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.
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.
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
I love the myriads of mystic stream,
and so I wade into their wonder flow
and drift with them as if inside a dream.
I follow them wherever they may go.
I long to know their depths and be immerged,
to feel them fresh and singing in my soul;
to grasp them well, at times, I can be purged.
They glisten gold as fish among a shoal.
Immortal, they are yesteryear’s. . . Today
they tell the tales of old that never died.
I catch the ones with which I wish to play,
rejoicing when they take me for a ride. . .
When grouped uniquely they can soar like birds.
I’ll follow them forever - shining words!
*Not sure what to put in my note except that I sometimes try to emulate classic poets such as Emily Dickinson.
For the Ars Poetica Poetry Contest of Thomas Martin
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?
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
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
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.
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: brother, 4.25.18
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 what he is able
of the opus he meticulously composed
in the year since we last met,
in the year since he told me
he wished he knew who i was,
who i had become since moving away.
i can still feel his excitement in the message
i received last month once he had finished.
i will revel in each chord progression,
every stylized transition,
any idiosyncratic modulation,
all exemplifications of his desire to see G*d.
let Him be manified.
and i will congratulate my brother,
for i have grown to admire the passion
with which he worships the One Who Loves.
i will ask to read him this poem.
and during these moments, we will glean
a piece of each other that we usually cannot hold.
i think this is what love can look like:
distant hearts drawing near, speaking
a language without words, the language
that lets them feel they are not alone,
not so different after all.
Late duskfall cracks the air tenderly,
wandering on a language of silence
as twilight caresses the breath
of fluid intuition… for when all else
is sprawled quiet, there comes this
certain ambient stream wading on
mouths of reflection, far beyond
the collage of any flushed landscape,
and watching inward becomes a vision…
that learning how to hear a pear or
pebble unravel the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
unfold its leaves beyond unknowing a
need to stay in the moment: and images
passing through calm eyes of any season
is poetry’s way of coming back to itself.
-------------------
*It is in deep silence
and mindful awareness
that the burst of imagination
flows freely.
Thomas Martin’s Ars Poetica
6/3/2015