What makes poetry good? (Instapoetry rant)
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- Опубликовано: 20 сен 2024
- Instapoetry, the most polarizing thing in the book community after politics? Rupi Kaur, Amanda Lovelace, Atticus, is their poetry actually good, or is the sub genre irredeemable? What makes poetry "good" and "bad"?
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About me!
Hi! I’m Polina! I’m a half Korean, a quarter German and Russian book lover whose channel is dedicated to exactly that- books. I make mainly study guides to classics, do reviews, and create fun content dedicated to promoting reading. I upload videos every week on Sunday, unless my computer crashes (xD) If you’re a literature student who wants to review materials before an exam, or you’re just generally interested in books, any and all genres, then I hope you decide to check out my channel!
Music that I use every video:
Non copyrighted from youtube library:
-No1 A Minor Waltz and No9 Esther's Waltz
I also use a lot of Lukrembo music, channel here:
/ @lukrembo
Connect with me on other platforms:
Want to chat? DM me over #bookstagram I'd love to hear from you: / the_bookreviewing_fox
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Feeling generous, or want me to read a particular book? (thanks x) www.amazon.com...
Instagram poetry is the equivalent of fast food: its effects are immediate & disposable. What it lacks is the power to haunt you long after the poem has been read & reread, which is the hallmark of the real thing. But all credit to Ms. Kaur: she got people interested in the form & a small percentage of her readers - such as yourself - will be moved to seek out more satisfying practitioners.
so far my most favourite comparison between IG and actual poetry
The jaundiced eye and the cynics' cry
Overwhelm the vestibule's sanctity
And foam and froth in life's crucible
The ancient art of poetry.
You're not a hypocrite if you change your mind. A hypocrite says/ preaches one thing and does the opposite.
I should have clarified that a bit more, you're right. I meant more like it feels hypocritical because I'm criticizing this poetry, but I used to read it a lot. Even though I'm not doing it now, you're right, I just changed my mind, it still felt a bit that way😅
Put plainly - Just because you write down an idea you find profound, or some pretty words with a nice message and line breaks, doesn’t mean you’ve written a poem.
Incantation
Subtle words of grace
Come to me in arcadian space,
Visions splashed with hue
Strike me wet with lustrous dew.
Blessings, spells and charms
Channel magic about my arms;
Thoughts that swim so free
Enter my mind ardently.
Bright sparks, if you please,
Or energizing breeze;
Sweet sonnet and rhyme
Bedecked verses so sublime-
Lithely spring and prance
Appear swiftly at my glance,
Meld into poetry;
Let poesy meet brevity.
More of mine:
Red Cottage Days
Simple -
The country town store, its smoke-smelling wood,
And my father buying groceries there,
Then putting them in the car, driving through wood,
The stillness embracing cool morning air,
Crisscrossing beams under some sort of spell,
Shadows concentrated in a trance-like stare,
The path with a pebble-crunching tale to tell,
Building up our anticipation, excitement,
The red cottage hedge glittering a smile,
And tall oak too, to the effect it's been a while...
Sometimes we would have a barbecue soon,
Then some hours later go fishing,
Once twilight had shed its cocoon,
And the lake had ceased its restless wishing,
Our boat slicing through quietness, rocks and stone
In the water slowly disappearing
Into meditation, all becoming more intensely alone.
We would often ride the car to town
Once the night forgot itself in fireflies -
Ride to the auction house filled with smoke and beer.
He liked antique furniture. Our relationship was clear.
It was simple, direct, honest, and deep.
My strivings were unborn, his half-asleep.
He still had hopes for his dreams at forty five.
My thoughts were no busy bees yet, I had no hive.
Simple words and silences fluttered about us,
And no thoughts, no beliefs as yet divided us.
Rain
Rain scurried, and I followed her to the bank.
Rain had a marvelous, flowing raven tress,
A beautiful Asian woman who wore blue jeans,
Her large brown eyes mazes of expressiveness,
Somewhat frantic, desperate, a little sad.
I followed her to the bank, but once I got there,
The place but harbored still and humid air;
An uncomfortable silence was all I had.
Orange and green and blue chairs gave me a stare...
I caught sight of Rain passing the large bank glass,
And I hurried outside; somehow I thought
There was an exotic restaurant she sought,
And once an Indonesian one came into view,
I knew I would enter the restaurant too.
Yet once again, when I entered, confusion
Had conspired to make silence an intrusion...
Apparently, Rain had communed with air
Who had given her wings; she flew elsewhere.
Sometime later I brushed with her again.
Though we didn't speak, something told me
She was off toward the train station
To acquire tourist information.
I wanted her, I wanted her by my side,
Yet whenever I entered, I saw her outside,
Seeming more beautiful, just out of reach,
Her raven tress lifted, a sigh of summer air,
Every nonchalant lift adding to my care...
I awoke to a charming morning stare...
It was about 11 o'clock, and a spring bird
Playfully chirped, delivered a piercing sound
As if to say I had been mad, absurd.
I could smell the grass, the freshness of grass;
I could hear a drizzle that only silence weaves,
Or rather, a drizzle, like a master pianist,
That plays upon a keyboard of leaves.
What a silly boy I had been to let care
Conjure up restless imaginings,
When a Rain, a sweet Rain, was already there...
When my girlfriend Rebecca knocked on my door, I carried a heavy head
Of drunkenness. Rebecca bought
Groceries, she cooked, we then went to bed
And made love, the unfurling heavenly gleam
Laughing at my imagined want, my dream...
Although great poetry is diverse, there are some undeniable
features. The first is an absence of cliches/platitudes. If there are
seeming cliches, they're subverted (immersed as they are in strange
contexts), such that they're no longer cliches. The second is surprising
metaphors/images/associations. The third is depth, ambiguity - which
allows for multiple interpretations. If the poem can be entirely
understood after a first glance or reading, it's probably not worth
much. (Note: ambiguity is NOT the same thing as obscurity which in many
cases is a defect.) The fourth is a unique or unmistakable style. If
you read Emily Dickinson, you can see that nobody else writes like her
(assuming you're well read). The fifth is technical and artistic mastery
(or near-mastery): no word is out of place, the enjambment good,
the expressions are concise yet the poem's well developed, and the highest
accomplishments SEEM effortless. (Just consider Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy
Evening".) If the reader detects labor in the poem, a sense of striving, it may
be a decent work, but far from great. A rich and hypnotic type of music
is certainly desirable, though not in all cases appropriate - depending
on the subject matter. Extremely important is memorable lapidary
language. One mistake a lot of aspiring poets make (including seasoned
academics who've won awards) is that they're far too attached to their
own views/beliefs; there's no distance between what they believe and the
"poetic expression". (Which is why, for example, so many political and
religious poems flounder, devoid of artistic merit.) There's no room
for ambiguity or layers: we simply have the personal view/belief of the
poet expressed. It often winds up sounding like a rant or form of
propaganda. Deadly is the poet's attachment to what he/she considers
"truth" because too much insistence on that winds up sounding dogmatic
and stifles word-play and the imagination. Whatever depth the poet reaches
is done indirectly, suggestively (usually), though direct
statements can be powerful, with good timing.
In considering what is or is not an excellent poem, one needs to make a distinction between likes/dislikes AND good/bad. Oftentimes, people (even critics) conflate the two categories. It's possible for me to like a poem that perhaps is not great, while disliking a far superior one. A possible reason for this is that the former's views/beliefs agree with or confirm my own. The poet may have had good intentions; the thoughts expressed are comforting. If I'm a feminist and the poem empowers women in that way, then I may like the poem - to the point where the line between "like" and "good" becomes blurred or they become synonymous. But they're not so. Just because I'm moved by a poem, it doesn't necessarily follow that it's a good one.
Suppose that I read a lame, pedestrian poem about a cow. If I haven't read a lot of great poetry, I may nonetheless be moved by it because it triggers a nostalgic memory of, say, my favorite cow that I had while growing up on a farm. The poet may have used a lot of cliches; the voice is generic; the poem lacks layers, ambiguity and memorable phrasing. Yet I'm moved by it. So in addition to being moved, one needs to examine how well the poem speaks to an educated sensibility. And even then, because the educated individual has biases, his judgement may still be skewed. If, however, one keeps in mind what I said in the 1st paragraph, one can spot an excellent poem, regardless of personal likes/dislikes.
Rupi's work is generally poor because the poems are often filled with cliches and/or platitudes, the line breaks are random (it's just broken up prose). They're fairly generic and underdeveloped. Most of them are one-dimensional, which is to say that they lack ambiguity; there's no doubleness in the writing, no room for multiple interpretations. The reason that they resonate with many readers is that they confirm the cliches and banalities in their own heads.
Thanks so much for your detailed response! A great point about liking vs judging, and definitely a difficult distinction to make, especially since poetry evokes a lot of emotion!
isn't ambiguity in poetry just your personal preference? I for once don't like ambiguity and not being sure what the poem is about, it makes it abstract. Lack of vocabulary is my own fault, nonetheless if I can't understand a piece of literature, be it a book or poem, I find it boring and uninteresting. I remember when the first time I picked up a Harry Potter book. The language was far too difficult for someone who just barely started learning the English language as an immigrant. yet there were regular, standard children's books made for 5th graders that I had no problem understanding and enjoyed a lot. People need to admit that old fashioned, classical poetry with all of its standards and rules is just art that's being gatekept for the privileged few, akin to designer goods being seen as a luxury afforded only to the rich. so much of literature is peppered with sophisticated words, metaphors and themes which can even come off obscure, to the point that only those who have access to higher education can enjoy it.
A lot of people who have gripe with Rupi and insta poetry are just upset at the accessibility that this new genre of poetry has created. no longer do you need to be an intellectual and thus no longer can you flex your intellectualism if the poetry made today no longer serves the purpose of flexing reader's intellect. do you think the classical poets who are all mostly white, wealthy, aristocratic men going on about some deeper meaning in life or their philosophical observations is not pretentious in some way? bc how can they talk about something deeper when they themselves barely have any wisdom due to limited world experiences and living a sheltered life that they had. No doubt the poor peasant who've experienced unfairness or misstatement has far richer, and interesting takes on life than someone who's travelled the world but merely stayed in resorts - the only problem is, maybe he is uneducated and lacks literacy skills so he can't express those thoughts and opinions of his. There's a reason in modern culture people roll eyes at celebrity kids trying to be deep - be it the Jenners or Hadid's of the world.
@@3xitthissid3 actually, it is not. This has less to do with gatekeeping and more to do with measuring how good (on a technical level) these pieces are. There are some standards that still need to be met for an author to be considered good. There’s a lot of free from / free verses / simpler vocabulary poets and writers that despite that, are good on a technical sense. If you’re into music, Harry styles is one example of using free from. His “from the dining table” song reminds me a lot of bukowski writing style tho. And he was mainly free verses.
Everyone can parttake in the creation of literary art. Some just aren’t as technically skilled as others. A poem “being understandable at first glance” strips away the interpretation factor of poetry sometimes. If someone enjoys these specific type of poetry there is nothing wrong, but on a technical level, as poetry is a standardized art form, they aren’t good.
Remarkably horrid, ridiculously bad
some of the most accursed versifying I've ever had
to endure for a semester - as per my English Literature requirement
verbiage this toxic poses a threat to the environment
an unprecedented policy of censorship when it comes to this type of cognitive deskilling
would go a long way toward reversing the text-aversion this claptrap is instilling
deep in my psyche - like a footprint in neural cement made by a syntactical Nike
I don't care how you feel or if you even like me
pretty soon you'll have to pay me to pick up a book
because so much of what I'm seeing isn't worth a second look.
Mine:
Mother to Son
For some months I have left you alone,
For I saw that a flower does not grow
The more easily with a rain of stone,
Or insistence such-and-such should not be so.
I would not confine you with my country's past
Nor impose upon you my culture's cast.
Questions about these can feather your sky,
Can weave their arcs in a passionate style,
And you can be sure I'll oblige with a smile.
But if no questions stir and break their shells,
I won't be bothered, I will leave you be.
But I fear there's as yet no clarity
About freedom: It is not desire
Simply to do what your pleasures demand,
To be in the clutch of frivolity's hand.
A cell can be of gold, a comfort as well,
But it remains, after all, a prison cell.
You wanted to paint, you expressed passion,
But you expected the stars at the start.
You thought excitement was the kin of stars,
And so boredom quietly crept in your heart.
If you're to be seized by a sublime space
Within, with the brushstroke being its kiss,
You must not presume upon instant grace,
Nor allow excitements to dominate.
Dodging boredom, you'll never have a rich store.
Each pleasure will leave you emptier than before.
If pleasure and excitement are your nutrition,
You will never grow petals; no sublime space
Will court you, or bestow a master's grace.
March 22nd
The farmer was bending over furrowed land
When the sandy, serpentine trail claimed me.
There was an embrace of irregularities,
A nonchalant dismissal of symmetries.
Imagined perfection had no business being there.
Jagged rocks thrusted, asserted themselves.
There were muddy patches and caked brown leaves.
A few brown leaves crackled on dignified trees.
Broken boughs, fallen pine needles, pine cones,
The coarse bark, the pine trees, crooked and humped,
The hiker, slightly turned, peeing up ahead,
Other types of trees leaning, almost mischievously,
As though by some imagined door, overhearing
A secret or confession of someone they loved -
All received the warmth and affection of March.
Amidst such affection, I sometimes heard
The distant call of a train, the cacophony
Of dogs, the twitter or piercing note of a bird,
Someone thumping down a brow of wooden stairs,
Talking on his cell phone of mundane affairs.
There was no disturbance, but a silence
Cradling March light, a sweet acceptance,
A space, delighted, seeming profoundly amused
At its own various playful expressions,
Not labeling one as higher or lower.
I passed a hillock with straight and crooked tombstones,
Turned, and reached a little secluded spot,
Where small birds - not woodpeckers - were pecking
At dark naked boughs, jaunty, sometimes hopping upward,
Sometimes swinging downward, alighting on other trees.
They continued their business closer and closer
To me, or busy play, whatever it was.
They pecked away on the same tree, moving away
From each other on nearly level, opposite boughs
Until they became eyes of a beautiful, strange face
With dark webs or veins by which the clear sky
Smiled a quiet, mischievous, welcoming smile.
I stayed awhile and the twilight awoke -
Old thoughts would return as surely as night;
Confusion would burn, and that was all right -
And I made my way back, growing hungry.
Mine:
What Is This?
What is this which needs
no object - no lover or friend,
no dance, no music, no image, no scent
yet is entirely in its element?
What is this which has no face,
wherein achievement, attainment
or any goal has no place,
an incomparable joy without a reason
for being? Myriad people, faces and places
loved and once thought lost are now
restored imageless, as though
their beauty's but sharpened, distilled somehow,
and what one loved in them all
now blazes in fierce tranquility.
What is this which needs nothing at all -
no dance, no music, no image, no goal
yet leaves me incomparably joyous and whole?
Confession of a Judge
I've pronounced, with the calm of powdery snow,
Judgements that seemed to find an even plain.
I've sentenced some to their deaths,
many nights meeting an untroubled brain.
Yet I've been abducted by years
Which confine me and feed me fears.
My health is failing, I'm filled with doubt.
I've hurt my wife innumerable times,
Oh never physically, but she's oppressed.
I've lied to save myself, and never confessed.
I've been aggressive in subtle ways,
Smiled in secret when my associates fell.
Admiring peers have peppered my days,
And honors have watered my pride as well.
No one caught me; I had no predatory claw,
Kin of wind, too subtle for law.
Yet my proclivities are spread throughout the earth.
The criminal's but the swollen fruit,
Or a too obvious and frenzied birth.
I'm respected, lauded by the throng,
Yet I was worse than criminals in a way,
For I was a hypocrite too, all along.
Creative Longing
Creative longing
in wind
blowing
along ripples, through reed and rose,
its dark face
sensed in melting snows,
water enamored of no place,
its dark joy
vibrantly in the ice sculptor's smile,
the ice figures melting all the while.
Creative longing is
when comparing loses hold,
striving loses hold,
clinging loses hold,
intellect loses hold.
Unknowing, a lily is yet in bloom,
exuberance of perfume.
Intellect grasps, plans, always prepares,
divides, derides, and multiplies cares.
Intelligence is intelligence:
it has no plan or thought,
the pattern emerging and never sought.
Most simple, subtler than air,
it does everything and is beyond compare.
Intelligence is intelligence.
Oozing freshness like sap of spring,
glimmering
as though a lake were glimmering
for the first time,
precise and piercing like a bird's cry
at twilight,
calm and embracing like the night,
passionate like green leaves,
intelligence perceives.
There's no compass in me, no needle's turning,
but a wideness, a sky, a yearning
that feathers neither for that nor this,
drawing dawn's first kiss.
Treetops, lake, and dawn
are beautiful,
and the creative longing
goes on...
There is a market for cheap wine, cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap shoes, cheap cars and now thanks to the internet cheap poetry.
I wrote about that in verse at another video. Reply to see it.
Mine:
Ode To Your Rainbow Road
With its coal-colored hat,
Proud triangular hat,
The yellow stood - dreaming
House and sunflower faces.
The green met the yellow
As you and I, beloved, have met
In dreams, the green
Dreaming itself as field astir.
The good and bad from yellow
Were born: you at the kitchen counter
Cutting lemons for lemonade,
Your humming itself lemonade,
You and I reading on the cottage lawn
Or quietly picnicking on the lawn
As bees hummed in pink-white petals,
As the sky sang its honey of poems.
A muted yellow, too, was seen:
Your face sickly, you lying in bed,
That last month a face of muted yellow.
The green - field, forest - rang
Its bells: your beauty one summer day
In the late 80s clothed with
a green and white polka dot dress,
you leaning against a wooden fence,
your leg lifted like a ballerina’s,
the classical pianist, too,
steeped in the emerald-green of summer power,
our conversations themselves that time
wide-ranging, golden-green
fields astir.
Your rainbow road pulled me along
Like a kaleidoscope of song.
Then the blue house, blue married
To white. The porch, the sliding door’s
Silhouettes were a single flow,
The cries of children submerged
In the slice of an orange glow.
How much we had, how much we shared
Years and years ago.
I can’t count the mornings that began
With you whipping up some eggs,
coaxing the toast onto the plate,
Orange juice coaxing my morning into Great.
Like one who lives in a house by the beach,
Like a swimmer drawn daily to the beach,
I awoke to the sounds of your motion,
Your cooking, footsteps, the pianist’s fingers, my ocean,
A presence, a love clothed in speech.
Oh blue married to white, my home,
Blue waxing lyrical a past, like foam.
And there it was, the twilight,
sprawling, encompassing the blue house and me,
with its red eye, or some crimson wound, some stain,
I felt would never die, or would like flotsam
Find me again and again,
Ripening, deepening into a net
Of your absence, your violet. And yet -
What vigor, what vim still went on
To color the wanderer’s sorrow,
To etch in the stars, angelic powers;
How much of you had heightened the indigo.
The sadness would go on - but wasn’t
Sufficiently ample or wide
To overwhelm: you played this rainbow road
Like a seven-string guitar from the other side.
My delight, my merriment would blaze,
Be emblazoned with you for my remaining days,
Your absence my sadness and wonder mixed,
Your presence flaming in unfamiliar ways.
Thank you for sharing, I'll have a read of all of these. So far I enjoyed 'Ode To Your Rainbow Road' the most. Who would you say is your favourite poem (if you have one?)
*poet
@@PolinasPages Oh, the list is fairly long (including French, Italian, Chinese, Spanish, and Russian poets). In no particular order: Dante, John Donne, John Keats, William Wordsworth, Emily Dickinson, Pablo Neruda, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, W.B. Yeats, Du Fu, Li Bai, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Rumi, Hafez, Frederico Garcia Lorca, Rainer Maria Rilke, Charles Baudelaire, Paul Valery, Marina Tsvetaeva, and Osip Mandelstam. I keep returning to Lao Tzu's Tao Te Ching, among the greatest and wisest poems ever written.
Thanks for reading the poems here, and I'm glad you've read a passage from Whitman. I cannot speak highly of Instapoetry, though my hope (as you've already mentioned) is that it will lead to wider interest in real poetry. Who are among your favorites?
@@yacovmitchenko1490 I don’t read as much poetry as I want to, (hoping to change that once I’m done with exams in the upcoming months) but actually my favorites are on your list too! Baudelaire and Whitman. Le Lethe by Baudelaire in particular. I’m excited to start some Rilke soon, but I didn’t care much for Keats, lovely but not on the favs shelf.
Even I think poetries have became so dry and aren't that melodious although message is beautiful. But I keep my poetries in rhyme. I thought it's old classic but I now think that's what poetry is ,right?
I don’t think poetry is just rhyme, it’s much more than that, but I do feel like people (poets) spend less time on such things as diction etc now, and I think it makes it lose some of its beauty
@@PolinasPages so true...your video really helped me grow...
@@bhartirajsingh1792 thank you so much!!
I don't think there's anything embarassing about liking Milk and Honey.
It's not so much that I'm embarrassed about liking it, it's more so that I thought it was the greatest poetry out there that makes me feel a little ashamed😅
Mine:
The Whole Artwork
Anonymous One,
The well-woven verse, the brilliant brushstroke,
The singing sculpture, remarkable film -
These are echoes, or so much apple peel,
Sweet, yes, but far from the beauty You reveal.
Reader, imagine if You will, a face,
Beautiful in its proportions, cream-colored grace,
Such as Venus herself might not possess,
But befuddled or bemused, and bodiless.
It might float like moon of white wine on the sea,
Yet it gasps like an asthma patient without an inhaler,
Never knowing even half of what it is to be.
The whole artwork is no less than the entire
Composition of a steady, fulfilled life:
Each gesture, each word, each movement amid strife
Skillfully rendered, each a poem of love,
Or saber fencing with Your beams above.
Everywhere
Anonymous One,
I am everywhere, as much a dandelion, tulip, or rose
As the most distant galaxy, all of space, and beyond those.
I am Your mystery: I am neither Hindu, nor Christian, nor Jew,
Though I am blood, bone, tenderness of friends,
All the craziness of lovers, and the estranged making amends.
I have no identifications, or if Soul
Does, it only identifies with the Whole.
If what I say weaves nicely with the words of Christian or Jew,
Muslim or Sufi, it only does because reflection
And stillness of mind have discovered it to be true.
And truth does not belong to a culture or faith or what not:
A fisherman simply waits on glassy waters and something's caught.
Though he has a home and address, wife and friends,
Though he loves his time by the fire, his children's play,
Though he might even be an assembly's part,
He never forgets the sun-hushed invitations of his heart.
His real home is nowhere, heart's nakedness.
The language of fear and profound loneliness,
Helplessness, that makes one want to identify,
Has no hold, for truth alone would satisfy.
The More and Emptiness
Anonymous One,
We can trace spiral staircases of ocean waves,
Geometries of blue reaching for the sun.
Eyes and universe can become good friends;
The contact can unfurl order in all we do.
If we can embrace that which is prior to thought,
Stars will take off their haughty robes and bow;
They'll be as loving as leaves are to the bough.
But thousands upon thousands of years
Have been transcended by only a few
Because the More's been master in much that we do.
The master has taught us a few things, yes;
He may be a friend but is an enemy too,
For he builds walls, and therefore emptiness
And isolation are; hearts are heavily billed
When the mind pursues, pursues, when mind is filled.
The More convinces us there is something to become,
That without becoming somebody, there's no progress.
Yet the More's wife is Irony: mind's made numb,
Repetitive, conflicted; She has an attractive dress
That shimmers and glitters when She dances,
But no gate of heaven is, only emptiness.
The striving, striving is only more of the same.
Without the heart's stillness, order's only a name.
Is This Confusion, Nothing More?
Anonymous One,
what is this? For 2 months or so -
a serene flow of poetry
within, without, all poetry.
A sure footing I seemed
to have within the crystal stream.
Yet a veil seemed
to have descended, the stream seemed
to have disappeared. What is this?
Some sudden chaos,
eruption of energies,
some surging storm
imageless, without form -
is this confusion, nothing more?
Am I feeling the trace
of a star being born -
which 2000 light years away
do not comprehend?
Am I feeling what my friend
in London, England is going through,
or what my beloved in Korea,
the one I can't have, is going through?
Or am I feeling some cloth, some tapestry,
the meeting of different threads,
the feelings of those ill
and dying in different hospitals?
Am I feeling faint traces
of what pigs, cows may feel
just before the slaughter?
Or faint traces of what one may feel
who's desperately in need of water?
Are there other threads? Feelings
of one, a scientist or artist,
on the verge of some discovery,
who's much smarter, more talented,
more fortunate than me?
Awe
It's all dizzyingly, amazingly
strange how waves, strings of sound -
words, melodies -
may pierce and resound.
How do combinations of vibrations
lead to ecstasies and exaltations?
How do certain musical patterns provoke fears,
how do others move one to tears,
while still others but tickle the ear
or leave me wanting to get out of here?
Questions, questions... How does a video clip
posted online three four five years ago
entrance my heart and won't let go?
There isn't even the physical presence
of the person or persons shown,
yet some magic (it seems) plays upon me.
How can a sack of guts, blood and bone,
how can a three-pound jelly within the skull -
how can all that unfold thoughts
that can beautify all the world,
that can set off dominoes of the world?
How is it the silence of my lover moves me so?
I don't know - and perhaps not knowing
many a way, many a law
lends the befuddlement that waters awe.
@The_Sovereign_Word There are two ways of looking at the matter. The more habitual (and legitimate) way is to think that comments ought to be short and to the point. Especially since people have short attention spans. The 2nd is to post excellent content, in this case poetry. Personally, I don't mind if the content is long, provided it's thought-provoking in some way. The proper response, I feel, is gratitude because it's quality content. And it was given for free. One RUclipsr has stated (quite rightly) that just one of my poems is worth more than all of Rupi's books put together. In fact, dimensions beyond anything Instagram poets produce.
@The_Sovereign_Word Granted, but my point was a little broader. If you read my poems closely, you see that it's quite rare to find such a combination of technical excellence, music, and depth. And I have been called by one professional reviewer as one of Canada's best poets. So although I can understand how one may be irked by the hefty and lengthy postings, there's another way to respond, as I've already suggested. When one is being treated to excellent poetry, does it really matter whether the RUclipsr is following social custom? Some say it DOES matter. I myself don't think it does.
@@yacovmitchenko1490 What was The_Sovereign_Word's comment? Can you quote it here, for essential context?
No, that pain defines us is not the message that we should be spreading. We ought to be defying the injuries and working to be all that we’re capable of, not reveling in being miserable. I grew up, like I’m sure many of you did, with the culture that said you had to have trauma to be interesting, but trauma sucks. Why accept limitations that some miserable cretin imposed on you?
I suppose that all this means that good poets don’t have much competition.
Mine:
Mothers
Sometimes he had heard
shadow-tangle-twilight-stirred-
willowed entrance to the wood,
crackling twigs on the forest floor
a hundred yards or more into the wood.
He'd stand there - turn back at last,
heading homeward to his fern and fireplace,
the smell of cooking and his mother's face,
patterns wedded to the past.
Lifetimes it seemed
it took for what he had heard,
shadow-tangle-twilight stirred,
willowed entrance to the wood
to be heard anew and understood.
Fear had kept him turning back,
fuelled his failure to recognize
within the shadow-tangled twilight,
dapple-drizzled wood, his Mother's eyes.
Lifetimes it seemed
had seen him returning to the other,
the comfort and consolation that had arched
themselves above his crib - his 2nd mother,
the first face he'd seen, taken for mother.
The one trusted, turned-to at all events,
the one presumed to be his pearl and source -
like one possessed, like knowledge mistaken for wisdom -
whirlpool of time pulling him into its course,
pulling out from him a prolonged, plaintive song,
she had been cooking him, preparing him
to be devoured by the world all along.
Worthy To Be Slain
Like a taste of honey,
the summer's lake
winking at me,
you appeared to me.
You began
as elementary school,
middle school,
high school,
university:
you began as a coquettish look
emanating from a book;
you began as a girl smiling and laughing
in high school and college;
you winked at me, flirted with me,
wearing the dress of knowledge...
Encompassing alike ebb and flow,
you appeared sometimes, sometimes withdrew.
You sometimes caught sight of the scholar's glow,
his eyes traveling across
the ocean waves and landscapes of that dress.
Your own eyes lost their coquettishness,
night and silence steeping you in seriousness...
You began looking on me as might a woman
of stunning beauty, who sifts the chaff from grain,
the prospective lover turning her eyes
to the strong and worthy one again and again...
The stunning lover-to-be sifting chaff from grain
now offered her depths to me;
I proved worthy enough to be slain.
You brought me to a space
where you were me, utterly alone,
where you wore a necklace of bone,
my memories of the beloved dead,
memories of all that I had learned....
You brought me to a space in the heart
where ice and fire couldn't stand apart,
where the noble nurse and perverse were one,
where there glowed no particular way,
where no distinctions held sway...
What thundered within the spirit of your face
was life and death in their acutest embrace.
You had sifted the chaff from grain;
for whatever reason you saw me fit
and worthy to be slain.
Afraid of Death?
Afraid of death? Yet you die
more than a thousand times a day.
The thought of a father playing with his boy
after some seconds, minutes fades away.
The thought of a professor before his class
after some seconds, minutes fades away.
The thought of a hungry husband in bed,
the thought of a wanderer wondering
where he's going or by what is led,
the thought of a responsible man, and more -
all these walk in and walk out the door,
a thousand times or more are gone
before the flowering of each dawn.
Afraid of death? Yet this body
is a new symphony number seven.
What you call death's the possibility
of creativity and heaven.
The one that fears, trailing fears as well -
all these walk in and out the door,
however many times are gone
before the flowering of each dawn.
Both what's beautiful and horrific deemed -
these pass by and by, like all things dreamed.
How many times has the youth you recall
or reimagine feared an ending as though
it were the end of him, the end of all?
Yet that apprehension or terror long gone,
or sadness that seemed to encompass his dawn
is now but a faint residue or trace.
You may be smiling now at the restless nights
that once descended on the youthful face -
and smiling at what his fear couldn't see,
at all those things feared that never came to be.
Afraid of death? Yet in its light
is born your wife's, son's, and daughter's beauty,
its light turning up the volume of your love,
its light love's music and love's poignancy.
Afraid? Yet the fear and being aware
and looking through the microscope
outshine mere optimism, faith or hope.
The fear penetrated: sap of every tree
seen through the eyes of a child, the spring air.
Fear penetrated: shedding of another death
that pretends to live, pretends the fear's not there.
Mine:
The Young Man
Sometimes when she saw someone turn around
The corner, or pass through a restaurant door,
Or when spring with its symphonic score
Of buds performed and surged without a sound,
She felt him, a presence, an absence, and more...
There was no longer grief, but a strange pain,
A part of her that thought the young man hadn't died,
A part that thought she would meet him again.
But she knew, she knew it was fantasy,
Though the fantasy bore a grain of truth.
Certainly the vibrancy, the light of this youth
Looked through the eyes of the passersby,
Looked through the eyes of those
Sitting at the restaurant tables, looked from the sky
When summer was absorbed in poetic blue,
When winter was absorbed in the sharpest prose.
When the young man was alive, they would share...
Presence had reached an exuberant pitch
Of love, adventure - but his absence would stitch
A raiment of wisdom which she would wear,
Being led back to her majestic heart,
Being guided through life - breathing art.
Cote-Des-Neiges Street, Montreal
Softly submerged is Cote-des-Neiges street
in the strangeness of new shops, delight
of couples, in accordion-twilight,
and in absence of stores where we used to go,
a child and his mother 40 years ago.
I feel you gazing at me
through a church tree - from the horizon's
crimson glow, a wound still fresh,
and as a window's rose-struck glaze.
I see you in a thousand other ways,
hear the accordion, voice of you,
the accordion growing faint, fading -
a still more piercing voice of you.
The mind intercedes, a tale ten times told,
offering itself like sagacious gold
to a stubborn, clinging child who half-believes.
But the heart doesn't follow, the heart still grieves.
A Glass of Water Drunk One June Morning
June wears a dress
of a waterfall's roar,
glory gone
galloping,
crashing
against jagged rocks,
splitting apart -
like cognition cracked
in the face of disease.
The water nevertheless
winds its way,
an egret poised within it,
the egret spreading its wings,
soon steeped in the glow
of ever-widening rings.
The water makes its way
to where it's purified...
A boy attending high school
turns on the kitchen tap
and drinks a glass of water.
Refreshment reaps a sigh.
His eyes open wide... Laughter
ripples, the light
of some idea poised within it -
an idea spreading its wings,
in time delighting
in ever-widening rings...
A youthful penchant for winged words
grows and gives birth to other birds ,
the idea never leaving him,
the idea whose different incarnations
suffuses, spirit-like, many nations...
Leaving These Palace Gates
I won't keep you within these palace gates.
You are free to go.
You say a love
compels you below,
back to Earth.
How, child, do you know
you will remember your resolve,
remember all this, remember Me?
Birth does not guarantee
you will follow through
or even receptivity
to those not so benighted
as you may turn out to be.
I won't keep you within these palace gates.
You feel all those still suffering,
still struggling and in need,
and yes, follow, child,
follow love's lead.
And be aware: the realm realms below
can drive you mad, make you coarse,
befoul your seeing, lead you astray
from your original course.
For every fortunate, freakish fish
that escapes the fisherman's net
thousands flap helplessly, are caught,
thousands sent off to the mouths
of conditioning, contamination, rot.
This love like a gong
resounds your resolve. All is blessed
in spite of all; all's for the best.
Love sees the luminous palace, steeped in this;
a healthy one sees health, bliss sees bliss,
a husband or wife in the honeymoon.
I won't keep you within the palace gates.
You carry the sun and moon
and infinitely more. Be aware
that what seems most natural, like air,
maybe your earthly parents, your own mind,
may compound the mud of forgetfulness,
may be enemies to which you grow resigned.
This love like a gong
resounds your resolve. All is blessed
in spite of all; all's for the best.
Be aware, child, before you go,
though conviction boil as passionate blood,
you may come to live on Earth
despondent, sinking deeper in the mud,
catching no whiff of these blessings one and all,
as if this love had never existed at all.
Mine:
You Sit, Face Averted
Anonymous One,
You sit, face averted, I'm in awe of you.
The pond's lotuses are your other eyes.
The crickets are your speech, the leaves your sighs.
The corridor of fussing autumn trees, its space,
And twilight jellyfish moon can't exhaust your grace.
You have said bitter things when you were ill.
Your sayings don't always have eagles' eyes.
You sometimes drink, palm resting on the windowsill,
With webbed words that won't let yesterday go.
But you're still Eve before the fall, in spite of woe.
I don't know you at all, though often mind
Thinks it does, enamored as it is with memory.
I have images of you, your being kind, unkind,
Ferocious, a skilled lover, a song in bed,
But these are not you right now, these are dead.
I can't say who you are, so how can I compare
You with others, think you are not quite as rare
Or intelligent or beautiful as they?
Only ideas, images are at play,
And to take them to heart, as though they all
Are you, would be Adam's plight after the fall.
You're Lying There Still Asleep
You're lying there still asleep, the sheets
Below your knees, your skin poured smooth as coffee cream,
Your curvatures of which hills themselves would dream.
Our sheets and pillows are like geese
Leaning against each other, and you're the Golden Fleece
Now suddenly, as Jason's look alights on your form.
Your beauty is the quiet storm
That my temple would like to assail.
I see your intense whirlpool drawing my spirit in...
I don't care if there's something of the Siren in you;
We all get destroyed in the end, let it be with you.
You twitch slightly, the Golden Fleece may be waking you up;
You rub your lips, you smile, you see my temple's up;
You stroke it as though a cliff-triangle of cranes
Were anticipating paradise in the sky,
And I'm like a long-forgotten well that needs
A beautiful woman to drink, who boils, who bleeds.
What we do, my love, on this bed is not
Some desperation, as though the worms outside
In our garden were playing violins to our tumultuous tide,
Mocking us with a death that's sure to come.
What we have and do can but mock the sum
Of inhibitions, repressions, anxieties.
We will smash to atoms the presumptuous sun.
We will look into our depths and be one.
Meditation
Anonymous One,
Sometimes when cranes circle overhead,
A person washes dishes with a circling hand.
Sometimes when a bear runs and catches a silvery prize,
A tennis player finds his perfect stride to the public's cries.
Sometimes when a brand new car is first driven out,
A bunch of new stars shed their cocoon.
Sometimes when green leaves blush with the dawn of June,
A virgin overcomes her awkwardness and doubt.
Sometimes when it snows in Montreal or Edmonton,
The flakes floating down, calm,
That means that though the person has never known snow,
His mind's calm, as he sits under a palm,
While a lake in Vermont evens out to staring trees,
And a dragonfly's perched on reed, at her ease.
A leaf has fallen and a wind has blown
In Africa, and a famous man emits a final moan.
It's not quite synchronicity, it's much more:
It's perhaps meditation, an awesome whole;
It belies individual effort and control.
Human Consciousness
Anonymous One,
Autumn has come and scatters yellow leaves,
Yet for all that not one groans or ever grieves.
The waves grow colder, begin to freeze...
The butterfly by the river, it would seem,
Passes on without regret, without a dream.
I admire and love all these for whom no better or worse
Is, and I grant human consciousness is a curse.
But if I could go back before my birth
And choose what form I'd take on earth,
I'd choose the human, the doubting, the wailing cry,
Love strengthened by the knowledge I will die,
Prodigious praise given to yellow leaves,
To unconscious harmony that never grieves.
If our consciousness is a prison cell,
It presages too the greatest joy, intercourse
With a riveted, humbled seraphic force.
If a cocoon be some confining dark,
That confinement has also freedom's spark.
Autumn's creatures live acceptance, harmonious play,
But I'll take our consciousness and its beyond, any day.
Forgiveness
Anonymous One,
There is no forgiveness because remorse and regret
Have no place in what is, can never thrust
Into mystery, like impotent mosquitoes can't pierce through bust
Or ancient block, but at any rate, my Love,
The fishnet's cast down from a vast Above
Onto apples along a road
Curving upward, cast on a hermit singing bird,
And on tender echoes of word furled on word.
Memories, like shadows of a star,
Twine, twist in the space of what we are,
And the fishnet is all about us
Refreshing, invigorating the grass and trees,
Thunder shaking the wilderness to the core
With lips of lightning... We gather our vast store...
One night of attention, and the rest is as You please.
We forgive nothing, but we love giving love,
Or love loves giving without thinking of
Scars and staring at them, scratching anew:
Forgiveness is resentment's residue.
How can I write “good” poetry? I always feel as if my poetry is not good and that people may class it as insta poetry
Hi! That’s a very difficult question to answer, and I’m not the best person to answer it, probably your fav poet is, but I will try to help, and you can feel free to take the advice if you wish:) I think you could compare your work with the “criteria” that I said, IF you agree with it. Your poems make you feel something, but do you think they’re beautiful enough to leave a long lasting impression on someone else? Someone who doesn’t know you personally, frankly someone who doesn’t care potentially, someone who’s just looking for words to help them through life and make it a more pleasant experience. Did you take care when thinking about how they’re going to sound spoken out loud, or did you put random breaks just because by convention you thought they should be there? I think the most important thing is probably being genuine and authentic, and writing with your own voice, not seeking to be another Rupi Kaur, or to gain Insta popularity. Express what you want to express, and if it feels too superficial then it might be, try again. But that being said, don’t fall into the black hole of constant self doubt to the point where you can’t write and be satisfied by anything, listen to people whose opinion you value if you feel like trusting them at a specific time. Practice, if you feel like you are close to achieving what you want to write, but you’re just not there yet, give it time. If you need to vent, then write a poem anyway, get your emotions there and then refine it later. Give it to people to read later. I wish you the best of luck with your poetry, and I’m sure if you’ll keep on going one day you’ll write something you absolutely adore and something that will help and touch others💕
Hey Mia Hinds, this is something I’ve been thinking about for as long as I’ve been in this human realm. Some advice I can give is to go for the specific in your poetry rather than the general. One of the big problems with insta poetry is that it keeps to the general, like saying “you’re a flower blooming” rather than something like “rose, your petals are still green. I wonder at the tears you’ll shed over these youthful years. Petals bleed red with memory, stillborn green.” As you can see, specificity is important.
Another thing is to just explore words. Remember, poetry’s themes are about ideas; poetry’s content, the thing that “physically” makes up the poem, is about words. Ideas are the “soul”; words are the muscles, veins, skeleton, flesh, and everything else you can identify.
Nice video and review of poetry
Thanks a lot!!!
@@PolinasPages you're welcome
Ur wlcm
умничка девочка,красотка,успеха
Спасибо большое!