Best Ars Poems
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.
Categories:
ars, angst, conflict, drink,
Form:
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 of “home” and what it means
to each of us as we grow up and reach adulthood
A poem may excite one’s imagination to learn
of people, places, events, and things in our world
A poem may speak to one’s emotions—
love, lust, hate, happiness, sadness, and more
A poem may speak to palpability—
touching, feeling, embracing, kissing, and more
A poem may address courage—
to stand for something meaningful against all odds
A poem may address a weakness—
cowardice, avarice, and even a temptation
A poem may address humility—
in realizing that being humble can be strength too
A poem may address faith—
believing in yourself and others, and a cosmic destiny
A poem may address morality—
as good and evil, right and wrong are with us always
A poem may address objects and images—
that tickle one’s poetic imagination and certitude
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
January 10, 2018 (Couplet)
Categories:
ars, character, courage, emotions, encouraging,
Form:
Couplet
A BRUSH OF ARS POETICA
Rhythmic verses wherein death paints a picturesque of life
or life itself is written in lethargic-dying state:
a dusty stocked vocabulary still cuts like a knife
when done and re-phrased witty, nonparallel and ornate.
Like the azure fluffy clouds parading affront the sun,
its smiling hue of yellow-orange kisses sleeping hope--
softly flaming those frugal thoughts in grace and wonder stun,
remarkable enough to line dream stanzas ropes and slopes.
Strokes cast spells of rattles, rambles to erratic silence
allowing trembles to twang murmurs upon hardened hearts
same as magnet it attracts eyes and ears to your essence
because your speech ushers morals incubating fresh starts.
_______________________________________________________________
***Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Ars Poetica
++Placed 1st++
O.E. Guillermo
2:26 pm, March 06, 2015
***I define art of poetry as variations of light and dark, life and death, pale and vibrant, real and fiction... Writing poetry resurrects life even to a scene spelling disaster and death. Art of poetry embodies every angle aiming to touch the senses. Deep and superficial, all around breathing or not screams/is an art of poetry.
Categories:
ars, imagery, inspiration, poems, poetry,
Form:
Quatorzain
A poem of a poem
A poem may be wonderfully challenging to write.
Why should it be too easy, if it is to be a delight?
Nothing that has value comes without some struggle or a fight.
A poem may flow with grace, flawlessly for our delight.
Why should it stutter, stumble, deny, defy the skill to write?
Anything of beauty and truth should not spite one to fight.
A poem may sit on a page, no need to pick a fight,
Rather, it could care less if it causes one grief or delight.
Something of moment passes and becomes the cause to write.
A poem fights, it writes of one grief or delight, moving,
But sitting still as a rock, unchanged, its role is changing
Everything and always, without rest, its war is raging.
Categories:
ars, art, poems, poetry,
Form:
Sijo
Poesy requires skill and meter,
and a bard of golden heart;
or he will tire and teeter.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
A bard must seek inspiration,
and write with love and art
to create grace with elevation.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
A divine gift from the Nine Muses
and Apollo, poesy never departs
from the bard destiny chooses.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
When the bard's dormant afflatus
wakes, the world will witness the start
of his Muse's creative genius.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Poesy's not for the dilettante,
nor the weak and faint of heart,
the cavalier or nonchalant!
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
More austere than science or math,
poesy demands the mind of Descartes,
and the will for the Pierian path.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Poesy acts like gravity for rhyme:
it keeps it from flying apart
in this universe of Parnassian time.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Poesy is sometimes speechless beauty
that's difficult to express or impart,
like Creation's vast infinity.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Poesy can soothe the soul
at the deepest, innermost part,
where body and spirit are whole.
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Poesy sometimes makes no sense;
but—as in love—be true to your heart:
for it makes all the difference!
“Ars longa, vita brevis.”
Categories:
ars, imagery, inspiration, metaphor, muse,
Form:
Rhyme
Ars Poetica
Poetry should woo you with the subtlety of a snake charmers flute
sway you side to side, captive, held in its sensuous grasp.
The words should lead you blindfolded through a myriad of meaning
allowing you to feel each step, each syllable, each inflection.
Rhymes glide frictionless against the grain of reason’s
attempts to intervene, to interpret a heart.
Every pause a calculated hint of passion’s smoldering depth,
the Yin and Yang of its heartbeat. Cadence should slow the rapid reader,
invite the trinity – mental, physical, spiritual - to dally in reunion.
The start should lead you forward to quench an insatiable thirst,
fueling the desire for more. The ending should return you
to the beginning of your love, rekindle the waning flames
of an appetite – semi-sated – yet still hungering.
6/1/2015
Note – It is the nature of the poet to provoke – not to explain. He may provoke anger, joy, laughter, tears, thoughtful reflection or horrific revulsion. The poet may never know what will resonate with the reader, what the poem will find in them,
what word or phrase will haunt them, taunt them, console them, entice them to read another poem.
Categories:
ars, poetry,
Form:
Prose Poetry
it'd be indefinable and unknown,
especially unknown! and these unknowns,
they'd complete us...
it'd start with a cosmic sentiment,
a serendipity that's bent
toward this infinite-in,
where love in a radiant bouquet
bursting to blossom would begin --
there, where there's a music in you
eager to play in a mellifluous-voice
which only the heart can hear,
and it'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll,
a riff 'round the sound of a whirl'd
swelling with a kiss of bliss,
'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue,
the Poetic one --
it'd risk absurdity in an u n f e t t e r e d language,
divested with an unbounded-eye,
(not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in,)
that'd look and look and dare to see,
the beauty of this conflicted sentimental-reality,
this creative-destruction outpouring
into the middle of things
where good Homer nods
over a potpourri that is the Art of Poetry
Categories:
ars, allegory, art, love, music,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
THE CURE D’ ARS
There once was a Cure d’ Ars
Who wanted to visit the stars
He swallowed some sherbet
Shot off into orbit
And now he’s the Cure de Mars
……………………………………………………………..
NOTE
Jean-Marie Vianney (1786 – 1859), commonly known in English
as St John Vianney, was a French parish priest who is venerated as a saint.
He is often referred to as the "Curé d'Ars".
Categories:
ars, funny
Form:
Limerick
A poem is like the ripples in a pond,
As the muted sound.
Like the reflection of the sun on an aluminum foil,
As the muddy soil.
Like a rain drop,
Dry as the desert crop.
Like the myriad colors in a shaft of light,
As the imagination takes flight.
Motionless like the shifting sand,
As a marauding band.
Like the glimpse of a familiar face in a milling crowd,
As the flash of lightning in a foreboding cloud.
It should grab you like a snare
As a shooting flare!
Categories:
ars, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Freedom is an alter ego like a mask
Behind which censor has no eyes, and balm its blood applies.
Poetry is my freedom when wings cannot fly
The pain of the arrow in my solitary eye ...
You wrote me as a poem, I write you back so I
Can write a poem that invite your poem to tea.
I sometimes see me in the mirror of words
And cannot recognize who I am
How many points of light forms my face alone
Making a fable on the faulty foundation of sense
Are these suppose to be revelations
For I have longings carved like a Grecian Urn
The stillness of that eternity frightens me
Like is a simily ... a wave of action towards a full intent
So many symbols, and everyone alienating
Why can't we tell truth in Images
Like eggs. A cycle from essence to existence
And through all the purposes of each motion
Phases of a common solution?
Mirrors are not reservoirs, you know, they preserve nothing
Let culture preserve what it will
My art shall do the selecting of what the will must be
For I must preserve truly if only preserve me
And do not fear now, some conflict between you and I
That my preservation can be your destruction is such a lie
Broken mirrors make distinctions
A thousand shards point their image at a single eye
But feel, when you cannot see
Feel the universal solution ... for we are only solutes
In the solvents of our meaning
You and I the tangents of a simple circle converging
I love the breaking of isolation
The conversation dissolving us again
Into a common brotherhood, beyond the blundering pain
Our life is fragment of everything now
Politics, economics, physics, dreams and faith
Word is but a mirror before us, the senses little gates
The mirrored shadow has only one moral imperative here
To haunts us till we make it right
I exorcised the ghost that bind us up with fear
And long to break the mirror too
And feel my wings flying in the perfect nothingness.
Wait for me, brother. I am coming too
Swinging on a beam of star, sipping on love's dew.
Measured in unmeasured meter
Defying our partition into syllables of spoon
Rhyming to mate a synonym exactly to the moon
Everything in this solution is never abstraction
Never more a ritual of dump imperial traditions
I shall break the mirror then, the first act of our liberation
And the water shall turn to wine.
Categories:
ars, art, on writing and
Form:
Free verse
I swam in ecstasy for that fire.
Seized me nigh, lo, sweet body's ire
Drowning me 'neath hell's desire.
Let lips dim innocence
In foreplay's cadence
Tis flesh is yours
Forge our warmth;
Devour
Me!
Categories:
ars, passionme,
Form:
Nonet
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.
Categories:
ars, art, culture, fun,
Form:
Light Verse
It is gone from us
Between our fingers like sand
Ars Moriendi
We shall never more
Find purpose or grace for it
Midas immortal
Bartholome stays
In hovels and parliament
The blade shines the sun
O Yeats, it's worse, worse
For gyres multiply like wasps
On the children's eye
The city travails
And in every place you hear
The glass shattering
Something in labour
I can't define its presence
Too cautious my eye
But we shall not find
Not till the hourglass dries, that
Ars Moriendi
Categories:
ars, allegory, war,
Form:
Senryu
Ars Poetica In Wire And In Cage
Some say that poetry, like God, gave birth to itself
Peculiar notions not meant for human consumption
Words settle well in vast tracks of time
Digested universes know them by their sound
Poetry lives inside live wire
Flows on electric currency
Structures cages, woven words, unheard
Takes measurements to find meaning
Anything can sound like poetry
There is no overtime when you create new things
Created on 6/02/15 for “Ars Poetica” Poetry Contest – Sponsored by: Thomas Martin
Categories:
ars, adventure, age, creation, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
A poet shouldn’t write what others want to hear,
One must not feel intimidation, nor fear.
A poet must write about his own experience
He should capture his own life’s true essence.
At nearly nineteen years of life I’ve learned,
A true artist’s voice is not pleasant to be heard.
A poet’s life truly is nothing to be desired,
A poet doesn’t have a job, he never gets hired.
Any man can live a life plain and normal,
But being a poet is much more exceptional:
Telling your thoughts with no care in the world,
You can freely make your voice be heard!
Categories:
ars, on writing and words,
Form:
Rhyme