Poems...come share your work.

[Kast]

"James Augustine Aloysius Joyce was an Irish novelist and poet, considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in an array of contrasting literary styles, perhaps most prominently the stream of consciousness technique he perfected."


"All Day I Hear the Noise of Waters
by James Joyce

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro."

[SingularNYCFemme]

Kast, you've started things up really well! Estrella, I love your poem, it's brilliant!

I'm going to keep trying with that iwl thing, I didn't like the result I got the last time I tried it. H. P. Lovecraft is far more interesting!

[SingularNYCFemme]

Originally Posted by Hollylane

My first attempt at Gogyohka:
• 5 lines of free verse
• No set syllable pattern
• Short & succinct lines, governed by the duration of a single breath
• Captures an idea, memory, observation or feeling in a few compelling words


I think I may have missed the mark on "succinct"...

Anyway...Here it is:



Is what you are experiencing
Through lengthy conversations
With eagerly parted lips
enough to know both the satiation and the hunger
of wholehearted love?

I'd say you're spot on. Lots to remember ... I might need to try this sometime.

[Hollylane]

I tried out the website, and entered an entire poem I had written and got one author, then different stanzas of the same poem, which resulted in different authors each time. I entered the entire poem again, and got a different author than the first time I entered the entire poem. In my opinion, I didn't find it to be very accurate.

[Kast]

Hi Holly, I've never done any

Gogyohka:

• 5 lines of free verse
• No set syllable pattern
• Short & succinct lines, governed by the duration of a single breath
• Captures an idea, memory, observation or feeling in a few compelling words

I think you did a great job at capturing the format with an excellent poem! Kudos.

As far as the iwl website goes I'm not sure about it yet, I haven't entered anything into it yet to see. I studied and wrote one in the style of Poe, Frost, Dickens, etc... if I plug those in and it says some other Master - then... (of course, my emulations were 'spot on' (rolling eye emoticon here... uh huh)).

Right now, we're just having fun with it and looking at some of the Masters that it tags. There might be a better analyzer out there somewhere, I'd have to look?

SNYCF - tell us more about who you came out with and why you don't like or agree with that opinion? Yes, Lovecraft is pretty interesting, I'd like to read some more of his 'stuff'.

[SingularNYCFemme]

A child stands
rouged with a bouffant
that could only come from hell

She is static as a deer
caught in the headlights
on a deserted country road

As one parent works away the years
in a foundry hot as the hell
from which this child's hair was created

The other parent takes latitude
and with lassitude appalling
believes cheap glamour a blessing

The small girl
trapped within someone else's dream
learns how to blow the audience
a wise and ancient
kiss

And who I write like, according to www.iwl.me? Vladimir Nabokov...

[Kast]

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/22/bo...fire.html?_r=1

"Nabokov’s English poems share some of the qualities of his prose, notably its confident lucidity (Nabokov is complex, but never garbled) and elegantly unfolding inventiveness. While the poems are slightly simpler in diction than the typical Nabokovian sentence, his fondness for half-­dollar words is still much in evidence: over the course of 10 pages, we get “prototypic,” “anchoret,” “scholiastic” and “dendrologists.” And as you might expect, Nabokov fixates on — and is sometimes fixated by — formal prestidigitation. Notice the way he not only juggles the potentially heavy rhymes in the tercets that conclude “Lines Written in Oregon,” but throws in a little French and German as well:

And I rest where I awoke

In the sea shade — l’ombre glauque —

Of a legendary oak;

Where the woods get ever dimmer,

Where the Phantom Orchids

glimmer —

Esmeralda, immer immer.

The poem, which recalls Nabokov’s own visit to Oregon, is about the interaction of Old World and New (thus the French and German, which would otherwise be little more than showing off). But there’s an additional, subtle formal touch. The ­poem’s unusual trochaic meter is also used in Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha,” one of the definitive early poems of America — and that meter in turn was inspired by the Finnish “Kalevala,” one of the great mythic poems of Europe. It’s an ingenious fusion of structure and theme."

[Kast]

Originally Posted by SingularNYCFemme

A child stands
rouged with a bouffant
that could only come from hell

She is static as a deer
caught in the headlights
on a deserted country road

As one parent works away the years
in a foundry hot as the hell
from which this child's hair was created

The other parent takes latitude
and with lassitude appalling
believes cheap glamour a blessing

The small girl
trapped within someone else's dream
learns how to blow the audience
a wise and ancient
kiss

I like this poem SNYCF, I have a wide range of likes for various reasons. It grabs me in a slightly disturbing way and holds my attention to it. I didn't look at its structure, format - none of that - I like it for many reasons.

The 9 Words, and thank you Arwen for all the years of hostessing for us, what can we say about the 9 Word format?

What does this poem mean to you and I'm wondering what the 9 Words were and how much they influenced this poem?

[SingularNYCFemme]

Originally Posted by Kast

The 9 Words, and thank you Arwen for all the years of hostessing for us, what can we say about the 9 Word format?

What does this poem mean to you and I'm wondering what the 9 Words were and how much they influenced this poem?

The nine words were

static deserted glamour child foundry latitude kiss blessing hell

I provided them as they randomly floated into and through my brain; then thought ack! What could anyone come up with using those words?

What the poem came to be about (led by glamour, child, and hell) is those little girls whose bizarrely obsessed mothers spend ridiculous sums of money doing odd and inappropriate things to stick these innocent little beings into beauty pageants, a practice I personally find offensive and indefensible, no matter how much of an industry has grown around it. These little children are objectified, and by the time they are 5 or 6 years old are veterans with a competitive edge against other little girls. Anyway, the poem grew out of the words, which is one of the things I've loved about Arwen's thread through the years.

[Kast]

Originally Posted by SingularNYCFemme

The nine words were

static deserted glamour child foundry latitude kiss blessing hell

I provided them as they randomly floated into and through my brain; then thought ack! What could anyone come up with using those words?

What the poem came to be about (led by glamour, child, and hell) is those little girls whose bizarrely obsessed mothers spend ridiculous sums of money doing odd and inappropriate things to stick these innocent little beings into beauty pageants, a practice I personally find offensive and indefensible, no matter how much of an industry has grown around it. These little children are objectified, and by the time they are 5 or 6 years old are veterans with a competitive edge against other little girls. Anyway, the poem grew out of the words, which is one of the things I've loved about Arwen's thread through the years.

Yes, that's what I was thinking the poem was about too. Just wanted to make sure, nicely captured.

[macele]

i wrote this in september 2008, election year. i've never been able to find my place in politics. always feels like a depression of sorts. and this, ...



death is merely a deviation, a digression
from living, but not life
and death doesn't just show up out of the blue
like some alien from outer space.
we can see change coming from a mile away
but still wallow in ... what we don't know, won't hurt us
it's like being surrounded by false hope
dressed in a gracious heart.
breathing on the brink
of an answer that is neither here nor there
and much easier said than done.
we try to make choices feel right
but the choices are all wrong
and then fall on our knees to pray for the kind of rain
that washes the blood off the concrete.
some people run without a caring consequence
until they run out of their shoes.
most are insensible,
and living is numb on the right side of hell ...
in an america that has gone mad with greed,
and mad with you and me.

mac

[Kast]

Wow, Mac! wow, wow... Don't get me started on this topic... that's about the time I left America. But, when you're far away for a long period of time - you'll miss her right down to the center of your soul like no other lover, boogers and all. She is messed up not like her old self, but I love her unconditionally like a mother loves her child because I know she holds hope and promise... and so much more.

Just out of curosity, I plugged your poem into the analyzer, it says you write like Margaret Atwood. America could be a euphemism for her "A Sad Child":


"A Sad Child
by Margaret Atwood

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are."

[Kast]

To improve, learn or to confuse myself - I sometimes go study a Master's style to see what I can learn from them. I have found that the more I learn, the less I know. Ok, finally testing the analyzer to see if it is on or off target. Here's one I wrote as a tribute to William Blake in the 9 Words:

Fluid, round, stone, brook, life, sang, polish, tone, & quiet

"Tribute to William Blake"

You are a sick, sick rose!
The invisible round worms
That eat man's souls
Have found a place in your bed.

The many, the few, the one...
Let the fluid of your black blood
Cast out life in the brook's song
Let no stones be polished.

The tone of your voice
Is likened to a hissing snake
So quiet you think we cannot hear,
That you are one sick, sick mf'er!

Most everyone is familiar with his "Sick Rose", let's see how close I am to his?:


"The Sick Rose
By William Blake

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy."


The analyzer says I write like J. K. Rowling (I'm just thankful that I write like somebody). It wasn't in the style of Blake with his 'O' and 'thou' and 'thy' - for sure, it was more of a 'theme' thing that I was stealing... (and as you can see - I didn't steal too much, lol) ok, I'll try another one later. The jury is still out on the analyzer...

Does anyone have an idea of what my and Blake's poems are about?

[Kast]

I think whomever said, 'curosity killed the cat' should be number one on the list of geniuses. I'm not a big J. K. Rowling fan and just went to look at her style.

I see that she has a $1,000 prize in a poetry contest at:

http://www.poetrycontest.com/j-k-rowling/

I am not promoting this, know nothing about it, have never entered one but do know that there have been many scam sites to pay money to enter, etc. I'm just pointing this out to whomever might be interested and wants to check it out.


"Grigotts Wizarding Bank poem:
by J. K. Rowling

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn,
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there."

[Kast]

The answer is: the social engineers.

It's going to take me a while to find those other poems, in the meantime, I went looking for other writing analyzers and there's not another one like this (that I can find). I did see a writing editor helper at:

http://www.editminion.com/

[cinderella]

I agree with your analysis, Kast. Actually, I loved it - you know how I love rhyming.

p.s. I am totally craving fish now!

Originally Posted by Kast

Hi Estella, thank you so much for sharing. I liked it! I hope you got the trip? I liked the rhythm of it and think it's a near perfect horse ride (I read somewhere where the reader is on a horse riding and the rhythm makes the rider go up and down and that you don't want to toss the rider off the horse...). I'd have to read it out loud - but I think, it's perfect or near perfect with the syllables.

You write like James Joyce! wtg !!

(Got me craving a fish dinner... lol)

[KayCee]

Originally Posted by Estella

Okay, I do not pretend to be a poet. But at the hotel where I work, I sometimes find myself faced with the need to creatively attract clients who might otherwise choose another hotel. So I do what I can. Following is something I wrote for a potential client in an effort to land a big incentive trip. Don't laugh - this works. And if you work at Insulate America, I hope you had a good time.



Greetings to you from Boston, the land of the Cutthroat Cod
Where even a seasoned fisherman might find it somewhat odd
That an unassuming flounder can be more than it really seems -
For Bostonians think they’re heaven, with coleslaw and baked beans.

But here at Boston’s (insert hotel name here), we treat every fish with respect
And even a seasoned fisherman can be confident that he can expect
To see the doorman smiling, and to sense the housekeeper’s pride,
And to know when the waiter brings flounder, it will have lemon on the side.

The Cutthroat Cod, he beckons – that King of the East Coast Fish -
To welcome Insulate America, and to see to their every wish,
For even a seasoned fisherman, wise and wily as he can be,
Knows quality when he sees it, and perfect service – guaranteed.

Originally Posted by Kast

(Got me craving a fish dinner... lol)

Originally Posted by cinderella

p.s. I am totally craving fish now!

A few years back I worked in the public relations/marketing sector. And seen from that perspective, but not only, is the reason why I find your poem absolutely brilliant, Estella.

It totally 'directs' the reader exactly where you want them to be, in this case, staying at your hotel....and eating fish..lol..yep!..GREAT!

[Kast]

I was feeling something strongly the other day and it reminded me of a poem I had written. Then, I had another fond memory of another I had written, I guess there's only a handful out of the many that we might write that we call our 'babies'. Yes, I consider certain poems like my children, all the steps of bringing a child into the world are there (in a different form) to bring the poem about. Bring your adorable, cute, ugly (lol) 'children' in here for us to get a gander at?... these are nice people here and if it has an issue, I'm sure it'll be pampered anyway...

You know I've always liked your poetry, Cinderella. I asked you one time how you managed your syllables and you said 'I can just tell when a word is out of place' or something like that. In other words, you're a natural unlike myself.

For fun or whatever, I'm using this poetry analyzer to mostly boost the self esteem or encourage the poet. (We're not exactly sure if it's accurate or what criteria it's looking for to make a comparison. I'm sure if we put several of ours in, we'd probably get different answers?) I plugged your first poem in:

Originally Posted by cinderella

The Lost Summer

God's good earth is calling,
It beckons I return
To greener days,
And childhood plays,
And lost days that I yearn.

Each field and glen remembers
When a barefoot boy did roam
Its hills and dales, its wooded trails,
And now wants him back home.

I sit beneath the shady elm
That once served as my store
For secrets and for treasures dear,
To keep forevermore.

A robin's egg, a spiders web,
Wax and a ball of string,
A kite to fly on windy days
A bluejay's faded wing.

But now I'm tired and weary,
And too old to run and play,
Yet in those dreams of long ago
I search for yesterday.

To find the glory in the flower,
The splendor in the grass,
Forgotten through life's hardships
Come to claim my soul at last.

It says you write like Neil Gaiman. I'm not familiar with him, so - I'll go look him up...

(Also, poet's feel free to put one of yours in the analyzer and give us your opinion on how or why you feel it's accurate or inaccurate.)

[Kast]

It seems, at first glance, that he's a storyteller of sorts. Everyone loves a good story and I'm sure back in the times of old - these were the people that would stand around the fire at night and amuse, earn their keep by reciting a 'yarn', and were very much loved in the community... (gosh, my imagination - can someone catch it! - it's running down the path there...) lol

"Instructions
by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the
wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the
wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-
growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to
leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest."

[Kast]

Looking for something else, I found this:

Helping writers get inspired and find places to publish. Find calls for submissions, contests, journals accepting work, and publishers.

http://www.placesforwriters.com/


Places a writer writes from - Past and Present Tense:

http://tabwriter.blogspot.de/2011/02...ent-tense.html

"But if we mix the two, we get the best of both worlds. We get the reflection and the wisdom that comes with it, plus the immediacy of how the character is feeling at the time she’s telling the story. A definite win-win for both reader and writer. "


http://tabwriter.blogspot.de/p/artic...-and-lots.html