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Understanding Poetry - 2

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I am not a fan of poetry because in high school I was forced 'interpret' some crap that even when interpreted was pointless. Then I read a dude got a Nobel Prize for one of those mundane poems. /facepalm *lost faith in humanity* etc.,

 

However, some poems I do like, such as this one:

 

 

 

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Now that's a short poem :P

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i think the idea of music to poetry, especially in english is inseperable. the meter and rhyme calls out for music and marries it well. poems taken out of music reference are powerful as well.

 

Would you lay with me in a field of stone

If my needs were strong would you lay with me

Should my lips grow dry would you wet them dear

In the midnight hour if my lips were dry

 

Would you go away to another land

Walk a thousand miles through the burning sand

Wipe the blood away from my dieing hand

If i gave my self to you

 

 

Would you bathe me with me in the stream of life

When the moon is full would you bathe with me

 

Will you still love me when i'm down and out

In my time of trials will you stand by me

 

Would you go away to another land

Walk a thousand miles through the burning sand

Wipe the blood away from my dieing hand

If i gave my self to you

 

Would you lay with me in a field of stone

If my needs were strong would you lay with me

 

this is one of my favs from Johnny Cash.

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Threshold by Rabindranath Tagore

 

I was not aware of the moment

when I first crossed the threshold of this life.

 

What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery

like a bud in the forest at midnight!

 

When in the morning I looked upon the light

I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,

that the inscrutable without name and form

had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.

 

Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.

And because I love this life,

I know I shall love death as well.

 

The child cries out

when from the right breast the mother takes it away,

in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.

this is so amazing. every thing this poet says just resonates. He is not saying some thing we don't know, but it is as if we haven't thought about it before. Yes, we don't know when we became alive, but our earliest memories doesn't feel like we were a new thing in this world. The analogy to the flower in the forest is beautiful.

Just as he accepted our passing in to life, he says he will accept passing in to death. The transition will be disturbing, but it is like a brief interruption (baby and two breasts). The image and meaning is amazing.

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this is so amazing. every thing this poet says just resonates. He is not saying some thing we don't know, but it is as if we haven't thought about it before.

 

That's my favourite kind of poetry.

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I call anything I find beautiful and meaningful, poetry.

 

It doesn't even have to be comprised of words for me to think it so. I think it's about how something carries itself and how it makes me feel.

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Threshold by Rabindranath Tagore

 

I was not aware of the moment

when I first crossed the threshold of this life.

 

What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery

like a bud in the forest at midnight!

 

When in the morning I looked upon the light

I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world,

that the inscrutable without name and form

had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.

 

Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.

And because I love this life,

I know I shall love death as well.

 

The child cries out

when from the right breast the mother takes it away,

in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.

 

this is a great poem for its connection between birth and death, the unknown and mother. lines were 2 -2- 4- 3 -3 per stanza.unusual. i also cant find a meter patern. its like several related but fragmented statements/observations. each piece for me seems more powerful than the whole...

i wish i could read Writeouses poem. RZ is a romantic for sure, classical warrior, Rasamalai is intellectual. we have about, what ten poems? Ginsberg is too difficult for me. shouldnt we pick one? i dont know.

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Woah, you guys have posted so many poems and interpretations. Reminds me of my English lessons in school.

 

Give me a few years while I ponder over them and try to understand them with my feeble mind.

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owen: that poem is a translation from bengali. so stanza and all that would be messed up.

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I call anything I find beautiful and meaningful, poetry.

 

It doesn't even have to be comprised of words for me to think it so. I think it's about how something carries itself and how it makes me feel.

 

*wipes away tear* Beautiful! That is poetry in and of itself! :wow:

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I can't remember the naem of it, or the poet, but I really liked this poem, does anyone know which it is? it talks about a woman and the map and landscape of her mind, words like wilderness, forests, etc are used. I CAN'T REMEMBER WHICH ONE IT IS AND IT'S DRIVING ME CRAZY

 

edit: jk found it

 

marrysong by dennis scott

 

He never learned her, quite. Year after year

that territory, without seasons, shifted

under his eye. An hour he could be lost

in the walled anger of her quarried hurt

on turning, see cool water laughing where

the day before there were stones in her voice.

He charted. She made wilderness again.

Roads disappeared. The map was never true.

Wind brought him rain sometimes, tasting of sea –

and suddenly she would change the shape of shores

faultlessly calm. All, all was each day new;

the shadows of her love shortened or grew

like trees seen from an unexpected hill,

new country at each jaunty helpless journey.

So he accepted that geography, constantly strange.

Wondered. Stayed home increasingly to find

His way among the landscapes of her mind.

 

 

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I've unapproved and snipped a few posts so we don't rehash the same arguments over and over. Let's stick to poetry loving please. Thanks. :)

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owen: that poem is a translation from bengali. so stanza and all that would be messed up.

 

ah, i see. its strange isn't it, the translation of languages? its amzing any of us ever get along, when meaning is lost in meter, and shared experience made shallow by rhythm that cant be copied?

DUST OF SNOW

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

Robert Frost

 

this always reminds me of winter days in my childhood. walking alone in the woods after a heavy snow- so quiet and so connected to the life that was around. some birds and me. i love the way the imagary of the crow, dusting(baptizing?) the speaker . it could be a death poem..crows often represent death- the dusting of snow- dusting of something pure upon the speaker(like a purification washing) from the hemlock tree(a tree associated with death), saving some part of him on a day he is rueing(what day do we rue as mortal men? the day we die. a dusting also associates with the biblical 'from dust return to dust' passage spoken at funerals.

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