| Author | Message | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26821 Registered: 07-2001 |
Is it a poem? Take 2 Missing from the discussion of “Is it a poem?” imnho is examples of what might not be a poem. Let me start with a list of American poets, who in modern times would be considered among the best of poets, but who were not always considered so – or have written works that were not, and still might not, be considered poems: Walt Whitman Emily Dickenson William Carlos Williams ee cummings William Ginsburg A good place to find their poems is http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/119 though cannot guarantee the poems there will support our discussion one way or the other. Williams did an interview with Mike Wallace in the New York Post in 1957 where he said: MW. …can you tell me, simply, what poetry is? WCW. Well..I would say poetry is language charged with emotions. It’s words, rhythmically organized… A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has worth expresses the whole life of the poet. It gives a view of what the poet is. MW. All right, look at this part of a poem by EE Cummings, another great A,erican poet: (im)c-a-t(mo) b,i;l:e FallleA ps!fl OattumbblI sh?dr IftwhirlF (Ul) (lY) &&& Is this poetry? WCW. I would reject it as a poem. It may be, to him, a poem. But I would reject it. I can’t understand it. He’s a serious man. So I struggle very hard with it – and I get no meaning at all. MW. You get no meaning? But here’s part of a poem you yourself have written: …2 partridges 2 mallard ducks a Dungeness crab 24 hours out of the Pacific and 2 live-frozen trout from Denmark… Now, that sounds just like a fashionable grocery list! WCW. It is a fashionable grocery list. MW. Well – is it poetry? WCW. We poets have to lalk in a language which is not English. It is the American idiom. Rhythmically it’s organized as a sample of the American idiom. It has as much originality as jazz. If you say “2 partridges, 2 mallard ducks, a Dungeness crab” – if you treat that rhythmically, ignoring the practical sense it forms a jagged pattern. It is, to my mind, poetry. MW. But if you don’t “ignore the practical sense”…you agree that it is a fashionable grocery list. WCW. Yes. Anything is good material for poetry. Anything. I’ve said it time and time again. MW. Aren’t we supposed to understand it? WCW. Three is a difference of poetry and the sense. Sometime modern poets ignore sense completely. That’s what makes some of the difficulty… The audience is confused by the shape of the words. MW. But shouldn’t a word mean something when you see it? WCW. In prose, an English word means what it says. In poetry, you’re listening to two things…you’re listening to the sense, the common sense of what it says. But it says more. That is the difficulty. * That portion of the interview is as published in this New Direction 1992 edition of Willaims’ Paterson as edited by Christopher MacGowan. It is part of Book Four of Paterson originally published in 1951. If 1957 in a 1951 volume seems a contradiction, Williams continually revised Paterson until his death. cummings is said to have wanted $25 for the use of his poem, which is a fragment of a slightly longer work. I’ve retyped the interview as in the volume, except for setting “2 partridges” in stanza form and different notations for Q and A. * Ignoring for the moment, Williams very American view of poetry (and with apologies to non-Americans), I am struck by his dismissal of cummings’ poem and rationalization of his own. Williams, for all the popularity of “red wheelbarrow”, “plums” and others of his poems, is a difficult poet to read. Spring and All, the source of “red wheelbarrow”, The Descent of Winter, and Paterson are all mixtures of poetry, prose, styles and format – some of it incomprehensible to the casual reader. Williams was a brilliant modern poet – a sensei for much of what followed – and is one of my favorite writers. But is all he wrote poetry? Is a “fashionable” shopping list poetry? Or like many of us, does Williams simply rationalize why his is and others are not? (By the way, he did not care for Sandburg or Frost either, though he did recognize them as poets.) If we are going to discuss what poetry is not, shouldn’t we have examples? I have read that “wheelbarrow”, “Song of Myself”, much of cummings, Howl, and haiku/haibun are not. I disagree, but do you have any examples (excluding your friends on the web of course – because you know how we are.) My favorite poet, Nishiwaki Junzaburo (who Pound recommended for the Noble Prize), wrote a long poem titled “No Traveler Returns” which contains 168 parts – as long as two pages and one as short as one word – 5 Sorrel. There is no question most of “Traveler” is poetry, but all of it? Or is even “Sorrel” to be judged in context? Thanks. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5294 Registered: 05-2006 |
Gary, these are very astute comments. I will leave this for others to reply. Fred From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| Kathy Paupore
Moderator Username: kathy Post Number: 10634 Registered: 12-2003 |
Gary, I have been inspired by all of these poets, WCW more than the rest. But, I have gleaned something from them all. Kathy You're invited to: Wild Flowers Free verse in not, of course, free.--Mary Oliver | ||
| W.F. Roby
Intermediate Member Username: wfroby Post Number: 563 Registered: 03-2008 |
I stand by my original opinion -- why can't anything created by a poet be declared a poem? How *can* there be "rules" or lines of demarcation dictating what is and is not poetry? Just as with studio art, our definition of "poetry" ought to be wide in scope. I hate to resort to this tactic, but Adolf Hitler famously gathered collections of "degenerative art" -- it was declared "degenerative" because it depicted a negative or confused world view. He put this "degenerative art" on display to educate people on what he thought real art was -- meaning classical art which represented "the eternal values of beauty". Hitler is quoted as having said that "Anyone who paints the sky green and the grass blue ought to be shot." Now . . . I know it is declasse to use a Hitler metaphor to denounce a certain opinion, and for good reason, but there is a point to my story -- Hitler still considered these "degenerate" works of art to be "art". His position was not one of omission . . . he didn't say "This is not art" -- rather, he pointed out why he felt it was "degenerative". Who are we to declare something a "non poem"? The work by cummings cited in Gary's post is (if my grad school chops are still together) supposed to be like a word painting of a motionless cat, and as such it is a stunning work. His use of space is unmatched by anyone, no matter how hard they try. Taking all that into account, the poem mentioned above is most *certainly* a poem. By anyone's definition. (By Billy Collins' definition too . . . I know how much you cats love him. Here's the link: http://www.slate.com/id/2117098/) My point, in short, is that we should be about the business of creating our own poetry, not worrying about classifying this or that as a poem or non poem. Cheers. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26824 Registered: 07-2001 |
WF, I've had no problem with calling cumming's poem poetry, but was struck by the fact that WCW, a poet who stretched the boundries of poetry as much as anyone before, and few have since, did not see the cumming's as a poem. If I have a problem with the most experimental, it's when they - the experimenters - want to dismiss what came before, to dismiss formal work, rhymes, even Willie and the boys. Experiment. Make poems out of colors, shapes, soap bubbles, ice cubes, shopping lists - but leave room for poems set in blocks of meter and form. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| LJ Cohen
Moderator Username: ljc Post Number: 10732 Registered: 07-2002 |
I have always liked Gary's phrase that poetry is a big tent. Nonetheless, I think there are genre elements for poetry just as there are specific tropes for other genres. As I've said elsewhere, to me, what distinguishes poetry from prose is that poetry has a degree of figurative language. However, the lines are blurred. There is poetic prose. Some poetry tends to the narrative, but if there is something that lacks *any* figurative language elements, has no 'music', uses no comparative devices, is strictly linear, is that thing poetry? I tend to think not, or at least the burden of proof is going to be higher for me. Just food for thought here. And my opinions, only. best, ljc (Who has been accused by her novel writing buddies of writing overly poetic prose. . . } Once in a Blue Muse Blog "Chop Wood, Carry Water" | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5298 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| LJ Cohen
Moderator Username: ljc Post Number: 10734 Registered: 07-2002 |
"adroit recontextualization." Fred--you win the phrase of the day.  Very cool. best, ljc Once in a Blue Muse Blog "Chop Wood, Carry Water" | ||
| Leslie J Root
New member Username: leslie_root Post Number: 13 Registered: 01-2009 |
From Wikpedia: "Prose is writing that resembles everyday speech. The word "prose" is derived from the Latin prosa, which literally translates to "straightforward". Prose is an unpretentious form of writing; it is adopted for the discussion of facts and topical news. Prose is often articulated in free form writing style. Thus, it may be used for books, newspapers, magazines, encyclopedias, broadcast media, films, letters, history, philosophy, biography, and many other forms of communication. Poetry (from the Greek "ðïßçóéò", poiesis, a "making") is 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 or lyrics." My suggestion, as a newcomer to this fine group, is that the best of poetry would combine the elements of both. Poetry that cannot be understood by the average reader is self serving and doomed to be ineffectual in its impact on the world. Poetry that is void of emotion, no matter how clearly written, will suffer the same fate. Personally, I feel that much effort and talent has been wasted on a subject only time can resolve. True poetry has always withstood the test of time no matter how badly critiqued at conception. All we can do is offer up our wares and let the readers decide what has merit and what does not. "The best bread is deemed worthy by the butcher." | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5320 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4539 Registered: 10-2005 |
I agree with Leslie's basic point that time decides whether a poem is a poem. The poetry that does survive sometimes depends on only a few people who comprehend its brilliance, and in time, more may come along. But fashion, as Fred notes, does play a role. I read somewhere recently that there are volumes of (English Language) rhyming and rhythmic poetry from the last two centuries that may never be cracked again because that fashion has gone out of style, maybe permanently. It's hard to judge the age your in, so will this age remember the simplicity of Williams (not that his work is simple, or without its detractors), or the complexity of some of the poems getting the most attention now? On spoken word poetry I think you have it right. It's not memorable and it's a trend that will pass. Propaganda has no lasting quality. -Laz | ||
| Will Eastland
Intermediate Member Username: dwillo Post Number: 901 Registered: 07-2006 |
"The poetry that does survive sometimes depends on only a few people who comprehend its brilliance, and in time, more may come along." Why do we accept this in poetry and so few other areas? Imagine the Bush administration saying: "The policys we we do employ spring from a few people who comprehend such brilliance. In time, more may come along." Or McDonalds saying: "The sandwiches we do offer may appeal only to a select few who comprehend the delight of the unique flavors. In time you'll get used to them." This is why I think we ought to re-examine whether readers have left poetry, or whether poetry has left its readers. This is not to say we ought to abandon experimentation and boundry pushing. But there is a risk/reward curve to consider. Walk carefully-- your shoe is what you shine your shadow with. ~Jessica Goodfellow | ||
| Kathy Paupore
Moderator Username: kathy Post Number: 10689 Registered: 12-2003 |
From Webster's 9th: Poetry: 1.a. metrical writing, b. the productions of a poet: poems. 2. writing that formulates a concentrated imaginative awareness of experience in language chosen and arranged to create a specific emotional response through meaning, sound, and rhythm 3.a. something likened to poetry esp. in beauty and expression, b. poetic quality or aspect. poet: 1. one who writes poetry,: maker of verse; 2: one of great imaginitive and expressive gifts and special sensativity to his medium. trendy: very fashionable: up-to-date 2. marked by ephemeral, superficial, or faddish appeal to taste. taste: 6. an individual preference: inclination, 7. a. critical judgement, discernment or appreciation, b. manner or aesthetic quality indicative of such discernment or appreciation. critique: critisize, review critic: 1.a. one who expresses a reasoned opinion on any matter esp involving a judgement of its value, truth, righteousness, beauty, or technique. teacher: one who teaches teach: 1.a. to cause to know a subject, b. to cause to know how 2. to guide studies of 3. to impart knowledge of 4.a. to instruct by precept, example, or experience b. to seek to make known and accepted 5. to provide instruction We are all differently-abled where poetry is concerned. We are all teachers of poetry and students of the craft. We all come to poetry with our own likes, dislikes, knowledge, experiences, sensativities, and prejudices. We all have our own opinions about what is and is not poetry. Why debate what poetry is or is not, why not just let it be a gift? Kathy You're invited to: Wild Flowers Free verse in not, of course, free.--Mary Oliver | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4540 Registered: 10-2005 |
Kathy- I hope I don't come off as snippy when I remind you that freewill (voluntary) is also in the dictionary. If you don't want to join in this discussion, you may choose not to, you have that right. I think that was a little snippy so I'll apologise to you right now. I'm sorry.  It's just that I've come across this type of response more than I'd like to count. If something doesn't appeal to someone as a discussion they should really bow out. The terminology - is this or is it not poetry- might be too harsh for people who are sensitive to digging into the deeper essence of things. It isn't a slam on any poetic style to say that the name poetry doesn't belong, it's just a way of identifying how we use the word, what we mean by it, and it's all in the interest of further identification and can reveal some really great insights in unexpected ways. -Laz | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4541 Registered: 10-2005 |
Will- My comment on some poetry not being recognised by the mainstream is meant to reference poets that we read now that have stood the test of time. I think Rumi can be counted among the under-appreciated of his time right? That's what I meant. As far as anything being good or bad in politics, it's always the test of time that tells. In food not so much, although there are people who eat some really weird stuff in the name of cultural continuity. They only like it because it reminds them of home, sort of thing. This is why I think we ought to re-examine whether readers have left poetry, or whether poetry has left its readers. What I wish we could do is find ways to bring poetry to more people. The rhyming and formal poetry of the one hundred years ago was written for a specific audience of people looking for entertainment in an age before TV and even telephone. Those people got what they wanted from their poets or they wouldn't have been read. Now we have to figure out if we want to give the reader what they want (if we can figure out what that is) where they expect to find it, or if we want to show the reader what they don't know they need until they see it, possibly not even where they expect to find it. -Laz | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32928 Registered: 11-1998 |
Dear Laz -- it occurs to me that if you are going to make statements which you know in advance that you will have to apologize for, it might be best to reconsider making them in the first place. Since you are not a moderator here, chastizing someone is not really within your purview. If you have a problem with something posted here at Wild, you are encouraged to notify admin and/or staff about it. Thank you for your consideration. Best, M | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4545 Registered: 10-2005 |
Dear M I believe that since I was already in this discussion and not coming form outside to make a point about something someone said that I was within my right to comment on Kathy's post. I did consider ignoring what she had to say and censoring the emotional response it encouraged in me, but I thought that in an open discussion that wouldn't be necessary. Kathy- I say again, perhaps more clearly, I felt that your post of the definitions pushed the boundaries of acceptable debate. I'm sorry if my post was over the top in expressing that. Sometimes there is just no good way to respond to someone whose main point is to say this discussion should not be taking place. -Laz | ||
| Kathy Paupore
Moderator Username: kathy Post Number: 10693 Registered: 12-2003 |
Laz, I wasn't debating. Perhaps you didn't read my whole thread? So, I'll reiterate: Why debate what poetry is or is not, why not just let it be a gift? Kathy You're invited to: Wild Flowers Free verse in not, of course, free.--Mary Oliver | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32930 Registered: 11-1998 |
Dear Laz -- "Sometimes there is just no good way to respond to someone whose main point is to say this discussion should not be taking place." There is always private e-mail. Isn't recommending that Kathy not post her comment in the same vein as that to which you are objecting? She has as much right to enter the discussion with her comments as you do. Telling her she shouldn't post her comment could be construed in the same light as your interpretation of her post as saying this discussion should not be taking place. If you are objecting to censorship, then why are you attempting to censor someone else? Just keep the comments on the discussion, Laz. How's that? Then we're less likely to have senseless arguments breaking out everywhere. Thanks, M | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4546 Registered: 10-2005 |
Kathy- I see what you meant. I was only trying my own brand of funny/sarcasm out by using the definition of freewill, but for me those things never go right. But I still don't see why you would bother to comment of you don't feel the premise makes sense to discuss. Moving on... if we should just see poetry as a gift and not discuss what constitutes that gift, ie Does it have to be understood, Does it need to follow some basic rules etc, then how are we going to know this gift when we see it? For me this discussion is a mental exercise, not a true fact finding tour. It's not a question that can ever be answered. But it can bring understanding to the topic. -Laz | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4547 Registered: 10-2005 |
Meanwhile... I have some other relevant comments above which I would like to think someone would take an interest in. I'm into revolutions. I think poetry is about to have one and I think some of the best minds are right here thinking about what poetry is and can be and that's what I'm about- spreding the word, spreading a movement of poets beyond the normal boundaries. I don't know how that will happen, but I believe it will and I hope to be a part of it, in some small way, (but probably not by coming up with sarcasitc comments in poetry threads!). -Laz | ||
| Leslie J Root
New member Username: leslie_root Post Number: 20 Registered: 01-2009 |
I agree with you Lazarus. I feel there is a trend in all literature towards work with more depth and substance. People, I think, have grown weary of "light reading" and are more inclined to be drawn to works that fuel the imagination and exercise the intellectual muscles. I believe that poetry is going to experience a new found appreciation among the general public. The question is, what poetic styles will stand the test of time and which will fall by the wayside. As they say in poker and cow pastures: "Let the chips fall where they may." "The best bread is deemed worthy by the butcher." | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 65 Registered: 11-2008 |
Thank you Gary for continuing this discussion. I missed out on this. Is it a poem? The question begs to answer the age old question - what is truth? And the truth is - whatever the majority agrees upon - according to the majority. History reveals exceptions, we do not always need a majority - sometimes a dictator will do. In either case - truth is often elusive. Poetry is word art. And like any art, may take many variations from the obvious to the abstract .. the beauty found, in the eyes of the beholder. I can only say that poetry is what it is in the hands of the poet. There are those who write on levels so high above my own that it would take a lifetime for me to understand it - but I can recognize it as poetry. And there are those who write at levels I have long passed - their work is still poetry. For, in the end analysis all poets use the same tools: observation, contemplation, and expression of our shared human experience - which deals with the central and dual themes of human salvation and/or damnation. So for me the question is not - is it poetry - but rather, is it poetry that I understand - if I don't understand then, what am I missing (sometimes I will be moved to answer that question - and other times not) .. and if I do understand - what can I take from it to reach higher personal levels in my own art. The truest poetry of course is life itself. The work of the poet being to express, using as best can be used - powers of observation and contemplation. So my answer would be yes - it is all poetry - and we all learn from each other, and in such fashion improve our individual art - Presuming, of course - that we understand so long as we live .. we are students, ever learning. That's all I know. | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5337 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| Jeffrey S. Lange
Advanced Member Username: runatyr Post Number: 1145 Registered: 10-2005 |
Amen, Fred. I kid, I kid. I'm with you on this one, anyway. ;) | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 67 Registered: 11-2008 |
The ancient Greeks understood that life itself - is poetry. Reason - that word will find as many definitions as there are poets ;) And - some poets consider the Declaration of Independence, the greatest free verse ever written. Interesting sidebar that tomorrow we inaugurate a published poet. Hope this means more funding for the art! An interesting discussion here .. much enjoyed. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26951 Registered: 07-2001 |
I've decided the only definition that matters is: Poetry is. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 69 Registered: 11-2008 |
Gary - a profound and elegant simplicity - Yes ... Poetry Is | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5344 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32952 Registered: 11-1998 |
"to eschew boundaries is pure anti-intellectualism." Hmmmm, me thinks there'd be a lot of discoverers, revolutionaries, inventors, mad scientists, explorers, researchers, and every other kind of person brave enough to eschew boundaries in the pursuit of progress and/or discovery who might argue with you about that statement, Freddie. I'm sure someone told the Wright Brothers that people can't fly, but somehow they did. They were anti-intellectuals? Okay, if you say so. But I'm havin' a hard time swallowin' that one. Love, M P.S. Who wrote these so-called "boundaries" about what defines a poem in the first place? God? No, I believe it was people. Fallible people. Who said they were right when they wrote those "boundaries?" Them? You? God? Unless it's an immutable law of physics, I say we can always re-write the "boundaries." Yeah, it's nice to have some definitions. It is helpful that the majority of the driving public agrees that red means stop and green means go. But don't choke on them when it comes to the arts. They're not "gospel" handed down from the gods on Mt. Olympus and nobody's gonna die if we run a poetic red light. *grin* | ||
| ItalianBee
Member Username: italianbee Post Number: 76 Registered: 02-2008 |
I have no idea what "is" a poem. I was recently told by another writer that two of my own poems, weren't poems. And then another writer told me that one of those two (I haven't shown her the other) was one of my best, um, poems. I do think that I've run across a few "poems" that I didn't think were poems. But who gave me the right to say? But then I remember the discussion of "what is intelligence?" that arose in a psychology class I took many many years ago, in which I gradually began to realise that we were saying that every human quality we liked counted as intelligence. It doesn't. It just doesn't. Maybe, then, we can say that a painting isn't a poem (except we might use "poem" as a metaphor to describe it, in a poem  ), but I for one don't know how to define poem. Though I do agree with Fred above, there has to be a boundary around the concept. Anyway it was a question I couldn't stay away from even though I have no glimmer of an answer that I can begin trust. | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 74 Registered: 11-2008 |
checking the medicine cabinet - there has got to be something there for this | ||
| Jane Røken
Senior Member Username: magpie Post Number: 2611 Registered: 03-2007 |
"Poets do not go mad but chess players do. Mathematicians go mad and cashiers, but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic; I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination." (G.K. Chesterton) | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26966 Registered: 07-2001 |
They are already mad. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5345 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| Will Eastland
Intermediate Member Username: dwillo Post Number: 907 Registered: 07-2006 |
Why debate what poetry is or is not . . .? Because it tickles. Walk carefully-- your shoe is what you shine your shadow with. ~Jessica Goodfellow | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 75 Registered: 11-2008 |
Thank you for the advice Fred .. I do tend to read the labels first - you know: drink me grow tall drink me grow small drink me do ~ nothing at all Gary: you continue to be the voice of reason - poets yes, are already mad which is why they do not go mad .. though perhaps they can go madder? In which case we may have a problem in the White House. However - best to have a poet at the mad tea party, maybe. | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32953 Registered: 11-1998 |
I'm in agreement with you there, Freddie, about fundamental differences. And speaking of fundamental differences, I think there might also be (though I'm not really sure) some fundamental differences between what we classify as "science" and what we classify as "art" (mainly because I'm rather tragic in anything to do with the "sciences," but can hold my own when it comes to the "arts"). And so, I think when you say things like this: "A cell cannot survive without a membrane. The earth has a boundary layer between rock and space called an atmosphere." you're talking about what might be classified as "science." And I'm not so sure that the same "laws" that apply in the scientific realm are necessarily all that applicable to the artistic realm. Perhaps they operate in different spheres or different dimensions of the human experience. Just like taxonomic classification and adventure/discovery. But I could be terribly wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. Love, M | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5346 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 77 Registered: 11-2008 |
Certainly truth to be found in all these things To see life as poetry .. requires, a multi-dimensional view beyond the boundaries of the box | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26973 Registered: 07-2001 |
All of which is nothing but structure - screen, wall, pedestal, et al. The equivalent for a poem would be words. How those words might be displayed (still structure) and arranged is nearly limitless, bounded only by oru imaginations. The tent is still mighty, mighty big. Does it have boundries? Of course, but we probably do not know what they are. Poetry is. BTW, my original request in this post has not been answered. Examples from published poems - and I do not mean those found in workshops/forums. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32954 Registered: 11-1998 |
While I'll accept these examples, Freddie: "And most people consider classical music and hip-hop to be differing musical forms, with some kind of loose boundary between them." "There is a difference between elevator jazz and traditional jazz that most jazz fans easily recognize." These examples I have a bit of a difficult time classifying in the same respect: "Most songs on most albums are separate musical events." "Most paintings are mounted on a frame. A mural is normally bounded by the wall. A sculpture is normally bounded on the bottom by a pedestal and above by the air. A play is bounded in time by its beginning, intermezzo, and end." "A movie is bounded by a screen, and like a play by a frame in time." The first set are descriptions of "boundaries" of conceptualization. The second set are descriptions of "boundaries" of a physical nature. I wouldn't necessarily mix them together or use the ones of a physical nature as examples of boundaries of conceptualization. A painting's frame, for example, is only a physical "boundary" that separates it from its environment. It's not what separates a painting from a piece of sculpture or a play. And what separates us, Freddie, I guess, is that if I went to buy CD's, and I went to the jazz section, and I got a little container filled with poems, or postcards of paintings by Georgia O'Keeffe instead of that Jazz Messengers or Art Tatum I went there to get, I might be surprised, but I wouldn't necessarily be all that upset. Hey, it could be even better than that esoteric jazz stuff. Who knows? At least I could send you a postcard. Maybe even with a poem on it (though god help me if it wasn't a poem that fit your definition -- I'd probably get a very angry postcard in return asking me what the hell that was, 'cause it weren't no poem).  Love, M | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32956 Registered: 11-1998 |
Okay, here's one for you, Mr. B. Poem or prose? I don't know -- it's got an awful lot of prose there in the middle, doesn't it? This poetry/prose thing can get very confusing and mixed up. Except for Hass, and HarperCollins, maybe, since they put it in a collection that's got "New Poems" in the title. Love, M ------------------------------------------------- My Mother's Nipples by Robert Hass They're where all displacement begins. They bulldozed the upper meadow at Squaw Valley, where horses from the stable, two chestnuts, one white, grazed in the mist and the scent of wet grass on summer mornings and moonrise threw the owl's shadow on voles and wood rats crouched in the sage smell the earth gave back after dark with the day's heat to the night air. And after the framers began to pound nails and the electricians and plumbers came around to talk specs with the general contractor, someone put up the green sign with alpine daisies on it that said Squaw Valley Meadows. They had gouged up the deep-rooted bunchgrass and the wet alkali-scented earth had been pushed aside or trucked someplace out of the way, and they poured concrete and laid road—pleasant scent of tar in the spring sun— *** "He wanted to get out of his head," she said, "so I told him to write about his mother's nipples." *** The cosmopolitan's song on this subject: Alors! les nipples de ma mère! The romantic's song What could be more fair than les nipples de ma mère? The utopian's song I will freely share les nipples de ma mère. The philosopher's song Here was always there with les nipples de ma mère The capitalist's song Fifty cents a share The saint's song Lift your eyes in prayer The misanthrope's song I can scarcely bear The melancholic's song They were never there, les nipples de ma mère. They are not anywhere. The indigenist's song And so the boy they called Loves His Mother's Tits Went into the mountains and fasted for three days. On the fourth he saw a red-tailed hawk with broken wings, On the fifth a gored doe in a ravine, entrails Spilled onto the rocks, eye looking up at him From the twisted neck. All the sixth day he was dizzy And his stomach hurt. On the seventh he made three deep cuts In the meat of his palm. He entered the pain at noon And an eagle came to him crying three times like the mewling A doe makes planting her hooves in the soft duff for mating And he went home and they called him Eagle Three Times after that. The regionalist's song Los Pechos. Rolling oak woodland between Sierra pines and the simmering valley. Pink, of course, soft; a girl's— She wore white muslin tennis outfits in the style Helen Wills made fashionable. Trim athletic swimsuits. A small person, compact body. In the photographs she's on the beach, standing straight, hands on hips, grinning, eyes desperate even then. *** Mothers in the nineteen forties didn't nurse. I never saw her naked. Oh! yes, I did, once, but I can't remember. I remember not wanting to. *** Two memories. My mother had been drinking for several days, and I had thought dinner would be cancelled, so I wouldn't get to watch The Lone Ranger on my aunt's and uncle's television set. But we went to dinner and my aunt with her high-pitched voice took the high-minded tone that she took in my mother's presence. She had put out hard candies in little cut glass dishes as she always did, and we ate dinner, at which water was served to the grown-ups, and no one spoke except my uncle who teased us in his English accent. A tall man. He used to pat me on the head too hard and say, "Robert of Sicily, brother of the Pope Urbane." And after dinner when the television was turned on in the immaculate living room and Silver was running across the snowy screen, his mane shuddering from the speed, the door bell rang. It was two men in white coats and my mother bolted from the table into the kitchen and out the back door. The men went in after her. The back stairs led into a sort of well between the houses, and when I went into the kitchen I could hear her screaming, "No! no!," the sound echoing and re-echoing among the houses. Some years later. I am perhaps ten, eleven. We are visiting my mother on the parklike grounds of the State Hospital in the Napa Valley. It is Sunday again. Green lawns, the heavy sweet scent of mock orange. Many of the patients are walking, alone or with their families, on the paths. One man seemed to be giving speeches to a tree. I had asked my grandmother why, if my mother had a drinking problem, that's the phrase I had been taught to use, why she was locked up with crazy people. It was a question I could have asked my father, but I understood that his answer would not be dependable. My grandmother said, with force, she had small red curls on her forehead, dressed with great style, you had better ask your father that. Then she thought better of it, and said, They have a treatment program, dear, maybe it will help. I tried out that phrase, treatment program. My mother was sitting on a bench. She looked immensely sad, seemed to have shrunk. Her hair was pulled across her forehead and secured with a white beret, like Teresa Wright in the movies. At first my brother and I just sat next to her on the bench and cried. My father held my sister's hand. My grandmother and grandfather stood to one side, a separate group, and watched. Later, while they talked, I studied a middle-aged woman sitting on the next bench talking to herself in a foreign language. She was wearing a floral print dress and she spoke almost in a whisper but with passion, looking around from time to time, quick little furtive resentful glances. She was so careless of herself that I could see her breast, the brown nipple, when she leaned forward. I didn't want to look, and looked, and looked away. *** Hot Sierra morning. Brenda working in another room. Rumble of heavy equipment in the meadow, bird squall, Steller's jay, and then the piercing three-note whistle of a robin. They're mating now. Otherwise they're mute. Mother-ing. Or Mother-song. Mother-song-song-song. *** We used to laugh, my brother and I in college, about the chocolate cake. Tears in our eyes laughing. In grammar school, whenever she'd start to drink, she panicked and made amends by baking chocolate cake. And, of course, when we got home, we'd smell the strong, sweet smell of the absolute darkness of chocolate, and be too sick to eat it. *** The first girl's breasts I saw were the Chevy dealer's daughter Linda Wren's. Pale in the moonlight. Little nubbins, pink-nosed. I can still hear the slow sound of the surf of my breath drawing in. I think I almost fainted. *** Twin fonts of mercy, they used to say of the Virgin's breasts in the old liturgy the Irish priests could never quite handle, it being a form of bodily reference, springs of grace, freshets of lovingkindness. If I remember correctly, there are baroque poems in this spirit in which each of Christ's wounds is a nipple. Drink and live: this is the son's blood. *** Dried figs, candied roses. What is one to say of the nipples of old women who would, after all, find the subject unseemly. Yesterday I ran along the edge of the meadow in the heat of late afternoon. So many wildflowers tangled in the grass. So many grasses— reedgrass, the bentgrass and timothy, little quaking grass, dogtail, rip-gut brome—the seeds flaring from the stalks in tight chevrons of green and purple-green but loosening. I said to myself: some things do not blossom in this life. I said: what we've lost is a story and what we've never had a song. When my father died, I was curious to see in what ratio she would feel relieved and lost. All during the days of his dying, she stood by his bed talking to whichever of her children was present about the food in the cafeteria or the native state of the nurses—"She's from Portland, isn't that interesting? Your Aunt Nell lived in Portland when Owen was working for the Fisheries."—and turn occasionally to my father who was half-conscious, his eyes a morphine cloud, and say, in a sort of baby talk, "It's all right, dear. It's all right." And after he died, she was dazed, and clearly did not know herself whether she felt relieved or lost, and I felt sorry for her that she had no habit and so no means of self-knowing. She was waiting for us to leave so she could start drinking. Only once was she suddenly alert. When the young man from the undertaker's came and explained that she would need a copy of her marriage license in order to do something about the insurance and pensions, she looked briefly alive, anxious, and I realized that, though she rarely told the truth, she was a very poor dissembler. Now her eyes were a young girl's. What, she asked, if someone just couldn't turn up a marriage license; it seemed such a detail, there must be cases. I could see that she was trying out avenues of escape, and I was thinking, now what? They were never married? I told her not to worry. I'd locate it. She considered this and said it would be fine. I could see she had made some decision, and then she grew indefinite again. So, back in California, it was with some interest that I retraced the drive from San Francisco to Santa Rosa which my parents made in 1939, when according to my mother's story—it was the first account of it I'd ever heard—she and my father had eloped. The Sonoma County Office of Records was in a pink cinder-block building landscaped with reptilian pink oleanders which were still blooming in the Indian summer heat. It would have been raining when my parents drove that road in an old (I imagined) cream-colored Packard convertible I had seen one photo of. I asked the woman at the desk for the marriage certificate for February 1939. I wondered what the surprise was going to be, and it was a small one. No problem, Mrs. Minh said. But you had the date wrong, so it took me a while to find it. It was October, not February. Driving back to San Francisco, I had time to review this information. My brother was born in December 1939. Hard to see that it meant anything except that my father tried very hard to avoid his fate. I felt so sorry for them. That they thought it was worth keeping a secret. Or, more likely, that their life together began in a negotiation too painful to be referred to again. That my mother had, with a certain fatality, let me pick up the license, so her first son would not know the circumstance of his conception. I felt sorry for her shame, for my father's panic. It finished off my dim wish that there had been an early romantic or ecstatic time in their lives, a blossoming, brief as a northern summer maybe, but a blossoming. What we've never had is a song and what we've really had is a song. Sweet smell of timothy in the meadow. Clouds massing east above the ridge in a sky as blue as the mountain lakes, so there are places on this earth clear all the way up and all the way down and in between a various blossoming, the many seed shapes of the many things finding their way into flower or not, that the wind scatters. There are all kinds of emptiness and fullness that sing and do not sing. I said: you are her singing. I came home from school and she was gone. I don't know what instinct sent me to the park. I suppose it was the only place I could think of where someone might hide: she had passed out under an orange tree, curled up. Her face, flushed, eyelids swollen, was a ruin. Though I needed urgently to know whatever was in it, I could hardly bear to look. When I couldn't wake her, I decided to sit with her until she woke up. I must have been ten years old: I suppose I wanted for us to look like a son and mother who had been picnicking, like a mother who had fallen asleep in the warm light and scent of orange blossoms and a boy who was sitting beside her daydreaming, not thinking about anything in particular. You are not her singing, though she is what's broken in a song. She is its silences. She may be its silences. Hawk drifting in the blue air, grey of the granite ridges, incense cedars, pines. I tried to think of some place on earth she loved. I remember she only ever spoke happily of high school. "My Mother's Nipples" from Sun Under Wood: New Poems by Robert Hass. Copyright (c) 1996 by Robert Hass. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, www.harpercollins.com. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26981 Registered: 07-2001 |
You couldn't find something shorter? Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 78 Registered: 11-2008 |
ok - trying to get back on track Gary. An example of a published poem that may not be considered a poem: just a little smoke-- the tobacco smells young ko keburi mo wakai nioi no tabako kana Written by Issa circa 1821. Issa being of course one of the three accepted masters of Japanese poetry. Looks like this is a good example of what may not be considered a poem - because, it falls outside the box of what is considered poetry. An yet - it is without question a poem among those who understand the genre. Perhaps .. it can be said: if a writing is termed a poem by a poet - then it is a poem by said poet's definition. Argument ensues when said definitions become conflicting (as education and experience levels differ among those involved). Jibberish then - also a poem in its own class. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26982 Registered: 07-2001 |
M, I will answer tomorrow. Asa, yours is easy. I have heard it said that no haiku can be a poem, that nothing but tradition (in English) 5 7 5 can be, that a haiku that does not meet certain rules (nature, season, et al) can not be. In Japan it is a poem. The culture has accepted it as such for longer than written poetry has existed in English. In translation it is a poem. Poetryness does not change with translation, even poor translation. (Quality is never part of the definition. A bad poet can write bad poems.) Finally, it contains one of the 8 to 12 traits we expect to see in a poem. I reply with Ikkyu: only one koan matters you Jibberish can be poetic. The French have several schools along that line of which Dada might be the most accessable. I do draw the line a "poetry with words" or "speech". That is silence, unless we are simply saying it is poetic in nature. If I was going to provide an example it would probably be the cummings' at the start. But even then...? BTW two of the best poems ever written are the first chapters of Dickens' Bleak House and Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath. Check them out. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 79 Registered: 11-2008 |
Gary - agree with much of what you say. Haiku is written today in every country in the world. Has been taught in the schools of Japan as a poetic form since time out of mind - is taught on the university level here in the States - and in the better grade schools. Dorthy Britton's translation of Basho's Journey to a Far Province .. is perhaps the best example of how the form may be written in the English language. So those who say that no haiku can be a poem (or demand the above mentioned overly misunderstood rules) simply are lacking, in education and experience. Above referenced Cummings is grand example of non poem - yet because it is written by an acceptable master .. well, we look the other way? I would like to explore how that fulfills the twelve traits expected in a poem (what exactly are those and by whose definition). Haven't visited the referenced poems since HS .. will give a look. (Message edited by AsaSakae on January 19, 2009) | ||
| Lazarus
Senior Member Username: lazarus Post Number: 4550 Registered: 10-2005 |
M~ I read the whole thing in one pass. Loved it. When you read good writing there is just something you feel. I think it is a poem, or a symphony, how's that. -Laz | ||
| Kathy Paupore
Moderator Username: kathy Post Number: 10716 Registered: 12-2003 |
There is only one pill that can be used for all problems, won't cause any harm, and sometimes even helps, that would be a placebo. Yep, poetry is and maybe the only boudary is personal taste? with that said I'd like to enter this little bit of levity in the conversation  because I darn near fell out of my chair when I found it in the emoticons yesterday and I'm still laughing today that would be an example of something that resonates goodnight moon! Kathy You're invited to: Wild Flowers Free verse in not, of course, free.--Mary Oliver | ||
| John Lame
New member Username: pasha Post Number: 15 Registered: 01-2009 |
I love discussions like this, but my feelings always lie in the "it doesn't matter" variety. I don't feel one can or should arrive at a conclusion here. The journey is constructive and enjoyable certainly, but I think if we head too far in the direction of specifics, we've lost the point. If there are any mathematically inclined here, its much like Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem. The full and true definition of poetry can not be captured in any language complex enough to be a vehicle for poetry, for as the language becomes more complex, so does the notion of poetry. Its a simple paradox of the self-referential sort. For me, I don't believe that anything is poetry. At the same time I believe that anything can be correctly viewed to be poetry by the right observer. There's no conflict here, its a simple matter of what one considers a poetic device. Any culture who's common mode of speech routinely employs allegory, metaphor, personification, alliteration, or any other such device might well see all of our so-called prose as unusual and poetic. Does anyone remember that alien culture on Star Trek who spoke in nothing but metapohr. I often wonder what form their poetry took. In any case, I've rambled on far longer than I intended. My apologies if any or most of my points have already been covered by others. I've read only a small part of this thread so far and wanted to add some thoughts before I head off to work. Cheers, John | ||
| Jeffrey S. Lange
Advanced Member Username: runatyr Post Number: 1146 Registered: 10-2005 |
Well, Hass certainly uses metaphor. Either that, or his mother was a bit odd. Hass is fantastic. I picked up "Time and Materials" recently, and I love it. Highly recommended. | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26984 Registered: 07-2001 |
I am going to do my answer to M in another thread after a eye check-up, but a couple of thoughts come to mind: The cummings' is a poem, not because the poet says it is - but because examined it contains the 10 to 12 traits we expect in poetry...a difficult examination, but they are there. Without reading the entire piece, I wouls say WCW's shopping list leans towards non-poetry, but I have written works like it that I wished to be called poetry. John Lame said: but my feelings always lie in the "it doesn't matter" variety. But it does. For the discussion, the debate, here and elsewhere determine what is published, what we pay attention to, what the general public see as poetry. If we only write for ourselves, it might not matter; but for those who wish publication, awards, sales, some small recognition of their art, it does. In another house (now defunct), a moderator-owner invited a syllabic form based on the cinquain he called "zip." Another moderator-owner from his city railed against the form, despised it as artifical; yet the latter often writes is freest of verse, that which leans far towards prose. Both are poets, both accomplish poetry - teach and publish. But the last as an editor in his bias against zips controls what we see and what we can have published. Hence it is important we have this discussion. Some of us on the edges need the tent to be really big...or we will find ourselves alone in the cold. Asa, I do not remember them all. It has been some time since I wrote them all down, but I would start with metaphor/simile language meter alliteration/rhyme lyric/music mystery image form And not all of them required in every poem, actually one or two surfice. A longer post than I expected, but time to go see if I can see... Thanks for the listen. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32957 Registered: 11-1998 |
Dearest Mr. B -- I will try to respond to these statements, which you are correct about and have great weight: "But it does. For the discussion, the debate, here and elsewhere determine what is published, what we pay attention to, what the general public see as poetry." "Both are poets, both accomplish poetry - teach and publish. But the last as an editor in his bias against zips controls what we see and what we can have published." Yes, that's true. However, the last editor you spoke of only controls what appears in his publication. The range of editors is as wide as the range of poetry. All kinds of different styles/forms/experiments are acceptable and accepted somewhere. Speaking as an editor myself, while I have certain leanings and certain likes/dislikes, when I'm wearing my editor hat, I try to make sure it's as broad and all-encompassing and non-judgmental as possible. I try not to give the green light at Stirring to only those poems that fit my definitions or that appeal to me. I try to consider what might appeal and fit as it regards the general poetry reading public. Yes, Stirring has standards and a certain thrust, but I think we're pretty wide open on the definition side. I think Laz said it best: "When you read good writing there is just something you feel." If the writing is as damned, knock-your-socks-off great as the Hass piece here, most editors worth their pay wouldn't give a flying (*&^ whether someone called it poetry, prose, some combination, or a damned elephant. We'd just beg to print it, that's all. Just write, folks. With the proviso that the writing is clearly stunning and superlative. Trust me -- some editor somewhere will take it. We're dying to print great shit. And we don't really care what someone wants or needs to call it. Form is nice and all to use and to discuss, but CONTENT is King. Great form + Lousy Content = Failure. Love, M | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 81 Registered: 11-2008 |
Thank you Gary - Japanese poetry (in all forms) contains all the aforesaid elements. Thank you M - great advice. Write on - all | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 26990 Registered: 07-2001 |
M, I've decided not to do another thread because this will not take long. The poem is My Mother's Nipples by Robert Hass. A v readable version is on the web at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=179753 Of course, it is a poem. It starts poetic with They're where all displacement begins. They bulldozed the upper meadow at Squaw Valley, where horses from the stable, two chestnuts, one white, grazed in the mist and the scent of wet grass on summer mornings and moonrise threw the owl's shadow on voles and wood rats crouched in the sage smell the earth gave back after dark with the day's heat to the night air. and continues through a list of songs, the last S which is Mothers in the nineteen forties didn't nurse. I never saw her naked. Oh! yes, I did, once, but I can't remember. I remember not wanting to. which is followed by prose - a memory - to return to poetry with Hot Sierra morning. Brenda working in another room. Rumble of heavy equipment in the meadow, bird squall, Steller's jay, and then the piercing three-note whistle of a robin. They're mating now. Otherwise they're mute. Mother-ing. Or Mother-song. Mother-song-song-song. onto alternating poetry and prose to end with Hawk drifting in the blue air, grey of the granite ridges, incense cedars, pines. I tried to think of some place on earth she loved. I remember she only ever spoke happily of high school. It is a mix poetry, song and prose - a tradition that goes back to Whitman, WCW and others, including the haibun from Japan. Some might dismiss it as a poem, the most prominent might be Lewis Turco, author of the you've-got-to-own-it The Book of Forms (3rd Edition). He dismissed Whitman and Sandburg as mere prose poems or prose in poetic form. I don't believe as good a dictionary as he wrote, he hears the music. Let me suggest this end this thread. Not because we have said all there is to say, or every example - but because what we do in this House often leads to the edges of the Big Tent. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| Jeffrey S. Lange
Advanced Member Username: runatyr Post Number: 1150 Registered: 10-2005 |
"Most songs on most albums are separate musical events." Do you mean that they are not intended to be strung together in a specific order on the album? I would say that is only partially true even with contemporary music, and would vary by genre. Classical works often have themes and are meant to be heard as part of a whole, but that's also true with some rock... I am a fan of acid rock/mod rock, and those who know the works know that Pink Floyd albums, with an exception or two, are tightly themed works where one piece leads fluidly to, and sometimes depends upon, the following song. Certainly "The Wall" and "The Final Cut" are good examples. But you see it with other bands of that genre/era as well... The Who and The Kinks come to mind. And the album title can be something like a poem's title, encompassing the theme of the work... not always, of course. But true for such works as The Who's "Quadrophenia", an album with a specific setting in England and a specific perspective of a teen throughout... and I suspect the title, referring to the then-new quadraphonic sound, also ties us in to the newness of youth and the protagonist Jimmy's fragmentation (in all four directions.) Pink Floyd's amazing album "The Wall" refers directly to the struggle of the fictional rock star "Pink" and the wall he's built (with some help from Mother) after his father died in WWII. The entire album tells the story, not one song, and some songs (such as "The Trial") make very little sense without the rest of the album. The Kinks' "State of Confusion" is a favorite. Again, we have a fairly tight theme for the album, though there are multiple characters for this album. It is nostalgic; the album calls up memories of brighter times, and takes weighted breaths in a present where much has dissolved. "Property" is a fantastic song if you like the genre and don't know the song. Check it. ;) "Property" on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W74JMyYXac0 I may have misunderstood you and gone off-topic... but this post was fun to write, so that's ok! (Message edited by runatyr on January 20, 2009) | ||
| AsaSakae
Member Username: asasakae Post Number: 90 Registered: 11-2008 |
Jeffrey - impressive!! | ||
| Jeffrey S. Lange
Advanced Member Username: runatyr Post Number: 1154 Registered: 10-2005 |
Thanks, AsaSakae! Glad someone read through my rambling. ;) Jeff | ||
| Fred Longworth
Senior Member Username: sandiegopoet Post Number: 5368 Registered: 05-2006 |
.. (Message edited by sandiegopoet on January 29, 2009) From Bambi: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." From me: "Even consciousness, a pastiche of recycled cans." | ||
| Jeffrey S. Lange
Advanced Member Username: runatyr Post Number: 1155 Registered: 10-2005 |
Hi Fred, You only said, "obviously" three times to kick things off. Maybe if you said it four times I would feel so stupid that I would not even reply. You just missed the mark. I was just writing about some of my favorite albums, as your post brought them to mind. The only point was that they are albums built not just as song placed in a specific order, but songs strung together much like poetic strophes. Anyway, I have argued for defined boundaries and I believe setting them forth, in so far as we can, has value. I was just enjoying writing about some of my favorite music, which in this case was a single exception to a single one of your declarations. So get off my #$%@#. Thanks, Jeff | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32995 Registered: 11-1998 |
Can you gentlemen (and I use the word "gentle" as a strong hint) ever discuss anything without it degenerating into a contest of wills? I believe we are all just discussing things. And believe it or not, I don't believe any of us have THE final answer or are THE final authority. On anything. Much as we'd like to think that we are. So, can the obvious jabs and below-the-belt punches. Or I'll close this thread just like I closed the last one. Thanks for your cooperation, M | ||
| Jeffrey S. Lange
Advanced Member Username: runatyr Post Number: 1156 Registered: 10-2005 |
Hi M, Fred's still one of my favorite people. And so are you. Just kicking up a little dust. Sorry for the fuss. Jeff | ||
| ~M~
Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 32996 Registered: 11-1998 |
Dearest Jeffrey -- And you are still one of my favorite people (as is Freddie, The Ogre). I think you both know that I love you both. But if you beat each other over the head with blunt objects (or anything else), then all these other coconuts I also love will start joining in. And then I have chaos on my hands (I know -- I should be used to chaos by now, but I cannot formally sanction it). I'm just trying to keep the peace around here (I know -- I should be used to violence by now, but I cannot formally sanction it). Love, M | ||
| Gary Blankenship
Moderator Username: garydawg Post Number: 27000 Registered: 07-2001 |
M, do. Close it I mean. After all we are in an era of hope and change and this thread is so last year. Smiles. Gary Celebrate Walt with Gary: http://www.poetrykit.org/pkl/tw10/tw4conte.htm | ||
| Ron Stewart
New member Username: rom555555 Post Number: 13 Registered: 12-2008 |
"IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN" IF thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, then, to the measure of that heaven-born light, shine, poet! in thy place, and be content:-- The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, and they that from the zenith dart their beams, are yet of no diviner origin, no purer essence, than the one that burns, like an untended watch-fire on the ridge of some dark mountain; or than those which seem humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, among the branches of the leafless trees. All are the undying offspring of one Sire: Then, to the measure of that light granted shine, poet! in thy place, and be content. William Wordsworth not sure if this will help ....but perhaps (Message edited by ROM555555 on January 23, 2009) |
