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Thread: Importance of Poetry

  1. #1
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    Importance of Poetry

    michael redford's 1994 film 'il postino' (the postman - philip noiret as pablo neruda, massimo troisi as the postman).

    "Pablo Neruda, the famous Chilean poet, is exiled to a small island for political reasons. On the island, the unemployed son of a poor fisherman is hired as an extra postman due to the huge increase in mail that this causes. Il Postino is to hand-deliver the mail to him. The postman learns to love poetry and befriends Neruda. Struggling to grow and express himself more fully, he suddenly falls in love and needs Neruda's help and guidance more than ever."

    10.30 min clip - most beautiful, superbly poetic including camera work


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    "Communists love people" - yea right.

    That must have been the counter point of the selection someone found balanced.

    You're right though, it's a nice snip of old cinema.

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    Quote Originally posted by norman View Post
    "Communists love people" - yea right.

    That must have been the counter point of the selection someone found balanced.

    You're right though, it's a nice snip of old cinema.
    you having spoken from the position of 'now'.. but this is a reconstruction of the time, when the oppressed and consciencious believed in the new ideology which would liberate zillions from the schackles of poverty. v mayakovsky, s rachmaninoff, p picasso, to name but 2-3, were proud sympathisers or party members.

    but off topic we went..

    feel free to post your favourite poetry piece, or poetic film scene. thanks
    Last edited by Elbie, 28th January 2015 at 22:44.

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    This is the poem I loved perhaps more than all others as a child. It's by Andrew Marvel.

    A Dialogue between the Soul and the Body

    Soul:
    O who shall, from this dungeon, raise
    A soul enslav’d so many ways?
    With bolts of bones, that fetter’d stands
    In feet, and manacled in hands;
    Here blinded with an eye, and there
    Deaf with the drumming of an ear;
    A soul hung up, as ’twere, in chains
    Of nerves, and arteries, and veins;
    Tortur’d, besides each other part,
    In a vain head, and double heart.

    Body:
    O who shall me deliver whole
    From bonds of this tyrannic soul?
    Which, stretch’d upright, impales me so
    That mine own precipice I go;
    And warms and moves this needless frame,
    (A fever could but do the same)
    And, wanting where its spite to try,
    Has made me live to let me die.
    A body that could never rest,
    Since this ill spirit it possest.

    Soul:
    What magic could me thus confine
    Within another’s grief to pine?
    Where whatsoever it complain,
    I feel, that cannot feel, the pain;
    And all my care itself employs;
    That to preserve which me destroys;
    Constrain’d not only to endure
    Diseases, but, what’s worse, the cure;
    And ready oft the port to gain,
    Am shipwreck’d into health again.

    Body:
    But physic yet could never reach
    The maladies thou me dost teach;
    Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,
    And then the palsy shakes of fear;
    The pestilence of love does heat,
    Or hatred’s hidden ulcer eat;
    Joy’s cheerful madness does perplex,
    Or sorrow’s other madness vex;
    Which knowledge forces me to know,
    And memory will not forego.
    What but a soul could have the wit
    To build me up for sin so fit?
    So architects do square and hew
    Green trees that in the forest grew.
    Last edited by Seikou-Kishi, 28th January 2015 at 23:21. Reason: Typo

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  9. #5
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    I am all about the poetry … great thread to start Elbie

    I started one of my own once …

    http://projectavalon.net/forum4/show...oets-are-doing



    ...Real poetry is the side effect of poïesis. In ancient Greek, poïesis meant “making.” What is made in poïesis? The soul. What is the process of poïesis? It has various names, but in the Western tradition it’s been widely known as alchemy. This alchemy is a deep work of collective and personal transformation and evolution. It is the mysterious union of the conscious with the unconscious, of the pure witnessing faculty of the mind (Shiva) with the electric energy of the subtle body and heart (Shakti). It’s the way that genius stops being a source of suffering and becomes a source of joy.

    ...Any painting or piece of writing or house or garment or nation that was made by a person or group of people who used the occasion of making it as a chance to imaginatively work out evolution, collective or personal, is poetry. It is alive; it has a restless, provoking energy, a soul of its own. Looking on it, enjoying it, teaching it, reading it, hearing it, living in it can stimulate our own souls and launch us further on our own alchemical trip. The result of successful alchemy in any human life is abiding, grounded, ecstatic bliss; creative potency; and joy.

    That which creates is that which is created. Should this surprise us?


    1. The only reason to read or write poetry at all is to be helped on your own trip toward becoming a poet in this strong sense.

    2. A poet is not an insipid person who writes nice verses in the company of polite professors and gets them published to wide-spread approval in pretentious magazines.

    3. A poet is a soulmaker. She’s a dynamic force that radically changes the movement of thought and imagination within her generation. A real poet is a shaman and a healer, a warrior and a scientist, a philosopher and a living dream. She might write some verses or she might not. The verses might be published or they might not. This has exactly no consequence or bearing for the poet’s actual purpose and mission, which is to bring soul into the world, by whatever means available and necessary.

    ...Becoming a true poet, a lucid dreamer in this life—that is not easy, and that is not safe at all. ... It’s vital, intimate, demanding, and thrilling work. It’s an adventure into the depths of the unconscious, into the life force of the body. It’s a descent into the underworld whose outcome is uncertain.


    ... Recognize that there’s no use in anyone reading the written stuff called poetry or attempting to write it unless that someone is herself on a journey of poetic evolution, a journey to become a soulmaker and to stop suffering.

    ... Participate in a course of adventure ... the one that the famous mythographer Joseph Campbell observed as the underlying movement in all myth and folktale. This adventure is widely known as “the hero’s journey,” but ... I prefer to call it “the mythic journey,” ...


    When we consciously, deliberately enter the mythic journey, we begin the work of joining our conscious with our unconscious, and so we become much more alive to symbol and metaphor, allusion and story, character and drama—all this stuff is the stuff of dreams, and it is also the stuff of poetry and myth.

    The mythic journey is a labor of answering our heart’s call to evolve by deliberately engaging with and taking on the challenges offered by our own unconscious.

    It stirs up stunning synchronicities, omens, and mysterious forces in our lives. It is a symbolic and imaginative process but not “merely” so—because as we do it, we find the symbols and the imaginations we meet in our fantasies and dreams becoming living realities out- side of us.

    What Happens Once You Start This Journey


    When we dreamers start to adventure into unknown and magical territory, we become hungry for the poetry of others, wanting guidance and confirmation that the path we’re walking can be navigated. We also become eager to create poetry—in verse or in action. If we’re not actively traveling this path, the poetry of others and the poetry that we ourselves generate is dull and irrelevant. Furthermore, we suffer.

    ... [It is a] process of becoming a soulmaker. Soulmaking, as John Keats noted, is the work of creating our unique bliss. In this process, we liberate our creativity and our joy, our power and our purpose. We become imaginatively rich and spiritually vibrant.

    The interesting thing about soulmaking is that everyone craves it—an enlarged imaginative perception of themselves and the world, a deeper emotional connection to their own hearts and to the hearts of others, a wilder capacity for joy—and yet we have almost no societally sanctioned space for this endeavor.

    Soulmaking is the rightful province of humanities education, as the depth psychologist James Hillman pointed out—yet in the present-day scrupulously secular academy, the word “soul” creates a scandal. Depth psychology itself makes room for it—but how many people have access to their very own archetypal analyst? In my work as a teacher, I brought soulmaking back to the secular humanities classroom—and in the present work, I offer soulmaking to the world at large.

    No matter who you are or what you do, if you’re drawn to the dreamy side of life and you long to create a better world, you have genius within you that demands to be brought forth. It is not too weird, too useless, or too fluffy to go about the labor of transmuting your suffering to ecstasy.

    ...The soul will have its way with us, whether we will it or not. Our resistances to the process of undergoing deep adventure are just our fear and clinging to the surface stabilities of life.

    If you’re clinging to the surface, if you’re afraid and tired and empty and see no lightning bolts of passion in your life, it is possible that you can liberate yourself and those around you by taking up the tools and processes this book offers.

    This world, as the poet John Keats told us, is not a vale of tears. It’s a vale of soulmaking: a place to flame the little sparks of divinity that we are into roaring fires capable of our own unique bliss. Keats suggested that we make our souls by learning to read the terrors of the world through the expansive wisdom of our hearts. This process is an inevitable one—it can happen very slowly, over a mil- lion lifetimes, or it can happen right now, in this one, if the work is undertaken.

    "How charming. is divine Philosophy
    Not harsh and crabbed as dull fools suppose
    But musical as is Apollo's lute"
    The Gift World as the Point of Creativity



    What is the gift world? It’s a subjective experience of life in which your genius is fully supported and welcomed in its expression, and in which your needs and authentic preferences are joyously met by a provident universe.

    Interestingly, the subjective experience of the gift world is brought about when you put your creative power to work in the project of fully supporting the genius of yourself and others through undertak- ing the mythic journey, and when you seek to joyously fulfill the preferences of others in a manner that delights you.

    So the gift world is a bit of a paradox. It’s a subjective experience of life that comes about in part through your making it objectively real for others via your offering of your gifts. No one can be forced to enter the experience of the gift world, since participation in it requires deliberate action, but everyone can be invited to it via generosity, kindness, and the sense of sublime wonder (i.e., awesomeness) that our genius manifests through her work. Another way of thinking about the gift world is that it’s a world that is completely ensouled, a world where connection, love, warmth, and joy are everyone’s dominant experiences.



    http://www.realitysandwich.com/enter...ey_making_soul

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    When I was nipper I couldn't have concentrated on anything more than a couple of lines. I'm not a lot better at it now.

    My poetry has always been the spaces between other peoples objects.

    I've always felt 'entitled' to claim them as my own simply because they were the spaces.

    It's like having a sieve of a brain for names and the general label furniture of life, but being able to dynamically recall every nuance of the relationships between the labeled object.

    For me, that's the great poetry, and I don't know how to label it of write it.

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    ---What but a soul could have the wit
    To build me up for sin so fit?---
    love the poem, thanks



    dianna:I am all about the poetry … great thread to start Elbie

    I started one of my own once …
    dianna, do continue here, if it feels good
    -----

    "poetry does not belong to those who write it, but those who need it"

    Last edited by Elbie, 29th January 2015 at 00:21.

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    Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WL08Q0CKa0



    i partly transcribed

    i am the strange hero of hunger

    ---------------------
    -----------------
    when i talk of the
    the strange bravery
    of artists
    or see
    the light change
    over sea and sky
    every second impossible showers of
    gold
    turning to terrible hues of purple
    and black
    my heart rate quickens
    because
    i am amongst
    my own people

    --------------

    i am
    the hero of all my favorite novels
    i live in them
    and they
    live in me

    i am every novelist
    and every character ever dreamed
    i am everyone of my favorite artists
    and
    i feel myself not one jot less
    but equal to all of them
    turner
    munch
    holbein
    and hokusai

    naturally i have no heroes
    i am my heroes
    i am my brothers
    and sisters
    i feel myself joined by the soul
    with all beauty
    my heart sings with every brave endeavuor
    with the strange wings of impossible butterflies
    with every rock that breaths life into the world


    i stand shoulder to shoulder with
    all denouncers of meanness
    i honour spirit and faith
    and i uphold the glorious amateur
    i am in love with desperate men
    with desperate hands
    walking in 2nd hand shoes
    searching for god
    and
    hearing god
    and hating god

    i am a desperate man buckled with fear
    i am a desperate man who demands to be listened to
    who demands to connect
    i am a desperate man who denounces the dullness of
    money
    and status
    i am a desperate man who will not bow down to acolyte or
    success
    i am a desperate man who loves the simplicity of
    painting
    and hates galleries and white walls and the dealers in art
    who loves unreasonableness
    and hot headedness
    who loves contradiction
    hates publishing houses
    and
    also i am vincent van gough
    hiroshige
    and every living breathing artist
    who dares to draw god
    on this planet


    b childish
    Last edited by Elbie, 29th January 2015 at 18:26.

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    Most poetry i've read is in dutch.
    Here's one thats in english but using some dutch expressions and words.
    read it first when i was 8 or 9 or so..
    By John O' Mill

    There once was a young man called peter.
    Who sprinkled his bed with a guiter
    his father got woest
    took hold of a knoest
    and gave him a pack on his meter...

    With Love
    Eelco
    Have a great day today

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    from wim wenders' "wings of desire" 1987
    (an angel tires of overseeing human activity and wishes to become human when he falls in love with a mortal.)
    ------

    "only the roman roads still lead somewhere

    only the oldest traces lead anywhere"...

    Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cg__WAY_J2Q


    angel cassiel doesn't get to rescue a suicide.


    Last edited by Elbie, 1st February 2015 at 00:33.

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    The Importance of Recycling


    Cliche'

    If you wanted cliche' then you could have asked,
    There is much of that which can be passed,
    Even the seasons are a perfect dial,
    to shine on our hours, and of what makes us smile.
    A chap named Buddha silently sat,
    A wash, a mind of chatter then naught.
    A book, he could have written a second,
    A thought eating itself from within.
    He stayed in pose and brought it all to a thin sharp point.
    Not ohmm,
    Not, heyyyaa-ummma-iggymooooo-ahhh
    But simply,
    It just is.
    And there is nothing more cliche' than that!

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    Aunt Daisy was a 50's radio personality in NZ. Famous for saying. "Good Morning Everyone! Good morning!



    Easy TV

    When the ads came on,
    They had sex on the TV.
    Then danced in the toilet doorway.
    It was everyone's favourite programme.
    For a while.
    As children, they swam that river.
    Unpolluted.
    Reading aloud in turn.
    Imagined clocks as people waving,
    Goodbye and hello.
    Remote controlled ray-gun entertainment.
    Radio waving.
    Of course, Aunt Daisy was pleasant.
    Though we never saw her smile.

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    Senior Member Aianawa's Avatar
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    One delays their death, their gifts and treasures, only to scorn injustice and fakery known because of this, why wander the streets of spiritual scurvy, of I do not know, where surviving is normal, where lying is helpful, just dream you do not even though you do.

    Once surrendered and dead, one lives bountiuosely and free, minds heart in beat with synchronicity, walking alive amongst the dying, offering life, joy and freedom seen in ones choices, oh hush and crawl nearer, holder of chains, you fear me, your past, your future worries, let go and hold power with alone, all will hold your peace, cry, join now.

    Love writing poetry, that took a few mins.

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    Blame.

    I don't know.
    I just cant be certain.
    You see.
    What you've done.
    We did.
    Together.


    Nice Ai. Same here I like to jot things down, these are a few I have kept in some file or other, for some reason or other, for a good bunch of years.

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    Lost all my poetry from when younger, in the earthquakes, may be time to start again lol

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