Ars Poems | Examples

Yeah Right

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

Story Structure

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 each, the writer brings them to life with every stroke of the pen. Gradually easing the reader into the main body of the story. 
Building page, by page, and chapter, after chapter, 
until the readers are unable to restrain themselves from turning the next page. 
Slowly the reader becomes the main character. 
Living every moment, feeling every pleasure, pain, and sorrow as slowly the reader reaches the climax. Then after the reader is spent, the writer eases the reader down slowly with the epilogue. 
Ending the story with the reader in the afterglow of the tale. 


By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison

Poet: ARS Poetica form

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 to be had
I lay myself bare to you
an empty page
just awaiting the
spill of your ink.

©SamHarty

His Epitaph, Short and Snappy

They nagged him till he'd had enough.
His one remaining joy was snuff.
Beyond the post that ends his race
he has found a better place.
This is no time to joke or laugh
but to write his epitaph.
Art is long but life is short.
I lack the time to more report.
Short and snappy were his days,
short therefore to him my praise.

Emagi Macleish Ars Poetica

Archibald MacLeish 'ARS POETICA'

    E                                E
      
         M                    P
     
                     A

          H                  G

     S                                I

Ars Poetica

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: I swallowed strawberry
sunsets and ate the pithy vernal blossoms of childhood.

I even drank the recommended 36 ozs of filtered water
every day. Years later now, its branches weave their way to my brain

alongside curious blue blood. Apricot juice seeps 
into my veins and fills my body with sweet, yellow-orange

nectar. Fruit falls out of my mouth, staining snow white pages
in splotches of nostalgia each time I sit down to write.

Ars Poetica

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 crying baby
at the 3 o’clock movie theater.
Poetry is a young boy in the park,
battered by curiosity, in a fight to the death
with furry flowers, their guts filling the air
with each oaken swing.
Poetry is giving a nod to the mailman.
Poetry is the unintentional eavesdropping
of the worst idea for a screenplay
ever fielded.
Poetry is the gait of a man recently
in love, thinking of hands
suddenly adored.
Poetry is the enigmatic ether that fills
the summer air so thick you have
so do the breaststroke just to 
get back home.
And how can you ever think to write it
if you are stuck inside behind
grating blue screens or
painfully white paper?

Ars Artis Gratia

If a poem you find you cannot write
Don't struggle with it all through the night
Concentrate in the day on what you can do
That way your talents will surely shine through.

Ars Longa -- Vita Brevis

Living musicians compose
      
     Dead musicians decompose



    The title is Latin for:
   'Art is long; life is short'

Ars Longa

Ars Longa

It finally happened!
Someone in the East Wing
Goateed a Madonna and redid a Rembrant
a la de Kooning.

A blond with Vogue patterns
is crouched on the hall--
She's eyeing a Van Gogh
eyeing her from the wall.

We judge from the blushes
of blue-rinsed ladies in fur
Rude comments were made
on the audio tour.

The guards commandeer
Donatellos for targets
and are cleaning their pistols
with snips of Vermeer.

The staff in the Art Shoppe
is selling originals
and hanging the copies
in Gallery Five.

They're burning the Monets
they've tattooed Apollo,
crowds clamor outside 
to get in on the fun.

Cars circle the gallery
in infinite coils--
curbside parturitions
here a boy there a girl.

Ars Economica

The wheelbarrow of Prince Prospero
pushed straightaway, like an arrow
it's passengers a motley farrow
not worth much more than a sparrow
it's aim and goal so very narrow
'tis horrifying to the marrow

Fighting Back After Ars Poetica

Poetry is supposed to shake your soul until you beg it to stop;
It has to give you nightmares and make you scared to fall asleep;
It should leave your heart black and blue and bloody and broken;
It has to leave the marks from the poets’ hands around your throat
bad enough you can’t swallow your own spit and your mouth is dry and rusty.

Poetry has to reach in to your stomach and pull your intestines into your chest;
Poetry has to tie you to a chair and beat you till you go unconscious;
It has to make you scream enough is enough;
It has to make you want to fight back for your life as brutally as you can!
It has to give you the tools to make you a survivor.

It has to be powerful enough to make a change in your mind;
Gentle enough to give you hope of possibility;
And it has to resonate enough to lights a fire in your heart.

If poetry doesn’t make you want to stand up and change things 
then it deserves to die untouched, unloved, unfelt, untold.

Quien Sabe Su Nombre,Ars Poetica

I saw him in my dream
Or my dream saw him.
Girded in instructions,
Sitting opposite as a timed
adder. Listening to my glottis
spray,enchanting words elating
his heart and whipping his ear.
Diverse heads held many heads:
Head with debt and some deposited death.
Sat i with him in closure,
Pushing my lips forward for enclouse:
'I'm a poet',and all of that i've said.
But was veiled yet to me that he had a news.
For so long had i been loquacious,
He pushed forth his words: tentatively audacious.
And like the purposed wind flew.
His product did my brain told me audibly,
But when my eyes untrust themselves,
My brain seemed mute.
He'd said: 'Their is a female poet in hebrew 
Her name is 'monume?'.
I'm i sure i got the name.
Even there lies the mistake.
Just returned from hoping around the air,
And the air refused to bear the burden faithfully.
Or you know the name:
That poet of strangling fame?
Ho me,if thou do,
Maybe she's hidden by her variant skill.
Or nature pleaded to have her in her bossom.
'Monume?'

Quien Sabe Su Nombre,Ars Poetica

I saw him in my dream
Or my dream saw him.
Girded in instructions,
Sitting opposite as a timed
adder. Listening to my glottis
spray,enchanting words elating
his heart and whipping his ear.
Diverse heads held many heads:
Head with debt and some deposited death.
Sat i with him in closure,
Pushing my lips forward for enclouse:
'I'm a poet',and all of that i've said.
But was veiled yet to me that he had a news.
For so long had i been loquacious,
He pushed forth his words: tentatively audacious.
And like the purposed wind flew.
His product did my brain told me audibly,
But when my eyes untrust themselves,
My brain seemed mute.
He'd said: 'Their is a female poet in hebrew 
Her name is 'monume?'.
I'm i sure i got the name.
Even there lies the mistake.
Just returned from hoping around the air,
And the air refused to bear the burden faithfully.
Or you know the name:
That poet of strangling fame?
Ho me,if thou do,
Maybe she's hidden by her variant skill.
Or nature pleaded to have her in her bossom.
'Monume?'

Ars Poetica

A poem should be smooth and flat
As a jagged rock
A poem should wander
As well as be expected
Wandering through a mind
Still minding it's own business
A poem should laugh and cry
As we wade through tiered rivers
A poem should drown us
As we take in breath
Liquid life forming gills
Filtering our bottled fear
A poem should be intoxicating
As cutting as a broken glass

I'm not sure if I understand the form but I gave it a go.

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