Do you enjoy poetry? Do you have a favorite poet?

Yes

TrishBlindMistJanHaskellTanor_FauxThinkerbell

Nope

DWFJustJimColo

Other

Piper2

Favourited

BlindMistPiper2StarzAboveThinkerbellMistressMom
Do you enjoy poetry? Do you have a favorite poet?

Explained by TheobaldHospitaller...

As much as I like to read, I'll admit that I'm not too keen on poetry. There are some poets that I enjoy, like T. S. Eliot or Robert Frost or Yeats. But often poetry is so opaque that I find it difficult to relate to. Some poetry I can appreciate for the beauty of the language, while not necessarily grasping the meaning.

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I've written poetry here and there. Some are dark though. Favourite poet, I really don't have one, as saying which favourite I have, would assume I've read their works recently, which I haven't since high school much.

If I had to guess whom I enjoyed, would go to Edgar Allan Poe I suppose. Since I enjoy dark, but story-telling poetry. Written a few long-forms in that style.

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Tanor_Faux Tanor_Faux

Comments

No, I've never enjoyed poetry.

+222 Reply

StarzAbove StarzAbove

I've written poetry here and there. Some are dark though. Favourite poet, I really don't have one, as saying which favourite I have, would assume I've read their works recently, which I haven't since high school much.

If I had to guess whom I enjoyed, would go to Edgar Allan Poe I suppose. Since I enjoy dark, but story-telling poetry. Written a few long-forms in that style.

+444 Reply

Tanor_Faux Tanor_Faux

I had a cousin who used to date Rod McKuen, I never thought much of his poetry though.

+443 Reply

Flrdsgns Flrdsgns

In response to “I had a cousin who used to date Rod McKuen, I...

I enjoyed some his work.

01 Reply

JanHaskell JanHaskell

I do and have enjoyed some poetry, and not always of the most acclaimed ones.

+443 Reply

Piper2 Piper2

I enjoy the poems of Max Ehrmann and some by Rod McKuen.

Desiderata - Poem by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

+444 Reply

JanHaskell JanHaskell

I do enjoy poetry. I'm not sure if I have one single favorite, though I've mimicked the styles/techniques/form of many poets (and music artists). Maya Angelou is definitely on the list of favorites. I've used her "caged bird" metaphor (and yes, I know the original metaphor came from Paul Laurence Dunbar's poem) in so many writings. I wrote a poem styled after Poe's "Annabel Lee" and after Kenneth Koch's "Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams."

Also, many people that aren't poets in name, such as singers/music artists, have lyrics and certain styles that I'm attracted to. But I'm of the belief that song lyrics are just poetry with a beat and a twist.

+444 Reply

BlindMist BlindMist

In response to “I do enjoy poetry. I'm not sure if I have one...

While we're here, this is one of my newest pieces that I'm particularly happy with, though it's not entirely perfected.


Wonderland

He tells her sweet lies, whispers sweet nothings
He leads her into the rabbit hole
She finds herself imprisoned with men that see her as a toy
Red-eyed playboy rabbits
She loses herself
Attempts to find her Black Girl Magic
In a frenzy to escape a slave’s fate
She accepts abuse in the form of white chocolate cake
And the fertile rabbit fertilizes the egg inside her Black folds of skin
As she shrinks inside the Wonderland
She becomes distant
Takes a journey to Neptune to escape the reality of man invading in a land she wished were her own
She fails to conjure her Black Girl Magic
She is not a magical being, she decides
She is the worker mule of the world
She is not a Black Magic Queen
Man’s sweet cream attracted to her Black coffee skin
Causing her to screen herself behind a mask
She is the sexualized prey whose belly grows larger by the day
And the White rabbit abandons her
He made her dependent on creature comforts so she ends up in the clutches of the Cheshire Cat
He takes what he wills and completely disappears
And she realizes there is no magic to be found in Wonderland
No space for happiness
Still, she accepts the tea of the Mad Hatter
She tells herself she doesn’t care about how every man places her on a platter
Eats her pain for their enjoyment
She sucks it up because broken creatures find comfort in other broken creatures
She knows all is vanity as they leave her one by one
She stands by her lonesome when she encounters the Queen of Hearts
The Queen tells her, “The magic lies inside
Your smile lights up a room
Your hair under water is a flower that blooms in adversity and creates a horn of cornucopia
Your eyes hold the truth of the golden sun
Your DNA holds the secrets of the universe’s encyclopedia
With your nose, your lips, you conquer the beasts of the patriarchal Wonderland
You have the ability to tell your story through paper and pen and your poet’s voice within
And when you create, you bring into being the cure for man’s disease
Within your dark skin lies the womb of the pitch black universe
Do not retreat to Neptune nor follow White rabbits down a rabbit hole
They leave you in a false sense of wonder
The true wonder is the majesty of your Black Girl Magic
You are Original, Owner, creator of the brand new
The magic flows through your veins
Your pain prepares you for the universe’s blessing”
And when she hears those words said aloud in firm voice
She screams her truth
“I am Black
I am Proud
Today, I diverge from Wonderland
I am Black, I am Girl, I am Magic”
And she rises

+222 Reply

BlindMist BlindMist

In response to “While we're here, this is one of my newest...

That brought back memories of the poems you used to post here. You are very talented.

01 Reply

VicZinc VicZinc

Never got into poetry. As much as I love to read, I always looked at poetry as something a guy writes, or shows an interest in, in hopes of getting laid.

+111 Reply

JustJimColo JustJimColo

https://www.deviantart.com/tano...tone-357682055

Here's one from my writings, there's more on my gallery there. Including art i've gotten, done, etc.

The Whirlpool's Gemstone

I was told of a time and place
Where one can find riches beyond belief
I was told I must be calm in the face
As it is deep within the reef

The time is always at noon,
When the waters are unsettled.
The place is always shined on by the moon,
When the waters are settled.

I was told I must enter it by boat
Bracing myself to a mast
As I swirl around like a drunken goat
I find myself in a dark vast

Down the deepest, darkest trench I see
Is a gem brighter than any light I ever saw
Undiscovered by man, guarded by fierce nature it be
A shark is waiting to get intruders in its jaw

Do I approach the gem in hopes of the riches?
Do I approach the shark in hopes of getting his permission?
Do I reach a compromise and hold onto my britches,
As if I’d retreat in hopes of escaping the vortex’s transmission?

The gem as dark as an eclipsed sun
Shining a great dark purple it does
The pressures of the deep always never done
Will I live to get my prize before my head gets a buzz?

The swirl of the unsettled waters claimed
All those that have tried to enter
Shall I be the first to grab it with my heart aflame?
Be the one to make a gutsy venture?

I know it will only accept the chosen one
It absorbs those that do not meet its praise
Those that have been tried, never were the one
And ended up in a permanent daze

But as I get closer, it gets brighter
Seemingly the shark never made a move
It only stops those that were a blighter
The gem was as calm as a dove

The gem had seemingly accepted my presence
I was warmed and relieved by its glow
It wished to be apart my heavenly possessions
I touched it with my hand with movements slow

It reacted with my hand’s pressure
The shark had watched me with its godly gaze
I felt very warm and heart filled with pleasure
It let my take it as I venture back through the swirling maze

The pressure was too much to go back the way I came
The shark who had watched its master in the arms of the chosen possessor
Came closer and he was quite tame
I was motioned to follow him up out of the compressor

He was still quite calm with me
After all I had to be as calm as the waters I threw myself in
After a half of a peck I saw the calm surface of sea
He came around to my side and lifted me out by his fin

Told me to hold on to him with his body’s spoken language
I did so as I was told and was carried back to shore
With the gem in hand held like a magnet
A peck later of time, on his back, we came ashore

Sitting on a land filled of sand
I watched him thank me for my apparent pureness
I held the gem, around me it was lighting the sand
The shark had left back to its post with assuredness

I went on the long trip home with the gem guarded with my life
I felt the warmest pleasure in my heart as I held it
All the way back to my home as nice as my afterlife
I put the gem somewhere safe so it can only be viewed in a slit

I went to bed that night with good dreams
Knowing that I had done good that day
And always guarded by the gem’s light streams…
The wall painted with my shadow’s grey

I bid all of you good night
With my soul in a sleep flight…

+111 Reply

Tanor_Faux Tanor_Faux

Big fan. Hard to pick a favorite.

I recently read "There Should be Flowers" by Joshua Jennifer Espinoza that contains some very powerful writing. Here's a link to two of her poems.
https://hyperallergic.com/39238...ifer-espinoza/

Classically I love Poe. Perhaps my all time classical favorite is "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by Coleridge with a big nod to "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" by Thomas Gray.

I really get a kick out of humor like Ogden Nash, Shel Silverstein, and 'Dr. Suess'.

Gothe - goes with saying; Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyat is a must read for any serious poet.

Just my thoughts.

+222 Reply

VicZinc VicZinc

If I had to pick a single poem for sheer artistic brilliance, I would probably choose "Ozymandias" by Shelley.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7JOCJX-N7c

+11 Reply

Thinkerbell Thinkerbell

In response to “If I had to pick a single poem for sheer...

It's an excellent poem, that's for sure. :)

+111 Reply

TheobaldHospitaller TheobaldHospitaller OP

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

0 Reply

MistressMom MistressMom

Roses are red
Violets are purple
Sugar is sweet
So is maple syrple.
~ Roger Miller

Roses are red
Violets are purple
Buttercups are yellow
Hiccups are burple
~ Jughead

There was a young man named Stan
Whose poems just wouldn't scan
The problem, said he
Is easy to see
I always put as many words in the last line as I possibly can
~ that guy

I want to go with my boots on
In the traditional old western way
I want to go with my boots on
Per the classical cowboy cliche
Oh to go with my footwear in place
To be shod when they open the box
'Cause it never would do
For my mourners to view
The tremendous holes in my sox
~ Tumbleweeds

0 Reply

that_guy that_guy

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