Ars Poetica Poems - Poems about Ars Poetica

Yeah Right If poetry is so easy to write, drop a Choka, tercet, or a quatrain slight. So remember the rules and keep things tight, let’s see how easy it is to get right. By Josehf Lloyd Murchison...

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Hydration day’s a month away. Online belonging company’s an hour from startup stardom. Titration hors-d'oeuvre Viewfinder pigeonholed to rooftop tourist traps ruin’d carriage holy woods Hollywood's margins, Carousel 13. Things You’ll Bury: molasses sourdough flowers crypto- currency marginalia Lost (Bach set) ghouls in blockchain interdigita. Me, if I’ve missed anyone, LL cool j.— < so. jersey. kühl...

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Story Structure Some writers leave a story at the climax, like an adolescent male leaving the reader not totally satisfied. Other writers never bring the reader the climax, of their story. Good writers take the reader with them. They start the story with an introduction to the body of characters. Learning every nuance and curve of...

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you say I am a poet I tell you I am nothing you say I craft words I tell you I build nothing you look confused imagine how I feel that with a mere smile the raise of an eyebrow you push the words right onto me that's right don't you see now I am your paper you are 1000 words waiting to be written 100 feelings waiting...

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Archibald MacLeish 'ARS POETICA' E E M...

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I swallowed an apricot seed when I was younger. Everyone told me it was hard work to grow fruit trees especially when winter marches south and tries to pry all those tiny orange dots from stubborn wooden hands. I kept it safe, though, tucked away in the pit of my stomach where despair and embarrassment lived. I fed it reassurances:...

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Poetry is a busy crosswalk downtown, when everyone moves together with elbows held a little wider than normal. Poetry is a middle-aged man, creased and folded, sprawled out on the neglected weeds in Woodruff park, eyes wide shut. Poetry is the free fruit for children podium in between the produce and clearance aisles, oranges and apples withered to marbles. Poetry is a...

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someday, he will sit stiff on our piano bench to which he has grown accustomed, and i, home, will sit nearby in our cozy armchair, an old accomplice to my posture. i can’t remember the last time i saw him relax this boy, this impossibly-almost man. he will play me...

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beMUSEd by Michael R. Burch Perhaps at three you'll come to tea, to have a cuppa here? You'll just stop in to sip dry gin? I only have a beer. To name the "greats": Pope, Dryden, mates? The whole world knows their names. Discuss the "songs" of Emerson? But these are children's games. Give me rhythms wild as Dylan's! Give me Bobbie Burns! Give me Psalms, or Hopkins’ poems, Hart Crane’s, if he returns! Or...

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State of the Art (IV) These are my "ars poetica" poems about the art and craft of writing poetry. Hearthside by Michael R. Burch “When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” — W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend...

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State of the Art (III) These are my "ars poetica" poems: the ones about the art and craft of writing poetry in a modern world that doesn't always recognize the artists or their work. Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill...

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State of the Art (II) These are my "ars poetica" poems about the art and craft of writing poetry. What the Poet Sees by Michael R. Burch What the poet sees, he sees as a swimmer ~~~~underwater~~~~ watching the shoreline blur sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ... Both worlds grow obscure. In Praise of Meter by Michael R. Burch The earth is full of...

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Ars Poetica Horace circa 19 BC gave some sound advice to poets on the art of writing poetry and drama. The following thoughts may echo in our minds, most likely, the intent of what he may have meant . . . A poem may excite and delight readers with its imagery, meaning, metaphors, and so much more A poem may speak...

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The Making of a Poet by Michael R. Burch While I don’t consider “Poetry” to be my best poem—I wrote the first version in my teens—it’s a poem that holds special meaning for me; I call it my ars poetica. I also consider the poems that follow to be ars poetica verses. Poetry Poetry, I found you where at last...

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Poetry Poetry, I found you where at last they chained and bound you; with devices all around you to torture and confound you, I found you—shivering, bare. They had shorn your raven hair and taken both your eyes which, once cerulean as Gogh’s skies, had leapt with dawn to wild surmise of what was waiting there. Your back was bent with untold...

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