Poetry Thread

[MarcusA]

Little poetry makes sense which means a lot doesn't make any sense at all.

[Asmodean]

Little poetry makes sense which means a lot doesn't make any sense at all.

That is generally true of human expression, depending on how much you put into "little" and "a lot," provided that they are relative to anything aside from each other. If not - there is plenty of art that does not make sense. There are whole stories of imaginary worlds that do not. Then there are just regular everyday opinions. A good chunk of them does not make much sense outside the person who thunk them - and maybe not even then, really.

Personally, I prefer poetry that tells a... How do I put it? A larger story than its verse. A good poem should paint an outline and augment the picture, which itself ought to be drawn by the reader's mind. That also makes it quite subjective, I think. Here are a couple in different styles that I personally consider good;

Kipling's Hyaenas

After the burial-parties leave
And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
To take account of our dead.

How he died and why he died
Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
Than the weakest thing alive.

For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
Can never lift a hand.

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
Until their tushes white
Take good hold in the army shirt,
And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn again
For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men —
Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man's name —
That is reserved for his kind.

Putting in the seed by Frost

You come to fetch me from my work tonight
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree.
Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for that early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.

[billy rubin]

i met a traveler, from an antique land

[MarcusA]

i met a traveler, from an antique land

Methinks, I am a stranger in my own land. I mean, in one sense, a little sweet-nothing means more than a love letter, overwritten and overwrought.

[MarcusA]

What is poetry but mudslinging.

[MarcusA]

Whatever you believe, give me a tale of faerie and it will mean love.

[No one]

The faerie killed, then ate everyone.

THE END.

[MarcusA]

The faerie killed, then ate everyone.

THE END.

Evil bloody fairy! It must die.

[MarcusA]

Life is too short to read everything. With poetry, one must be selective.

[Icarus]

Do limericks qualify as poetry. They do have meter and rhyme....Thus

There once was a hermit named Dave
who kept a dead whore in his cave
said he I'll admit I'm a bit of a shit
but look at the money I save.

[Tank]

Definitely poetic.

[Asmodean]

There was also that one limerick about The Asmo's penis.

He co-wrote that one. Made a initial outcast and then someone else limericked it.

[MarcusA]

Crazy-arsed lizards
Shooting forwards,
Whizzing about,
In and out.
Crazy-arsed lizards.

This is a limerick of mine. I don't have the meter, but what the heck! it rhymes.

[MarcusA]

Prose poetry is indistinguishable from prose.

[MarcusA]

Life's a candle quickening
to the flame - whispers
in the dark of night