nor any signs on my astrology chart

Dark mysteries seep in at night
shadowed beings birthing fright
Muffled sounds sent to alarm
evil crying to scare and harm

Then my soul cries out to Poe
help me now , for you must know
Remedy for this sad affliction
a spell to give quick eviction

Reply creeps slowly back to me
close your eyes to sadly see
Darkness that drives men mad
such my heart and soul once had

No cure can by me be so gifted
you need Light to be so uplifted
My words are my aid little as is
answer you seek can only be His
Son of Light only can save you
my darkness left me only that clue!

Robert J. Lindley 10-12-2014

note: Tis' the month the Dark spreads
its evil mists to kids tucked in beds,
scary voices crying muffled shouts,
battles and shadowed little bouts,
goblins, ghouls and witches now abound
imagine such and they are then found!
My son, Justin loves the scary ones!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

MY SOUL AND I

The Spiritual harmony of the Soul
notes I hear early morn
Better life may be the earnest goal
yet weakness comes when born

Sunlight sends its beauty to me
birds sing a morning tune
Life begets its wonderful mystery
beautiful as light of the moon

Each day imparts lessons to learn
hours gifted to be alive
Work done, midnight oil to burn
on love one can thrive

Life now sends me gifts anew
dances with a true love
Discoveries very old and true
all sent by our God above

Gleanings for the Soul to tend
salvation depends not on you
For true love man must depend
On our Savior having paid all our due!

Robert J. Lindley, 10-15-2014


Poem written for a contest, Beauty of your Soul ...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Fall Sets To Turn


When timely Fall sets to turn
leaves hit the ground to burn
Epic radiant colors cascade down
forested floors see leafy gown

Winter's visitor did arrive
farmers feel jubiantly alive
Harvest in , time to rejoice
winter's precurser has voice

Sounds of birds taking flight
heading South day and night
Leaves carpet forest floors
Nature soon opens another door

Moonlight nights see it all
glowing as owls hoot the Fall
Native Americans wasted no time
prepping for another bad clime

Furry critters store more food
rushing all in the frantic mood
Living in a deep winters wrath
they pursue a surviving path

Fall retreats into winter sea
naked visits each pretty tree
Leaves wrapping their roots
Nights ring out owl's hoots

Silence cries the coming day
when winter will cast its sway
Snow may cover all in white
Fall has raced out of sight

Robert J. Lindley, 10-19-2014

Written for a contest, The Leaves of Fall.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

THE BELL OF FREEDOM

I've been to many places.
Seen so many things.
This is where I'll stay, my friends,
Where the bell of freedom rings.
But let me tell a story,
Of bells in other lands.
And how they cracked and crumbled,
From the weight of tyranny's hands.

Built with truth and honesty,
Ringing pure for years.
The people were the sovereigns,
Their status very clear.
But then the tone was changing.
A few were quite upset.
Understanding government
Can be their greatest threat.

The servants said, "The tone is off!"
"We'll fix it if we can.
We'll initiate a bureau
To carry out our plan,
And tax you just a little more
For work that must be done."
The timbre slowly getting worse.
The process had begun.

The people were oblivious
To changes being made.
The bell was slowly cracking
And higher taxes laid.
A private corporation
Controlled the currency.
The gold was taken from them
Along with liberty.

Soon the people asked for help,
They could not stand the weight.
The bell was falling swiftly,
To be destroyed, it's fate.
And they became the servants
That swept up the remains,
Of the bell that fell on hallowed land
And truth that it contains.

The thought of being sovereign?
For a few, a memory.
But most do not remember
Of ever being free.
They struggle, and the simple things
Are now a luxury,
And those that pull the puppet's strings,
Control their destiny.

Robert Nehls. 7-14-2014
----------------------------------
A good friend of mine, the poet Robert Nehls, wrote and won a contest with this fine write..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Skeleton in Armor

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armor drest,

Comest to daunt me!

Wrapt not in Eastern balms,

But with thy fleshless palms

Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?”


Then, from those cavernous eyes

Pale flashes seemed to rise,

As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;

And, like the water’s flow

Under December’s snow,

Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart’s chamber.


“I was a Viking old!

My deeds, though manifold,

No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!

Take heed, that in thy verse

Thou dost the tale rehearse,

Else dread a dead man’s curse;

For this I sought thee.


“Far in the Northern Land,

By the wild Baltic’s strand,

I, with my childish hand,

Tamed the gerfalcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound,

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,

That the poor whimpering hound

Trembled to walk on.


“Oft to his frozen lair

Tracked I the grisly bear,

While from my path the hare

Fled like a shadow;

Oft through the forest dark

Followed the were-wolf’s bark,

Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.


“But when I older grew,

Joining a corsair’s crew,

O’er the dark sea I flew

With the marauders.

Wild was the life we led;

Many the souls that sped,

Many the hearts that bled,

By our stern orders.


“Many a wassail-bout

Wore the long Winter out;

Often our midnight shout

Set the cocks crowing,

As we the Berserk’s tale

Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o’erflowing.


“Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,

Burning yet tender;

And as the white stars shine

On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.


“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,

Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest’s shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosened vest

Fluttered her little breast,

Like birds within their nest

By the hawk frighted.


“Bright in her father’s hall

Shields gleamed upon the wall,

Loud sang the minstrels all,

Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter’s hand,

Mute did the minstrels stand

To hear my story.


“While the brown ale he quaffed,

Loud then the champion laughed,

And as the wind-gusts waft

The sea-foam brightly,

So the loud laugh of scorn,

Out of those lips unshorn,

From the deep drinking-horn

Blew the foam lightly.


“She was a Prince’s child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!

Should not the dove so white

Follow the sea-mew’s flight,

Why did they leave that night

Her nest unguarded?


“Scarce had I put to sea,

Bearing the maid with me,

Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen!

When on the white sea-strand,

Waving his armed hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.


“Then launched they to the blast,

Bent like a reed each mast,

Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;

And with a sudden flaw

Came round the gusty Skaw,

So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hailed us.


“And as to catch the gale

Round veered the flapping sail,

‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,

‘Death without quarter!’

Mid-ships with iron keel

Struck we her ribs of steel;

Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water!


“As with his wings aslant,

Sails the fierce cormorant,

Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden, —

So toward the open main,

Beating to sea again,

Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.


“Three weeks we westward bore,

And when the storm was o’er,

Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to leeward;

There for my lady’s bower

Built I the lofty tower,

Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking seaward.


“There lived we many years;

Time dried the maiden’s tears;

She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;

Death closed her mild blue eyes,

Under that tower she lies;

Ne’er shall the sun arise

On such another!


“Still grew my bosom then,

Still as a stagnant fen!

Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful!

In the vast forest here,

Clad in my warlike gear,

Fell I upon my spear,

Oh, death was grateful!


“Thus, seamed with many scars,

Bursting these prison bars,

Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,

Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!”

Thus the tale ended.

ALL THINGS VIKING WITH ME... --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A free verse write, inspired by a story that I recently read...
I rarely do free verse being a rhyme poet primarily that favors sonnets...-Tyr


Dances in the Clouds

Hear the racing winds sound....

as Nature sends nurture

and soaks the pleading soil

with its falling liquid gold

cycles repeated beautifully


Harken to earth's natural rhythms

with its glories on parade

colors singing proudly

snows setting sweetly,

future life in Sunny clouds

treasures gifted with relish


See the Rays of birth gleaming all about

steps taken with happy tears

beauty staring into bliss

dances under the glowing moon

floods of expected dreams

life dwelling in chaotic splendor


Rest, rest gently upon earthy pillows

sleep in resplendent slumber

dream in sweet repose

sail upon crystal wings

reliving tales of golden glory.......


Robert J. Lindley, 10-27-2014

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Odin's Brood

Tyr, Ziu and Saxnot triple threats to the giants*
Hermoor, Heimdallr, Magni and Thor all so defiant
gods of might and power, protectors of sweet earth
Odin's brave brood , courage and strength since birth

Vali, so very set on revenge and great destruction
so skilled in the guiles of seduction and abduction
Mani, shines with force , moon god of the mighty Norse
attempts seducing Nott , goddess of night , of course

Ullr , god of the winter, the hunt and sword duel
tricked by evil Loki that thought him a great fool
Sjofn, temptress , shining majestic goddess of love
that inspires freyja in love, and battle far above

Odin, that set the universe , the mysteries of life
frigga that bore him the sons of glory and paradise
All players in the Nordic thoughts of darkness and light
each serving to stir man's ardor and great zeal to fight

Greatest of all was the powerful legend of mighty Thor
that roamed the earth , destroying evil shore to shore
The bravest son of all Odin's great, mischievous clan
replacing mighty Tyr in the eyes of justice and man!

07/01/2014


Poem notes:

giants* (The Jötnar are a mythological race that live in Jötunheimr, one of the
nine)
Speakers of Old Norse called them jötnar (singular jötunn, pronounced
roughly “YO-tun”) or þursar (singular þurs, pronounced “THURS” like the first
element in “Thursday” but with a soft “s” at the end). Jötunn comes from the
Proto-Germanic *etunaz and means “devourer.” The Old English eóten is a
cognate (it means the same thing and comes from the same Proto-Germanic
word).[1] Þurs is derived from the Proto-Germanic þurisaz and means
something like “powerful and injurious one” with a secondary connotation
of “thorn-like.” The Old English ðyrs and Old High German duris are cognates.


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What to Submit?

1 original, poem on the theme of Norse people and or their gods

do your research into this fascinating subject and be orginal
Any form is acceptable but you will score higher by using metre and rhyme

no poems over 20 lines please

no Names I judge blind

Date your poem please

gl to all


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Contest Results:

All Things Norse
Contest Judged: 8/2/2014 12:00:00 AM Information About the Contest

Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton

Place

Poem

Poet
Contest Winner Medal 1 , Odin's Brood , Robert Lindley
Contest Winner Medal 1 , Two Ravens in the Night, Christopher Britt

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

She Returns


Gone is bitter winter chill
warm is her body next to mine
Our last breakup left me ill
her curves sizzle so fine

Spring crashes in with glee
our nights now last longer
Her last escape so hurt me
she returned, I am stronger

Summer gives us water play
rivers and lakes to enjoy
Secluded spots to strip
enjoy, enjoy each tiny sip

Fall returns to soon shout
Am I staying in or going out


R.J. Lindley
10-19, 1976

note: A sonnet written almost 40 years ago..
Another try at making it a go with my first wife, Melinda.
Failure was predestined because I had no way to
defeat her drug addiction..
She , that was once the light from the moon...
Now faded to black.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Something was stated recently by a person I respected. That poetry is lame.
Question then is poetry a lame writing form?--Tyr

http://www.philosophy.uncc.edu/mleld.../USC/DP13.html

Poetry as a Unique Art Form

Submitted as Discussion Paper to the 2007 Annual Meeting of the

Society for the Advancement of American Philosophy



Abstract:

In this paper I look at John Dewey’s and Hans-Georg Gadamer’s contributions to the classic question of the whether the arts should be ranked, specifically whether poetry should have a special standing among the arts. I lay out Dewey’s account of poetry and his late arguments against ranking the arts; then I lay out Gadamer’s account of poetry and his argument that poetry holds an exemplary status among the arts. I finally argue with Gadamer against Dewey that poetry not only deserves pride of place among the arts, but is also exemplary for understanding how language functions as disclosive. My argument draws on Gadamer’s view that language cannot be considered simply a tool as opposed to Dewey’s view that language is a tool, albeit the “tool of tools.”





When Alcuin set out the artes liberales at the end of the eighth century, three things kept poetry from finding a distinctive place: Plato’s concerns about the corruptive power of poetry; poesis—“making”—suggesting poetry belonged to the mechanical rather than liberal arts; and the Pythagorean mathematicization of music. Through the middle ages, the best poetry could hope for was a place under the category of rhetoric; though, since it was then seen as oriented only to pleasure, the Medieval Church shared Plato’s suspicions. So, when poetry took off in the 14th century it’s not surprising that something so connected to both language and music should seem to transcend the split between the trivium (grammar, rhetoric, and logic) and quadrivium (arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music). When Leonardo da Vinci in 1490 argued that painting not only belongs among the liberal arts, but is the highest of the arts, it was music and poetry—one the master of invisible things, the other the master of visible things—he sought to dethrone. Poetry was no longer a tool of rhetoric, but an art of first rank, and the nature of music lie in its emotional power, not in mathematical relations.

Leonardo’s arguments never caught on, but the link between poetry and music has been often repeated, as has been their status as the highest of the arts. In the 19th century G.F.W. Hegel called poetry “the universal art of the mind.”[1] It “runs though all the arts” and is art’s “highest phase,” one phase higher than music. Arthur Schopenhauer inverted the priority: poetry is “the true mirror of the real nature of the world and life,”[2] but music, since it speaks directly to the will unmediated by ideas, is the “most powerful of all the arts.”[3] A young John Dewey wrote “The various fine arts, architecture, sculpture, painting, music and poetry are the successive attempts of the mind to adequately express its own ideal nature, or, more correctly stated, adequately to produce that which will satisfy its own demands for a love of a perfectly harmonious nature, something in which admiration may rest.”[4] The ordering of the arts is not accidental; poetry is above music, especially dramatic poetry, as it “consummates…the range of fine arts, because in dramatic form we have the highest ideal of self, personality displaying itself in the form of personality … beyond this art cannot go.”[5] Forty years later in Art and Experience Dewey returns to the idea of ranking the arts, but by then his views had changed. He presents the very fact that Schopenhauer even thought to rank the arts as evidence of “a complete failure of philosophy to meet the challenge that art offers reflective thought.”[6] By 1931 Dewey is no longer willing to give any art form pride of place among the arts.
The question I want to take up is the place of poetry in the arts: specifically does it hold pride of place either as the telos of art, or the essence of art, or at least as deserving special consideration among the arts. I will look at Dewey’s theory of poetry and how he argues that it does not hold a philosophically distinctive place and contrast it with Hans-Georg Gadamer’s theory about “the essential priority of poetry with respect to the other arts.”[7] Martin Heidegger may have expressed the view most dramatically when he claimed that “the essence of art is poetry”[8] but, as in so many other cases, it is Gadamer who fully articulates it and locates it in the history of philosophy. Finally I will argue with Gadamer that poetry does have a distinctive place among the arts, and poetry is particularly useful for helping us understand the arts in general. The key to this argument is seeing that language, especially poetic language, is not first a foremost a tool, not even, as Dewey writes, the “tool of tools.”[9]



I. Dewey’s Understanding of Poetry among the Arts



Of course what Dewey is known most for is arguing against distinguishing art from other areas of life. In Art as Experience it is the continuity among the arts, and above all the continuity of aesthetic experience and everyday experience, that takes the fore. He argues that were we to understand life as practical through and through, as we should, “then would disappear the separations that trouble present thinking: division of everything into nature and experience, of experience in practice and theory, art and science, or art into useful and fine, menial and free.”[10] Poetry, for Dewey, holds no special status, though it can still be analyzed separately from the other arts.

Dewey sees the distinction between fine art and useful art as falling away once we realize the common anthropological roots of the two categories. All arts develop in order to emotionally mark significant objects or experiences to enable them to be better communicated across people and over time. The role of fine art always arises within the practical needs of life; it does not transcend them. Therefore, with respect to poetry, Dewey says “words serve their poetic purpose in the degree in which they summon and evoke into active operation the vital responses that are present whenever we experience qualities.”[11] The qualities of an experience are those that provide the unity to the experience; poetry becomes a way to communicate these qualities, in the process generating an experience. In doing so, poetry brings to attention features of the experience that may be particularly useful for our ongoing adaptation to our environment. It is “the emotional kindling of reality, which is the true province of poetry;”[12] poetry “radiates the light that never was on land and sea but that henceforth is an abiding illumination of objects.”[13] Of course this same illuminating and attention-grabbing function might be played by prose as well as poetry, the difference between the two being that:

One of them [prose] realizes the power of words to express what is in heaven and earth and under the seas by means of extension; the other [poetry] by intension. The prosaic is an affair of description and narration, of details accumulated and relations elaborated. It spreads as it goes like a legal document or catalogue. The poetic reverses the process. It condenses and abbreviates, thus giving words an energy of expansion that is almost explosive.[14]



It is its energy—especially its spontaneous energy—that gives poetry its significant character as art and distinguishes it from prose, but for Dewey it shares that energy with other

Conclusion:

Often the small differences are the most illuminating ones. Dewey’s and Gadamer’s theories of art share much in common; they disagree, however, on the classic question of how the arts should be ranked, or, in Dewey’s case, whether they should be ranked at all. It turns out that behind the disagreement lies a significant difference as to how they see our relationship to language, and this difference leads them to competing theories of poetry. Siding with Gadamer that language is not merely a tool, but a fundamental way in which the world is disclosed to us, I think Gadamer is right that poetry both holds pride of place among the arts and is exemplary of the disclosive power of all language

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http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/d...tiepolos-hound

Derek Walcott: Tiepolo’s Hound
Year
2005
After Omeros proved his mastery of the epic poem in 1990, and even after the 1992 Nobel Prize in Literature fortified his place among the great writers of the world, Derek Walcott couldn’t distract the still-diligent and meticulous craftsman in him from completing yet another masterpiece. Tiepolo’s Hound, published in 2000, is a book-length poem that combines the stories of two painters—told in verse—with Walcott’s own watercolor and oil paintings.

Written entirely in alternately rhymed couplets, the imagery of Tiepolo’s Hound is informed by the landscapes of St. Thomas, St. Lucia, and Paris, while the story of the poem follows two narratives: one of the Caribbean-born painter Camille Pissarro, the other of Walcott himself, taking up the persona of a poet and failed painter. Pissarro’s great urge in the book is to move to Paris to pursue his painting career, a journey Walcott describes with an Impressionist’s vivid, delicate sensibility. Meanwhile, the Walcott character recalls a painting he saw when he was a young man visiting New York City:


“On my first trip to the Modern I turned a corner,
rooted before the ridged linen of a Cèzanne. ”

“A still life. I thought how clean his brushes were!
Across that distance light was my first lesson. ”

“I remember stairs in couplets. The Metropolitan’s
marble authority, I remember being”

“stunned as I studied the exact expanse
of a Renaissance feast, the art of seeing. ”

“Then I caught a slash of pink on the inner thigh
of a white hound entering the cave of a table, ”

“so exact in its lucency at The Feast of Levi,
I felt my heart halt. ”

The perfectly rendered hound captures the poet’s imagination—even as Walcott tells Pissarro’s story, the hound is a recurring presence, a reference point throughout the book. Though Walcott searches for it his entire life, he is unable to find the painting again—a symbol of Walcott’s unfulfillment as a painter, the object of a pursuit that has eluded him.

Despite this realization, the parallels between Pissarro and Walcott are numerous. Both have Caribbean origins, both are artists, and both, through self-exile, are interminably tied to their homeland. St. Thomas follows Pissarro—as does Walcott’s St. Lucia—to Paris by more than its name alone:


“Doubt was his patron saint, it was his island’s,
the saint who probed the holes in his Saviour’s hands”

“(despite the parenthetical rainbow of providence)
and questioned resurrection; its seven bright bands. ”

“Saint Thomas, the skeptic, Saint Lucia, the blind
martyr who on a tray carried her own eyes, ”

“the hymn of black smoke, wreath of the trade wind,
confirming their ascent to paradise. ”

Ultimately, Tiepolo’s Hound is about the relationship of painting and writing. Language and image aren’t conflicting media but complement one another. With sharp attention to color, architecture, and the movement of the eye, Tiepolo’s Hound opens with these lines:


“They stroll on Sundays down Dronningens Street,
passing the bank and the small island shops”

“quiet as drawings, keeping from the heat
through Danish arches until the street stops”

“at the blue, gusting harbour, where like

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Continued...--Tyr
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http://www.authorama.com/the-poetics-2.html

Aristotle (384 BCE-322 BCE)

Aristotle on the Art of Poetry: 1


Our subject being Poetry, I propose to speak not only of the art in general but also of its species and their respective capacities; of the structure of plot required for a good poem; of the number and nature of the constituent parts of a poem; and likewise of any other matters in the same line of inquiry. Let us follow the natural order and begin with the primary facts.

Epic poetry and Tragedy, as also Comedy, Dithyrambic poetry, and most flute-playing and lyre-playing, are all, viewed as a whole, modes of imitation. But at the same time they differ from one another in three ways, either by a difference of kind in their means, or by differences in the objects, or in the manner of their imitations.

I. Just as form and colour are used as means by some, who (whether by art or constant practice) imitate and portray many things by their aid, and the voice is used by others; so also in the above-mentioned group of arts, the means with them as a whole are rhythm, language, and harmony—used, however, either singly or in certain combinations. A combination of rhythm and harmony alone is the means in flute-playing and lyre-playing, and any other arts there may be of the same description, e.g. imitative piping. Rhythm alone, without harmony, is the means in the dancer’s imitations; for even he, by the rhythms of his attitudes, may represent men’s characters, as well as what they do and suffer. There is further an art which imitates by language alone, without harmony, in prose or in verse, and if in verse, either in some one or in a plurality of metres. This form of imitation is to this day without a name. We have no common name for a mime of Sophron or Xenarchus and a Socratic Conversation; and we should still be without one even if the imitation in the two instances were in trimeters or elegiacs or some other kind of verse—though it is the way with people to tack on ’poet’ to the name of a metre, and talk of elegiac-poets and epic-poets, thinking that they call them poets not by reason of the imitative nature of their work, but indiscriminately by reason of the metre they write in. Even if a theory of medicine or physical philosophy be put forth in a metrical form, it is usual to describe the writer in this way; Homer and Empedocles, however, have really nothing in common apart from their metre; so that, if the one is to be called a poet, the other should be termed a physicist rather than a poet. We should be in the same position also, if the imitation in these instances were in all the metres, like the Centaur (a rhapsody in a medley of all metres) of Chaeremon; and Chaeremon one has to recognize as a poet. So much, then, as to these arts. There are, lastly, certain other arts, which combine all the means enumerated, rhythm, melody, and verse, e.g. Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry, Tragedy and Comedy; with this difference, however, that the three kinds of means are in some of them all employed together, and in others brought in separately, one after the other. These elements of difference in the above arts I term the means of their imitation.


Continue...

Preface • Aristotle on the Art of Poetry: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 • 12 • 13 • 14 • 15 • 16 • 17 • 18 • 19 • 20 • 21 • 22 • 23 • 24 • 25 • 26

This complete text of the The Poetics book by Aristotle, translated by Ingram Bywater, with a preface by Gilbert Murray, is in the public domain. This page has been created by Philipp Lenssen. Page last updated on April 2004. Complete book.
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[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Time, Cuts Like A Knife

Would I perish in this onrush of racing time
if so would that be a gentle mercy or a crime
Dying one travels a sad mystery called Death
should one fight death until that last breath

Is love truly the fullfillment of the great Law
or just a futile recording of all that we saw
Hush and a sweet wind will grace your life
wash away the worries and constant strife

Sleep well from exhaustion as a faithful goal
satisfaction that greatly enhances the Soul
Fill your life with many very worthwhile deeds
sow goodness with many compassionate seeds

All things are temporary in this very short life
time awaits no man while it cuts like a knife

R.J. Lindley
11/23/1983

Note: Thirty one years ago I in this write saw some of my future about to unfold.
A damn shame that most men do not follow that which they know is the right path...-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Harlot and The Fool


She a sultry vixen bought love with her cries
he, the scoundrel , ate her up with his eyes
Sexy curves just so right on a body so lean
world called her princess, he called her Jean!

Nights of tossing gold dust upon her bedroom door
she weeping so , so profusely begging for more
Never outright selling her hot steamy pleasure
men eagerly offering their lives and treasure!

Blue ribbons adorning her hair of woven gold
market mastering as her secret wares were sold
Customers lined castles just to see her glow
offering gold and gems to see her sexy show!

She a queen that ruled in the realm of desires
wrapped in gold and silk stoked the many fires
Dreams offered in sexy body and sweet low moans
her victims , lost in fantasy and sexual groans

A prince appeared to whisk the goddess away
he, the scoundrel , could not make her stay
Her parting words, bitter arrows cutting his pride
good night sucker, bring more gold, get another ride!

02, 23, 1985 Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A lesson learned.. Sent in this poem to another much larger publishing site and was asked to allow a few minor changes-by way of suggestions , on my poem submitted. I thought no big deal--so it takes it from a perfect sonnet--10 syllables per line . I did wonder why the poetry expert asking me about making changes before they presented it -thought nothing of destroying the syllable perfect count but was in a mood so ok'ed it.

Now after seeing it presented with the changes I deeply regret agreeing to the changes.

I am presenting both versions here. For comparison --

First the edited, revised , suggested version... I dislike now. -Tyr




River Laps Softly

The ripples of water lap river's edge
quietly I sit, a man seeking love
The orange twilight stirs my lonely soul
nearby, the moan of a single dove

Sweetest place, roaring river churns
fish splashing about in a soft replay
Continuance as the world slowly turns
colors splash endings to a wonderful day

The smell of fish, water and mud
cool air spreading its soft relief
Comfort given to stop anger in my blood
as nature’s gifts, a most calming belief

Soon its quiet, knowledge enters my soul
Victory came because I made it so

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This is the original, perfect sonnet version... -Tyr

River Laps Softly

The ripples of water lap river's edge
quietly I sit, a man seeking love
The orange twilight stirs my lonely soul
nearby, lonely call of a single dove

Sweetest place roaring river moans and churns
fish splashing about in a soft replay
Continuance as the world slowly turns
colors splash endings to wonderful day

The smell is that of fish , water and mud
cool air spreading its greatest soft relief
Comfort gives to stop anger in my blood
as Nature gifts a most calming belief

Soon its quiet , knowledge enters my soul
Victory came because I made it so

Poem Syllable Counter Results

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 101
Poem Syllable Counter, Count Poem Syllables, Count Syllables in a Poem, Count Syllables, Syllable Counter
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I will never allow another editted version of any of my poems unless its one I came up with for a good reason myself.
I still have no memory of why I said yes to the suggested changes. This was about 3 or 4 weeks ago ....
I remember replying about 2 or 3 am to the request. I must have been off in another world when I did so..

As is now obvious my original version is better and it being in perfect syllable count is of great importance. -Tyr