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National Poetry Day 2016

statsman

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Today is National Poetry Day with lots of events going on around the country to mark the event. Your local library may be hosting one.

Here's a free anthology of new poetry from the North on Issuu:

https://issuu.com/amosgreig/docs/anu_poetry_anthology_-april/1

And the display in Books Upstairs:




And a poem by Dublin-born New Yorker Lola Ridge:

THE GHETTO

I

Cool, inaccessible air
Is floating in velvety blackness shot with steel-blue lights,
But no breath stirs the heat
Leaning its ponderous bulk upon the Ghetto
And most on Hester street…

The heat…
Nosing in the body’s overflow,
Like a beast pressing its great steaming belly close,
Covering all avenues of air…

The heat in Hester street,
Heaped like a dray
With the garbage of the world.

Bodies dangle from the fire escapes
Or sprawl over the stoops…
Upturned faces glimmer pallidly–
Herring-yellow faces, spotted as with a mold,
And moist faces of girls
Like dank white lilies,
And infants’ faces with open parched mouths that suck at the air
as at empty teats.

Young women pass in groups,
Converging to the forums and meeting halls,
Surging indomitable, slow
Through the gross underbrush of heat.
Their heads are uncovered to the stars,
And they call to the young men and to one another
With a free camaraderie.
Only their eyes are ancient and alone…

The street crawls undulant,
Like a river addled
With its hot tide of flesh
That ever thickens.
Heavy surges of flesh
Break over the pavements,
Clavering like a surf–
Flesh of this abiding
Brood of those ancient mothers who saw the dawn break over Egypt…
And turned their cakes upon the dry hot stones
And went on
Till the gold of the Egyptians fell down off their arms…
Fasting and athirst…
And yet on…

Did they vision–with those eyes darkly clear,
That looked the sun in the face and were not blinded–
Across the centuries
The march of their enduring flesh?
Did they hear–
Under the molten silence
Of the desert like a stopped wheel–
(And the scorpions tick-ticking on the sand…)
The infinite procession of those feet?
 
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Socratus O' Pericles

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gatsbygirl20

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Emerging Writer: Pocket Poem competition for Butlers Cafe/ Ireland Poetry Day


I have this brilliant line, I'm just trying to come up with a few others to support it:

From the same poem ( Eliot's Prufrock) I like the almost heartbreaking lines spoken by the lonely, isolated, unloved speaker, a prudish balding civil servant type figure not courageous enough for high romance and condemned to occasional glimpses of the life unlived:

"I have heard the mermaids singing each to each

I do not think that they will sing to me"
 

Ardillaun

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One of my favourite bits:

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
 

Mercurial

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The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the
shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

(From "Song of Myself" by Walt Whitman)
 

Morgellons

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There's too much poetry in the world, it's something that shouldn't be encouraged. I can appreciate a novel or a play, but a poem leaves me utterly unmoved. These days they don't even rhyme. Rubbish, the lot of it.
 

gatsbygirl20

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There's too much poetry in the world, it's something that shouldn't be encouraged. I can appreciate a novel or a play, but a poem leaves me utterly unmoved. These days they don't even rhyme. Rubbish, the lot of it.
Be still as you are beautiful,
Be silent as the rose.

Through miles of starlit countryside
Unspoken worship flows
To find you in your loveless room
From lonely men whom daylight gave
The blessing of your passing face
Impenetrably grave.

A white owl in the lichened wood
Is circling silently,
More secret and more silent yet
Must be your love to me.
Thus, while about my dreaming head
You soul in ceaseless vigil goes

Be still as you are beautiful,
Be silent as the rose.
 

Morgellons

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Be still as you are beautiful,
Be silent as the rose.

Through miles of starlit countryside
Unspoken worship flows
To find you in your loveless room
From lonely men whom daylight gave
The blessing of your passing face
Impenetrably grave.

A white owl in the lichened wood
Is circling silently,
More secret and more silent yet
Must be your love to me.
Thus, while about my dreaming head
You soul in ceaseless vigil goes

Be still as you are beautiful,
Be silent as the rose.
Nah, does nothing for me-just a load of words in a self-important accent.

Granted, I do like Yeats' big, later poems, but that's more for the thought than the words.

And I say this as someone who has had poems published-don't know, just can't relate to it anymore.
 

gatsbygirl20

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Nah, does nothing for me-just a load of words in a self-important accent.
I was trying to find something that rhymed.....you like rhyme...Or at least you don't like poetry that doesn't rhyme

I'll try to find something that is not self-important and that rhymes....
 

Morgellons

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I was trying to find something that rhymed.....you like rhyme...Or at least you don't like poetry that doesn't rhyme

I'll try to find something that is not self-important and that rhymes....
Thanks!

There was this good one I heard a while back, something about a girl called Mary and a pet lamb she had....
 

Socratus O' Pericles

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There once was a girl from Salthill
Who tried dynamite for a thrill.........
 

Morgellons

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The thing I find is that every poem, no matter the style or the subject matter, provokes the same emotional reaction. It's one of cold, expected awe. There is no variety, no surprise; the form has made itself redundant.
 

Mercurial

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There's too much poetry in the world...
There is too much poetry in this world,
In the trees and in the grass and the rivers and the stones
And in the steel and in the glass and the fumes and the filth.

There is too much poetry to taste,
In a dewdrop on a petal or a dirty kitchen sink,
(You will drown if you drink.)

There is too much poetry in this world,
In life and death, the stars and embers
Of six billion odysseys converging on a single ending,
In dandelion wishes and sweet wrappers in rock pools,
Where a child’s hand fishes,
Fingers touching poetry; pink and green and blue.
 

Morgellons

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There is too much poetry in this world,
In the trees and in the grass and the rivers and the stones
And in the steel and in the glass and the fumes and the filth.

There is too much poetry to taste,
In a dewdrop on a petal or a dirty kitchen sink,
(You will drown if you drink.)

There is too much poetry in this world,
In life and death, the stars and embers
Of six billion odysseys converging on a single ending,
In dandelion wishes and sweet wrappers in rock pools,
Where a child’s hand fishes,
Fingers touching poetry; pink and green and blue.
I rest my case, m'lud.
 

Mercurial

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The thing I find is that every poem, no matter the style or the subject matter, provokes the same emotional reaction. It's one of cold, expected awe. There is no variety, no surprise; the form has made itself redundant.
No variety? Really?
 

Carlos Danger

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In terms of impact, no.

I put a poem in front of me and invariably I'm left feeling the same.
Arra g'wan...

His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy
There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti
He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready
To drop bombs, but he keeps on forgettin'
What he wrote down, the whole crowd goes so loud
He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out.
 


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