P O E T I C --- P A I N T I N G S

"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen" -- da Vinci

To write poetry, you must read and, read some more -- Me

Aug 31, 2009

Forms of Poetry

There are many different forms of poetry.

Personally I write and only write what's called "Free Verse" poetry. Many people don't understand Free Verse because it doesn't rhyme or they don't understand the metaphors used.

Popular forms of poetry

Rhyme -- A rhyming poem has the repetition of the same or similar sounds of two or more words, often at the end of the line.

Ballad -- A poem that tells a story similar to a folk tail or legend which often has a repeated refrain.
Couplets -- A couplet has rhyming stanzas made up of two lines.


Just to name a few.

Regardless of your preference, poetry is the art of the heart and best read with an open mind.

A poet is painting a picture and one reading a poem should try and visualize what that picture is.

So, go find a book of poems then, sit back and enjoy the wordscape! You won't regret it.

Aug 28, 2009

You Take My Hand -- by Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood -- Canadian Poet

You take my hand and
I'm suddenly in a bad movie,
it goes on and on and
why am I fascinated

We waltz in slow motion
through an air stale with aphrodisms
we meet behind the endless ptted palms
you climb through the wrong windows

Other people are leaving
but I always stay till the end
I paid my money, I
want to see what happens.

In chance bathtubs I have to
peel you off me
in the form of smoke and melted

Have to face it I'm
finally an addict,
the smell of popcorn and worn plush
lingers for weeks

Aug 10, 2009

A Virginal by Ezra Pound

Ezra Pound

No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;
Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly
And left me cloaked as with a gauze of �ther;
As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.
No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour,
Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers.
Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches,
As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches,
Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour:
As white as their bark, so white this lady's hours.

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