My Writings

I hate rhymes... it is inevitable that words some times rhyme...If poetry will be philosophy it must tell truth and there is little true that rhymes... If poetry would be fate, and that is sort of its original meaning, of a curse; then let it rhyme... and trust me, that rhymes are a curse to cultured ears if for no other reason than that the thought of the mind is bent into a lie for the sake of a sound...

I'm not entirely sure what you're getting at. 'There is little true that rhymes' - it's odd that you would say that it's the rhyme that doesn't make this believeable rather than the anthropomorphic fish. Maybe you could expand?

People bend the truth to fit a certain pattern, the rhyme that is external to the story, when, since rhymes are a thing of childhood's stories, nursury rhymes, they cannot but be seen as childish... If you want to rhyme, sing songs, and there it is expected, and accepted, and mercifully short... Other wise, it is the rythem, or better yet, the true to life flow of emotions that make a good poem... Look at parts of Moby Dick for example... Even Faulkener... Even Hemingway or Joice of an earlier age... Good writing is always poetry... As art is subject it is in great themes that poetry is written, and there it nearly writes itself... Could any of the Illiad or the Bible not be Poetry??? Look at the book of Job, man crushed nearly to death daring to invoke the God who allowed it for some crust of Justice... And what was it to God but some cruel wager??? Do you see; When Faulkener wrote the shortest Chapter I have ever read, saying: My mother is a fish, he said with few words what you said with many, and tied it to the human condition.

I like rhymes. I think it's best to avoid cliches like "plenty more fish in the sea". The poet might hope that some of her lines might become cliches in the future (e.g. "the road less traveled" or "a rose by any other name") but I find it disappointing when a poet uses an existing cliche. I suppose using a cliche in a poem may have a kind of resonance and can give the cliche a new twist but as a rule I think cliches should be avoided.

The cliche serves a purpose. It was the use of a satirical metaphor on my part.

I've written the beginnings of what may become a short story. I've had the idea for a while, after a particularly peculiar dream. Criticism is good!!

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So there I was: slowly getting backed into a corner by a bull the size of a small family car. The bull was black, though 'black' doesn't nearly tell the story. As black as a starless, moonless, lightless night, with only immense oceans of sky to stare into. A coat as black as the devil's soul, with eyes to match. Oh, those eyes! In the split second our eyes met, his seemed to pounce on mine and suffocate them like some hideous murderer. Creating a stark contrast to this titanic amount of blackness were the ivory-white horns protruding from its enormous skull. Its nose shimmered as the dim light bounced off it - it was then I realised that the bull was without a ring. 'What could this possibly mean?' was the question that flashed through my mind. A ring, a thick piece of metal the owner crudely pierces a bull's nose with in order to contain its tyrannical potential, was nowhere to be seen. This bull was wild.
I shuffled backwards with my hands open and my palms facing the bull, as though I had been ordered to by a police officer, as he slowly advanced huffing and puffing and swinging his head like a pendulum.
'Okay, okay, think, Berg', I murmured internally.
'Think fast. Fast...I can be fast. No! I have to be fast.'
'There's a good boy' I said thickly before darting to the right of the bull towards the nearest place of refuge: the door to the exit; something I could get trough, but not the bull.
With a quick, almost effortless flick of his head (which I thought un-flick-able), an ivory-white horn caught one of my lagging hands. Caught it with a tear of the skin, relieving my body of, what seemed like, copious amounts of thick crimson-coloured blood and creating a burning sensation that charged ahead of any pain I had ever experienced and left it looking like a dot on the horizon. It also created an adrenaline boost, on top of the already sky-high levels, which put the proverbial pedal to the metal.

Urban-fresh-air hit my face...

I don't think there is any difference between poetry and song. Poetry doesn't have to be rhythmic, doesn't have to rhyme, doesn't have to follow convention. It just is what it is. I just happen to be playing around with rhyme. Also, you defeated your own argument by mentioning people who used rhyme. Thanks, though.

The subject matter is good. If you could condense it, it would be better. "Omit needless words." Of course I may be biased. Ever read The Sun Also Rises? Great economy of words...

You put me to shame, Mark! I love the natural references, the kind of man and nature colliding is what a lot of my stuff is built upon. Thanks

Hi Transcend,

Only the proud can be shamed. The poems I've read of yours are worth reading - I intend to read more - Which I NEVER usually do, in case I become influenced by other's styles. I make an exception here on this forum, because of the fantastic people herein.
Don't you DARE ever stop writing!!! And that's a THREAT.

Have a fantastic journey, my friend... And thank you.

Mark...