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/lit/ - Literature

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12462223 No.12462223 [Reply] [Original]

Poems to change my mind?

>> No.12462271
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I wish there was something in life that wasn't about getting money because it infected everything and everyone and makes life not worth living at all.

>> No.12462274
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There once was an anon from /lit/
Who proclaim'd loudly "Poetry's shit!"
Turned away for a mo
And got BTFO
By a frogposter bless'd with quick wit

>> No.12462281

I dislike most poetry. I feel the purpose of language is to convey meaning, and I can't help but feel most poetry does more to obfuscate rather than illustrate.

>> No.12462284

>/lit/ - Literature
Is this bait?

>> No.12462291

If you feel like this, try some WWI poetry. I find the poetry of WWI to be clear in its purpose, and not meaningless word-scribble, trying to be deep by obscuring what it's about.

Wilfred Owen's 'Futility':

Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds—
Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

>> No.12462296
File: 243 KB, 404x507, 1523201204262.png [View same] [iqdb] [saucenao] [google] [report]

>On the Creation of Niggers

>When, long ago, the gods created Earth
>In Jove's fair image Man was shaped at birth.
>The beasts for lesser parts were next designed;
>Yet were they too remote from humankind.
>To fill the gap, and join the rest to Man,
>Th'Olympian host conceiv'd a clever plan.
>A beast they wrought, in semi-human figure,
>Filled it with vice, and called the thing a Nigger.

>> No.12462360
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Holy DUCKING based

>> No.12462366
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it may just be quicker
to call him a nigger

>> No.12462542

it's ok I guess but in the end it's just scenerey. Like watching Planet Earth in 4k on your bluray player.

Where's the psychology? Where's the human depth?

and what the fuck does dear-achieved limbs supposed to mean


>> No.12462678

>the purpose of language is to convey meaning
The purpose of poetry is to enhance and refine this.

>> No.12462698

Go back to comics, you fucking retard.

>> No.12462707

>what the fuck does dear-achieved mean
if you can't even read English I'm not surprised you struggle to engage with English poetry

>> No.12462731

you know, anger as a response to genuine questions is a sign of insecurity at one's shitty taste

>> No.12462764
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the kiss by robert graves does us proud

>> No.12462808

The metaphor is really easy to understand in that poem and contains a rather profound thought.

'He' was woken by the sun every morning but now can't be because he is dead. The sun is able to 'wake' other seemingly dead beings, such as seeds, but cannot wake 'him.' Why did the sun bother to 'wake'(meaning give life to) anyone or anything when they will eventually go back to sleep(or die) again?

There's a shitty literal explication of the poem that took me less than 1 minute.

>> No.12462809

Well how about you post something with real 'human depth' so I know why WWI poetry is lacking.
Maybe some Sassoon

Glory of Women

You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.
You can't believe that British troops “retire”
When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses—blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.

>> No.12463002

then this is even more contrived than I thought.

>Why did the sun bother to 'wake'(meaning give life to) anyone or anything when they will eventually go back to sleep(or die) again?
except that's a faulty premise; individual seeds do not get to "rise up". Their death provides bacterial food for other seeds to grow.

The poem makes no fucking sense

>> No.12463017

>Well how about you post something with real 'human depth'
Chekhov's short stories and plays, Tolstoy's short stories and novels, One Moonlight Night by Prichard

many many more but I'm a budding reader

>> No.12463121

You know that's actually not a bad poem racism aside.

>> No.12463185

>more new anons outing themselves as brainlets

>> No.12463312

I believe poetry is the "magic" of life, the distance between experiencing and understanding. It's like "woah, there are clouds there and they are beautiful and i feel it" vs "the sky is cloudy". Other areas of art and life can of course invoke that experience but poetry strive to be an incantation that will bring you into that state of experience.
At least that is the way i see it. Of course there are kinds of poetry that are narrative centric and all that but i believe my point still stands.

>> No.12463330

It's human to connect with different things, then

>> No.12463347


>> No.12463931

Esl? Honestly how can you still not understand the poem when given an explication?

>> No.12464088

>rhymes love with move

>> No.12464115

Can I see an inverted version of this image please? I'm not self loathing/creative enough to make one of my own.

>> No.12464144


>> No.12464156

>never heard of a slant rhyme

>> No.12464228

Think of it like this:
Clinical - Artistic
Logic - Emotion
Diagram - Painting
Model - Sculpture
Textbook - Poetry
Humans minds are multifaceted. We consume different media to stimulate different desires. Sometimes we want/need to feed our knowledge and indulge our logical processes, sometimes we want/need to feed our happiness and indulge our emotional sensations. We usually go to science for the former, and art for the latter.

>> No.12464276

Poetry convinces you to think and feel at the same time.

Good poetry, at least.

- Rupi Kaur

>> No.12464360

The Motive For Metaphor

You like it under the trees in autumn,
Because everything is half dead.
The wind moves like a cripple among the leaves
And repeats words without meaning.

In the same way, you were happy in spring,
With the half colors of quarter-things,
The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds,
The single bird, the obscure moon—

The obscure moon lighting an obscure world
Of things that would never be quite expressed,
Where you yourself were never quite yourself
And did not want nor have to be,

Desiring the exhilarations of changes:
The motive for metaphor, shrinking from
The weight of primary noon,
The A B C of being,

The ruddy temper, the hammer
Of red and blue, the hard sound—
Steel against intimation—the sharp flash,
The vital, arrogant, fatal, dominant X.

>> No.12464595
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I feel like poetry has much more extreme highs and lows than other forms of literature. Rather than having some form of a normal distribution it seems to me it is either bloated and pretentious or rhythmic and beautiful. I personally suck at poetry, perhaps more so than any other form of literature.

To give an example of a poem I like.

>> No.12465209

cringe pic man
Poems were popular before novels where invented because stories where easier to mmemorize. The press changed that. The first novel was Robinson Crusoe (and my favourite, lol). Poetry died like in the 40s, but used to be as good a s a novel, tellign storiesm, not just being pathethic as now.

>> No.12465226
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I am incredibly impressionable. Chad memes are able to convince of what type of life I should live. Books for this vapid man feel?

>> No.12465278

Hart Crane, from "Voyages"

-And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;

Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers’ hands.

And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,—
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.

Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,—
Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.

Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise

>> No.12465283

maybe you should just kill yourself

>> No.12465291
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>> No.12465380



I looked at that face, dumbfounded. The lights of métro stations flew by; I didn’t notice them. What can be done, if our sight lacks absolute power to devour objects ecstatically, in an instant, leaving nothing more than the void of an ideal form, a sign like a hieroglyph simplified from the drawing of an animal or bird? A slightly snub nose, a high brow with sleekly brushed-back hair, the line of the chin – but why isn’t the power of sight absolute? – and in a whiteness tinged with pink two sculpted holes, containing a dark, lustrous lava. To absorb that face but to have it simultaneously against the background of all spring boughs, walls, waves, in its weeping, its laughter, moving it back fifteen years, or ahead thirty. To have. It is not even a desire. Like a butterfly, a fish, the stem of a plant, only more mysterious. And so it befell me that after so many attempts at naming the world, I am able only to repeat, harping on one string, the highest, the unique avowal beyond which no power can attain: I am, she is. Shout, blow the trumpets, make thousands-strong marches, leap, rend your clothing, repeating only: is!

She got out at Raspail. I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

>> No.12466898

Get a hotel receptionist job that allows you to read all day. Get a one bedroom and remain single. Fill it with all your favorite things. If you must drive, save your money and invest in a nice car that will last you many winters. Eat cheaply but treat yourself to a nice restaurant meal once a week. Don't smoke. Drink in strict moderation, if at all. :)

>> No.12466934

>but feel most poetry does more to obfuscate rather than illustrate.
Fuck. NPCs really exist.

>> No.12466947

Good poetry is excellent and easy to identify as such. Too bad anytime you mention poetry near anyone who likes it they will either smother you in poet recommendations or choke you with their own poor poetry in search of validation or critique. They wouldn't be so bad if critiquing a bad poem didn't usually end up with an authorial response of "you just didn't interpret it right" or the equivalent

>> No.12467097


The metric of this is so fucked up it's painful to read

>> No.12467464

>Doesn't know the degrees of pararhyme

>> No.12467481

Spoken like a true poet

>> No.12467494

It's perfectly fine. Are you retarded?

>> No.12467496

>defending blatant hackery

>> No.12467500


I recently tried looking into poetry to get into it. What the fuck? Most poems are nearly gibberish. Just shit.

>> No.12467535

He thinks every line needs to rhyme with the line directly before it

>> No.12467575

have you read a poem before?
half rhymes aren’t anything new

>> No.12467577

Poems are written for poets
If you were to read a scientific treatise you wouldn’t blame it for being obscure (assuming you’re not a scientist)

>> No.12467578

>there were other hacks too so it's okay

>> No.12467590

>Poems are written for poets
>analogy with technical writing
Shit bait.

>> No.12467601

why are you still quoting
& shakespeare did it lots

>> No.12467603


>> No.12467606
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>shakespeare was a hack too so it's okay

>> No.12467633


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