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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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!...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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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...

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