On Poetry/In-between
I’m not sure how to present this or say this, it seems more subjective then mainstream, but it has been used by poets, I’ve used it, and at times not knowingly, and at times knowingly. It’s not prose, and it is not an ode, or an epic, or even lyric in the form of what a lyric should be, yet it is personal or can be. No I’m not double talking, It’s poetry for the most part that is in-between the stream. It is a more natural poetry I do believe, and often a more descriptive form of poetry. Robert Frost has used it, as well as Robinson Jeffers, to pull two poets out of the hat, who has used it well.
It is like a wave of warm air reoccurring and you feel it, quantity or accent, or both, or by way of syllables attached to a rhyme schema, however you got it, it is there. And it should have this or it is not what I am describing. It is real poetry, and perhaps at its best because it has all the ingredients, perhaps not a perfect beat, but the understanding is usually better.
I think the warm wave, or recurrence, a regular enough one to be embedded with a mixed but soft rhyme schema is the quality of poetic life, in this and in most any poem: if it is pronounced moreso, it rings high tone; I prefer the low tone. If you don’t have it I’m not sure if you can call it a poem, it is why out of 1200-poems, I’ve only translated perhaps 250, from English to Spanish, you lose sometimes that wave of warm air.
I do believe in this kind of poetry, the poem remembers the turning or waves of life and its death. Let me rephrase this. A poem to me has a heart and soul, it belongs to you, but it has your residue, thus, it has you in it. It knows it has waves, and if that is what you are looking for, and lacking, it knows it has death, because you don’t have what you want for it. If that makes sense, and everyone who reads it knows it. It is kind of like having a bad day, and you try to hide it, and you can’t, you might just as well say, I’m trying to smile, but it’s hard today; something like that.
I am not giving advice on poetry, that’s a job for the professor at the University, although I’ve been offered such a position, I’ve declined it, I am giving my opinion, and that makes it all right. I may say strong or soft form of rhythmic poetry is the best, but then read something to the contrary, and have to take it back. My poem called: “The Fifth Moon,” lacks rhythmic form—it does have a shallow and soft wave to it, as it was planted into it but it is more on the prose and meant to be, and does not really deal with permanent things, and doesn’t avoid exaggeration. It may be original and rare though, I don’t see much of that prose kind of poetry nowadays, and so I think it is good. It has its own beauty. But when we shift to the poem “Passing by the Cathedral,” we find a different kind of poetry, almost in-between. But it has a regular movement, but meter is not tidy, but the warm air is there. And in the recent poem, “Grandpa’s Cellar Ghosts,” we see even a moreso, in-between poem, as I call them: with waves of life not death, not for the poem anyways.
I’m not sure how to present this or say this, it seems more subjective then mainstream, but it has been used by poets, I’ve used it, and at times not knowingly, and at times knowingly. It’s not prose, and it is not an ode, or an epic, or even lyric in the form of what a lyric should be, yet it is personal or can be. No I’m not double talking, It’s poetry for the most part that is in-between the stream. It is a more natural poetry I do believe, and often a more descriptive form of poetry. Robert Frost has used it, as well as Robinson Jeffers, to pull two poets out of the hat, who has used it well.
It is like a wave of warm air reoccurring and you feel it, quantity or accent, or both, or by way of syllables attached to a rhyme schema, however you got it, it is there. And it should have this or it is not what I am describing. It is real poetry, and perhaps at its best because it has all the ingredients, perhaps not a perfect beat, but the understanding is usually better.
I think the warm wave, or recurrence, a regular enough one to be embedded with a mixed but soft rhyme schema is the quality of poetic life, in this and in most any poem: if it is pronounced moreso, it rings high tone; I prefer the low tone. If you don’t have it I’m not sure if you can call it a poem, it is why out of 1200-poems, I’ve only translated perhaps 250, from English to Spanish, you lose sometimes that wave of warm air.
I do believe in this kind of poetry, the poem remembers the turning or waves of life and its death. Let me rephrase this. A poem to me has a heart and soul, it belongs to you, but it has your residue, thus, it has you in it. It knows it has waves, and if that is what you are looking for, and lacking, it knows it has death, because you don’t have what you want for it. If that makes sense, and everyone who reads it knows it. It is kind of like having a bad day, and you try to hide it, and you can’t, you might just as well say, I’m trying to smile, but it’s hard today; something like that.
I am not giving advice on poetry, that’s a job for the professor at the University, although I’ve been offered such a position, I’ve declined it, I am giving my opinion, and that makes it all right. I may say strong or soft form of rhythmic poetry is the best, but then read something to the contrary, and have to take it back. My poem called: “The Fifth Moon,” lacks rhythmic form—it does have a shallow and soft wave to it, as it was planted into it but it is more on the prose and meant to be, and does not really deal with permanent things, and doesn’t avoid exaggeration. It may be original and rare though, I don’t see much of that prose kind of poetry nowadays, and so I think it is good. It has its own beauty. But when we shift to the poem “Passing by the Cathedral,” we find a different kind of poetry, almost in-between. But it has a regular movement, but meter is not tidy, but the warm air is there. And in the recent poem, “Grandpa’s Cellar Ghosts,” we see even a moreso, in-between poem, as I call them: with waves of life not death, not for the poem anyways.
posted by Dennis and Rosa Siluk at 5:27 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home