now then, let's go out / to enjoy the snow ... until / I slip and fall!
— Wiki: Basho
:up: I don't know how that sounds in Japanese but it's actually prose in English: "Now then, let's go out to enjoy the snow...until I slip and fall."
Has something been lost in translation? I dunno — TheMadFool
One of the objectives of poetry, as Taneda Santoka explained back in the day, is freezing a particular moment in our life: the sunset, night, moon, nostalgia, parents, etc... Probably this is what we can consider as rhythm. — javi2541997
Numinous,
Back then it was,
Now,
Like a spent candle,
Nothing! — TheMadFool
Blending the techniques of prose with the emotion and lyricism of poetry, the best prose poems uncover subconscious thought with searing originality. Poets looking to break free from form, and prose writers seeking new means of expression, will absolutely find creative freedom in prose poetry.
So, what is a prose poem? What differentiates the genre from the lyric essay? And why might you write prose poetry? — writers - prose poetry definition
There was a connection there between the poem, the poet, and me but it's lost now. Too bad, I wish I could go back about 30 years ago and re-read the poem and re-experience those emotions again. — TheMadFool
Thanks for all of this :sparkle:sorry if it doesnt fit the pattern. I translated it to English by myself — javi2541997
Collected Haiku of Taneda Santōka translated into English, French, German, Spanish
organized by Romaji, in alphabetical order — terebess - haiku - taneda
There's so much here, it's incredible. Need to keep scrolling, scrolling... — Amity
John Cage (1912-1992)
"I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry."
There are no secrets.
It's just we thought that they said dead
When they said bread
The point of prose poetry seems to be to express thoughts and emotions as they flash through the poets mind for the first time; these when ruminated upon rationally become standard prose. — TheMadFool
Blending the techniques of prose with the emotion and lyricism of poetry, the best prose poems uncover subconscious thought with searing originality.
It has to be almost instantaneous, or does it ? — Amity
they just do it automatically? — Amity
The point of prose poetry seems to be to express thoughts and emotions as they flash through the poets mind for the first time; these when ruminated upon rationally become standard prose.
— TheMadFool
Possibly.
From the prose poetry link:
Blending the techniques of prose with the emotion and lyricism of poetry, the best prose poems uncover subconscious thought with searing originality.
I was thinking about how haikus are composed.
If they are to capture a moment in time and still must follow certain 'rules'...
I suppose it's like taking a snapshot ? It has to be almost instantaneous, or does it ?
Or is it more like - capturing a moment in the mind and then 'painting' it afterwards from memory.
A landscape artist who can't paint en plein air might use a photograph of the scene.
But that wouldn't quite have the same 'feel' to it, would it ?
I wonder if the rules become second nature - like our grammar rules, or driving a car - so that some haiku poets don't even have to remember to shift gear, they just do it automatically? — Amity
Enheduanna (also transliterated as Enheduana, En-hedu-ana, or variants; fl. 23rd century BC) is the earliest known poet whose name has been recorded. She was the High Priestess of the goddess Inanna and the moon god Nanna (Sīn). She lived in the Sumerian city-state of Ur. — Wikipedia
On and on and on — Thunderballs
I maybe biased though and may have ruffled some feathers already. — TheMadFool
Plastic bag pigeons
Billow slowly overhead
The soft city groans — Noble Dust
Just for fun, using 'MadFool' because I needed a two-syllable extendable name…
The MadFool, trapped in a cave by a poem,
As by the writing on the wall stranded,
Was martially both right and left handed;
Such he slashed rhythms and rhymes from the stone.
Madfool sights an ominous type of cloud,
And shakes, hearing thunderous rhymes so loud,
Just having survived the meters’ melodies
And scans, with the ten syllables allowed.
He runs breathless through meadow and forest,
Fast pursued by the stings of wind and rain;
On and on he pushes, wild without rest,
Searching for haven from the forum’s pain.
The storm chases him till he can go no more;
He stands helpless, backed up against a door,
But falls through it before death can touch him,
Saved by the library admitting him.
He wanders deep, down the poetic path,
Aglow in the soft beauty that it hath.
He sees John Keats kissing Fanny Brawne,
As he spoke more than words but less than song.
And Byron, endowing form with fancy,
While Wordsworth pens his thoughts to Lucy,
And Shelley, plumbing depths of mystery.
He reads them all; they grow his poet-tree.
Deeper still he probes, looking in on it,
And hears Mrs. Browning reading a sonnet.
Poetically, he takes them all in, even
The shadowy Emily Dickenson.
As soon as the lightning storm is past,
The MadFooler enters the courtyard vast.
Here the secret garden, half as old as time,
Where poets live and write their words and rhyme,
While the nightingale creates the rose,
By moonlit magic, from their thoughts sublime.
Literary scenes unfold before him,
Such as music approaches and surrounds,
And builds on the vibrance which in one is—
To fill with beautiful visions and sounds.
His quick thoughts rise, mist wafting from the dew,
As living dreams unveil more than he knew.
From poetry’s light the garden grew,
Revealing mysterious wonders new.
There MadFool relaxes, up against a tree,
Savoring the feeling of the poetry,
Where all the flowers used in Shakespeare’s plays
Grow together in a living bouquet. — PoeticUniverse
The music of the night is in the breeze,
A prelude borne by the airy musicians
Of the trees: the evening calls of the birds
That open for the cosmic symphony. — PoeticUniverse
Since we all become of this universe
Should we not ask who we are, whence we come?
Insight clefts night’s skirt with its radiance:
The Theory of Everything shines through! — PoeticUniverse
Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera — Amity
Thanks. I love this poem very much, makes me cry every time I read it. I hope the English reads well. — Olivier5
It is an extraordinary poem. I will have to read it again. Did you translate it ?
It does read very well - but I wasn't sure about:
Est redevenue le " machin " qu’on sait
Is once again this "thingy" we know
A minor detail but 'thingy' jarred a little. Why not just use the word 'thing' ? — Amity
As you know I am not a native speaker so I get things wrong all the time. — Olivier5
"machin" is a reference to De Gaulle calling the United Nations (The House of Glass in New York) "un machin" (a thing, but derogatively, i.e. a thing that doesn't do anything). I tried to render the derogative nuance with "thingy"... Any suggestion? — Olivier5
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