Why i enjoy writing? - poetry
During interviews and broad-spectrum conversations with the public,one of the most challenging questions for me to answer(timely and thoroughly) is,"Why do you enjoy writing"?
So due to the challenge manifested in such a question,I pondered on creating an answer. Many reasons came to mind,but after digesting much"time for thought",I managed to condense my comeback to three items. I enjoy copy for three reasons: self-expression,personal sensitivity and thirst for adventure.
"Self-expression" is our Creator's gift to all-everyone has a touch to say. The change comes with how a character expresses him or herself. Having an conduit to relieve ones inner disorder or joy is necessary;and when the consequences is a clean-living construction of some type,it ought to be collective with others. Complexity arises when difficult to convey how others feel since a person's self-expression(being a writer) is a prerequisite to accord another's expression(being an editor). There's an interwovenness of not public feelings,dogma and personality allied with a person's self-expression. Much of what writers' convey is the conclusion of the chemistry of feelings,experience or both. Most of the time the writers' feelings prevail. Deep down in all of us there are voices whose vocal chords are pencils behind you to be sharpened and used. Self-expression is the breath of opinion,the debauchery of disposition and the only river worth drowning in. "Honesty" rules the castle of "self-expression".
"Personal sensitivity" varies from being to person. Much of a person's ethical,ethnical,moral and environmental exposers dictates his or her perception of the world. Some writers concentrate only on a a number of chastisement of their total resources. Others are more itinerant and investigational as to absorb from a code of all ambiance obtained. Inspiration ignites sensitivity whether it be amazing heard,felt or read. To be able to characterize a sensation by the use of words is satisfying. Atmosphere make,break,increase and cut the rhythms of ones mental and bodily compositions. Ones "degree of compassion" rules the castle of "personal sensitivity".
The "thirst for adventure" deters boredom. Anyone, whether being a critic or not,imagines events,incidents,possibilities and probabilities in their minds. These mental occurrences(visions) dwell contained by us for short periods of time and every so often forever. But until the inspirations are subjected to some type of tangible(music,painting,literature,sculpture,etc. )medium, they can't be known and common with others. If you don't want to be creative,you won't be!! Good writers aren't born,they are crafted!!! You are the lettering that you write about!! You're a vital part of the incidents you describe. If you're inscription about a diehard tyrant,you are that tyrant!! If it's a cross about the world,you're on that voyage!! Just meeting in the boat won't do it!!! One must set sail to extinguish the "thirst for adventure".
Writers are day-in day-out dreamers,dressed in all colors,travelling athwart paper pulp by way of a dictionary.
Now I ask you,"Why do you enjoy writing"?
By: Arthur Charles Ford Sr. ,poet/lyricist P. O. BOX 4725,PITTSBURGH,PA. 15206
Copyright © . A. C. Ford,Sr. ,2003
For My Mother
I cannot bear to think of when you will be gone.I do not understand how I will get along.
Thank You To Our Soldiers And A Accolade To Old Glory And A Prayer For Peace
Thank youDedicated to soldiers and their loved onesFor those who have laid in fox holes,carried guns,marched for hours.For those who have had cold without sleeping nights,endless days of discomfort.
The Gaul of La Laguna de Paca
Part OneI tell you a legend of long ago Of the buried city of La Laguna de Paca, (Where I had met a drawn out ghost) Within this constituency of Huancayo--Peru; Truth lies, but only the soul knows.Part TwoSo the legend goes, of long ago: During the rising of the full moon The Mermaid of La Laguna de Paca, appears And to the adjoining towns folks, she echoes.
Three Poems and Paradise Lost [One for Hell, One for Heaven one for an Inca King]
The Fast-moving water of HellHell's furnace- Likened to a chimney Vomits her torrents Of flames- Into the air Through earths crust And the earth's trembles-!Agitated, she projects A thick curtain of smoke To heat the feet of those Who provoke her every wish. Like molten iron She waits for the soul(the moment) Then molds, into her enclosure Human serpents? Out of savage flesh!No storm, no struggle No eruption, no typhoon, Just a terrible phenomenon, Hell is adept of producing; And upon death, Back into the Abyss They melt!.
Robert Burns Love Poem: A Red, Red Rose
Robert Burns, a poor man, an educated man, and a ladies' man, is characteristic of Scotland, much like whisky, haggis, bagpipes, and kilts. He lived a life shortened by sore heart disease, 1759-1796, but his life journey by means of poverty, informal education, disappointed love, nationalism, and literary and pecuniary hit can be identified by all Scots and customary men the world over.
Mechanical Poetry; Part Two
What do you do when you want to write poetry? I hope your come back with is "I start writing." Even journalism a bad poem is advance than ahead of you for the "right words.
Three Love Poems [all wicked]
Advance: Mr. Dennis Siluk's poetry can have its fire-hearted twists: as with 'Lovers'.
Anne Bradstreet, To My Dear and Loving Husband, A Discussion
"To My Dear and Loving Husband" was on paper by America's first female poet, the Puritan, Anne Bradstreet. In fact, Anne Bradstreet is one of only a handful of female American poets all through the first 200 years of America's history.
Our home was warm in the shade of the trees or when the sun was not upon it.It was built on the side of a hill, near a lake where spirits could be free.
Black Blood, in Jeremiahs Vines - A Poem and an Article
Black Blood, in Jeremiah's Vines [A Dream Poem]And I heard the crackling of wood, and I noticed the Lord God had made men of wood, and fire came from his mouth.Then the wind poured its grief upon us-over our sins; and I heard the words for the seventh time, "Go to the mountains!"Foolish colonize of this land pray and understand-for He cometh! Thereof, toss manually to thy knees, for the roar of disobedient men will bleed: black blood, because of the vines of Jeremiah.
Shaking out the Rugs [Following the Poet]
Let's admire the poet to his Hell and heaven! Count his Ghosts and dilemma's?Reach out to touch his Stretched-out skies; let's follow The poet to see where he lays.Let's abide by the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?.
Two Poems: Boyhood, and Old Age [with a note on style]
BoyhoodOh me! Thy glorious days have flown! I mealy noticed, now they're gone, How briefly conceded the flowers! Time does not stop youth's bells; It was like I was in a spell, And my face now shows the hours!Ah yes! My childlike past days, Still lively in my fair-haired age, When all was quick and new Now wrapped in movies and books, And links and ancestors were all I knew And love was shown by open looks!#741 6/26/05Old AgeThey stop by to see me now To find what's old and new, They peer into my-everything, And analyze my views; They tell me what I must like, And that I ought to be grieved-These are my fragile associates That takes the strongest liberties?I mean to take the signal off; And put the phone exterior the door; In vain I speak to tell them why -I shan't live here anymore!#742 6/26/05A note on Style: some citizens ask, "What style of poetry to you like the best?" I can never fulfil that question; it is open-ended to me. If I feel like flouting free from tradition as in the poem of: "Old Age," so be it; and if I feel conventional verse, a stricter decorous configuration must be used, as in "Boyhood," and can add abundantly to the poem, so it is.
In Poetry: Consequence of Words [And ...Rocket-belt]
In Poetry: Denotation of WordsWhen I write poetry, I check out the connotation of words for too often they sound the same, but once written, and if spelled wrong, in consequence, give a accomplish atypical gist of what I had intended; this I call a instant of destruction control. If my rhyme is flat, and my intonation is off, so what, I can survive, as long as the consequence of my words are not; and are as I meant them to be.
Walt Whitman, Romance With a Stranger
The belief of brief encounters, even romantic encounters, with a stranger recurs often in the verses of Walt Whitman.Take, for example, these lines from one of the inscriptions that Whitman wrote to his 1860 journal of Plants of Grass.
Top 20 Poetry Quotations
Explore the denotation of poetry and the motivation of poets with this distinctive album of redolent quotations..
Shadows of the Andes; Ollantayambo; and Cesar Vallejo [Poems in English and Spanish]
1) Dark of the Andes [or: Song to the Andes]I shall blend-in, into theMountains- Into the faintest thinShadowsof the mountains! Like the moss on moistenedStoneLike a leaf blown far fromHome?(freshly fallen)!I shall blend-in, clingingTo the mountains- Into its faintest thinShadowsNote: when I at home back home from Peru, my 7th trip in five years [April, 2005], I had spend about 30-days this time on the trip. I visited the Mantaro Valley, Huancayo, and drove all the way through the Andes.
Mother, I Dont Mind The Pain
I am among those who know that one never recovers from the loss of one extremely loved. We come to acknowledge the death and bend our lives - instead begrudingly, but we do not recover, we survive.
Because of You
You are to me my lifeline my security. That scares me.
Tsunami -a Poem Devoted To Help Aid and Awareness and Further Forthcoming Harmony. Make Peace Not War
Real Power.One Tsunami, and all our armies, Seem belittled by their wars, What Animals fled, and tribesmen read, Finally Arrives with crushing roar, Wholesale slaughter, completely by water, Makes us seem an irrelevance, Concepts of power, alteration by the hour, Faced with original elements.
Ocean Heal Me
Ocean Heal MeOcean heal my wounds Let your waves curl and foam on my body Wash away blood, heal scarsOcean renew me with your power As interminably you roll Giving depth that's been drainedOcean keep me warm Wrap me in your brine Caress me with your tidesOcean diffuse my tears As they flow in you I clean my soulOcean let me grow in your depths Color me bright blue, coral, green Clear = revitalizedOcean your spray anoints me Cool and refreshed My spiritual renewalOcean be my friend Hold me flowing in your currents Ever moving, ever changingOcean, heal me.© 1983 Susan BaconSusan Bacon is a researcher, creator and teacher.
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