A poet is a strange specimen of humanity.
They are people that look to find a deeper meaning in the mundane, people looking to find the art, the beauty, in the otherwise unrecognizable or meaningless activity of day-to-day life. The poets I know are people tring to express an artistry they have found somewhere, through pain, pleasure, or witnessing something awe-inspiring.
The term "poetry"- as anyone who has ever studied it will know- is a rather vague term. Poetry is not limited to (as some people believe) rhyming verse or structured, syllabic rhythm. It can be only a few words long, or be an epic recounted in 300 pages.
Poetry can include free verse, haiku, quatrain, limerick, sonnet, acrostic, slam, found, shape, visual, the list goes on for miles.
The Oxford dicitonary defines poetry as "literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm."
Style. Rhythm. Expression. Feeling. Insensity. This is what poets attempt to convey in their writing, and sometimes, though it may be a rare occurence, suceed.
I myself am a poet. I have been attempting to write and express myself ever since I could hold a pen and guide it across a page to represtent these buring ideas.
I write poetry to try and understand, to find my little niche and be heard in this cacophonous world.
Please feel free to critique the following (these are my own works)
The stars above:
Mythological nonsense
Up, up, up, and away we go
Where we're going, I don't know
The turtle runs fast and the hare runs slow
So up, up, up, and away I go
Up, up, up and away we go
The earth is above and the sky is below
Son, don't fly near the sun's warm glow
Or down, down, down to the sea you'll go
Up, up, up and away we fly
Over the sea and into the sky
You can't catch me even though you try
Up, up, up and away I fly
Up, up, up and away we go
The sun shines high and the moon shines low
Hades and Persephone dance below
Down, down, down, and deep they go
Up, up, up, so very high
I think I'll try my wings and fly
But if I do I'll surely die
Up, up, up, so very high
They are people that look to find a deeper meaning in the mundane, people looking to find the art, the beauty, in the otherwise unrecognizable or meaningless activity of day-to-day life. The poets I know are people tring to express an artistry they have found somewhere, through pain, pleasure, or witnessing something awe-inspiring.
The term "poetry"- as anyone who has ever studied it will know- is a rather vague term. Poetry is not limited to (as some people believe) rhyming verse or structured, syllabic rhythm. It can be only a few words long, or be an epic recounted in 300 pages.
Poetry can include free verse, haiku, quatrain, limerick, sonnet, acrostic, slam, found, shape, visual, the list goes on for miles.
The Oxford dicitonary defines poetry as "literary work in which the expression of feelings and ideas is given intensity by the use of distinctive style and rhythm."
Style. Rhythm. Expression. Feeling. Insensity. This is what poets attempt to convey in their writing, and sometimes, though it may be a rare occurence, suceed.
I myself am a poet. I have been attempting to write and express myself ever since I could hold a pen and guide it across a page to represtent these buring ideas.
I write poetry to try and understand, to find my little niche and be heard in this cacophonous world.
Please feel free to critique the following (these are my own works)
The stars above:
Star light…
All the stars in the
Milky Way, reaching towards infinity
Star bright…
Vega, Altair, Deneb,
Polaris
The first star I see tonight…
Venus, Saturn,
Andromeda far in the distance
I wish I may, I wish I might…
A child staring up
into the heavens, wishing with all her might
Have the wish I wish tonight
The faintest breath of
a sigh; “I wish for…”
Before the majesty of millennia, here I stand.
The dust of these stars comes together to create this being.
The roar of these stars brings me to life
The dust of suns and fallen worlds
Is my breath, my body, my bone
Who am I?
How much of me is what I’ve done?
My actions painting a picture of me that speaks to the
viewer
More clearly than any well-written speech
Everything that I’ve done to someone, around someone
Locked away under memory and time
How much of me is what I’ve sung?
Composing a map of my soul on a white blank page
Music and artistry fills every crack and rough corner within
my heart
Would I crumble and collapse were it not there?
If not for my song, this spirit would never have been
unveiled
How much of me is what I‘ve read?
Words lasting like the brand of fire within a susceptible
young mind
All the literature and poetry and prose and stories that
create us as human beings
Setting us apart from the animal
Sharing the writer’s voice with the seven-year-old girl
climbing up her mother’s bookshelf.
How much of me is what I’ve said?
Heated words spoken that perhaps should never have been
spoken aloud
Words of beauty whispered in a lover’s ear
Words spoken in a scream of joy to the loud, babbling world
My voice becoming one more element of the din
Who am I?
Mythological nonsense
Up, up, up, and away we go
Where we're going, I don't know
The turtle runs fast and the hare runs slow
So up, up, up, and away I go
Up, up, up and away we go
The earth is above and the sky is below
Son, don't fly near the sun's warm glow
Or down, down, down to the sea you'll go
Up, up, up and away we fly
Over the sea and into the sky
You can't catch me even though you try
Up, up, up and away I fly
Up, up, up and away we go
The sun shines high and the moon shines low
Hades and Persephone dance below
Down, down, down, and deep they go
Up, up, up, so very high
I think I'll try my wings and fly
But if I do I'll surely die
Up, up, up, so very high
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