12 Responses to “Is poetry the most difficult art and what is your favourite poem?”
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Is poetry the most difficult art and what is your favourite poem?12 Responses to “Is poetry the most difficult art and what is your favourite poem?”Leave a ReplyYou must be logged in to post a comment. |
December 31st, 2008 at 9:51 am
that’s very deep coming from a guy wearing a builders hat. i don’t know, poetry isn’t my forte…i like spike milligan and margaret atwood’s stuff.
January 1st, 2009 at 8:19 am
how difficut poetry is would depend on the poet’s aptitude.
I can’t draw for s*** and i can write bad poetry which is still much better than my doodles. So is art perhaps a more difficult art? Or what about the art of playing the vioin or some other music instrument?
I would say fiction is pretty difficult to master as well. Perhaps more so? I dunno.
January 4th, 2009 at 6:42 pm
This is my favourite by Nobel Prize Salvatore Quasimodo
On the Willow Branches
And how could we sing
with the foreign foot upon our heart,
among the dead abandoned in the squares
on the grass hard with ice, to the children’s
lamb lament, to the black howl
of the mother gone to meet her son
crucified on the telegraph pole?
On the the willow branches, by our vow,
our lyres, too, were hung,
lightly they swayed in the sad wind.
The Italian original:
Alle fronde dei salici
E come potevano noi cantare
con il piede straniero sopra il cuore,
fra i morti abbandonati nelle piazze
sull’erba dura di ghiaccio, al lamento
d’agnello dei fanciulli, all’urlo nero
della madre che andava incontro al figlio
crocifisso sul palo del telegrafo?
Alle fronde dei salici, per voto,
anche le nostre cetre erano appese,
oscillavano lievi al triste vento.
January 5th, 2009 at 12:04 pm
twinkle twinkle little star,
how i wonder what you are,
up above the world so high,
like a diamond in the sky.
this is my favourite poem because this is the only poem i still remembered!!!! others had just flushed out of my mind in my kindergarden days long back haha!
January 7th, 2009 at 9:04 pm
Poetry is the language of love, it is the pinnacle of articulation and eloquence. It is taught and its composites studied by those seeking to learn of this ancient and sacred art of communicating in words. It requires emotional depth, intellectual heights and an innate sense of writing from the hearts and mind.
The mind is a porous receptive living organ. It produces and pours forth what it is nourished or fed upon. The loss of linguistic perfection in favour of modern day netspeak or American slang is a terrible loss.
Poetry is the voice of the spirit, reaches out to move souls and stirs in reciprocity great thought processes and feelings. Some study it academically, others fall in love with a text and find thereafter it becomes a part of their psyche. It is derided by the media and berated by many, yet as with Gods one seeks a poet who has voiced the individual’s personal feelings and adopts that poet as ones mentor and light of inspiration.
January 9th, 2009 at 6:40 am
The perceived “difficulty” in writing as well as understanding poetry is subjective - it’s based on an individual’s ability and cultural orientation. Some poets simply possess the intellectual knack for birthing off sublime pieces. On the other hand, there are also phases wherein even the most celebrated poets are rendered incapable of making beautiful poems.
There’s a fine reservoir of poems which capture my fancy, largely consisting of Pablo Neruda’s works (e.g. Sonnet XXXIV, Ode to Salt, Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks). Below is a link to Pablo Neruda’s poem collection:
January 9th, 2009 at 8:16 am
For me painting is the most difficult art, because it’s what I’d like to do better. My favorite poem is “MaMa” published in the 1973 October issue of Essence magazine. I remember that poem being colorful, emotional, and full of phenomenal syllibotic expressions.
January 10th, 2009 at 2:04 am
I think music is the most difficult art because you really have to acquire a different language, a technical one, in order to compose, whereas anybody can “write” or “paint”.
I haven’t got one favourite poem. There are too many for me to choose just one.
January 11th, 2009 at 6:48 pm
acting is the most difficult art
January 15th, 2009 at 4:29 am
Who knows what’s easy. I like “Afternoons” by Philip Larkin.
January 16th, 2009 at 9:14 am
its war poetry for me, by Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, powerful and commanding, you have to hear it in some ways more than just read it to get the full impact.
January 18th, 2009 at 1:38 pm
As an engineer, I think poetry is difficult at most times, but they are certain times in my life that writing poems become easier. It’s at times when I was overwhelm with feelings (especially when falling in love with someone or something), that I just wanted to express my feelings as much as possible about the object of my affection.
Well, my favorite poem is actually written by a truck driver named GW Hutson, taken from his book The Naked Truth of a Common Man 101 Poems. His poems are mostly love & romance poems, and it’s a bit unconventional to have a truck driver who wrote poetry (which of course makes it more interesting).
However, my favorite poem is not about love but it’s a poem about an old car, entitled The Old Rambler. Or maybe it is still about love but it’s love for an automobile. I thoughts it’s very unique, and quite refreshing.
You can get more information about GW Hutson on his site
THE OLD RAMBLER
Seventy-nine thousand miles,
that’s what the old Rambler had on it
when Dad parked it for the last time.
It was bought new in 1960 in Phoenix, Arizona;
that’s where I went to school while in the first through third grade.
The old Rambler was new then,
but it still looked like an upside down bathtub with wheels;
my dad liked it.
It took my mother to the hospital
to give birth to my younger sister.
I used to cuss that car thinking it had made a deal with the stork.
Five years later Mom drove it to the hospital
in Caldwell, Idaho, and gave birth to my younger brother.
By then I was old enough to know better
than to believe in storks,
but I gave that old Rambler a funny look just the same.
I think it got even by driving off into an irrigation ditch
but really it was just Mom running a stop sign
and swerving to miss a car pulling out of a driveway.
We got on the school bus on time
but I wanted to stick around to watch them pull it out with a tractor
and chain, but I had to go off to school.
The old Rambler just sits there now,
but every now and then I get an urge to restore it,
but there’s something that stops me from it.
I think it’s just the thought of someone seeing me drive it.
Written by G.W. Hutson
From Naked Truth of a Common Man, 101 Poems