A thing that can't be seen
is the beginning of a dream
or endings of a thought
it is and it is not
we think to grasp our core
yet the grasp is what we are

heh, I forced the ending B-)

Beautiful and interesting poem, Rosie

Thank you Dinah. Not sure the others thought so - it was met with polite baffled silence and the offer of a nice cup of tea - LOL!

Believe me, because I consider myself a good poet.

The silence of indifference is usual in many forums. I have placed poems and not even one answer. Not even from the managers

Can you more readily interpret the silence of bafflement? Or perhaps the bafflement of totally incompatible thought patterns? Or perhaps of non matching interests? There are many approaches to poetry and greatly varying thought patterns so why be surprised at incompatibility?

Ted

That´s nice

Dinah and Ted - Thank you for your comments.

Just to make clear however - I was not referring to the response/lack of here on this forum; my remark was about our little group. We all know each other very well and have been boring each other rigid for years! My efforts are usually met with a baffled silence but I don't take it personally. It just made me laugh when lovely Eileen broke the silence and in her soft Scottish accent said; " Now shall I make us all a nice cup of tea?"

As I think I have observed before, humour/irony really doesn't travel does it, although having watched the video that Sainbury recommended today with Laurie, I was struck by the lightness of touch and loving kindness that came over.

Thanks for all you lot do.

The MBT model has nothing to say about art, being based on digital physics. Possibly, art is regarded as egotistic. Certainly, many artists have big egos insofar as they seek fame and recognition. Yet the role and function of human creativity must be recognized by any philosophical system, or it is incomplete.

There is also the issue of what makes a good poem. If it has no true craftsmanship - rhythm, rhyme, scansion, alliteration, assonance, etc, then one might as well call it a thought rather than a poem. Stephen Fry is very critical of "free verse" in The Ode Less Travelled. It has its place - but must work very hard to earn it, or be better expressed in clear prose. Another reason for silence is that these days few people are educated enough to appreciate poetry. Mostly, it goes over people's heads.

Vzam,

Have you read much haiku? Is it any less poetic for its lack of rhyme and meter?

Ted

Tom replying to someone on a YouTube video:
“Yes, creativity is fundamental attribute/function of consciousness. Creativity happens when information synthesis allows a new way of looking at or understanding the information -- seeing new (original) interesting and pleasing possibilities and configurations in the collected data that no one else sees (including one's own imagination as a data source) . Examples: The basic information is music theory, the available notes and timing of those notes, the creative result is the song. The input information was the physics of 1900, the creative result was Einstein's theory of relativity. Collecting and sharing information, imagination, processing, and a creative synthesis of the collected information is what consciousness does. All of this in an effort to lower entropy -- creativity is an entropy lowering process -- and entropy reduction is the most fundamental purpose of consciousness.”

Haiku does indeed have a definite structure based on 17 syllables in 3 lines of 5,7,5, but is properly a Japanese form, where it was written on one line. The haiku is supposed to present a suddenly realized image on certain themes: usually nature or weather. Oddly, Ginsberg and Kerouac liked them, but they will never be mainstream English poetry because our language is based on stress timing rather than syllable timing.

I would say that what makes a poem is the juxtaposition of ideas which creates a meaning beyond the basic and literal meaning of the words. Thus a haiku is poetry. Meter, rhyme and the 5/7/5 form of a haiku are traditional constraints but add nothing to the meaning, only to the difficulty of creation. They exist for the same reasons that ballerinas dance on their toes and wear tutus or tap dancers have taps on their shoe soles or bag pipers have their traditional forms and why orchestras have their traditional instrumentation and repertoires versus that for traditional military bands.

Ted

Our writing group was set the task to write a sonnet based on the Shakespearean or English model: 14 lines abab cdcd efef gg

Here's my attempt written after I "saw" my brother in a Warwickshire pub seven years after he died. I can't remember whether it was before or after I stumbled across MBT and all the wonderful stuff to be found here. But I reckon it fits.

A SONNET FOR ROGER

I saw you in the Chase; the glimpse I caught
was unmistakable: you hunched, head bent,
arms crossed, the biro twisting as you sought
for anagrams and synonyms; content,
with paper folded squarely, crossword up,
oblivious to the lunch crowd’s busy hum
you sat; neat, private, pausing just to sup.
The shocking recognition struck me dumb.
The only thing that jarred, the missing link,
was smoke that would have curled had it been you.
But then you turned, and smiled and gave a wink,
and in that fleeting instant, I just knew.

It pleases me this notion of connection
Perhaps it’s what they mean by resurrection.

Under-Standing

In the pre-dawn dark
I let the earth wash me
With its wind and rain.
Wet diamonds of care
Flew and shattered
Upon me.
Sparkles of night
Born upon chaotic wings
Of unknown meaning.
The lightning's countenance
Fed the clouds with silken, silent
Thoughts of unutterable words,
And the hidden sun
Gave its secrets gently
Through that tempest-breeze.

The light I could not see
Stretched out further
Than I could see;
The light was such that
Mirrors and words
Understood it
And reflected it upon
A stranger's familiar face
At four in the morning.

Solemnity and awe
Like birds
Flew and danced
Under the rain's umbrella.

Silent joy took me aside
And spoke to me
Of deserts and stars,
Planted ivies' songs, and
Muddied rivers of golden
Leaves on
Street corners.

I tasted joy's words
In the same way
The rose-petaled dawn
Caresses puddles
Of fallen, happy rain.