Poetry and Prose for any season

[KitchenKitten99]

Haikus are easy.
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

[darin]

Tyr -

I think you're a fiction but you don't know it.

Your poetry seems to want to tell stories and perhaps it's just easier to go with poetry vs a real story with character development and whatnot. It seems to me you have a point to make with each writing - pre-determined point you craft the words around. Because of that feeling I have, i struggle to read the poetry always wondering when I'm going to get to the point. The bottom-line.

You may want to consider taking some of those and building upon them - really fleshing out the details of the story. The lesson you're teaching and all that.

Does that make sense?

Truth-in-Lending - I didn't read but a handfull. Futher, I tend to hate poetry for the same reason I hate photography. People who construct images or words tend to self-credential. I'm NOT saying you do this - I'm saying I'm jaded from the start!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Tyr -

I think you're a fiction but you don't know it.

Your poetry seems to want to tell stories and perhaps it's just easier to go with poetry vs a real story with character development and whatnot. It seems to me you have a point to make with each writing - pre-determined point you craft the words around. Because of that feeling I have, i struggle to read the poetry always wondering when I'm going to get to the point. The bottom-line.

You may want to consider taking some of those and building upon them - really fleshing out the details of the story. The lesson you're teaching and all that.

Does that make sense?

Truth-in-Lending - I didn't read but a handfull. Futher, I tend to hate poetry for the same reason I hate photography. People who construct images or words tend to self-credential. I'm NOT saying you do this - I'm saying I'm jaded from the start!

Poetry is actually another form of story telling. Truth is , its the telling of ones private thoughts, hopes, pains, loves and imaginations , etc.
It is left deliberately "vague" precisely because its so individualistic and presented not geared to please or entertain "masses" but rather express a thing and leave it open to the reader's various interpretations.
Believe it or not I once hated poetry--and trust me , I know how to hate. At age 10 my fourth grade teacher had us(made us) write poetry. I hated it dearly. Later, I started reading the great poets and saw much, much deeper.

The poet writes in a personal way without regard to appealing to others as would a writer of fiction writing for a book.
Tis why the two never compare well my friend.. A poem does not always tell a story, sometimes(most often) it merely conveys an emotion, a pain, a love or an imaginative thought, etc..

Appreciate your reply and honest criticism.

Has been asked often--"Why don't poets just write "books"?
Answer is -- then they would not be poets, they'd be "book authors".....

I think you're a fiction but you don't know it.

^^^^ Think that myself very often.... --Tyr

[darin]

Good stuff - but I think your forte might be in the whole story vs the poem. If it's not YOUR forte, it's A Forte of yours I bet.

Maybe we start a "Creative Writing" subforum - People can submit for review/critique or for whatever. Hrm....Maybe you Moderate it?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Good stuff - but I think your forte might be in the whole story vs the poem. If it's not YOUR forte, it's A Forte of yours I bet.

Maybe we start a "Creative Writing" subforum - People can submit for review/critique or for whatever. Hrm....Maybe you Moderate it?

Subforum? "Creative writing"?
I could go with that but seems we have very few writers here.

By the way, Ive written short stories ,long ago....I am just lousy at editing and proper grammar. -Tyr

[darin]

Subforum? "Creative writing"?
I could go with that but seems we have very few writers here.

By the way, Ive written short stories ,long ago....I am just lousy at editing and proper grammar. :laugh

:-Tyr

yes, A subform for Creative writing.

You wouldn't have to edit or anything - just step in when feelings get hurt and shit starts flying.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

yes, A subform for Creative writing.

You wouldn't have to edit or anything - just step in when feelings get hurt and shit starts flying.

I see, one can learn a lot if they engage the other person long enough. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Haikus are easy.
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

Haikus are a form of poetry used by the Japanese--no rhyme and no action.
Just vague comparisons primarily, usually between three or more objects or ideas.

I rarely ever write in that form but did for a few contests.



Probabilities


fallen fruit exists
earthen harvest and ground meet
jars in the pantry

07-24-2014
-----------------------------------------------
Summer

World glimmers boldly

Summer sets sails to full mast

Eagles soar on high

-----------------------------------------------

Life Reflects

bird sat on a perch
ocean reflects upon clouds
rain fills a great void

Haiku, contest entry
-----------------------------------------------

All placed in top ten but first Haiku took first place in that contest.--Tyr

[darin]

Bro - she was just being a little shit - in a good way. :-)

[jimnyc]

yes, A subform for Creative writing.

You wouldn't have to edit or anything - just step in when feelings get hurt and shit starts flying.

Awesome idea!

Tyr, so long as you like the idea, we're gonna create a 'creative writing' forum just beneath the lounge, solely for writers. I know I'll see if I can chime in a bit here and there, maybe it'll give me a little incentive. We'll make you mod of that forum, meaning it's your forum to run. I never did this before so it'll be a game in progress!! You'll be able to control all aspects, within reason of course. Hopefully no moderation really necessary, but if it is, you can handle. Sound like something of interest to you?

I wouldn't want to do this a ton of times, but I think it's a good idea. Members get what they want and have input for their forum and run it as they choose for the most part, and less work for staff.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Bro - she was just being a little shit - in a good way. :-)

Yes, already knew that but no reason why I have to return the favor.
I love how people so greatly underestimate me. Must be my Southern charm and gentle nature..--Tyr

[darin]

I dont understand anymore.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk

War in Europe long anticipated
Posted on 8 May 2014 by David Roberts




UK Parliament often discussed war in Europe before 1914

Both Winston Churchill and his father, Lord Randolph Churchill, warned of the dangers of a war in Europe. This was clearly a common topic for discussion amongst politicians, the media and the general public in the decades before the First World War. Here is a statement made in a letter by Lord Randolph Churchill and another by Winston Churchill in the UK parliament.

Premonitions of war with Germany evident in the media and popular literature are discussed in Minds at War.

Randolph Churchill on avoiding war in Europe, (1866)

On the 22nd of December, 1886, the Chancellor of the Exchequer,Lord Randoph Churchill, wrote to Lord Salisbury, who had pointed out the desperate state of Europe and the possibilities of immediate war:

“A wise foreign policy will extricate England from Continental struggles and keep her outside of German, Russian, French, or Austrian disputes. I have for some time observed a tendency in the Government attitude to pursue a different line of action, which I have not been able to modify or check.

This tendency is certain to be accentuated if large Estimates [for Government spending] are presented to and voted by Parliament. The possession of a very sharp sword offers a temptation which becomes irresistible to demonstrate the efficiency of the weapon in a practical manner. I remember the vulnerable and scattered character of the Empire, the universality of our commerce, the peaceful tendencies of our democratic electorate, the hard times, the pressure of competition, and the high taxation now imposed: and with these facts vividly before me I decline to be a party to encouraging the military and militant circle of the War Office and Admiralty to join in the high and desperate stakes which other nations seem to be forced to risk.”

Winston Churchill, speaking in Parliament on a European War, 13 May 1901

The enormous and varied frontiers of the Empire, and our many points of contact with barbarous peoples, will surely in the future, as in the past, draw us into frequent little wars. Our military system must therefore be adapted for dealing with these minor emergencies smoothly and conveniently. But we must not expect to meet the great civilized Powers in this easy fashion. We must not regard war with a modern Power as a kind of game in which we may take a hand, and with good luck and good management may play adroitly for an evening and come safe home with our winnings. It is not that, and I rejoice that it cannot be that. A European war cannot be anything but a cruel, heartrending struggle, which, if we are ever to enjoy the bitter fruits of victory, must demand, perhaps for several years, the whole manhood of the nation, the entire suspension of peaceful industries, and the concentrating to one end of every vital energy in the community.

I have frequently been astonished since I have been in this House to hear with what composure and how glibly Members, and even Ministers, talk of a European war. I will not expatiate on the horrors of war, but there has been a great change which the House should not omit to notice. In former days, when wars arose from individual causes, from the policy of a Minister or the passion of a King, when they were fought by small regular armies of professional soldiers, and when their course was retarded by the difficulties of communication and supply, and often suspended by the winter season, it was possible to limit the liabilities of the combatants. But now, when mighty populations are impelled on each other, each individual severally embittered and inflamed—when the resources of science and civilization sweep away everything that might mitigate their fury—a European war can only end in the ruin of the vanquished and the scarcely less fatal commercial dislocation and exhaustion of the conquerors.

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http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/Owena.html

Dulce et Decorum Est page link
(poem, notes on the poem and videos of readings of Dulce et Decorum Est)

Wilfred Owen is one of the principal poets featured in the anthologies of First World War poetry, Minds at War and Out in the Dark.

Introduction to Wilfred Owen
Few would challenge the claim that Wilfred Owen is the greatest writer of war poetry in the English language. He wrote out of his intense personal experience as a soldier and wrote with unrivalled power of the physical, moral and psychological trauma of the First World War. All of his great war poems on which his reputation rests were written in a mere fifteen months.

From the age of nineteen Wilfred Owen wanted to become a poet and immersed himself in poetry, being especially impressed by Keats and Shelley.

He was working in France, close to the Pyrenees, as a private tutor when the First World War broke out. At this time he was remote from the war and felt completely disconnected from it too. Even when he visited the local hospital with a doctor friend and examined, at close quarters, the nature of the wounds of soldiers who were arriving from the Western Front, the war still appeared to him as someone else's story.

Eventually he began to feel guilty of his inactivity as he read copies of The Daily Mail which his mother sent him from England. He returned to England, and volunteered to fight on 21 October 1915. He trained in England for over a year and enjoyed the impression he made on people as he walked about in public wearing his soldier's uniform.

He was sent to France on the last day of 1916, and within days was enduring the horrors of the front line.

SHORT BIOGRAPHY OF WILFRED OWEN

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, 1893 - 1918
Born Oswestry, Shropshire. Educated at Birkenhead Institute and Shrewsbury Technical College.

From the age of nineteen Owen wanted to be a poet and immersed himself in poetry, being especially impressed by Keats and Shelley. He wrote almost no poetry of importance until he saw action in France in 1917.

He was deeply attached to his mother to whom most of his 664 letters are addressed. (She saved every one.) He was a committed Christian and became lay assistant to the vicar of Dunsden near Reading 1911-1913 – teaching Bible classes and leading prayer meetings – as well as visiting parishioners and helping in other ways.

From 1913 to 1915 he worked as a language tutor in France.

He felt pressured by the propaganda to become a soldier and volunteered on 21st October 1915. He spent the last day of 1916 in a tent in France joining the Second Manchesters. He was full of boyish high spirits at being a soldier.

Within a week he had been transported to the front line in a cattle wagon and was "sleeping" 70 or 80 yards from a heavy gun which fired every minute or so. He was soon wading miles along trenches two feet deep in water. Within a few days he was experiencing gas attacks and was horrified by the stench of the rotting dead; his sentry was blinded, his company then slept out in deep snow and intense frost till the end of January. That month was a profound shock for him: he now understood the meaning of war. "The people of England needn't hope. They must agitate," he wrote home. (See his poems The Sentry and Exposure.)

He escaped bullets until the last week of the war, but he saw a good deal of front-line action: he was blown up, concussed and suffered shell-shock. At Craiglockhart, the psychiatric hospital in Edinburgh, he met Siegfried Sassoon who inspired him to develop his war poetry.

He was sent back to the trenches in September, 1918 and in October won the Military Cross by seizing a German machine-gun and using it to kill a number of Germans.

On 4th November he was shot and killed near the village of Ors.
The news of his death reached his parents home as the Armistice bells were ringing on 11 November 1918.

----------------------------------------------------------------

http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/dulce-et-decorum-est

Wilfred Owen, 1893 - 1918

Dulce et Decorum Est



Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

This poem is in the public domain.

[KitchenKitten99]

Yes, already knew that but no reason why I have to return the favor.
I love how people so greatly underestimate me. Must be my Southern charm and gentle nature..--Tyr

I much prefer sarcasm and smart-assery.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Michael Brett


Boston Bombing


What haunts you after an explosion

Is the eggshell nature of things,

The art forms and the dreams of madness:


The red pools, the Jackson Pollock zigzags

On grey paving slabs;


The houses sliced like cake; paper doorways;


The darkness, shock and night snapped shut

Like a pocket watch whose machinery

May be glimpsed like anemones

Waving –phosphorescent- on the darkened floors

Of barroom confessionals and consulting rooms


Whose bulbs overwinter in silent places:

Basements, lock-up garages, rucksacks and holdalls;


Or sometimes in those man-made wild places

Where no-one goes

Save the homeless and detectives, pathologists,

Under motorway ramps and railway arches.


These and subleased apartments, paid for in cash

Are sometimes states in waiting,

Like Lenin’s in Percy Street

With a policeman hiding in the grandfather clock

Who does not speak Russian;


These are the invisible other cities

Plotting against our kingdoms of the necessary nonsense,

The fables agreed upon

That stop all Romes collapsing beneath the weight

Of Sistine ceilings and marble angels, oil;


The Dr Dee levitation of shared assumptions and paper money

For –in truth-bombs show us everything we need to know:

That everything is just a house of cards

Save our need to eat and who we love.


Michael Brett 2013