My Why... why why why... - Page 2

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Thread: My Why... why why why...

  1. #11
    Quote Originally Posted by Darkkin View Post
    My words talk so I don't have to. Yet people become so absorbed in finding the profundity of the metaphors they miss the obvious.*** No one hears because they are too busy talking over each other***, but something was said. Not a fair test, I will admit, but it does give one a decent indication of what others' actions and attitudes are like.

    Just some thoughts.

    - D.

    Once a friend told me that she loved our conversations and I was so easy to talk to, and I thought to myself... I did not really say anything, I just listened... maybe poetry is like getting to speak, without being interrupted ....
    She lost herself in the trees,
    among the ever-changing leaves.
    She wept beneath the wild sky
    as stars told stories of ancient times.
    The flowers grew toward her light,
    the river called her name at night.
    She could not live an ordinary life,
    with the mysteries of the universe
    hidden in her eyes....
    Author: Christy Ann Martine

    Death leaves a heartache no one can heal,
    love leaves a memory no one can steal....
    Author unknown.

  2. #12
    I have physical problems with speech
    So yes for me that's a truth. Being able to speak without being interrupted. I like that
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  3. #13
    My words talk so I don't have to. Yet people become so absorbed in finding the profundity of the metaphors they miss the obvious.
    I know that you say you don't write in metaphor, at least I think that is what you have said, but for me, your work is full of metaphorical profundity. I like to find the meaning behind the meaning because it is like feeling a moment of enlightenment, the penny dropping, a connection to humanity and compassion. Whether you mean to infuse your work with this or not, I do still find it there and appreciate what it gives to me.

    I don't talk over the top of other, my words don't stand out. If someone hears, listens I make an effort not to disappear back into the wall because they heard (read) something that resonated through the din of life.
    That's nice to hear. You've a lot to say in your own way and style that is worth hearing.
    There is no life I know
    To compare with pure imagination.
    Living there you’ll be free
    If you truly wish to be.~ Willy Wonka

  4. #14
    Why do i write? I never have been good at oral communication, probably in part because of my hearing defect.
    Why do I write poetry? That's more complicated, I must have some innate talent that may be partly genetic. Beyond that, poetry has been in my head most of my life, and I can't help but to write it down. Words come to me in verse form, and rhyming words pop into my head easily. I'm a storyteller at heart, probably why I like song lyrics that tell stories and why I like narrative poetry. It's a medium as old as human speech, as stories told around a campfire about mammoth hunts, heroes and monsters - and in my most dark moments has given me the strength to overcome my own fears and doubts.
    "Put not your trust not in princes, in the children of men,
    in whom there is no salvation."
    Psalm 146

    Timely, isn't it?

  5. #15
    Quote Originally Posted by Darkkin View Post
    I read much, much more than I write and words form the lenses through which I view the world.- D.
    Yes! I completely agree with this and do the same, but this is exquisitely said as well.

    You have great things to share with with your writing, Darkkin. I agree with Gumby, whether intended or not, your work seems so layered and full of metaphor and allusion. Your connection with humankind, the grace, and your imagery fuses with your creative intensity to bring your works to life.

    And Firemajic, I love the feeling of profound emotion that echoes through your work. There's so much feeling in there that it becomes attached to the poetry like a coat of arms. I really like that. You allow your heart to resonate and seep through your words to the reader's soul. At least, that is how I see it.

    This is a good topic!

  6. #16
    WF Veteran SilverMoon's Avatar
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    Jan 2010
    Long Island, NY
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    Why do I write poetry?

    When people ask me what I do, I jest and tell them I’m a perspiring writer. But there’s truth in this. I sweat out poems. The words and spaces in between fall from every sore pore that’s felt life’s frost. I suppose you could say that sometimes I feel like a broken refrigerator. But this is good. I never want to be ripe, completed.

    I write to strip language of its tapestry for the decorative hides the bare bones of authenticity. I also like the challenge of precision.

    For me, the cloth of poetry should be burlap. It ought to be uncomfortable. When you take it off, it still stays with you. It should be the space in between lace, little gateways to mysteries.

    Poetry is “code” for what could be epic revealing. In this, there can be danger and regret.

    I write in hope that at least one person can say “I know that thing, that person”.

    ........................There’s so much else I could say. But I would have to turn it all into a poem
    “The man who cannot visualize a horse galloping on a tomato is an idiot.”
    Andre Breton

  7. #17
    Quote Originally Posted by TL Murphy;2219046[SIZE=3
    I think we could solve most of the problems in the world if everyone wrote poetry.[/SIZE]
    Just look at the posts on poetry on this site. I don't think anything is being solved.

  8. #18
    Quote Originally Posted by RHPeat View Post
    Not everyone should write poetry but most everyone should learn to read a poem now and then.

    Being Committed
    cuts a board, swings a hammer,
    drives a nail, to do its chore.

    It is the labor, won and lost
    given freely to our inspirations,
    for any art-form, every kind:
    music, painting, drama, poetry;
    whatever the ghoul may be
    standing in the inflamed archway.
    It's a spin chosen by life-style.

    Just a choice between
    feeling alive or feeling dead
    as life's breath. It chooses
    to know the intimate moment
    in raindrop and snowflake

    It's like blowing your nose,
    tying your shoes in the dark,
    kissing your lover goodbye
    hugging your grand-children
    for no reason at all,
    changing the diaper on
    baby's dirty dandy butt.
    Poetry holds your final word.

    It's how you cook the beans in
    a cast iron pot on a gas stove –
    with one or two ham hocks.
    It's that simple selection
    of ingredients that's used, so
    important to flavor the stew.

    It is a choice, a dedication
    to live a life without question
    not in submission, but admission.
    It's not exclusive; it's inclusive.

    Poetry liberates acceptance
    that our small planet lives
    and breathes. Forested Mother,
    blue-marble afloat in space,
    spinning on its magnetic core,
    whirling in its elliptical orbit,
    drawn toward the sun's light;
    it uplifts our being in awe,
    awakening pulse, life's melody.

    Evoked now we wish to sing
    to fields filled with butterflies,
    to bob cat's growl & coyote's howl.
    This why you want to listen
    to chirping morning music,
    and to feel the shower spray
    sprinkling summer's body cool.

    Poetry is life and death in
    every breath. Changing as we
    grow; it celebrates being alive:
    our freedom bound to it
    like a rooted redwood giant.

    A poet friend
    © RH Peat 5/1/2019
    I have no experience of writing a poet but I love to read it.
    Thanks for sharing a beautiful poetry.

  9. #19
    I can only relate what writing poetry is to me and where the desire comes from. I am not your most likely to write poetry. For most of my youth and into my 20's I had rode dirt bikes extremely hard. From the time I was 5 years old I had became more and more daring, up until the point that I was riding freestyle motocross. Doing back-flips and the like for me was a form of expression, one I still love today. It was a fateful day when I found my buddy Tyler under my bike in mid air and I made a decision to save his life. I turned my bike sideways in the air to clear his head, but could not right myself in time. I ended up splitting my helmet in two and having a lot of swelling in my brain. That swelling must have affected my ability to form complete sentences. I would struggle to get out the words that I could easily form in my head and it was a nightmarish thing. In my suffering, which is suffered mostly alone, I searched for something that would help me express what I was still able to think. One day I picked up my grandpa's copy of W.B. Yeats and randomly flipped to "A Dialogue of Self and Soul," and that is how it started. And then I tried and tried and tried again, and I am still doing it today.
    Last edited by Jp; May 22nd, 2020 at 09:01 PM.

  10. #20
    They can take
    my paint,
    my clay,
    my guitar,
    and my camera.
    But they can't take
    my words.

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