Poetry Page's Poets' Poetry Ponderings

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nekot
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Re: Poetry Page's Poets' Poetry Ponderings

Post by nekot » Wed Nov 07, 2007 6:30 am

That's beautiful Eternum...as usual. :wink: Your answers are poetic in themselves...at least to me. :grin:

I'd like to post She Writes Poetry here. Eternum, If you'd rather me remove it from this forum, let me know.

If anyone wants to comment on the prose, please do so on Eternum 1's link.
The link again: She Writes Poetry


She Writes Poetry

She searches hidden places, knowing intuitively that poems are the bubbles hidden within the caldera of creative volcanos. Letting those bubbles come slowly to the surface or with an explosion decides the tempo of her writing.

Her readers wonder who or what is she. Her image evades kodachrome negatives like movement under curling waves. She began writing herself into the world as a young girl and only her secret muse knows her themes have played always against that central being.

The men in her life reflect the same urges to combine perfect words and soulful belonging. Between lovers, her poetry aches with desire like cracking earth in a prairie drought. Among those cracks are tortured yet strong desert flowers that reveal her stark beauty when she abides with loneliness.

When the drought is over with expansive joy of flood and rebirth, she shares the pleasures of newfound spring, new love and the world stops, just for a second and lifts her high as a favored champion.

No longer does she need to question her purpose or allow her desire to gestate in sanctuaries for the pregnant, to await the birth of a new flower without the species thorns.

Now her words lick and touch us, words flowing like lubricating oil from kisses to post coital bliss as we are carried by her intimate command of feminine superlative.

Does this mean she's a better poet in love? Not really, but this aspect of her is the peak we can see her from, most of us being too timid to follow her into dark valleys and barren deserts.

She writes poetry with intuitive understanding that words never capture the total experience but they can come so close as to leave a reader with mirrored ripples on the surface of his mind. She fills our need for belonging near as much as her own.

We read her poems like making love. Learn her rythyms through tactile fingers of words and the soothing sensual phrases she lingers over. Most of all, she leaves us deeply satisfied at the end but always wanting more. And, more she always has to offer as if all the women whoever lived are revealed in brief glimpses of skin with every write.

She can take us back in time or forward in fantasy. Into the darkness of death or the depths of madness, for she is a poet and speaks the language of dreams.

You can 'know' her but never really know her, anymore then you can know the plus sign as concretely as the numbers around it. Yet she does not see her own marvel, sensing that the original vision is impossible to capture, like a smoke ring only she had the imagination to grasp. No more then a man knows a woman's orgasm as well as his own can most people comprehend fully the desire to capture that experience unrequited.

But other poets know as they lift her up and in so doing are compelled to climb the heights beside her.

Because she writes poems and poetry is life connecting to life.
~eloquently scattered~
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Re: Poetry Page's Poets' Poetry Ponderings

Post by nekot » Tue Jan 08, 2008 9:28 pm

By BeeJay....
View/comment here: In the arms of a lover called poetry

******************************************

In the arms of a lover called poetry

________ By Baru Gobira

By a turn of fate, a card stared at me. POETRY the upturned face beckoned in sensuous invitation. At 50, in love again, I embraced a mistress I must share, but could never leave. The jealousy of love, the anguish of inadequacy rushed through my veins like a junky on a permanent high. The waves of words spun in an orbit I scarcely understood. Some I could catch and pen them down, others forever lost in the ether, on a journey to outer space meandering slowly into the black holes of the literary void. As if in a dream words surfaced at odd moments, like an alien cadence of rights and wrongs. Its habitat my mind. The words were like puppets swinging uncontrollably in the hands of an inebriated puppeteer. A nod here, a smile there, a tear wiped, sweat swiped from the forehead, in momentary fear, the puppets hurriedly scripted their take on life. Was I just an observer or was it my life dancing on barren windswept cliffs.

I wrote feverishly lest I forget, these words are but visitors signing a guest book. Never parked for long in a poet’s heart. But the visions troubled me. Of childhood dreams I had long forgotten, of friends who seemed as if made of wax, of shadows that made a mockery of light and made me wear a veil to walk instep with them. Out of such mists the verse took shape. Once fixed in a line, I heaved a sigh of relief. The letters and their rhymes, words & their meanings, that were something special to me, became in time with wile and guile of punctuation, different in scope, when read by others. What was I to do at such vagrant disobedience. I wanted to “show” and they wanted me to “tell”. I was frugal as I drew images with words, for in a Confucian way, were they not worth a thousand words? Alliteration they said. Others declared it was just distortion. But I was no cameraman filing for the evening news. I was doing it for the sunset in eternity. To rhyme or not to rhyme or let it float and cartwheel or be like fleeting forms of free verse. That was the question. To be free from the bondage of hidden meaning. Saying what must be said in the economy of verse. But crafted with an eye for detail and an ear for the music of the soul.

Some said the lyrical quality is missing and I slowly restrung the emotional guitar. The notes, discordant at first slowly take on the glitzy jarring sound of a garage studio, recording a hit single. The song has no heart and where would I find a willing donor for a transplant. I delve deep into my innerself and listen to the words that sound like divine music to me. I write as it flows, the spellchecker is over worked, but I persevere. The stanza done, I read it sitting on the rocks, to the trees, the wind, the sky and the occasional passerby. In their progress the horizon dips into my verse and mingles with the words, that proudly sails into the sunset of my life.

The links and the continuity falter, as if drunk from too much nectar, the gods have been vending freely. The flow they say, the flow, must be smooth. I’m no carpenter to smoothen the edges. This trade too I must master before the pole star beckons and I must set sail. A fisherman spreading his net for words, the diver waiting in the darkness for the luminescence of pearls. The safety of the shore recedes, as I steer the next stanza on this journey of discovery of what great poetry must be.

In the stillness and beauty of the rolling sea, my mistress POETRY joins me on the ship’s deck. Will my verse come home to acclaim or like many, forever lie shipwrecked on the shores of Maine. I am the navigator, my mistress a hard slave driver, makes me row like galley slaves, to find the words of rare beauty and sustenance. But my back is gruesome, much pain have I seen. Tears mingle with the salt spray and spice of language burns the eye. Just when I’m about to give up, from nowhere comes a verse that’s in conflict with the style. I reflect and make an offering to the moonbeams. Satisfied they dance on the pages till it is forged into the templates of time. I awaken from a deep dream, exhausted but pleased, for I have slept in the arms of a lover called POETRY.

Copyright 2005 Baru Gobira
~eloquently scattered~
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Re: Poetry Page's Poets' Poetry Ponderings

Post by nekot » Wed Jan 23, 2008 9:05 pm

By Graeme...

View/comment here: My Poetry

*************************************

My Poetry

Is not obscure.
It is art,
a picture
composed with words
Similes
Metaphors
Imagery
Carefully chosen
by this artist
to create
to evoke emotion
to give life to an idea
Never to confuse.

If you the reader
wish to interpret,
feel free.
If you
need to ruminate,
so be it.

But first
immerse yourself
in the poem
luxuriate in the
warmth of the words
as they bubble
to the surface.
Relish
the tingle of the analogies
let them
titillate the senses.

Only then,
if you must call on
Freud
Jung
Erikson,
are you welcome
to turn my
painting into
sophomoric rhetoric.
~eloquently scattered~
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Re: Poetry Page's Poets' Poetry Ponderings

Post by nekot » Mon Jan 28, 2008 7:07 pm

By running wolf

View/comment here: i laugh

******************
and i laugh.......

as starlight rains down its symphony
to envelope the very heart of me
and well up through my being
unknown chords~become known
and speak to me in poetry

beyond time where distance fades
and thins the veil between you and me
the single pulse beats out the rythmn
at the bottom of the well
one eye still sees

in memories of time unborn
of shapes yet to be conceived
the dark void awaits with open arms
the choir of voices to find harmony
the cosmic vision to receive
......an artists rendering.......

........and i laugh
~eloquently scattered~
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