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Louise
Over 90 days ago
United Kingdom
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Phyllis McGinley (March 21, 1905 - February 22, 1978) was an American writer of children's books and poet about the positive aspects of suburban life. In 1961 she won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.
I chose this because it's a lovely little look at everyday life...
Daniel at Breakfast
his paper propped against the electric toaster
(nicely adjusted to his morning use),
Daniel at breakfast studies world disaster
and sips his orange juice.
the words dismay him. headlines shrilly chatter
of famine, storm, death, pestilence, decay.
Daniel is gloomy, reaching for the butter.
he shudders at the way
war stalks the planet still, and men know hunger,
go shelterless, betrayed, may perish soon.
the coffee's weak again. in sudden anger
Daniel throws down his spoon
and broods a moment on the kitchen faucet
the plumber mended, but has mended ill;
recalls tomorrow means a dental visit,
laments the grocery bill.
then having shifted from his human shoulder
the universal woe, he drains his cup
rebukes the weather (surely turning colder),
crumples his napkin up
and, kissing his wife abruptly at the door,
stamps fiercely off to catch the 8:04
I chose this because it's a lovely little look at everyday life...
Daniel at Breakfast
his paper propped against the electric toaster
(nicely adjusted to his morning use),
Daniel at breakfast studies world disaster
and sips his orange juice.
the words dismay him. headlines shrilly chatter
of famine, storm, death, pestilence, decay.
Daniel is gloomy, reaching for the butter.
he shudders at the way
war stalks the planet still, and men know hunger,
go shelterless, betrayed, may perish soon.
the coffee's weak again. in sudden anger
Daniel throws down his spoon
and broods a moment on the kitchen faucet
the plumber mended, but has mended ill;
recalls tomorrow means a dental visit,
laments the grocery bill.
then having shifted from his human shoulder
the universal woe, he drains his cup
rebukes the weather (surely turning colder),
crumples his napkin up
and, kissing his wife abruptly at the door,
stamps fiercely off to catch the 8:04
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Fay Zwicky (born 4 July 1933 in Melbourne) is a contemporary Australian poet, short-story writer, critic and academic.
The Poet Asks Forgiveness
Dead to the world I have failed you
Forgive me, traveler.
Thirsty, I was no fountain
Hungry, I was not bread
Tired, I was no pillow
Forgive my unwritten poems:
the many I have frozen with irony
the many I have trampled with anger
the many I have rejected in self-defiance
the many I have ignored in fear
unaware, blind or fearful
I ignored them.
They clamoured everywhere
those unwritten poems.
They sought me out day and night
and I turned them away.
Forgive me the colours
they might have worn
Forgive me their eclipsed faces
They dared not venture from
the unwritten lines.
Under each inert hour of my silence
died a poem, unheeded
The Poet Asks Forgiveness
Dead to the world I have failed you
Forgive me, traveler.
Thirsty, I was no fountain
Hungry, I was not bread
Tired, I was no pillow
Forgive my unwritten poems:
the many I have frozen with irony
the many I have trampled with anger
the many I have rejected in self-defiance
the many I have ignored in fear
unaware, blind or fearful
I ignored them.
They clamoured everywhere
those unwritten poems.
They sought me out day and night
and I turned them away.
Forgive me the colours
they might have worn
Forgive me their eclipsed faces
They dared not venture from
the unwritten lines.
Under each inert hour of my silence
died a poem, unheeded
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Quote by courage2bfreeQuote by Louise
I cut my hair for the first time in years lol...I lost a few pounds just in hair (grins)
Do you feel refreshed?
Is a new photo in order?
It looked fabbooooo yesterday..alas I cannot reproduce the same effect the hairdresser did
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Quote by DirtyMartiniQuote by Louise
I love the choice. It was different.
Thanks Louise...like I said, it was a bit of an arbitrary decision...
I realized there were a couple of poems on this site that had a similar theme...I believe Sharon's last poem touched on the topic of "poem theft" as well...and finding a video to go with it sort of cemented my decision...
And yeah, being called "flowery" is not all that bad, the fact that someone has an opinion on your poetry at all means that it is, in fact, being read...
Imagine if you will, that you have spent the last twenty or so years writing poems which you consider "serious" and strive for "artistic merit" but nobody actually reads them...
And then imagine if you will, someone who comes along and openly admits he only started writing poems on an "adult" story site...and then, within a couple of years, his poems have found some level of popularity...even to the point of getting "in print"...
Not going to mention any names, but I think you get the idea...and yeah, I'm the first to admit that I'd rather write poems that are actually read by people, over writing poems that strive for some impossible level of "artistic merit" and are read and discussed only by members of poetry discussion groups...a concept that seems to be pure heresy to some "poets"...
And yeah...you really should check out the Poets group over on LinkedIn...very interesting...and yeah, it does get a bit heated at times, to the point where I find it rather comical really...
I don't get over there much, not because I can't take the heat...I think you know me better than that...but, rather the level of discussion...it's not unusual for there to be sixty or more posts in a day...and I just can't keep up with it...
But, the discussions really are good...and thought provoking...it would be nice if there were some actual poetry discussion here, with a bit less drama perhaps...we don't need any Llamas as members of Stories Space...
And yeah, don't get me wrong...I'm still very new at this poetry thing, and there is a lot to learn for me, and a lot of directions to explore...and yeah, I feel I can most definitely increase the "artistic merit" of my poetry...
I just hope I never get so "artistic" that people stop reading my poems...
Ah yes! I'm going to quote someone who knew something about writing. He wrote really serious plays and sonnets and a lot of humourous low brow works too. It was the bard himself, William Shakespeare. This is from Hamlet and said by Polonius to his son.
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Applicable to writing too...I think you shouldn't change yourself or your writing to please others unless YOU want to...
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Quote by DirtyMartiniQuote by Louise
In fact (giggles) it's similar to 'Steal this poem'
Thanks Louise, I think...I think he may have stole it from me...
The way I came across it, I had just started posting on another poetry site the other day...Hello Poetry, and was checking to see how many views I got on my poems...two views on each poem, in two days...btw, if anyone thinks this site doesn't get many views, try posting on poetry sites...except for Poetry Craze, which I have issues with I've mentioned before here in the forum, Stories Space frankly blows the poetry sites out of the water as far as views go...
And it's actually a really nice site...it's like All Poetry...it has everything except visitors...
Anyway, I was perusing the "Classic Poets" section, and this one caught my eye...with that title, how could I not read it?
I did a quick Google search, because I wanted to verify that spelling of "money" and came across the YouTube vid, which I think is a nice touch, and something to consider for future "Poem of the Day" postings...
And I appreciate the comparison to my poems, I think...lol...and that poem is called "Under Darkness Of Night" btw...
I have a lot to learn about poetry, I'm the first to admit that...I don't ever see my poems getting too "high brow" so to speak...I like to keep my poetry "accessible" and really don't mind considering myself a "popular poet"...
I don't care if someone in the LinkedIn Poets group called my work "tawdry"...lol...
Btw, I don't see myself submitting much more to Hello Poetry...
(giggles) I think your style is a reflection of your character, Alan. You can't please everyone. I once had someone call my poetry 'flowery'. It irked me no end until I came to the decision that it was his opinion.
I love the choice. It was different.
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I can see why you like this(smiles). It's very much your style. It reminds me slightly of your poems in a certain way Gritiness/Keeping it real etc from 'Trash Talk' and 'Under Cover of darkness' and the humour from many others you've published. Good choice and slightly different...
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Quote by MissAdventure
Hey Louise, you can be a rebel too!
How about setting yourself a writing goal which is achievable in the time you have? That way you can join in with the spirit of the challenge with your own personal challenge.
I've pantzed before too. I do love just letting a story evolve. This whole outlining thing is actually a bit of an experiment for me to see how I get on with it.
hmmm perhaps...Tell me how the whole outlined method goes for you as you're going along. I'm interested to see if a pantser(ha ha) can change into a planner.
I have a series I really need to finish and my laptop is fixed ,so I'll do my own ' Finish my AD 'series by the end of the November challenge. It's getting to novel proportions and needs editing and rewriting in places. Plus a few new chapters.
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I don't have enough time to write a short story let alone a whole novel(sigh). I find it hard enough to try balance real life with work life without adding in my literary life to the mix. I've tried just to churn stuff out and the result is that my work is substandard and uninspired. I'm a 'seats of the pants' writer so I find it very hard to plan a whole novel out. I just normally have a general direction, begining and ending.
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My next poem of the day is actually one a friend introduced me to via a movie. It was from 'Madly Deeply Truly' and was a poem called 'the dead woman' by Pablo Neruda. I think it struck a chord because well for one it had Alan Rickman quoting it in Spanish while Julie Stevenson translates into English and also because it was quite an emotionally charged scene. I came to really love the idea behind it. Neruda manages to lace this his trademark melancholy. I just find it very beautiful. I'm also going to post the you tube video link from 'Madly Deeply Truly' as an addition (The poem is only part quoted in the movie)
It's themes are loss, moving on,politics
Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973) was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto.
The Dead Woman by Pablo Neruda
If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.
I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.
I shall live on.
For where a man has no voice,
there, my voice.
Where blacks are beaten,
I cannot be dead.
When my brothers go to prison
I shall go with them.
When victory,
not my victory,
but the great victory comes,
even though I am mute I must speak;
I shall see it come even
though I am blind.
No, forgive me.
If you no longer live,
if you, beloved, my love,
if you have died,
all the leaves will fall in my breast,
it will rain on my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but
I shall stay alive,
because above all things
you wanted me indomitable,
and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man
but all mankind.
Spanish version
La Muerta
Si de pronto no existes,
si de pronto no vives,
yo seguiré viviendo.
No me atrevo,
no me atrevo a escribirlo,
si te mueres.
Yo seguiré viviendo.
Porque donde no tiene voz un hombre
allí, mi voz
Donde los negros sean apaleados,
yo no puedo estar muerto.
Cuando entren en la cárcel mis hermanos
entraré yo con ellos.
Cuando la victoria,
no mi victoria,
sino la gran Victoria llegue,
aunque esté mudo debo hablar:
yo la veré llegar aunque esté ciego.
No, perdóname.
Si tú no vives,
si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú
te has muerto,
todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho,
lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día,
la nieve quemará mi corazón,
andaré con frío y fuego
y muerte y nieve,
mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero seguiré vivo,
porque tú me quisiste sobre
todas las cosas indomable,
y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre
sino todos los hombres.
Truly Madly Deeply - Pablo Neruda -The Dead Woman
It's themes are loss, moving on,politics
Pablo Neruda (July 12, 1904 – September 23, 1973) was the pen name and, later, legal name of the Chilean poet, diplomat and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto.
The Dead Woman by Pablo Neruda
If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.
I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.
I shall live on.
For where a man has no voice,
there, my voice.
Where blacks are beaten,
I cannot be dead.
When my brothers go to prison
I shall go with them.
When victory,
not my victory,
but the great victory comes,
even though I am mute I must speak;
I shall see it come even
though I am blind.
No, forgive me.
If you no longer live,
if you, beloved, my love,
if you have died,
all the leaves will fall in my breast,
it will rain on my soul night and day,
the snow will burn my heart,
I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,
my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping, but
I shall stay alive,
because above all things
you wanted me indomitable,
and, my love, because you know that I am not only a man
but all mankind.
Spanish version
La Muerta
Si de pronto no existes,
si de pronto no vives,
yo seguiré viviendo.
No me atrevo,
no me atrevo a escribirlo,
si te mueres.
Yo seguiré viviendo.
Porque donde no tiene voz un hombre
allí, mi voz
Donde los negros sean apaleados,
yo no puedo estar muerto.
Cuando entren en la cárcel mis hermanos
entraré yo con ellos.
Cuando la victoria,
no mi victoria,
sino la gran Victoria llegue,
aunque esté mudo debo hablar:
yo la veré llegar aunque esté ciego.
No, perdóname.
Si tú no vives,
si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú
te has muerto,
todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho,
lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día,
la nieve quemará mi corazón,
andaré con frío y fuego
y muerte y nieve,
mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero seguiré vivo,
porque tú me quisiste sobre
todas las cosas indomable,
y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre
sino todos los hombres.
Truly Madly Deeply - Pablo Neruda -The Dead Woman
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Quote by DirtyMartiniQuote by Louise
They have the same style e.g the beginings of free verse and a certain scattered(if that's the word) poetry style which seems to jump from thought to thought . I'll post some Whitman and you tell me if you agree (smiles)
Funny, I just got done reading this article which mentions Whitman and "Howl" in the same article...
I just shared the link over on FB...
http://blog.sfgate.com/sheilig/2011/10/28/the-greatest-poetry-reading-ever/
Oh, and I guess I agree with you...but, I have to admit, I have a lot to learn when it comes to poetry...
Most poetry is open to suggestion(smiles). One sentence could have multiple meanings dependant on how you look at it. That's the beauty of it, I guess. I read a lot of it because I'm trying to evolve my style, find myself.
Anyways too damned deep for a Monday!
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Quote by DirtyMartini
Interesting, not sure if I completely understand the relationship to Whitman...I did sit down with a book of Whitman poems in the library last year for a couple of days...sort of recall them being a lot of nature type stuff...
And feel free to post "Howl"...I have read that, sort of reminds me of some people I know...
They have the same style e.g the beginings of free verse and a certain scattered(if that's the word) poetry style which seems to jump from thought to thought . I'll post some Whitman and you tell me if you agree (smiles)
Here is Whitman.
A child said, What is the grass?
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.
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Ingrid Jonker (19 September 1933 - 19 July 1965) was a South African poet. Although she wrote in Afrikaans, her poems have been widely translated into other languages. Jonker has reached iconic status in South Africa and is often called the South African Sylvia Plath, owing to the intensity of her work and the tragic course of her turbulent life. She famously was estranged to her father due to her anti-apartheid leanings. She committed suicide.
I've chosen this one because it was written with undertones of Apartheid and freedom. Other than the references to very South African places and events it could be about any fledgling land wanting freedom from oppression. Plus I am South African so wanted to do one of these with a South African poet.
The child is not dead by Ingrid Jonker
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart
The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride
The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain
The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass
I've chosen this one because it was written with undertones of Apartheid and freedom. Other than the references to very South African places and events it could be about any fledgling land wanting freedom from oppression. Plus I am South African so wanted to do one of these with a South African poet.
The child is not dead by Ingrid Jonker
The child is not dead
The child lifts his fists against his mother
Who shouts Afrika ! shouts the breath
Of freedom and the veld
In the locations of the cordoned heart
The child lifts his fists against his father
in the march of the generations
who shouts Afrika ! shout the breath
of righteousness and blood
in the streets of his embattled pride
The child is not dead not at Langa nor at Nyanga
not at Orlando nor at Sharpeville
nor at the police station at Philippi
where he lies with a bullet through his brain
The child is the dark shadow of the soldiers
on guard with rifles Saracens and batons
the child is present at all assemblies and law-givings
the child peers through the windows of houses and into the hearts of mothers
this child who just wanted to play in the sun at Nyanga is everywhere
the child grown to a man treks through all Africa
the child grown into a giant journeys through the whole world
Without a pass