|
12/5/2017 9:18:26 PM
|
|
how do I post my poems?
|
Before I start, by which I mean: Before I ask my query, I would like to post all or a portion of this poem that I've tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to post about six times today. Here it is, then:
"This dread disease that has afflicted my home,
This malady, this plague on my house;
This making convertible the former quaintness and provincialism thereof
Into something wholly despicable and disgustingly homogeneous,
That which is yclept "cosmopolitanism," and "worldliness," and "globalization,"
(Or, perhaps "globalism");
That force of rude power that recognizes no potency but that of itself;
The rising tide of puissant, unfocused destruction that threatens to sweep away all, I damn it herewith and herein!
Let it be damned, forever damned!
It is as a marauding force, the soldiery of a vast empire, invading and occupying
My home, my home! O, my poor, beleaguered, inoffensive home!
Nothing done by it ever to any man, woman or child, but an influx of new citizens
Have poisoned the blood thereof, and the body and the soul and the mind
And the now-infected heart!
They eat away at it like some horrid acid!
These many paths, where once I trod, half of them are gone, stripped of
Their hearty, healthful, verdure and turned into dwelling-places,
Habitations, abodes of the damned for the cosmopolitan hordes who have
Descended en masse upon this once-fair city.
Edifices treasured in my youth are destroyed and swept away, leaving behind Only the ashen remnant; or else transformed into
Something wholly unrecognizable.
Little wharves that lined the verge of the littoral precincts of the community,
They are now wholly disfigured by the dread, ravenous
Affliction of cosmopolitanism and homogeneity.
Where are the streets I used to tread?
Where are the thoroughfares and climes of my remembrance?
Where the environs I most enjoyed, through the breadth of which I
Rambled and gamboled?
'Twas a working port...a place to indolence unknown, and but
Little visited by the scourge of idleness.
Sparta has become Athens, and yet I do not rejoice over the Attic change! Would that the artistic and cosmopolitan Athenian would become the
Toilsome, industrious and warlike Spartan again!
(Never did I think I'd e'er utter those words, but yet I have,
And I would fain reiterate them, even herein, were I capable of
So doing.)
The character of the sun has changed, too...evolved into something
Indistinguishable, hidden, darkened, candlelit and moonlighted.
The sun is a body of potency, and the moon is turgid, opaque, lacteal and weak.
And yet, which one now reigns o'er all that that once I loved and in
Which once I was proud to yclept my dwelling-place?"
Now, that is my poem, one about the land of my nativity and youth and the homogenizing amid the rigors of cosmopolitanism that are occurring to it right now and for the 19 years. And, I esteem it quite good, if rambling and discursive, which all my (and all the very best) poems are.
But the question is this: What is it about this poem that makes it, even with a number of edits and expurgations, erasures and deletions, what is it that makes it so impossible to post? Why do the great and almighty personages and dignitaries at PS have such a hard time endowing to it the boon of life, of liberty and of proliferation, of publicity? Why is this troika of endowments being denied to my mere little species of poetry? Never has this right been refused to any other of my poems, unless it be over the abstruse and minute, regulatory points of characters used or something like that; and yet this poem has been denied all those rights that never one of mine before was negated.
So I reiterate: Why? The whole crucial question here is, why? I simply fail to comprehend why, save perhaps for the lengthiness of the title (which I have since repeatedly shortened to the point, almost, of sheer obscureness and incomprehensibility, and all to no avail), that this poem has not yet been published. Not to mention the fact that its a good deal more structured and focused any most of my poetic meanderings. It is cohesive, coherent, attached to an abiding and overarching theme and whole. It is, in a word, poetically speaking, almost perfect. Certainly it is a more sublime article of poetry than any others I've yet written on here. So I still fail to understand why it's being denied. There must be a reason, a factor, a point that negates its existence and publishing, but what?
|
|
12/5/2017 9:29:38 PM
|
|
how do I post my poems?
|
Being the poster of the former "quick reply," and that reply being nothing whatsoever near or of "quick", nor short, nor brief; that being so, and me having momentarily hijacked this space and this forum and employed it for my own fell and very selfish purposes, I feel that all the viewers, readers and congregants thereof are owed something by way of an apology from me, or at least an explanation, and let me here and now proffer it: I had tried to post a poem several times today and had no luck. In my desperation, I sought shelter, recourse and advice in the "climes" of the forums, but I was unable to locate one that was immediately concerned with and similar to me and my problem, so I tried to make a new one; but, afterward unable to find it, I assumed it, too, had suffered the fate of obscurity and editorial stillbirth that befell my poem, which was the start of this whole mess. Thus, I found this forum and topic and hijacked for my own purposes. I am sorry to have used up so much of the space dedicated to it, but both my stories (especially the latter, apologetic/explanatory one) were vital to tell. Well, now I am done. Thanks for letting expropriate this, however ephemerally, for my own "baleful" uses.
|
|
12/5/2017 9:41:59 PM
|
|
Problems I've Run Into Concerning A Poetic Posting
|
Before I start, before I ask my query, I would like to post all or a portion of this poem that I've tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to post about six times today. Here it is, then:
"This dread disease that has afflicted my home,
This malady, this plague on my house;
This making convertible the former quaintness and provincialism thereof
Into something wholly despicable and disgustingly homogeneous,
Yclept "cosmopolitanism," and "worldliness," and "globalization,"
(Or, perhaps "globalism");
That force of rude power that recognizes no potency but that of itself;
The rising tide of puissant, unfocused destruction that threatens to sweep away all, I damn it herewith And herein!
Let it be damned, forever damned!
It is as a marauding force, the soldiery of a vast empire, invading and occupying
My home, my home! O, my poor, beleaguered, inoffensive home!
Nothing done by it ever to any man, woman or child, but an influx of new citizens
Have poisoned the blood thereof, and the body
And the soul and the mind,
And the now-infected heart!
They eat away at it like some horrid corrosive acid!
These many paths, where once I trod, half of them are gone, stripped of
Their hearty, healthful, verdure and turned into dwelling-places,
Habitations, abodes of the damned for the cosmopolitan hordes who have
Descended en masse upon this once-fair city.
Edifices treasured in my youth are destroyed and swept away,
Leaving behind only the ashen remnant; or else transformed into
Something wholly unrecognizable.
Little wharves that lined the verge of the littoral precincts of the community,
These are now wholly disfigured by the dread, ravenous
Affliction of cosmopolitanism and homogeneity.
Where are the streets I used to tread?
Where are the thoroughfares and climes of my remembrance?
Where the environs I most enjoyed, through the breadth of which I
Rambled and cavorted?
'Twas a working port...a place to indolence unknown, and but
Little visited by the scourge of idleness.
Sparta has become Athens, and yet I do not rejoice over the Attic change! Would that the artistic and Cosmopolitan Athenian would become the
Toilsome, industrious and warlike Spartan again!
(Never did I think I'd e'er utter those words, but yet I have,
And I would fain reiterate them)
The character of the sun has changed, too...evolved into something
Indistinguishable, hidden, darkened, candlelit and moonlighted.
The sun is a potent, overwhelming sidereal body of aureate light and burning gas, and the moon is but a turgid, opaque, lacteal and weak thing.
And yet, which one now reigns o'er all that that once I loved and in
Which once I was proud to yclept my dwelling-place?"
Now, that is my poem, one about the land of my nativity and youth and the homogenizing amid the rigors of cosmopolitanism that are afflicting and prostrating it right now and for the past 19 years. And, I esteem it quite good, if a bit rambling and discursive, which all my (and the very best) poems are.
But the question is this: What is it about this poem that makes it, even with a number of edits and expurgations, erasures and deletions, what is it that makes it so impossible to post? Why do the great and almighty personages and dignitaries at PS have such a hard time endowing to it the boon of life, of liberty and of proliferation, of publicity? Why is this troika of endowments being denied to my mere little species of poetry? Never has this right been refused to any other of my poems, unless it be over some sort of abstruse, minute regulatory points such as number of characters used or something like that; and yet this poem has been denied all those rights that never any of mine hitherto were.
So I reiterate: Why? The whole crucial question here is, why? I simply fail to comprehend why, save perhaps for the lengthiness of the title (which I have since repeatedly shortened to the point, almost, of sheer obscureness and incomprehensibility, and all to no avail), that this poem has not yet been published. Not to mention the fact that it's a good deal more structured and focused than most of my other poetic meanderings. It is cohesive, coherent, affixed to and a component of an abiding and overarching theme and whole. It is, in a word, poetically speaking, almost perfect. Certainly it is a more sublime article of poetry than any others I've yet written on here. So I still fail to understand why it's being denied. There must be a reason, a factor, a point that negates its existence and publishing, but what?
edited by acanticleithinkibe on 12/5/2017
edited by acanticleithinkibe on 12/5/2017
|
|
1
|