Night Poem From Khandro (Mon.)

[Khandro]

Poetry

I too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers that there is in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful; when they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible, the
same thing may be said for all of us—that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand. The bat,
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twinkling his skin like a horse
that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician—case after case
could be cited did
one wish it; nor is it valid
to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these phenomena are important. One must
make a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets,
the result is not poetry,
nor till the autocrats among us can be
“literalists of
the imagination”—above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads in them,
shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand, in defiance of their opinion—
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness, and
that which is on the other hand,
genuine, then you are interested in poetry.



Marianne Moore - 1887-1972

Born in 1887, Marianne Moore wrote with the freedom characteristic of the other Modernist poets, often incorporating quotes from other sources into the text, yet her use of language was always extraordinarily condensed and precise

[Mamyalynne]

I hate poetry. By Zer0Sympathy.

I hate poetry.

So i’m gonna write about poetry.

Maybe one day you’ll see,

That poetry, isn’t about what to be.

Its about being you,

Being me,

Being Free.

So what does that even mean?

I hate poetry, that’s what it means.

So hard to pick all the themes.

Why write this when I can make memes?

Now let me ask you this:

Why be inside, on your computer, reading this,

When you can be outside, on your doorstep, letting the sun give your skin a kiss?

If you do not have a doorstep,

Sorry. But i’m busy writing this poem.

So I cannot help you with your doorstep.

Go call the doorstep store.

They’ll even throw in a door.

But I truly do hate poetry.

Haiku, about northern Tennessee.

Is not the kind of thing for me.

Or, The Diamante about my father,

I didn’t want to do it in third grade, so I didn’t bother.

Now I have to do blog posts.

A months worth at most.

Why did I drag myself into this?

Why am I allowing myself to get stuck with another month of stress-fully trying to make everyone satisfied?

I don’t know why,

Don’t ask me,

Because I hate poetry.

[Khandro]

Ha ha, Mamya!

[woofgang]

I am having a Robert Browning moment

Misconceptions

THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
O, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,—
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrill'd in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!

[margarettom]

Love that poem Mamy!