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Thread: Poetry

  1. #256
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    a focus on some aspect of nature or the seasons

    division into two asymmetrical sections, usually with a cut at the end of the first or second section, creating a juxtaposition of two subjects (e.g. something large and something small, something natural and something human-made, two unexpectedly similar things, etc.)

    a contemplative or wistful tone and an impressionistic brevity

    elliptical "telegram style" syntax and no superfluous words

    imagery predominates over ideas and statements, so that meaning is typically suggestive, requiring reader participation

    avoidance of metaphor and similes

    non-rhyming lines

    Some additional traits are especially associated with English-language haiku (as opposed to Japanese-language haiku):

    a three-line format with 17 syllables arranged in a 5𤪛 pattern or about 10 to 14 syllables,

    little or no punctuation or capitalization, except that cuts are sometimes marked with dashes or ellipses and proper nouns are usually capitalized

  2. #257
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    Blue unbroken sky -
    Sloping black keyboard with dust
    and crumbs in white dots

    original reads:

    Blue unbroken sky
    Black keyboard mottled with dust
    And crumbs in white dots

  3. #258
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    Quote Originally Posted by CORP$EY View Post
    Blue unbroken sky -
    Sloping black keyboard with dust
    and crumbs in white dots

    original reads:

    Blue unbroken sky
    Black keyboard mottled with dust
    And crumbs in white dots
    i think we can all agree the original was better

  4. #259
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    i dont approve of haikus in engish or at least, not overliteral attempts at english haiku.

  5. #260
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    why dont you try and write a proper poem, without the word 'wanky' in it
    or any other kind of distancing or disavowing effect.

  6. #261
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    I think my haiku was rather profound

    The juxtaposition of the unbroken blue sky outside the office window with the dusty crumb covered black keyboard

    Almost made me cry


  7. #262
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    They don't do much for me tbh

    It's an interesting exercise for what it forces you to do and not do

    Like writing tweets used to be

  8. #263
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    yeah i used to love that. tweets are a genuine english lagnuage haiku.

  9. #264
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    I wandered lonely as a cloud
    So then I went on twitter
    And all at once I felt even worse

  10. #265
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    sorry btw i didnt realise you had written those keyboard ones. i assumed you were copying and pasting from somewhere again.

  11. #266
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    I thought 'unbroken sky' was a nice phrase

    https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/...s-unbroken-sky

    I've never heard of this book but it still hurts

  12. #267
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    Quote Originally Posted by CORP$EY View Post

    It's an interesting exercise for what it forces you to do and not do
    e.g. temptation to describe the white crumbs as being 'like stars' - no metaphors allowed though

  13. #268
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    petals on a wet black bough is a metaphor though. it doesnt just represent itself.

  14. #269
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  15. #270
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    the ny times has a daily "poem-a-day" email, love this one from today:

    Essay on The One Hand and One the Other
    — James Richardson

    Consider the palms. They are faces,
    eyes closed, their five spread fingers
    soft exclamations, sadness or surprise.
    They have smile lines, sorrow lines, like faces.
    Like faces, they are hard to read.

    Somehow the palms, though they have held my life
    piece by piece, seem young and pale.
    So much has touched them, nothing has remained.
    They are innocent, maybe, though they guess
    they have a darker side that they cannot grasp.

    The backs of my hands, indeed, are so different
    that sometimes I think they are not mine,
    shadowy from the sun, all bones and strain,
    but time on my hands, blood on my hands—
    for such things I have never blamed my hands.

    One hand writes. Sometimes it writes a reminder
    on the other hand, which knows it will never write,
    though it has learned, in secret, how to type.
    That is sad, perhaps, but the dominant hand is sadder,
    with its fear that it will never, not really, be written on.

    They are like an old couple at home. All day,
    each knows exactly where the other is.
    They must speak, though how is a mystery,
    so rarely do they touch, so briefly come together,
    now and then to wash, maybe in prayer.

    I consider my hands, palms up. Empty, I say,
    thought it is exactly then that they are weighing
    not a particular stone or loaf I have chosen
    but everything, everything, the whole tall world,
    finding it light, finding it light as air.

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