You like poetry?

[EmpNapoleon]

Is poetry dead?  What might be the reason?

Please recommend any contemporary poets you like.

[Anne]

I don't know if he is still alive:

Francis Thompson.  He wrote my favorite poem, "The Hound of Heaven."

[EmpNapoleon]

He died in 1907.

[Don]

No.

[12tone.]

I really got into poetry like a month ago or so and really enjoyed Frost.  It was a quick heavy poetry-liking.  I've kinda lost interest now...

[Anne]

He died in 1907.

Thank you.   

[EmpNapoleon]

Poetry is dead.

[Lady Chatterley]

 Guess who's coming for spaghetti? Yes,it's Lawrence Ferlinghetti!

[EmpNapoleon]

Guess who's coming for spaghetti? Yes,it's Lawrence Ferlinghetti!

Profound.  But, I prefer Don's poem.

[Lady Chatterley]

Profound.  But, I prefer Don's poem.

Minimalist eh!

[locrian]

Nothin' could be finer
than postin' in the Diner
in the morning.

[Novi]

I like the poetry of Pablo Neruda. Wish I knew Spanish so I could read them in their original form.

[Solitary Wanderer]

I have this book:



I enjoy reading a few poems sometimes before sleep. I mainly enjoy poets from the romantic era.

I was a budding poet myself in my late teens and early 20s, but stopped writing for some reason. 

[head-case]

I was a budding poet myself in my late teens and early 20s, but stopped writing for some reason. 

Maybe because it sucked.

[Sergeant Rock]

Maybe because it sucked.

That hasn't stopped some of us.

Sarge

[MishaK]

Is poetry dead?  What might be the reason?

Please recommend any contemporary poets you like.

How about:

Anne Carson
Czeslaw Milosz
Charles Simic
Susan Howe

...for starters...

[EmpNapoleon]

Thanks for the recommendations O.  I'll look into them.

Here's a poem by one of the guys you recommended:

A Song On the End of the World   
by Czeslaw Milosz
Translated by Anthony Milosz 


On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.

[EmpNapoleon]

This above is why I call modern poetry's ambiguity for the sake of obscurity.

Here's a clear poem from Archilochus that doesn't hide:

O  daughter of the highborn Amphimedo,
                     I replied, of the widely remembered
                     Amphimedo now in the rich earth dead,
         
                     There are, do you know, so many pleasures
                     for young men to choose from
                     among the skills of the delicious goddess
         
                     it's green to think the holy one's the only.
                     When the shadows go black and quiet,
                     Let us, you and I alone, and the gods,
         
                     The petals of her flower are all brown
                     The grace that first she had is gone
                     Don't you agree that she looks like a boy?
         
                     A woman like that would drive a man crazy.
                     She should get herself a job as a scarecrow.
                     I'd as soon hump her as [kiss a goat's butt]
         
                     A source of joy I'd be to the neighbors
                     with such a woman as her for a wife
                     How could I ever prefer her to you
         
                     You, O innocent, true heart an bold.
                     Each of her faces is as sharp as the other.
                     Which way she's turning you can never guess.
         
                     She'd whelp like the proverb's luckless bitch
                     were I to foster get upon her, throwing
                     them blind, and all on the wrongest day.
         
                     I said no more, but took her hand,
                     laid her down in a thousand flowers,
                     and put my soft wool cloak around her.
         
                     I slid my arm under her neck
                     To still the fear in her eyes,
                     for she was trembling like a fawn,
         
                     touched her hot breasts with ligth fingers,
                     spraddled her neatly and pressed
                     against her fine, hard, bared crotch.
         
                     I caressed the beauty of all her body
                     And came in a sudden white spurt
                     while I was stroking her hair.

[Cato]

Good to great poetry
is practically dead
because
any moron who
writes a sentence
like a stanza
can be
considered
a
poe
t

So much is so clunky and laughable in poems these days!  If you are eschewing rhyme and meter, fine: Where's the music in the words?

The worst poetry comes - in general - from professors.   

[маразм1]

I hate this one by our very own Saul:



Modernity




Everyone seeks it,
oldness is bashed.

No dont wear that!
dont use that!

People may laugh,
A joke on two you'll become!

Standing alone in the park,
Watching everyone's mark.

Originality is nowhere to be seen.
Emptyness is the ruler and duke.

I look and see a couple ,
they sit by the cafe smoking.

Gently sipping  thier coffee,
and biting on thier salty crackers.

All they do is look at themselfs,
constantly thinking of thier looks.

She pays no attention to him,
he pays no attention to her.

They live in thier own modern world,
ignoring eachother's presence.

To make others happy,
so they would feel in .

But moderinty will fade too.
placed together with oldness.

I wonder what they'll  have then?
Moderinty is missing,so too oldness.

Mabye then they'll just be.
Mabye then they'll may be.


wtf???  sounds like one of Borat's creations.