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Poetry Information.... from Heart-Links.com |
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Become A Poet In Ten MinutesHave you ever sat there staring at the paper, ready to write, but unsure where to begin? Want a solution that will overcome even the worst writer's block? Anyone can start writing poetry today using a few simple techniques. One, two, ...? Did you say or think three when you saw the above? If not, you certainly would when I asked you to fill in the blank. Your mind is a powerful machine that recognises or creates patterns. To make this work for you as a poet, you simply have to lay out the materials in an implied pattern, and let your mind do its thing. The "materials," in this case, of course, are words or ideas. So let's round up some materials for an example. If you want to write a poem about thunderstorms, you might start by writing down relevant words, and then choose the more evocative ones: flash, blowing, rumble, night, deadly and rain, perhaps. Now you set the pattern. In this case, we'll write a four-line poem, using one of our words in each line. We'll only decide if we want a ryming poem after we start. This is what I came up with after five minutes: Rain stands still in the sky Trees dance as in a painting In a flash it is here and gone And night grumbles at being revealed It doesn't matter if most aren't good poems. You just have to write a lot of them, and then work on re-writing the ones with potential. With a little practice, you can write a dozen poems in an hour, then pick out the gems. My wife has had poetry published using Deal-a-Poem, a game we created based on this technique, so we know that it works, and it's fun as well. More Tips For Fast Poetry The technique above works because when your mind focuses on a word with the intent to use it in a line, it is stimulated into action. It wants to find the pattern - or create it. To make this work even better, try the following: 1. Start with words that are evocative and metaphorically rich. You'll be more inspired and probably write a richer poem with "howled," "torn open," and "festering," than with "said," "broken," and "rotten." 2. Use this or any other technique as a starting point only. If you have a great line already in mind, don't force one of the words from your list into it. If a poem starts to write itself, and becomes ten six-line verses, forget about the technique. Treat it as a tool to be used when you need it. 3. Don't sit there waiting for inspiration. Write anything NOW. Start with any topic, or even random words. The surest way to get inspired in your poetry is to start writing a poem. Steve Gillman has been playing with poetry for thirty years. He and his wife Ana created the game "Deal-A-Poem," which can be accessed for free at: http://www.dealapoem.com
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Poetry - Google News | | | | RELATED ARTICLES Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish] Lima, City with the Stretched out WingsIt's an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sightJust dots of: red, green and white-white lightsAs the plane descends, descends, slides down On the long-drawn-out-spun-out lingering city of lights Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The sleepless city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding through the valley's, forests, and streams Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlesslyAs,I'm descending, down, over and around the city (descending, descending, and sliding to the ground)The city with stretched out wings-and endless lights Down, behind, around, the ground, it's immune to me I'm just part of its evening, a baptism in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights; People: walking, talking, sleeping, eating by the dots People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and another tomorrowThey say-:you are ruthless, and I know this to be trueAnd they tell me you have thieves and murders-And this, I dare say-but shall-is also true, very true But show me a city to the contrary of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with strong and hungry hearts;I say, show me one that sings in poverty and smiles Prove me one that celebrates year-round of its heroes Show me painters that are as good-that sell on streets-As good as: Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt, and Yang YangAnd that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no moreWith this,I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streetsAs well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and soiled air, And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofs Sights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parksAnd the numerous food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, covering all-My Lima, Peru with its renowned Cathedral:Golden yellow with towering crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its wrinkled aged men, lovely women,They all stand tall and bow to its Inca history, its glory- Its world that once ruled all, like the Roman Empire,Like the American Dream, they were the noble, the kingsAnd now, from drudgery and toil, sweat and strive, all, all Grinding, grinding away, each and everyday, lover of the, King of Kings: Jesus Christ-this is the Lima I know today; a mighty ship that has already sailed the seven seas, now resting!?Spanish VersionLima, La ciudad con las alas extendidas Translated by Rosa PealozaEsta es una noche oscura: no estrellas, ni luna a la vistaSolo puntos: rojo, verde y blanco-luces blancasMientras que el avin desciende, desciende, bajando A la larga-extendida-plana persistente ciudad de luces Plana como un panqueque, encendida como un rbol de navidad-La despierta ciudad, con sus alas extendidasExtendidas desde las montaas hacia el ocano Zigzagueante a travs de los valles, bosques y riachuelos Estirando, estirando sus alas desnudas-interminablesMientras,Voy descendiendo, abajo, por encima y alrededor de la ciudad (Descendiendo, descendiendo, y deslizndose a la tierra)La ciudad con las alas extendidas-y luces interminables Abajo, Abajo, detrs, alrededor, la tierra, es inmune a m Slo soy parte de esta noche, un bautizado en su oscuro ocanoInvisible: gente, gatos, perros, pjaros, y ratas, infinidadIncontables: puntos, riachuelos de luz, puntos de luz; Gente: caminando, conversando, durmiendo, comiendo bajo los puntos de luz Gente: esperando, matando, robando, rezando bajo los puntos de luzPor maana, maana y otro maanaEllos dicen--:Tu eres implacable, y yo se que esto es verdadY ellos me dicen t tienes ladrones, y muertes-Y esto, me atrevo a decir, que esto tambin es cierto, muy ciertoPero mustrame una ciudad de ocho millones contraria --? Sacudo mis puos y digo: "?mustrame," pero nadie lo haceTan viva, tan valerosa, con corazones fuertes y hambrientos:Digo, mustrame una que canta en pobreza, y sonre Prubame una como esa, que celebra alrededor del ao a sus hroes Mustrame pintores tan buenos-que venden en las calles-Tan buenos como: Picasso, Dali, Rembrant y Yang YangY que recibe al mundo con extendidos brazosMustrame todo esto, o algo de esto, y no dir masCon esto,Desciendo a sus calles, atiborrada, zigzagueantes callesAs como su raro vecindario con polvo en el aire Y oigo la risa de los nios, los perros en los techos Vista de los lustrabotas, hombres y muchachos, en los parquesY los numerosos carros de comida, msicos y vendedores de peridicosY con su desnuda y desplumadas alas, cubriendo todo-Mi Lima, Per, con su renombrada catedral:Amarilla dorada con su coronadas torres, yDentro de su plaza cuadrada, una celebrada piletaBajo su piel, con sus arrugados ancianos, tiernas mujeres,Todos ellos parados altos, y reverenciando a su historia inca, sugloria- Su mundo que una vez gobern todo, como el Imperio RomanoComo el sueo de Amrica, ellos fueron los nobles, los reyesY ahora de pesadez, y esfuerzo, sudor, lucha, todos, todos extenuados, fatigados, este y cada da, amantes del Rey de los Reyes: Jesucristo-esta es la Lima que conozco, hoy; un poderoso barco que ya naveg los siete mares, ahora descansando?Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, web site: http://dennissiluk. Ode to: The Ice Maiden of Ampatos Summit [now in: English and Spanish] Dedcate to Antonio Castillo. L. Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English] Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a wooden frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the wooden frame Her footing caught the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing around her A drifter woman, marked by life, and slanting dreams With appearance of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her figure etched against the wooden frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, hanging like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and shattered hopes She yielded before the sluggish advance of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a crimson moon hurled a flame across The shadowy clouds, burning throughout the sky The tormented sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye gripped it Rocky images, highest points Thrusting herself up boldly from to the ledge The painted morning blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face against the granite stone Massive injuries was taking form, Her silhouette floating so indolently across the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting against life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her slender body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the carving hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, thinking with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead before her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was unafraid of falling. Joined JOINEDHeart beat of man pounding - yet unheard joined becomes the beat of a nation.Words of man written - yet unread joined becomes a proclamation. Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet] Let's follow the poet to his Hell and heaven! Count his Ghosts and dilemma's?Reach out to touch his Stretched-out skies; let's follow The poet to see where he lays.Let's follow the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?. Changes I am not the one I was before yesterday.I cannot go back. For My Mother I cannot bear to think of when you will be gone.I do not understand how I will get along. Ocean Heal Me Ocean Heal MeOcean heal my wounds Let your waves curl and foam on my body Wash away blood, heal scarsOcean renew me with your power As unceasingly you roll Giving strength that's been drainedOcean keep me warm Wrap me in your brine Caress me with your tidesOcean disperse my tears As they flow in you I cleanse my soulOcean let me grow in your depths Color me vibrant blue, coral, green Clear = revitalizedOcean your spray anoints me Cool and refreshed My spiritual renewalOcean be my friend Hold me flowing in your currents Ever moving, ever changingOcean, heal me. 1983 Susan BaconSusan Bacon is a researcher, author and teacher. Opposites Do Attract Quite Well When I am climbing up, you are stepping down. When I wear a smile, you wear a frown. Death & the Supernatural: Poetry/Five Poems Supernatural PoetryHere are five poems,-what I call-death and supernatural poems. Perhaps a bit bizarre, a few stanzas may be, but with unfailing subtlety of course, and a ting of acuteness, but we have to hag on if we want a good ride:1. Because of You You are to me my lifeline my security. That scares me. Four Poems: Two for the Devil, Two for Peru Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the proper word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public's eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events--which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster events that are said to take place; and two poems dealing with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.Aztec BabyOn December 25, 2012 AD The Devil had an idea- He'd clone himself In the form of a baby; Called the Antichrist. Never Ever More Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and vision bleary, all night sat there writing COBOL, coding spread across the bed sheets, changing syntax for the mainframe, having checked my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command, but there below my effectuation, appeared the cryptic communication, "Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nothing more. Africa - Wheres The Profit? A poetic comment that just welled up inside my head - why cant we just do something - before many more are dead?How pious those politicians are, When up there on T.V. Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English] 1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they say When don Simon Bolivar Slept in the arms of beautiful -Luisa Crober (of Jamaica); thus an Assassin missed his mark When he stabbed Major Amestoy Sleeping in the dark In Bolivar's hammock!. Rocks Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have started out and what it might have gone through to end up where you found it. Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English) Footprints to Mantaro Valley (English version)In what retreat art hid?-Where falling mountains groan In shadow and amongThe rapids of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the footprints of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, divinely low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? . Ode To Quetzalcoatal [Now in Spanish and English] Ode to QuetzalcatlQuetzalcatl the GreatNo one knew his true name, so they Called him Quetzalcatl-feather Serpent He and his crew of nineteen: faces Strange faces, images of a prince, a lord: King of the Yucatan in the year 986 ADHe was a tall man; long cloths, sandals; White as day, with a long beard, black hair. Some say red: some don't say? But they called him priest, Lord, king Amongst many things: god!. An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes] Old skin, once held tight Against her skeleton- Rose no more, just draped Loosely over unpadded flesh; Un-tightened muscles, and tissue, Lost its courage, no-fortitude-, Gone are the days and years That stood against the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmark Hidden under flesh and blood Guts and moral fiber, backbone? Collapsed from drudgery Time, time: cascading inside-. Bones now leaving impressions Accepting fate Like tarnished silver!. Little Girl from Huancayo [a poem/in English and Spanish] Little girl from HuancayoDo you really, really know? Just how fast those feet will grow,On the streets of Huancayo.Little girl with jumping jacksOn the street, looking back; Back to see whose watching her,A little boy with a bird. |
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