Poetry in Action 2011

Poems? Short verses of prose at best…

Poetry:
noun
1. the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.
2. literary work in metrical form; verse.

Prose:

noun
1. the ordinary form of spoken or written language, without metrical structure, as distinguished from poetry or verse.
2. matter-of-fact, commonplace, or dull expression, quality, discourse, etc.

I think that the poems are attracting some attention already, and that’s great. Mine is the one about tea and memory (‘Dad’s tea’). We were given an eight line limit, which makes things quite challenging! I wanted to write something that would hopefully appeal to commuters, and just give people something to enjoy on their journey.

Not every poem has to be equal to ‘the greats’, methinks.

Penelope (P.S. Cottier)

John Moulis said :

None of these “poems” rhyme.

Saying that makes you sound like a Philistine.

LSWCHP said :

Here’s the last few lines from “Dulce Et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen, who was one of the great English language poets of the first world war, and of all time IMHO…

…

Those guys were poets. These guys, on the other hand, need to apply themselves a little more.

Agreed. It’s an awesome poem. But, your point is what? Unless your poetry is at the same standard as one of the greatest poets of the 20th century it is not worth writing or reading? I enjoyed them. They are light hearted distractions for a bus trip. Why would I want to read about someone being gassed in a world war one trench when I am riding the bus home after a crappy day at work?

Here’s the last few lines from “Dulce Et Decorum Est” by Wilfred Owen, who was one of the great English language poets of the first world war, and of all time IMHO…

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

And here’s some Philip Larkin…

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Those guys were poets. These guys, on the other hand, need to apply themselves a little more.

John Moulis said :

None of these “poems” rhyme. They can best be described as short stories. No, make that micro stories.

You do realise that almost every significant poem of the 20th century doesn’t rhyme.

None of these “poems” rhyme. They can best be described as short stories. No, make that micro stories.

where’s dorothea mckellar?? 🙂

Kramer said :

First one = great poem about hitting the mountain bike trails at SFP right?

BTW – is all of this going to make people feel better about catching the bus?

Well, it’ll make the poets feel better to have an audience!

First one = great poem about hitting the mountain bike trails at SFP right?

BTW – is all of this going to make people feel better about catching the bus?