Joining the poetry Circle has been fun. There are many wonderful pieces of writing to read from, many interesting perspectives to choose from, and then there is me.

Loud, brash, ignorant, the fool, all in only a matter of days. It is a great learning experience which has increased activity in stale parts of the brain. So, since I'm new here- or newbie as they say in the military- I see it is still the same old tradition of respect for your elders. And since I do actually have balls, I'll say it. For some, things never change.

No matter what anyone says. If it is a glowing report about something written or to question if a person has balls, it is all communication.

If you are a reader who has read some of what I have written, you have already formed a conclusion to yourself. "The man has no concept of poetry." "He is a nut." "I wonder whats in the refrigerator, all this talk of nuts made me hungry." "The guy has no talent." "Why does he even write here." "I kinda like it, but not that much."
All potential words used to express whatever you want, with a most important part being 'you,' just as 'you' applies to me.
For most of you, you probably never saw what was actually going on before your eyes in the context of what it actually was, and why should you? You only interpreted the situation from a bunch of words, forming an opinion in only a matter of seconds and then replying.

In the old days, people were tried for being witches, all because they did not like what they see. For some it was jealousy, for others it was because they belonged to the herd, but for whatever reason it was, they chose to burn the convicted witch. It is an amazing process the human species uses when they communicate. Since you can not see me, smell me, touch me, you can only go by written word. It would not take much imagination to think that in a trial of myself being allowed to stay in this forum or be burned at the stake, I'm fairly certain the coals would be hot, and that's OK.

Anyway, this thread of discussion is open to if you care to communicate. And so to start it off before I'm deleted and burned at the stake, let's talk about poetry.
So, what is a poem to you? A lot of flowing words describing something? A feeling? A verbal song? Hell, most people can't even agree what day it is, they sure can't tell you the true definition of a poem.

Sure, look up 'poem' in a dictionary, Google it, remember what your teacher taught you in school. And no matter what definition you choose, again, that choice is up to you. You might even have a definition for it that no one has thought of, if so, write one here as a poem.

For me, a poem is  best to express an emotion in words, much like some clap their hands because they are pleased with an actors performance. Yet, with words, the emotion stays for eternity, unlike a physical act of catcalls or clapping.

Anyway, that's just one persons stance. What's yours?

Three things and then I'm permanently out of your wind tunnel:

• You don't define a poem, you feel it.
• You have mastered the art of assuming, with an unstable minor in attempted projection.
• Semper Fi all you want to, but the Army came first, and Marines will always be the infantry of the Navy.

Color me: Golf Oscar November Echo.

I'm with Mugs.  You made a lot of incorrect assumptions because you only look through one lens.  We are here to work on improving our poetry.  Many of us commented on your work, making suggestions, providing our own take.  You have commented on others work but you seem uninterested in working on your own poetry. That's why I made the Journal suggestion. That's why poems that did not match the standards of the site and which you did not post in your journal were rejected.

When we make suggestions, we don't expect that members will or should execute each one, but it would be nice if you could discuss the techniques and changes.  Is seems that all you do is type whatever comes to mind.

Your writing style is specifically designed to elicit certain types of reaction. When you get that reaction, you use it as proof that you are downtrodden and we are persecutors.

Sure it is up to each person to define Poetry for themselves, but its up to the editors to define the standards for which this forum serves a purpose.

Robin, 

I would like to understand.  So you joined our forum to play around, write whatever you wanted and then observe our reactions?  Like an experiment?  That may be fine for you and your time, but my time unfortunately is not so easy to come by.  My suggestions on your work were serious if you were really seeking help with your writing.  You have some interesting phrases and ideas that could be explored and revised to really make an impact. But if this is some big experiment in which you actually don't care about writing, then I'm sorry, but I can't spend my time on your threads.  I have precious little time to spend on this site as it is because I spend most of my time with my husband and children. 

My brother (now sleeping for all time in Arlington) was a decorated Airborne Ranger and scuba instructor- earned a purple heart in Somalia.  I have every respect for your military service and thank you for it, but you'll have to let me know in the future if you would like to further your writing - then I will be happy to take a look at it again and give you any suggestions I have.

Michelle

"Three things and then I'm out of your wind tunnel."
1. A good start to a wonderful poem.
2. Sounds a little like disgust or a distasteful reply about a topic written by a person you can't stand listening to.
3. A meaningful attempt at dialogue pertaining to the topic of the thread.

All three choices are left to up to a reader to decide.

Maggie, you have written wonderful pieces, I have read some, and you have written some horrible pieces, but the definition of how I view what you have wrote is up to the individual. At least that is what I assume. I should know as I have a PhD in direction.

Yes, the Army came first, such as in many military campaigns, but they left first in defeat, leaving the Marines to do their work.

What I have learned from your reply, is how you view a poem, but it is vague. You should expand on your thoughts, thus making it easier to see how you judge and view all the vast poetry you do on this forum. Just because you view a poem a certain way, or 'feel it' using your own words, does not mean I or others will feel it the same.

Emotion is poetry, every emotion is different.

Michelle, everything in life concerning interaction with others in the same species is called life. A poet may call it a game, gambling, hate, love, and the vast array of words depicting emotion. The human species can do this because we have a higher function of intelligence over other animals.

I came here because I'm addicted to writing and I'm constantly learning of new life situations, thus the game. I hope you and others have started to notice that it is all about me. 'I', 'Me," constantly used. "I feel this way about your poem..." etc. This is a metaphor situation to point out that our current lives tend to be "Just about me."

It has been pointed out that I assume a lot, yes, it is true. But not just me, but everyone alive. We all live our lives on assumptions.

As for experimentation, that is also another word for life. Yes, I'm here to experiment and so far, the data has been amazing. Of all the things involving communication between animals, poetry is the most fantastic. Sure, most animals communicate using smell, bodily fluids or some vocal communication, even humans, but getting past the blur of socially accepted means of communicating using the current form of speech used by various cultures, poetry is a beginning step above the norm. It is a new horizon for a species, and after that, it will be something we currently can't even comprehend.

I know, it sounds like a lot of rambling. But to you and the others I have had communication, rest assured your time spent responding or saying something in reply has not been wasted. Never, not once, will I waste your time, unless that is the way the reader see's it.

It is wonderful you, Tom, Maggie and the others are spending your time viewing what is written and trying to help those who submit. That is another reason why I came here. But I must point out something to you, after doing something for awhile, things get stale, progress gets muddled. It is good to shock the system, stir the pot.

Everyone, everywhere is a poet.
Everyone, everywhere is a common part of the thread.
Everyone, everywhere just may not know it.

Lavonne, you are a perfect example of hope for our species, because of people like you, there will soon be no more war.

What is a poem? By this, it is meant to say, where is emotion, feeling, humanity heading?

Here is a poem explaining.
A perspective,
A view,
It means nothing unless you believe it.
If not, then how would you say it?

Final destination, next stop:

                                                                             The Poem
                   
                                            Restless hearts are searching for words,
                                            for feeling,
                                            for an emotion they can believe in.
                                                                                                                 Just words.

                                            From their beginning, education primed by
                                            a feeling,
                                            contemplating meaning.

                                                                                                                 Just words.

                                             The answer is poetic justice for some,
                                              absurd for others,
                                              yet,

                                                                                                                 Just words.

                                               Restless hearts are restless until restless hearts,
                                               find God.

                                                Is God a Poem?

                                                                                                                   His words.

                                                       A child's poem: as written by a child

Mommy and daddy fight.
All the time.
Sally is my sister and cries because she's sad.
I'm ten years old, and I try not to cry too.
Why can't they stop fighting?
Maybe they don't love us, or we did something bad.
I don't know why they fight,
but I know I love them.

                                                   An Eskimo poem: as written by an old Eskimo woman

(Using English as Inuit-Yupik language is something most people cannot understand.)

grass laying flat dogs run in circles to sleep.
winter coming, soon grass sleeps.
many winters have passed for me.
Maybe this winter I walk in circles.
Maybe I find sleep.

That last poem is kind of interesting, actually. Why not just focus on your own work rather than starting trouble?

This may come off as out of line, but I'll say it anyway. It seems to me that you should concentrate on writing--and on learning to accept constructive feedback--instead of dancing around the editors with crackpot meditations on poetry and the human condition: it's not productive or enlightening, and I'm sure they don't appreciate it. (I sort of appreciate it, to be honest, but not in a way that you would find particularly flattering.) Just my two cents: leave philosophy to philosophers.


Take care,

-O

-O, I am focusing on my own work. Everything I have written so far (with the exception of 'Brutus thou art noble...) is of self creation. And of all people alive, constructive feedback is not a problem for me to accept. However, the means of presenting constructive feedback is a problem I have.

To you, I am a crackpot, personal choice, to others I'm a fool. Everyone judges others. I read somewhere, 'Judge not lest yea be judged.'

For you, this thread is not productive or enlightening. If the editors don't appreciate it, it is their own personal choice and they can choose not to read it, or they can respond to it, add to it, or delete it.

Poets speak as to the human condition, ergo, they are philosophers. YOU are a philosopher. To be able to write about anything, be it poetry or a best selling novel, you have to understand others.



In school, or life in general, watch the hierarchy of education. The means of presenting constructive feedback ranges from,"row harder you dogs or I'll beat you," to "By rowing harder, using the fulcrum of your elbow, we will be able to defeat the invading hoards of Greeks, pillage their villages, and share in the plunder."

The poems I'm writing here are from the perspective of others in various stages of life. You may be a well educated man, able to imagine many poetic situations and using your experience, provide constructive feedback, yet what if you provide feedback to someone else who has a totally different life situation.

Thank you for your perspective and feedback.
I'll see your two cents and raise you one.
Robin

A poem  spoken by relative of mine to his wife while suffering from dementia. I have written it word for word.

                                    You're not my wife. You're not my wife.
                                    Get away from me...
                                    Those are my glasses.

Poem written as if a man of little to no formal education had dictated it.

                                              Coal, dirty black rock.
                                              Gotta dig deeper to get me outa debt.
                                              Boss folk bastards driving big fancy cars.
                                              If I didn't have a wife and kids, I'd tell those sons-bitches to keep it!

Poem written as if a prostitute living on Gebe road in New Delhi India thirty years ago, costing only the equivalent of a dime.

                                                       born as I am,
                                                       this is my way,
                                                       caste set in stone,
                                                       maybe in my next life I'll be shown a better way.
                                                       Kamadeva

wow...I love this thread.

A group of words
in which a world is buried!

A song uttered by pillow
in sleep!

The yaketyyakking  universe
at the window.

the robin inside me says nice, great imagery.
the illegal Mexican immigrant inside me learning to read and write English says,

buried jeans?
I don't have a pillow, sleeping in a bag on the ground.
washing windows for a dollar.

This has turned into more of a journal than a discussion, so I'm moving it to the journal board.

yes, agreed.



                                                                      Discussion,
                                                                      one sided yet there is more to see.
                                                                     
                                                                                        ***

a poem written as if a monk holding to the vow of silence.

                                                              Hearing the power of God,
                                                              what need of man to speak.
                                                             
                                                                 

a poem as if written by a chainsaw carver from Texas who is addicted to drink and dice.

                                                          my morning starts with shakes...god, where did I put that bottle.
                                                          robin gave me some cash but I don't have a problem,
                                                          he's such an ass, as if he really cares.
                                                          today I'll carve three bears and tonight I'll get it back.
                                                          there is nothing to worry about,
                                                          nobody knows I don't care.

Poem written as if a retired Anchorage gym teacher and active commercial fisherman wrote it (Mike, thought you'd escape.)

Poem?
What do you mean you want me to write a poem, that's not for me.
That's what other people do when they don't have a job.
Bunch of 'light in the loafers' people if you ask me.
Are you going to quote me?

(thanks Mike)

ha ha...well said mike!

When you're interested in, but not emotionally attached to, what others think of your work, then you're a poet.  You'll never change a word in anger or shame.  Your primary relationship will be with your poem -- a dance with spectators.   

Yes, I can see that Rick. Unless one is emotionally attached to everything. And sometimes the dance is a knock-down, bar fight brawl with smiley face bandages covering the wounds.

My poems don't beat me up.  They smile on the other side of a chasm and dare me to jump.

Inspiration provided by Rick.

Poem written as if a mountain climber reciting their last poem, both in their mind and vocally.

                                              Chalk on my fingers to maintain my grip,
                                              getting ever so closer to the top.
                                         
                                               I wonder if my girl friend took any pictures?
                                               It is great that I...Oh shit!
 
                                               Aaaaahhh!

Poem written as if a fourteen-year old girl in Anchorage who wants to inject heroin but wants someone else to do it for her.

                                  " High "

gettin what I want is my business,
you chicken, you chicken shit?
come on, this arm,
ha, ha, ha,
aw man, that's great...

I'm not feeling, feelin, feel...
I can't...
uhh
uh

(call 911 man,
she ain't breathing right,
oh shit man, we're in trouble)

written as if the man who did the deed realized the impact of his deeds

Young girl over the past festive days was injected with heroin while her body contained crystal meth, weed, and coke.
Her 'friend' is now in jail writing his own forms of poetry.