From Bad To Verse
Now then I have this what-the-hell for poetry. It just doesn't become of me. And I see no reason why they link poetry to admiration of Nature, Life, Beauty, et cetera. I mean, the whole process of getting awed stops the moment one poemizes the panaroma. You cease the true drinking-in and feeling when you stitch them up in language and grope for words. I bet my fortune (which chiefly consists of some trinkets by way of gifts, fictional scrawls, e-mail accounts and Kindergarten origami, all other material possessions having been purchased by parental monies) that there is a positive gulf between any poet's output and the actual sensations that passed through his bones. I do not say that such poetry is pointless, but merely that one mustn't construe it as the poet's exact mind.
I, for one, can never bring myself to be poetically inclined. That is to say, from the penholder's side of the deal. I am not altogether a verse to poetry... erm, averse to poetry. Like all, I do relish reading good poems, and tunnel through Palgrave's Golden Treasury at will. But composing... No, it is impossible for me to lace into verses what they would call the tender emotions and silent sighs of Nature and grace of women (ugh!). Not my cuppa tea. I simply don't have enough estrogen for the stuff. Such poetry is not my line (oh, pun unintended). The most I could do in this sphere is imagine myself as a merman and sing 'I was standing on the jeans-blue sea, and the beauteous sand-waves clashed on the edge.' No more.
I wrote a poem decribing a rain as seen from the window, four and a half years ago (on 01.11.2002, to be unnecessarily precise), and had the misfortune of reading it. I have a vague remembrance of dashing for the sink and vomiting, and entertaining self-immolative ideas the following week. I vowed never to attempt poetry again, but had to break the oath when the alma mater forcefully sent me as its agent in poetic missions for inter-school cultural contests. I swear I never bred even a germ of the thought of willingly putting out poetry of any variety those days.
I cannnot resist (b)logging this dialogue exchange. Please do let me know if you crack in what way the supplied reply answers the quesion I asked. It's been teasing the old brain for long. Thanks.
Dr Swarnalatha, HS221 instructor: Any questions?
Nirmal : Ma'm, I don't understand why Wordsworth defined poetry as (fingers crooking to gesture quote unquote) spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquillity. Even his own poetry is not spotaneous... Because the poets need to put their verses in a strict meter and so maintain line lengths. They need to choose their words accordingly. And poems with rhyme schemes makes it only harder. I don't think those poems are really spontaneous. So is Wordsworth's definition really good?
Ma'm: Recently there was this.. this.. I don't know if I could call him an artist... There was this man in England who put up a raw placenta for display and called it Art. So Art is all just personal perspective...
I found the poem below from somewhere. I frankly haven't the haziest clue as to what structure it's been written in. It's not proper iambic pentameter, in which case each and every line must be comprised of ten syllables, while here the last two lines of each stanza is made up of only eight, although the metric has been observed in the rest. And one too many alliterations have been thrown in and liberties taken. I think I came across it today in a notepad file on my Windows desktop. Interestingly, the file wasn't there yesterday ;)
Ode To The Computere
From the instant of booting till I shut
Thee down, ally, thou sucketh up mine hours
As dost a briskish bee off a bloomer, but
Yet I canst help adh'ring mine double arse
To the plastic throne and immerse
Mine head in thy witch-tricks diverse.
Thou possesseth a mind-magnet, methinks,
For thou art flaired at fracturing resolves
Of abstinence and control: mine wit drinks
To thy health, mine little fickle heart dissolves
In thy magic brew of cursors,
Icons, windows, files and folders.
Why, thy windows art labyrinths of dark,
For I am oft-trap't in thy folder maze:
Window sans 'Up' button be a question mark
And a cul-de-sac I do fear to face.
But to be netted as poor fish
In them's what I wish against wish.
I, for one, can never bring myself to be poetically inclined. That is to say, from the penholder's side of the deal. I am not altogether a verse to poetry... erm, averse to poetry. Like all, I do relish reading good poems, and tunnel through Palgrave's Golden Treasury at will. But composing... No, it is impossible for me to lace into verses what they would call the tender emotions and silent sighs of Nature and grace of women (ugh!). Not my cuppa tea. I simply don't have enough estrogen for the stuff. Such poetry is not my line (oh, pun unintended). The most I could do in this sphere is imagine myself as a merman and sing 'I was standing on the jeans-blue sea, and the beauteous sand-waves clashed on the edge.' No more.
I wrote a poem decribing a rain as seen from the window, four and a half years ago (on 01.11.2002, to be unnecessarily precise), and had the misfortune of reading it. I have a vague remembrance of dashing for the sink and vomiting, and entertaining self-immolative ideas the following week. I vowed never to attempt poetry again, but had to break the oath when the alma mater forcefully sent me as its agent in poetic missions for inter-school cultural contests. I swear I never bred even a germ of the thought of willingly putting out poetry of any variety those days.
I cannnot resist (b)logging this dialogue exchange. Please do let me know if you crack in what way the supplied reply answers the quesion I asked. It's been teasing the old brain for long. Thanks.
Dr Swarnalatha, HS221 instructor: Any questions?
Nirmal : Ma'm, I don't understand why Wordsworth defined poetry as (fingers crooking to gesture quote unquote) spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions recollected in tranquillity. Even his own poetry is not spotaneous... Because the poets need to put their verses in a strict meter and so maintain line lengths. They need to choose their words accordingly. And poems with rhyme schemes makes it only harder. I don't think those poems are really spontaneous. So is Wordsworth's definition really good?
Ma'm: Recently there was this.. this.. I don't know if I could call him an artist... There was this man in England who put up a raw placenta for display and called it Art. So Art is all just personal perspective...
I found the poem below from somewhere. I frankly haven't the haziest clue as to what structure it's been written in. It's not proper iambic pentameter, in which case each and every line must be comprised of ten syllables, while here the last two lines of each stanza is made up of only eight, although the metric has been observed in the rest. And one too many alliterations have been thrown in and liberties taken. I think I came across it today in a notepad file on my Windows desktop. Interestingly, the file wasn't there yesterday ;)
Ode To The Computere
From the instant of booting till I shut
Thee down, ally, thou sucketh up mine hours
As dost a briskish bee off a bloomer, but
Yet I canst help adh'ring mine double arse
To the plastic throne and immerse
Mine head in thy witch-tricks diverse.
Thou possesseth a mind-magnet, methinks,
For thou art flaired at fracturing resolves
Of abstinence and control: mine wit drinks
To thy health, mine little fickle heart dissolves
In thy magic brew of cursors,
Icons, windows, files and folders.
Why, thy windows art labyrinths of dark,
For I am oft-trap't in thy folder maze:
Window sans 'Up' button be a question mark
And a cul-de-sac I do fear to face.
But to be netted as poor fish
In them's what I wish against wish.
Graspeth I wherefore thine nineteen-inch screen
Was by brainy bast'rds baptised 'Monitor':
For it doth exude a high might unseen,
Addicting souls stronger than might liquor.
May it too be called idiot box,
And be virussed with Trojan pox!
Thy blinking cursor's one vile hypnotizer;
Thy icons hieroglyphics of today.
Brownian Motion describ'th thy pointer:
Never wilt he in single pixel stay!
I wish pups pee on thy Mouse plus
Thy Sea Pee You and You Pee Us!
Thy Keyboard! Keyless problems art her keys,
Each time mine fingers touch her I draw doom.
Thy encroachment of mine suite ruined mine peace,
Advent killed the notion of Single Room.
Loathe thee for these, O Computere!
Yet love thee for these, Computere!
posted by Marlin Jar at 5:32:00 pm
13 Obiter dicta:
Well, creative poetry. But certainly too modern for Worhsworthish classification! If that's not inclination towards creative poetry, then what is? And our director will be really happy the HS Department courses are indeed effective! I dare say, can we expect on more on Linux?
Great work! Keep it going!
And then there came the computer,
and some one, found the right meter,
to compose a poem, that left a crater
neither big, or small, nor for worse or better,
the poem neverthless, made its mark hither,
and for that, my friend, to u this poem, of wrong meter.
and yes, after that incident with my previous comment, i have begun to think, ur computer isnt too happy about ur ode to it...this post is jinxed...
and the previous comment, for it was apart from its flaws, more, complete comment to ur post....
Rhyme, meter, and length,
Let devil, to hell, them send!
Rules are meant to be bend,
Whose ignorance shall not offend.
A vision seen, does a feeling portend,
Whose description, in spontaneity finds amend,
Whose form, with deliberation shall be blend,
And your poem is thus beautiful, my friend!
In tranquility one is by emotions overwhelmed,
Perhaps, a tranquilizer, u shall find,
under every poets behind!
Verily, vivid, must be the vision of the blind,
And truly profound must be, profundity's wind,
That from south blows, and boggles an old mind.
One must wrestle with words, to describe a simple smile,
And in it, is the struggle, that makes it all worthwhile!
"Why, thy windows art labyrinths of dark"
my fav. line in the whole poem.
and....
ahem.... You found this poem?? ;)
Santhosh,
Thank you. Of course I have always believed that our HS courses are most effective. It will be dangerous for me to write one on Linux, for I have little knowledge of it.
And I don't need to keep it going. It keeps going :)
Unni,
Po da kaena! But I liked the line 'Rules are meant to be bend'
Pratyusha,
"Graspeth I wherefore thine nineteen-inch screen/ Was by brainy bast'rds baptised 'Monitor'" and "Brownian Motion describ'th thy pointer:/ Never wilt he in single pixel stay!" are my favourite lines.
Yes, I found the ode. First in my mind, then in the notepad file one second after I wrote it.
I haven't read the poem yet, but before that I had to comment. :) You are writing - sheesh - poetry!! Nice :) Thanks to HS 221. Enjoy!
Very good poem. Had fun reading. Interesting too. Write a sonnet next!!
Good poem in the sense of language and words.
U people, give your classes weird names...it seems as if u are talking of prisoners...HS221..
Prisoners?
Sounds more like names of aircraft or robot models to me...
I''m delighted that an object of my interest for my future could be the inspiration to such art :)
This comment has been removed by the author.
A heroic quartrain folowed by an iambic tetrameter couplet. Hmm. Interesting stanza form, though quite unusual.
Linking poetry to nature went out of fashion with the Romantic age. It was a big publishing gimmick to start with anyway. And all that humbug about spontaneous overflow of emotion and the poet's soul being more refined than ordinary folks' is just another complicated and primitive way of pushing the idea of copyright and royalty. Language is a construct, so all poetry is so, too.
Since you seem to be tired of Romantic poetry, may I recommend Baudelaire?
PS: I'd also like to return the compliment. Nice Blog. Very engaging.
A professional, aren't you? And a perfectionist. I saw your 'complement' in my mailbox and the subsequent rectification.
Never heard of Baudelaire. Shall check him up. Thanks.
Post a Comment
<< Back to the big bad blog