Long Ars poetica Poems
Long Ars poetica Poems. Below are the most popular long Ars poetica by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ars poetica poems by poem length and keyword.
Stillness of Morning
1. Waking
Covers thrown off my bed
but the morning cast shadows.
I reach for the snooze alarm
but stop—
a new day began.
2. Talk of the Weather
Clouds hide the sun
as I look out the window.
A screen saver shows
on the television—
a housemate sleeps
in the couch.
Wet grass shimmers
from last night’s storm
and I wonder what
the day will promise.
3. Forecast
People at the convenience store
talk rain. They complain
too many storms. Someone
hints at a flood. This late
in the year, I ask.
He says, You never
know what will happen
in life.
An elderly couple
stands at the door.
The man says,
You can feel
the weather change.
My knee aches.
4. Leisurely Drive
I drive along the river
and look for inspiration—
the blank page at home
unsure of what it will become.
The soft voice of a woman
I loved assures. Never be afraid
of what you don’t know
a soft refrain
the day unfolds.
5. Soft Lament
I pass by a cemetery
driving a narrow road.
My tires sing
barely a word said
as I glance at the clouds.
6. Seasons
Summer has passed
with barely a whisper
I am touched by fall.
a raindrop on my windshield
a tear shed.
7. Afternoon
The sun breaks through.
Proud skies colored gold
a revelation a celebration
as I drive home
of the time left to live.
a page to fill
with inspiration
of blue skies
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
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
"Species Nova"
A letter from Horace
today, I read,
he sends his ample
split dichotomy
he’s a writer with
novel ambitions
to shake the world
of reality up a little
make his mark
he will be read
poets are extraordinary
creatures, when extracting
charms and chimaeras
out from their heads
but isn’t that life?
my over self said
sic vita est
sine loco
ars poetica
species nova
from the place of
nothingness emerges
fromless evolution
in laureate nature
stet ante bellum
sine loco
ars poetica
sic vita est
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"He can be lofty sometimes,
yet he is also full of ...
charm and grace,
versatile in his figures,
and felicitously daring
in his choice of words..."
To find a poem, stay close to home, no need for magic, nor cause to roam
If closing eyes and knowing this...the wonders of poetic bliss
Are close at hand, within the air...a poem resides most anywhere
Within a friend, a morning sun, when life is fair, or just hum-drum
It's everywhere, in someone's eye, a tear, or in a lullaby
It's you and me, it's everyone, the ordinary day gone by
A poem is like a tiny rose that starts new life, so tightly closed
But given life, it opens wide, and takes you on a carpet ride
Where magic words come from your soul, a part of you, you've always known
Above the moon, beyond the stars, is not required from the start
A poem is always there inside, the part you share, a piece of heart
_____________________________________
For Contest: Ars Poetica
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)
Poetry sad and artistic,
With words like a mystic;
The art of my verse is beautiful and deep,
My whirling words frantic.
Sometimes just heartsick,
Poems, fragments of life that flow, creep;
Like swirling leaves.
Frozen in time verse,
Writing can be a curse;
Ars poetica entwined with weeping tears,
Heart and soul I immerse.
Tangled journey to transverse,
My destiny to pen beauty is crystal clear,
A whirlwind of words.
______________________________
May 21, 2015
Poetry/Rhyme/Verse/Words Frozen in Time
Copyright Protected, ID 05-676-067-21
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
For the Standard contest, ARS Poetica Contest,
sponsor, Thomas Martin, Judged 2015
First Place
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 Poética (Life’s Ingénue)
I always wanted to die like a hero, but I was never helpful enough.
So I switched to being a genius,
but my time ticked away with the infinite scroll.
I developed a talent for acting and so you casted me
as your life’s ingénue.
Now I’ll be remembered for my endless stream of verses about feeling unmoored.
To live like a poet means to hide the insurmountable
behind shades of gray,
so behind every anaphora, assonance, and ballad
there’s a little bit of you, the pièce de résistance.
And did you know poets weren’t merely entertainers
in the olden days?
If I were a man in Anglo-Saxon times,
I wouldn’t be your royal buffoon.
Instead of being a court jester, I would be tied to the oracle.
So while i dream of dying like a martyr,
my biggest concern shouldn’t be to amuse.
Unlikely to think that you’d suffer upon my departure, my lover,
my owner, my muse.
And when I run out of illusory verses and come to my senses,
lover, you’re on your own…
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.