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Is Poetry a Dead Art? (Part 4) |
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#1551 |
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I've skimmed the latest poems and they're all great
I'll come to the library early tomorrow and read them properly ![]() Welcome to the thread Finisher Don't be discouraged by the lack of feedback, someone always responds eventually! I'll read your ode tomorrow too - I hope you stick around and post again
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#1552 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Hi everyone
![]() I haven't been around, as I've had a sort of minor nervous breakdown ![]() |
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#1553 |
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Hello Musty, sorry to hear you haven't been well, try and carry on with your poems, it might give you something to focus on and make you feel a little better each day.
![]() I'm over the worst of it now - as with severe depression, mental illness is something you can learn from over time. Writing-wise it can unlock many doors
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#1554 |
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Bells Tubular
Awesome chimes of silver, Nothing here repels, Seagull, bones and starfish, That's Tubular bells. Glockenspiel, timpani, Fuzz guitar remote, Piltdown Man, acoustic, Headphones on, you float. Introductions merge in Hippie Bonzo Viv, Many sales for Virgin, Many souls, we live. Soon a caring mother And a busy nun Pass in autumn sunshine, Serious but fun. Twisted looping silver From a demo tape, Haunting bells of mystic, Tubular in shape. © |
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#1555 |
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I don't know my way round the library computers like my old kaput one
For those baffled by the 'nun' reference above, it refers to The Exorcist. Part of Tubular bells was used in the soundtrack. A Google on YouTube for Exorcist walk scene should let you see it ![]() A classic film - even the unscary bits are brilliant, as a successful search for the clip will show
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#1556 |
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Quote:
Originally Posted by mr. mustard
Thanks Sandy
![]() I'm over the worst of it now - as with severe depression, mental illness is something you can learn from over time. Maybe go for a little walk, though amongst the noise , the hustle and bustle, know that there is sometimes a little stillness, you can find somewhere for a while that may ease your troubles. |
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#1557 |
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How are you today?
Maybe go for a little walk, though amongst the noise , the hustle and bustle, know that there is sometimes a little stillness, you can find somewhere for a while that may ease your troubles. I've spent the day in lovely historic Horsham, buying books and relaxing. I also had a jacket potato and salad for lunch there I generally tend to avoid noise wherever I go.I've caught up on lots of sleep lately too. Thanks for your concern
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#1558 |
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Tom Story
Tom'd rather devour your pasty Or any leftovers best unwasted ![]() I love moggy poems
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#1559 |
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I like that idea.
Presumably you'll start with the poems for the younger children? Have you thought of having them in slightly larger, simple print, reverting to a more normal size for the older ones?
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#1560 |
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So when you’re feeling frisky and life needs a bit of spice
Get your swingers on the line, washed and ready to entice. Your poems are always so well written and funny ![]() Womens' underwear on a washing line is a first for the thread and a very welcome one! I wish some of it would land on me
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#1561 |
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I wasn't expecting the last line, but it just had to go in.
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#1562 |
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My knickers held up for the longest of time,
swung weekly billowing on my washing line. I'm now anticipating Flower and MrsGoto's epic volume The Secret Life Of Knickers
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#1563 |
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Well I think it can be really good to work within a very tight structure as it means the writer has to think very carefully about each word and how the structure should come second to what is being conveyed. For me, poetry is a condensed form of language that doesn't just carry it's meaning in the words but also in what it can evoke through rhythm, rhyme, imagery etc etc.
I tend to write within a tight structure, but of late I'm trying to loosen up a bit. While I like both the examples you've posted, in truth I prefer your normal style. I hope you don't take this as criticism, it's just my personal taste in poetry I answered your post a while back - the poem in question was about walking around after the New Year celebrations
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#1564 |
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Laden mists of linen grey
bathed in seas of melancholy I think I must have wrote this when I was a bit pissed off ![]() What I love about poetry is how it shines a light on both joy and misery. Your ode catches the despair well
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#1565 |
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Chuckle to me, chuckle to you
little ways, always shine thru They never make the news, but they exist all the same. I thoroughly enjoyed Ways
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#1566 |
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Like gold a noble daffodil yields a treasure for the eye,
an array of optical pleasure then doffs its cap goodbye. Apart from lovely bluebells, what other flower than the humble daff can inspire such bliss? No wonder Wordsworth's poem became immortal. Your versatility is always evident and this tribute to the 'golden host' is terrific
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#1567 |
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Glastonbury Tor
Summer, set The pilgrims rolling, Somerset, A bell is tolling. High and green Lie sloping glories, Calling us The pagan Tor is. On the line Of good St Michael, Climbing up The ancient cycle. Nearly there, The view is splendid, Angels with King Arthur blended. Laugh and drink And all make merry On the hill Of Glastonbury. © |
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#1568 |
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Musty, I love it. Your poems make me want to pack up (my knickers
) and take a trip around UK. There is so much I have not yet seen and you have a knack of projecting that image, so I always feel the atmosphere.I don't know how you write the volume you do though, all to such a beautiful quality.I get the bare bones of it, but it takes a bit longer to tinker with it until it feels right.Just a little on the slow side, but I never want to force it. Also, mine aren't exactly deep, other poems on here are breathtaking in their story and content. |
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#1569 |
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Musty, I love it. Your poems make me want to pack up (my knickers
) and take a trip around UK. Thanks Mrs Goto ![]() Like you, only a handful of my poems have ever flowed out quickly - even a short piece like Glastonbury Tor took many corrections and re-writes. And a lifelong fear of flying allowed me instead to mine Britain's incredible history. Ibeza just doesn't do it for me
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#1570 |
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Dreamland Is My Home
Dreamland is a gorgeous place, On the beach I comb For the Faerie Pebble Queen, Dreamland is my home. I prefer the secrets of Any given dell, Walking by the traffic jams I'm in Rivendell. I cannot embrace the world, You cannot see mine, Where the paths are friendlier, Gold and serpentine. Head inside the clouds again, Everywhere I roam There is no regret at all, Dreamland is my home. © |
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#1571 |
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Life is strange, as Marc Bolan once sang. I've given up making major plans, as you never know what's round the corner. I like a normal life as much as the next person, but 'truth is stranger than fiction' is a wise saying.
At least the old thread is a constant, with the few writers and non-writers here keeping what's now a DS institution alive A comfort at all times
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#1572 |
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Has Biz left the thread?
Has MrsGoto left the thread? Are United going to improve next season? I don't know the answers, but I think I should be told
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#1573 |
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Séance at Eight
At good Mrs Frobisher's house I arrived, Where afterlife traces some thought had survived, The regulars turned up and no one was late To try Mrs Frobisher's séance at eight. I chatted a while with both Horace and Maud, Who spoke of their lifelong belief in the Lord And while tea and cake for our group were reserved, Old Horace preferred the red wine that was served. The wallpaper gleamed, William Morris I think, An elegant pattern in pale green and pink, The bookcase included a few HG Wells, Two Huxleys and Betjeman's Summoned By Bells. In time Mrs Frobisher said 'Let's begin!', We sat at the table where she sipped a gin, I didn't feel scared but I sensed I soon might As we all held hands and she turned off the light. My seat was between Mr Grant and Hortense, The aura seemed taut and grew even more tense When in a voice sounding increasingly strange Our hostess informed us a soul was in range. I waited with patience then started to doubt If anything spectral would scamper about, Relaxing a little, I opened my eyes And that's when I heard the most mournful of sighs. I knew that it wasn't the mind playing tricks, Exhaling four feet off some might even fix, But not Mrs frobisher, one place from me Who'd only let real paranormal forms free. I'm sure Horace put the sigh down to the wine And I felt a tingle shoot right up my spine, Though after our medium whispered 'Who's there?' No further response came from out of the air. The windows grew wetter from soft evening rain, Politely, she asked her late guest to explain; Despite the room's darkness no phantom replied, The only sound heard was the shower outside. She turned on the light and she called it a day, Informed us the presence had gone on its way And I in a mystified, magical state Left good Mrs Frobisher's séance at eight. © |
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#1574 |
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Quote:
Life is strange, as Marc Bolan once sang. I've given up making major plans, as you never know what's round the corner. I like a normal life as much as the next person, but 'truth is stranger than fiction' is a wise saying.
At least the old thread is a constant, with the few writers and non-writers here keeping what's now a DS institution alive A comfort at all times ![]() You seem to just keep getting better and better. ![]() Sorry to hear you've had a bit of instability. Glad to see you've come through it unscathed and intact. ![]() Hoping Biz is OK... |
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#1575 |
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Sylvia
outside in the park the primroses lie buried sealed in ice their blue moth-wing petals gripped in crystal-glass frozen a thick muffled laying numbs the square and seals the door to its frame How you lay under the heavy stench of anaesthetic, floating yourself free from your savage god. Downstairs you’d neatly folden your kittens, putting them from harm’s way, sops ready for the frozen white air of the morning and the call that never came. poppy red figures burn into the frozen landscape trudging home hunched over the snow clouded breath punctuating the heavy chilled air Who is that figure, apparelled in black, at the back of the church? Who is that who observes the rites and committals? Who, cleft-footed, merges with the tombstones and looks on so dispassionately as they process from the church, accounts in hands, torn pages in pockets. They bound you hand and foot and dragged you down over the landscape of grey blasted gravestones. Then laid you down, renamed, reclaimed, sea-shells covering your eyes and cold clay stopping your mouth. |
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I'll come to the library early tomorrow and read them properly 
Don't be discouraged by the lack of feedback, someone always responds eventually! I'll read your ode tomorrow too - I hope you stick around and post again 


I answered your post a while back - the poem in question was about walking around after the New Year celebrations 