peterms Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 would people define song writing as poetry ? What, like Queen, you mean? :winkold: Depends on the song. Lots of songs out there might rhyme in places, manage to make a few lines scan, but adopting the form of a poem doesn't make them poems. Doggerel, maybe. Surely the definition of poetry would include something about the use of imagery or metaphor, and often condensed use of language, to evoke thoughts and emotions? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mjmooney Posted September 29, 2011 VT Supporter Share Posted September 29, 2011 FWIW, Wikipedia defines poetry thus: ...a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic drama, hymns, lyrics, or prose poetry. That'll do for me. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
theunderstudy Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 If it's contentious, allow it anyway, on grounds of poetic license. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
snowychap Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 ...a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning. I would hope that a well written piece of prose would often use language for those reasons, too. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
iancharlie Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 Wise men must be listened to That tap on the shoulder Flutters through my thoughts Clapping eyes on me In my distant sleeps In the dreams where I become caught. That tap on the shoulder Seeps through my soul Engendering images of what men should be In moments when needs Must. That tap on the shoulder Beckons my feet to walk on through Past the cellar door In to the mud, the glory Of what I can do. That tap on the shoulder Broadens my senses Awaking meaning in a little boy Who, was once lost But, is now, well and truly found. That tap on the shoulder Forever lingers In my thoughts Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
dAVe80 Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 would people define song writing as poetry ? I think the song writing can be poetry. Patti Smith springs to mind, as does Gil Scott-Heron. I'd say the words and delivery of 'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised' are most definitely poetry: You will not be able to stay home, brother. You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out. You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip, Skip out for beer during commercials, Because the revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox In 4 parts without commercial interruptions. The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be brought to you by the Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia. The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal. The revolution will not get rid of the nubs. The revolution will not make you look five pounds thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother. There will be no pictures of you and Willie May pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run, or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance. NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32 or report from 29 districts. The revolution will not be televised. There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the instant replay. There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the instant replay. There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process. There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving For just the proper occasion. Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and women will not care if Dick finally gets down with Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people will be in the street looking for a brighter day. The revolution will not be televised. There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock news and no pictures of hairy armed women liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose. The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb, Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be right back after a message bbout a white tornado, white lightning, or white people. You will not have to worry about a dove in your bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl. The revolution will not go better with Coke. The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath. The revolution will put you in the driver's seat. The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised, will not be televised, will not be televised. The revolution will be no re-run brothers; The revolution will be live. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CarewsEyebrowDesigner Posted September 29, 2011 Share Posted September 29, 2011 ah, the murky realms of 'what is poetry'. next it will be 'what is art' and a riot will ensue. moving on, heres another good 'un. although, it is a well trodden one. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of out-door game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me~ Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mjmooney Posted October 7, 2011 VT Supporter Share Posted October 7, 2011 A hard, howling, tossing water scene. Strong tide was washing hero clean. “How cold!” Weather stings as in anger. O Silent night shows war ace danger! The cold waters swashing on in rage. Redcoats warn slow his hint engage. When star general’s action wish’d “Go!” He saw his ragged continentals row. Ah, he stands – sailor crew went going. And so this general watches rowing. He hastens – winter again grows cold. A wet crew gain Hessian stronghold. George can’t lose war with’s hand in; He’s astern – so go alight, crew, and win! ---- What’s odd about this sonnet? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GarethRDR Posted October 7, 2011 Share Posted October 7, 2011 ANTARCTICA ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ The others nod, pretending not to know. At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. He leaves them reading and begins to climb, Goading his ghost into the howling snow; He is just going outside and may be some time. The tent recedes beneath its crust of rime And frostbite is replaced by vertigo: At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. Need we consider it some sort of crime, This numb self-sacrifice of the weakest? No, He is just going outside and may be some time In fact, for ever. Solitary enzyme, Though the night yield no glimmer there will glow, At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime. Painting - "A Very Gallant Gentlman" by John Charles Dollman. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mjmooney Posted October 7, 2011 VT Supporter Share Posted October 7, 2011 Or to put it another way: "**** off, Oates, we never liked you anyway". Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
GarethRDR Posted October 7, 2011 Share Posted October 7, 2011 Which segues nicely into... Yes, but the thing is, about Captain Oates; the thing you have to remember about Captain Oates; Captain Oates... Captain Oates was a prat. If that'd been me, I'd've stayed in the tent, whacked Scott over the head with a frozen husky, and then eaten him. ...How do we know that Oates went out for this legendary walk? From the only surviving document: Scott's diary. And he's hardly likely to have written down, "February the First, bludgeoned Oates to death while he slept, then scoffed him along with the last packet of instant mash." How's that going to look when he gets rescued, eh? No, much better to say, "Oates made the supreme sacrifice," while you're dabbing up his gravy with the last piece of crusty bread. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
chrisp65 Posted October 8, 2011 Author Share Posted October 8, 2011 Mr mooney, it's all anagrams! (I didn't just google up the answer) ok, I did. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CrackpotForeigner Posted October 10, 2011 Share Posted October 10, 2011 I wont post it as im sure youve all heard it a thousand times Post it up man, that's the beauty of poetry, it doesn't matter how many times you hear it it's still capable of moving. Like music. Here it is then. My favourite poem of all time If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two imposters just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breath a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on"; If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you; If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run - Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son! Written about Leander Starr Jameson, who was Prime Minister of the Cape Colony from 1904 to 1908 (incidentally 8 years after spending 6 months in Holloway prison!). here's his Wikipedia entry. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bickster Posted October 10, 2011 Moderator Share Posted October 10, 2011 clearing in the woods - By John Cooper Clarke Like a Night Club in the morning, you’re the bitter end. Like a recently disinfected shit-house, you’re clean round the bend. You give me the horrors too bad to be true All of my tomorrow’s are lousy coz of you. You put the Shat in Shatter Put the Pain in Spain Your germs are splattered about Your face is just a stain You’re certainly no raver, commonly known as a drag. Do us all a favour, here... wear this polythene bag. You’re like a dose of scabies, I’ve got you under my skin. You make life a fairy tale... Grimm! People mention murder, the moment you arrive. I’d consider killing you if I thought you were alive. You’ve got this slippery quality, it makes me think of phlegm, and a dual personality I hate both of them. Your bad breath, vamps disease, destruction, and decay. Please, please, please, please, take yourself away. Like a death a birthday party, you ruin all the fun. Like a sucked and spat out smartie, you’re no use to anyone. Like the shadow of the guillotine on a dead consumptive’s face. Speaking as an outsider, what do you think of the human race You went to a progressive psychiatrist. He recommended suicide... before scratching your bad name off his list, and pointing the way outside. You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart. You’re heading for a breakdown, better pull yourself apart. Your dirty name gets passed about when something goes amiss. Your attitudes are platitudes, just make me wanna piss. What kind of creature bore you Was is some kind of bat They can’t find a good word for you, but I can... clearing in the woods. 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bickster Posted October 10, 2011 Moderator Share Posted October 10, 2011 'A Bang and a Wimpy' by Attila the Stockbroker Swing door swings open in the fast food fun palace Two pairs of eyes meet mine I steel myself and grimace Elbows against the counter they slump Mean eyed Po faced No nonsense Pre-pubescent pugilists Terror tots South London's finest Knee-high nihilists planning nursery crimes The Wimpy bar mafia Nine years old Macho Murderers Primary school but primed to kill Or maim Or terrorise Size you up and slice you through with Peter Sutcliff eyes They're into older women Eleven or twelve's their favourite age They chat them up as they come in Invade their space like Space Invaders "Oy Love" "Want some chips?" Then invite them home for glue and a private rendition of the new Exploited single Or some other manic mayhem to make their extremities tingle Soon they'll be old enough to bunk into a disco But 'till then they'll stick to the hamburger hustle A bang and a Wimpy A Wimpy and a bang The grim and grimy gangsters from the mustard and cress gang Video vandals Violent virgin vigilantes verging on the vindictive I've been searching for the young soul rebels Been searching everywhere Couldn't find them anywhere But here they are in the Wimpy bar Right by Victoria station I stand and watch them operate in muted fascination 'Till... " 'ere, got 10p mate? " Snaps me back to hard reality And the half concealed glinting switchblade smiles with awful clarity I give them 21 pence and they give me a hard smile Now they've the price of another tube they're happy for a while And in the Wimpy wonderland, the crisis kids run free A bang, a Wimpy and a sniff and home in time for tea 1 Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
bickster Posted October 10, 2011 Moderator Share Posted October 10, 2011 'The Pest' by John Cooper Clarke the pest pulled up propped his pushbike on a pillar box paused at a post and pissed 'piss in the proper place' pronounced a perturbed pedestrian petulantly and presently this particular part of the planet was plunged into a panorama of public pressure and pleasure through pain the pandemonium prompted the police who patrolled the precinct in pandacars to pull up and peruse the problem while pickpockets picked pockets in pairs 'arrest the pest who so pointedly pissed in that public place' pleaded the peeved populace practically palpitating the powerful police picked up the pest pronounced him a pinko a pansy a punk rocker and a poof they punched him poked him pummeled his pelvis punctured his pipes played ping-pong with his pubic parts and packed him in a place of penal putrification he pondered upon progressive politics put pen to paper and provocatively and persuasively propagated his personal political premise - pity: a police provocateur put poison pellets in the pest's porridge the police provocateur was promoted and the pest was presented with the pulitzer prize... posthumously. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
CarewsEyebrowDesigner Posted October 10, 2011 Share Posted October 10, 2011 Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
mjmooney Posted October 10, 2011 VT Supporter Share Posted October 10, 2011 Mr mooney, it's all anagrams! (I didn't just google up the answer) ok, I did.Correct. More specifically, every line is an anagram of "Washington Crossing the Delaware ". In other news, I have just completed my annual reading of Louis MacNeice's Autumn Journal. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
lapal_fan Posted October 10, 2011 Share Posted October 10, 2011 Writing poetry clears the mind It can feel good refreshing and sad you only think of bad Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jon Posted October 11, 2011 Share Posted October 11, 2011 "Cliff" (DEMOLITION) Oh, Cliff Sometimes it must be difficult not to feel as if You really are a Cliff When fascists keep trying to push you over it Are they the lemmings? Or are you Cliff? Or are you, Cliff? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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