Be converted into a poet in ten follow-up - poetry
Have you ever sat there staring at the paper, ready to write, but unsure where to begin? Want a clarification that will overcome even the worst writer's block? Anybody can start inscription poetry today using a few clear-cut techniques.
One, two, . . . ?
Did you say or think three when you saw the above? If not, you definitely would when I asked you to fill in the blank. Your mind is a authoritative apparatus that recognises or creates patterns. To make this work for you as a poet, you austerely have to lay out the supplies in an disguised pattern, and let your mind do its thing.
The "materials," in this case, of course, are words or ideas. So let's round up some equipment for an example. If you want to write a poem about thunderstorms, you might start by copy down applicable words, and then decide the more suggestive ones: flash, blowing, rumble, night, deadly and rain, perhaps.
Now you set the pattern. In this case, we'll write a four-line poem, using one of our words in each line. We'll only choose if we want a ryming poem after we start. This is what I came up with after five minutes:
Rain stands still in the sky
Trees dance as in a painting
In a flash it is here and gone
And night grumbles at being revealed
It doesn't affair if most aren't good poems. You just have to write a lot of them, and then work on re-writing the ones with potential. With a barely practice, you can write a dozen poems in an hour, then pick out the gems. My wife has had poetry available using Deal-a-Poem, a game we formed based on this technique, so we know that it works, and it's fun as well.
More Tips For Fast Poetry
The method above works since when your mind focuses on a word with the intent to use it in a line, it is stimulated into action. It wants to find the blueprint - or construct it. To make this work even better, try the following:
1. Start with words that are suggestive and figuratively rich. You'll be more inspired and doubtless write a richer poem with "howled," "torn open," and "festering," than with "said," "broken," and "rotten. "
2. Use this or any other method as a opening point only. If you have a great line previously in mind, don't force one of the words from your list into it. If a poem starts to write itself, and becomes ten six-line verses, disregard about the technique. Treat it as a tool to be used when you need it.
3. Don't sit there before you for inspiration. Write something NOW. Start with any topic, or even arbitrary words. The surest way to get inspired in your poetry is to start journalism a poem.
Steve Gillman has been in performance with poetry for thirty years. He and his wife Ana fashioned the game "Deal-A-Poem," which can be accessed for free at: http://www. dealapoem. com
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]
Lima, City with the Stretched out WingsIt's an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sightJust dots of: red, green and white-white lightsAs the plane descends, descends, slides down On the long-drawn-out-spun-out drawn out city of illumination Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The restless city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding all the way through the valley's, forests, and streams Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlesslyAs,I'm descending, down, over and about the city (descending, descending, and sliding to the ground)The city with stretched out wings-and endless lights Down, behind, around, the ground, it's immune to me I'm just part of its evening, a initiation in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights; People: walking, talking, sleeping, intake by the dots People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and a further tomorrowThey say-:you are ruthless, and I know this to be trueAnd they tell me you have thieves and murders-And this, I dare say-but shall-is also true, very true But show me a city to the defiant of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with biting and hungry hearts;I say, show me one that sings in poverty and smiles Prove me one that celebrates year-round of its heroes Show me painters that are as good-that sell on streets-As good as: Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt, and Yang YangAnd that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no moreWith this,I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streetsAs well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and mucky air, And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofs Sights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parksAnd the frequent food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, cover all-My Lima, Peru with its established Cathedral:Golden fair with gigantic crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its creased aged men, lovely women,They all stand tall and bow to its Inca history, its glory- Its world that once ruled all, like the Roman Empire,Like the American Dream, they were the noble, the kingsAnd now, from grind and toil, sweat and strive, all, all Grinding, grinding away, each and everyday, lover of the, King of Kings: Jesus Christ-this is the Lima I know today; a mighty ship that has before now sailed the seven seas, now resting!?Spanish VersionLima, La ciudad con las alas extendidas Translated by Rosa PeñalozaEsta es una noche oscura: no estrellas, ni luna a la vistaSolo puntos: rojo, verde y blanco-luces blancasMientras que el avión desciende, desciende, bajando A la larga-extendida-plana persistente ciudad de luces Plana como un panqueque, encendida como un árbol de navidad-La despierta ciudad, con sus alas extendidasExtendidas desde las montañas hacia el océano Zigzagueante a través de los valles, bosques y riachuelos Estirando, estirando sus alas desnudas-interminablesMientras,Voy descendiendo, abajo, por encima y alrededor de la ciudad (Descendiendo, descendiendo, y deslizándose a la tierra)La ciudad con las alas extendidas-y luces interminables Abajo, Abajo, detrás, alrededor, la tierra, es inmune a mí Sólo soy parte de esta noche, un bautizado en su oscuro océanoInvisible: gente, gatos, perros, pájaros, y ratas, infinidadIncontables: puntos, riachuelos de luz, puntos de luz; Gente: caminando, conversando, durmiendo, comiendo bajo los puntos de luz Gente: esperando, matando, robando, rezando bajo los puntos de luzPor mañana, mañana y otro mañanaEllos dicen--:Tu eres implacable, y yo se que esto es verdadY ellos me dicen tú tienes ladrones, y muertes-Y esto, me atrevo a decir, que esto también es cierto, muy ciertoPero muéstrame una ciudad de ocho millones contraria --? Sacudo mis puños y digo: "?muéstrame," pero nadie lo haceTan viva, tan valerosa, con corazones fuertes y hambrientos:Digo, muéstrame una que canta en pobreza, y sonríe Pruébame una como esa, que celebra alrededor del año a sus héroes Muéstrame pintores tan buenos-que venden en las calles-Tan buenos como: Picasso, Dali, Rembrant y Yang YangY que recibe al mundo con extendidos brazosMuéstrame todo esto, o algo de esto, y no diré masCon esto,Desciendo a sus calles, atiborrada, zigzagueantes callesAsí como su raro vecindario con polvo en el aire Y oigo la risa de los niños, los perros en los techos Vista de los lustrabotas, hombres y muchachos, en los parquesY los numerosos carros de comida, músicos y vendedores de periódicosY con su desnuda y desplumadas alas, cubriendo todo-Mi Lima, Perú, con su renombrada catedral:Amarilla dorada con su coronadas torres, yDentro de su plaza cuadrada, una celebrada piletaBajo su piel, con sus arrugados ancianos, tiernas mujeres,Todos ellos parados altos, y reverenciando a su historia inca, sugloria- Su mundo que una vez gobernó todo, como el Imperio RomanoComo el sueño de América, ellos fueron los nobles, los reyesY ahora de pesadez, y esfuerzo, sudor, lucha, todos, todos extenuados, fatigados, este y cada día, amantes del Rey de los Reyes: Jesucristo-esta es la Lima que conozco, hoy; un poderoso barco que ya navegó los siete mares, ahora descansando?Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, web site: http://dennissiluk.
Ode to: The Ice Maiden of Ampatos Acme [now in: English and Spanish]
Dedícate to Antonio Castillo. L.
Memoirs of a Wastelands Rim [a Poem: now in Spanish and English]
Memoirs of a Wasteland's RimIt still was light when she paused at the wasteland's rim- Over, the rim rest like a sleeping brute, a impassive frame Adjacent to the blue where early stars hung like oil lamps Hanging from old beams and shade?the inexpressive frame Her traction immovable the beams, as she had fallen onto it Alone, she watched the forenoon, climbing about her A rolling stone woman, discernible by life, and aslant dreams With development of hurt and molded muscle on her face Her amount engraved anti the made of wood frame, She tried to jump, and lost her balance, execution like a bird Now sipping the gloom in the ledge and horrified hopes She yielded ahead of the lethargic develop of sunset Blood dripped, with her dying darkness And a red moon hurled a flame across The dark clouds, burning during the sky The littered sky above her?Crossing the valley's floor her eye engrossed it Rocky images, main points Thrusting herself up brashly from to the ledge The painted cock-crow blushed over the rim Her brows and nose, face adjacent to the stone stone Massive injuries was charming form, Her figure on the brink so idly diagonally the sun It was too great a task-to die alone?she wished now She had not jumped?a thousand feet below, yet to go. Too much for any woman in a lost world Out of the weak wood her mind had peace; She knew soon it would all be over-alas Mute and protesting adjacent to life's uselessness A narrow path lay below her meager body Between death and attainment, a careless foot The rocks beneath her weakening, she plunged Plunged to her death, in the figurine hands of the valley Thinking of it, as she fell, accepted wisdom with a smiled, Saying, looking up-dead ahead of her echoes: 'Time is short?time is short?time is short!' When they found her, her face was bold of falling.
JOINEDHeart beat of man pounding - yet unheard joined becomes the beat of a nation.Words of man written - yet unread joined becomes a proclamation.
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 be a consequence the poet to his end; To see if he can?whatever He wants to do, do over again?.
I am not the one I was beforehand yesterday.I cannot go back.
For My Mother
I cannot bear to think of when you will be gone.I do not understand how I will get along.
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 asset that's been drainedOcean keep me warm Wrap me in your brine Caress me with your tidesOcean break up my tears As they flow in you I rinse my soulOcean let me grow in your depths Color me animated 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, cause and teacher.
Opposites Do Catch the attention of Quite Well
When I am climbing up, you are stepping down. When I wear a smile, you wear a frown.
Death & the Supernatural: Poetry/Five Poems
Supernatural PoetryHere are five poems,-what I call-death and supernatural poems. Conceivably a bit bizarre, a few stanzas may be, but with consistent subtlety of course, and a ting of acuteness, but we have to hag on if we want a good ride:1.
Because of You
You are to me my lifeline my security. That scares me.
Four Poems: Two for the Devil, Two for Peru
Here is some witty poetry (not sure if that is the appropriate word: witty, but it will do): one poem on the Aztec year 2012, a year that has been in the public's eye quite a lot; one on cloning, and the biblical end time events--which, if I may add seems ripe for the monster actions that are said to take place; and two poems commerce with some tradtions of Peru; one imparticular, on vacationing, where not to go; all the makings for some thought.Aztec BabyOn December 25, 2012 AD The Devil had an idea- He'd clone himself In the form of a baby; Called the Antichrist.
Never Ever More
Once upon a midnight dreary, coffee cold and ability to see bleary, all night sat there characters COBOL, coding allotment athwart the bed sheets, changing grammar for the mainframe, having checkered my final line, I took the floppy from the drive.Typing with a steady hand, I then invoked the SAVE command, but there below my effectuation, appeared the cryptic communication, "Abort, Retry, Ignore" and nil more.
Africa - Wheres The Profit?
A poetic expansion that just welled up classified my head - why cant we just do amazing - ahead of many more are dead?How pious those politicians are, When up there on T.V.
Five Mixed Poems, with Notes [now is Spanish and English]
1.Night in Jamaica [Peruvianism: 1810]It was a rainy night they say When don Simon Bolivar Slept in the arms of beautiful -Luisa Crober (of Jamaica); thus an Assassin missed his mark When he stabbed Major Amestoy Sleeping in the dark In Bolivar's hammock!.
Take some time to stop and look at nature. Pick up a rock or two and think about where it might have happening out and what it might have gone all through to end up where you found it.
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (a poem in Spanish and English)
Footprints to Mantaro Valley (English version)In what flee art hid?-Where declining mountains groan In shadow and amongThe torrents of the Rio? Is not your name Mantaro Valley?Beyond the road of the Andes--?I can hear your voice in echoesI can hear thy voice, delightfully low. I do but know thy by a glanceAs the clouds above me know? .
Ode To Quetzalcoatal [Now in Spanish and English]
Ode to QuetzalcóatlQuetzalcóatl the GreatNo one knew his true name, so they Called him Quetzalcóatl-feather Serpent He and his crew of nineteen: faces Strange faces, imagery of a prince, a lord: King of the Yucatan in the year 986 ADHe was a tall man; long cloths, sandals; White as day, with a long beard, black hair. Some say red: some don't say? But they called him priest, Lord, king Amongst many things: god!.
An Old Wood Pile [a poem with notes]
Old skin, once held tight Against her skeleton- Rose no more, just draped Loosely over unpadded flesh; Un-tightened muscles, and tissue, Lost its courage, no-fortitude-, Gone are the days and years That stood adjacent to the Indomitable elements; The skeleton, now a landmark Hidden under flesh and blood Guts and moral fiber, backbone? Collapsed from drudgery Time, time: cascading inside-. Bones now exit impressions Accepting fate Like flecked silver!.
Little Girl from Huancayo [a poem/in English and Spanish]
Little girl from HuancayoDo you really, actually know? Just how fast those feet will grow,On the streets of Huancayo.Little girl with jumping jacksOn the street, looking back; Back to see whose study her,A hardly boy with a bird.
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