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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#1401 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
Location: Pools of sorrow, waves of joy
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Boulevard of Lovers Bar
Down the boulevard of lovers There's a bar the poor admire; Here the wanderer uncovers What’s for free and what’s for hire. Statuettes of Aesop’s fables, Bronze illusions on a plinth, Candles shimmer where the tables Carry brandy or absinthe. Blondes who sometimes switch to henna Lure men, hanging nearby are Faded scenes of old Vienna, Prints of Paris by Degas. And a stage is kept at centre For the dancing girls to use, Sensually half-dressed they enter; This alone explains the queues. How much is desire at night priced? Spotlight-hungry legs assure, Writhing to the final zeitgeist In the years before the war. Now the blue dance has proceeded Down to just a black beret, In the bar that’s always ceded To a darker cabaret. © |
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#1402 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
Location: Pools of sorrow, waves of joy
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Quote:
Good luck.
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#1403 |
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Join Date: Jun 2012
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I'm part of a writing group and we're working on a new collection of work. We've each been allocated a month of the year and mine is January.
I'd welcome any comments & constructive criticism about my draft poem. Thanks in advance. January January wakes with a weary yawn, a sore head – heavy and hung over from the year before. A dead chill holds streets and alleyways, reluctant to let go, while low clouds loiter with heavy regret. Ice clings – a glaze of crystals holding on for dear dear life, struggling to surrender. A drip of water, the creak of a gate, a lone bird fluffs out its feathers, a cat watches. The air shifts into a slight breeze; scraps of paper, remnants of last night, lift then fall. A curtain shifts and a glazed face peers out onto a frozen yard, cast in monochrome. A turn of the head, a muffled response, ‘Too cold to go out today’. Let things lay for a final lie-in. In other homes bodies stir, taps are turned on. Plumes of vapour rise as houses fire up. Preparations begin. January 1, a cold pause before plans form and thoughts turn from what has gone to what should be. |
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#1404 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
I'm off to London tomorrow
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#1405 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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Quote:
Originally Posted by scottie2121
January
Ice clings – a glaze of crystals holding on for dear dear life,
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#1406 |
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Join Date: Jun 2011
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You be bold
I saw you there in the cold a look that said you be bold but in your eyes there was much of something and of whether such I wondered why you felt the need but of course and then indeed you just did what need to see and in a way of that to be. |
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#1407 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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Ooops! I've just noticed the new page. Quote:
Boulevard of Lovers Bar
© ![]() Quote:
It seems a long time coming Biz - it is, for all the Avebury work has taken ages. But I'm determined to get this collection out. I need a large portfolio and it's going to happen this year.
It sounds a gargantuan task,but I'm sure it will be worth it.
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#1408 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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Quote:
I'm part of a writing group and we're working on a new collection of work. We've each been allocated a month of the year and mine is January.
I'd welcome any comments & constructive criticism about my draft poem. Thanks in advance. January Musty is the one and as you've probably noticed he is off piste at the moment. Not sure when he'll be back.
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#1409 |
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#1410 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Biz
You said it Sandy.
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#1411 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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Quote:
The air shifts into a slight breeze;
scraps of paper, remnants of last night, lift then fall. January is no exception. I like the way you list the descriptions verse by verse here - Ice clings, A drip of water etc. The poem also captures that feeling of walking around on the morning after festivities have taken place. I do a lot of solo walking and your observations on things like litter really chimed. Writing about the ordinary things can be hard, but you've taken the mundane and invested it with great interest. That's a trick only good poetry can do.Quote:
I hope you are having a lovely time, it is a little rainy in London, so I hope you brought your brolly
![]() I got fairly sozzled in a pub called The Nag's Head, but I never saw Del-Boy or Trig ![]() Quote:
you just did what need to see
and in a way of that to be. I must re-read Just In Time For Tea again soon.Quote:
Musty is the one and as you've probably noticed he is off piste at the moment. Not sure when he'll be back.
'Tis good to be back though
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#1412 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
I had a splendid time thanks Sandy and it was dry I got fairly sozzled in a pub called The Nag's Head, but I never saw Del-Boy or Trig ![]() That's good, did you see Rodney?
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#1413 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
You have a totally unique style Sandy and this was lovely, as ever
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#1414 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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Quote:
I stayed over an extra night Biz 'Tis good to be back though ![]() Hope you had a productive trip.
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#1415 |
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Quote:
That's good, did you see Rodney? ![]() Quote:
The traveller's returned.
Hope you had a productive trip. ![]() A format's been chosen and I'm cutting and pasting like a madman back at Mustard Towers
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#1416 |
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Leonardo's Last Supper
Tchaikovsky modes and Shelley odes, The tales of DH Lawrence, What makes someone pour out the sun Of genius in torrents? Italian-glazed a child was raised, From Vinci close to Florence. He grew to be a student free Of shackles from the start, A mind that brought exclusive thought To science, not just art; What nature proved, how bodies moved, He analysed each part. Now is the night, by candlelight Come peer with me into it: A cultured stage, the scholars' age, Renaissance minds soared through it, Yet while the prose of logic rose, Faith was the main conduit. Da Vinci's skill increased until It brought him useful contacts, A chance to grow, to really show Art unrestrained and on tracks Steered by his hand, when chance would land The greatest of his contracts: Upon a wall divine and tall, Dominican and holy He’d soon record friends with the Lord Who saved the meek and lowly, That final meal he would reveal; The Last Supper grew slowly. Today the paint is rather faint, Bright tempera and oil Are prone to fade, each fresco shade Soon dulled after the toil, But surface grime and logic’s climb Can't permanently spoil. For pilgrim eyes it's vast in size, Fifteen by twenty-nine, As Jesus told his guests of cold Plain treason down the line, Enjoyment ceased, it stopped the feast Of sacred bread and wine. The moment when His loyal men Found out, in this portrayal These twelve are locked in pain and shocked, Yet Christ was bound to say all; Their rage and grief show disbelief At news of His betrayal. Among the chairs and Christian heirs Apostle doubt I see, How did the light of Jesus smite Their pain and set them free? The Judas kiss was felled by bliss, Love ousted treachery. Although in truth, beyond the proof In Reason’s dreary file And all of these conspiracies, This picture has a style With more to know, more even so Than Mona Lisa's smile. Brush strokes anoint a turning-point, The Son of Man's affliction, Where paint adheres with sundry fears At Jesus's prediction, From loved ones who would suffer through The Day of Crucifixion. What art remains the wall retains On lower space and upper, No dirt can grease a masterpiece, No plague or war can scupper Da Vinci's gift, all spirits lift On seeing his Last Supper. © |
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#1417 |
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Forum Member
Join Date: May 2006
Posts: 1,310
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Quote:
Leonardo's Last Supper
Tchaikovsky modes and Shelley odes, The tales of DH Lawrence, What makes someone pour out the sun Of genius in torrents? Italian-glazed a child was raised, From Vinci close to Florence. He grew to be a student free Of shackles from the start, A mind that brought exclusive thought To science, not just art; What nature proved, how bodies moved, He analysed each part. Now is the night, by candlelight Come peer with me into it: A cultured stage, the scholars' age, Renaissance minds soared through it, Yet while the prose of logic rose, Faith was the main conduit. Da Vinci's skill increased until It brought him useful contacts, A chance to grow, to really show Art unrestrained and on tracks Steered by his hand, when chance would land The greatest of his contracts: Upon a wall divine and tall, Dominican and holy He’d soon record friends with the Lord Who saved the meek and lowly, That final meal he would reveal; The Last Supper grew slowly. Today the paint is rather faint, Bright tempera and oil Are prone to fade, each fresco shade Soon dulled after the toil, But surface grime and logic’s climb Can't permanently spoil. For pilgrim eyes it's vast in size, Fifteen by twenty-nine, As Jesus told his guests of cold Plain treason down the line, Enjoyment ceased, it stopped the feast Of sacred bread and wine. The moment when His loyal men Found out, in this portrayal These twelve are locked in pain and shocked, Yet Christ was bound to say all; Their rage and grief show disbelief At news of His betrayal. Among the chairs and Christian heirs Apostle doubt I see, How did the light of Jesus smite Their pain and set them free? The Judas kiss was felled by bliss, Love ousted treachery. Although in truth, beyond the proof In Reason’s dreary file And all of these conspiracies, This picture has a style With more to know, more even so Than Mona Lisa's smile. Brush strokes anoint a turning-point, The Son of Man's affliction, Where paint adheres with sundry fears At Jesus's prediction, From loved ones who would suffer through The Day of Crucifixion. What art remains the wall retains On lower space and upper, No dirt can grease a masterpiece, No plague or war can scupper Da Vinci's gift, all spirits lift On seeing his Last Supper. © |
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#1418 |
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Join Date: May 2006
Posts: 1,310
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Guernica
Here's the painting and background of the painting: http://youtu.be/nf3Q7gS_YSA Picasso's painting "Guernica" resounds across the ages, etching an aerial outrage across World history's pages, a bombing resurrected with overt dismembered parts so real in its depictions that an abstruseness departs. Resemblances of tragic victims are graphically depicted, a war crime of a brutal State via this genius convicted, monochrome stark disembodied heads of bull and horse colour darkly a bloody act by the hands of Fascist force. A culture shock thumped hard into soft belly of our Art, sent asprawling to canvas knocked out in mind and heart. (Frank - an old one revisited here if memory serves). |
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#1419 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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Quote:
Such a poem based on a derscription of paintings is called an ekphrasis
![]() I love the painting Guernica, despite the fact that I'm not a great fan of Picasso. Your poem's a good summary of it and of those bomb-ridden times. We should all be grateful that some great art survived the Hitler and Franco dictatorships. Not forgetting Mussolini either. |
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#1420 |
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Join Date: May 2006
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An Anagram Poem
(an experiment with this form anagrams included)
How to live cheap he thought So a single peach he bought It's worth a coin's throw I trow Thought he, an archaic wonk was he to know so old a word and show his hows and whys Yet a life's short and time flies. |
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#1421 |
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Join Date: Nov 2006
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Quote:
an archaic wonk
I haven't got a chance of solving the anagrams Frank ![]() Clever stuff
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#1422 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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Quote:
Leonardo's Last Supper
Da Vinci's gift, all spirits lift On seeing his Last Supper. © ![]() I can't solve the puzzle either Frank.
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#1423 |
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Join Date: May 2006
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Quote:
(an experiment with this form anagrams included)
How to live cheap he thought So a single peach he bought It's worth a coin's throw I trow Thought he, an archaic wonk was he to know so old a word and show his hows and whys Yet a life's short and time flies. |
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#1424 |
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Join Date: Nov 2004
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Quote:
Sorry to confuse Musty & Biz, anagrams in bold. Frank
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#1425 |
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Join Date: Jan 2005
Location: Tamworth
Posts: 94
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Hi folks I bring a message from Musty: "Connectivity problems here so unable to join you guys until I get it fixed, still working on the book though
"
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I got fairly sozzled in a pub called The Nag's Head, but I never saw Del-Boy or Trig