Pattern Patter Down Pat
Patterns form from harmony as verse
Attempts translation of emotions' span
To teach, to reach, to leach words' worlds, to fan
The essence of poetics and rehearse
Essential feelings crafted in lines terse.
Rare care, share sense, spare no expense to ban
Needless screed as witless also-ran
Empty ego's petty prose, immerse
Depth giving strange change range, fop's sops disperse.
Vantage point: holistic perspective scan,
Empower imagination's dripping pan.
Revise, re-draw, re-edit, intersperse
Strong rhythm, alliteration, stay on track
Expressing ideas ideally, pattern pack.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Words Woven - Parody Mary BEULEY - Words Woven
Words woven into speech
soon reach
intact thread spirit of each act,
knit warp and weft of wit wish fact,
dreams' tapestry may teach.
Words express essentials,
transmit, unwind
from mind to mind,
address ideas which, blind,
would grope for means to equate
sensations refined,
coarse, sophisticate.
Thus they incarnate
emotion's multi coloured coat, pattern twist
around ideas which form,
unform,
inform or disinform,
or take by storm
precisely or by gist
the geist soul kissed.
Words woven into speech
pen hand,
when scanned
from thoughts’ life blood leach
emotions, sense, dressed to suit
points phallic and points mute,
ideo-grand!
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY 1837_1916 written 12 December 1995 – Words Woven revised 31 July 2008 notably first verse below
Words woven into speech
soon reach
to knit the spirit of each act,
the warp and weft of every fact,
through dreams to teach.
______________
Words Woven
Words woven into rhyme
In time
Become a tapestry of thought
A canvas of experience in which
Our dreams are wrought.
Words are the evidence of what goes on
communicate
Within the mind.
They clothe the invisible
With robes of speech,
Sophisticated as silk,
Homespun as hessian,
And in between
The many-patterned, many-textured range,
Familiar and strange,
Of words -
Woven and dyed and spun
For Fun
Or seriously aware
Of what is there.
Words woven into rhyme
Or prose
Transpose
Giving the tiny embryo of thought
A dress to wear, most delicately wrought,
And caught for ever in a form know
And understand.
Mary BEULEY 1837_1916
© Jonathan Robin Parody Mary BEULEY written 12 December 1995
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Chapter and Verse 1023 - Current Version
Chapter and verse in sonnet setting here
have sought to recognize beyond all speech
effects and causes, time-lines over-reach,
encapsulating thoughts as they appear.
Words inked together in attempt sincere
to link youth to maturity may breach
distances so all evolve to teach
themselves to learn from others, spirit clear,
crystalline, to thought-waves tuned, to steer
ideas along chord patterns chorded - each
enabled [not empowered, not to preach].
Understanding overcomes false fear.
Emotions, once interpreted, translate
into emancipation, share, create.
(21 March 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Inscription from Free Verse Free - 1548
Read rare response in script alliteration
Ease of flow's quintessence with insight
Sharing sows, - no picayune tune blight,
Or spilt ink despite modernization,
Nor undecided prose pose-pour oration.
As mannequins, lines anorexic quite
Try vers libre leaf on verse tree's bright delight
Each unaware in French 'vers' true translation
Shows 'stripped' 'line' 'worms' 'to', 'at', 'round' 'verse' narration.
Concentrate as resonate wor[l]ds light
Resplendent in their story's glory's flight,
Ideas spin through this contest dedication.
Pictures metaphorical employ
Threads, word bank rich, in stitches this enjoy.
(2 January 2007)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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What Mission Now?
What mission may the poet still retain
Here in this day and age, which sees the world
As lost as ever, while mankind is whirled
Too fast, and at a pace few can sustain.
Most mask their feelings, shield themselves from pain,
In hope that though no psalms are skywards skirled
Some light can filter through cocoons which, curled,
Shut out most aspirations, which remain
Ideals Man thinks he ought to seek. In vain
Or so it seems, the flag of hope unfurled
Now braves the insults philistine which, hurled,
Nor spare nor temper the poetic vein.
One voice, when clear, will break the glass of Time,
What matter if in free-verse or in rhyme?
Whenever rhyme is crafted on ideas
Heart tunes to rhythm, can effect enhance
Allowing invitation to a dance
That adds dimensions in way that clears
Muddy waters - often verse appears
In ways which heighten, lighten, help advance
Subtle emphasis where words through Chance
Seem to stream together. Inner ears
Intuitive may key to song that steers
Over prose bound limits, elegance
Neat meanings adding through rhyme's happenstance
No forms need hamper thought where heart heart cheers.
Open mind behind the [t]racing pen
Will channel words creating worlds again...
poem by Jonathan Robin
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There's Solace In Verse
A song's but a way of telling a story,
It can be about love even sadness or glory,
Whatever the lyrics you can guarantee,
By singing those words you can set yourself free.
While listening to music be it night or day,
The song takes you over you get carried away
Before you know it you are singing along,
You become that person, the singer of that song.
When you're writing the lyrics ensure they're kept terse,
For that's when you will find,
‘' There's Solace In Verse ''
That's the wonder of music regardless of type,
It makes you feel good you believe all the hype,
A song can lift you when you're feeling grief,
If you need cheering up it will bring you relief.
That's the wonder of music for like it or not,
It stirs up a feeling which just cannot be bought,
Next time you feel down if you just want to cry,
Put on some music go on give it a try.
Before you know it those thoughts will disperse,
Very soon you'll believe,
‘' There's Solace In Verse ''
So become a believer play your favourite song,
If you don't feel the vibes you can say I was wrong,
But that won't happen for I know that it's true,
When you play the right music it will happen to you.
From that special feeling you will not want to hide,
It will change your perspective; it can turn the tide,
Before you know it your life has unfurled,
You'll be back to your best, on top of the world.
In the lyrics and music you will soon immerse,
It's then you'll have learned,
‘‘ There's Solace In Verse ‘'
In Pursuit of a Poetry Prize
I’m constructing a poem in a strategic new way.
So they won’t comprehend what I’m trying to say.
For a poetry contest with a fabulous prize,
I studied what seems to attract judges’ eyes.
I was reading the ones recognized in the past,
seeking form and design for the words I will cast,
when I noticed a pattern, a key to their prose,
illogical thoughts in unorganized rows.
The first verse confuses, that’s part of the game.
The second verse vague, just more of the same.
Like, “In the beginning the ending was near, ”
or, “We basked in an ardent recollection of fear.”
They conclude with some incomprehensible phrase,
like, “The prolific embrace of our foregone days.”
Ideas aren't finished in these literary events,
and it seems they avoid any words that make sense.
When they don’t understand, it becomes a deep thought.
In depth they will ponder what meaning was sought.
They'll scoff if you've written a limerick or rhyme,
then cast it aside as a waste of their time.
I'll likely be banned, or be forced to concede,
but I'm sharing the secret it takes to succeed;
Don't stress over structure or fret about flow,
use thoughts you don’t have and words you don’t know.
poem by Kevin Pace
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My poems is not Poetry
My Poems are not Poetry
Poetry rhythm is essential part
Communicative act of rhythms
Where words created music
An effect on the reader’s and listener
Words beginning with the same letter
And achieve a poetically effect.
My Poems has no rhythms
For the first time I don’t know
What to say and how to show.
Many words is not my style
Let me say, I like your smile
I don’t think I should like you,
Unfortunately I do.
I'm not sure now how to write
I lost my idea how, where words
Are used in away similar
Creating Music, where you find
Languages of rhymes
I write Prose but not Poetry
Using a regular rhythm
Where vast majority
Of languages spoken and written.
I try to be a barn, the muses were believed and inspire
I try to hard without success,
you already know, I guess.
Anyhow, it doesn’t matter
Usually I do not write
Things like this, I never tried,
for the first time I don’t know
what these lines should say or show.
Allegory, metaphor equated
Meaning lie outside the narrative
Acrostic phase when read together
Alliteration words same letter for poetical effect
Satire is a form of humour
Limerick is a short humorous poem.
And Honestly, I don’t regret
Things I did and words I said.
7. January 2008
poem by Mary Wismer
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Poetry Has A Rhythm Of Its Own
POETRY HAS A RHYTHM OF ITS OWN
Poetry has a rhythm of its own
I have lost it
I have words
I have sentences
But I have no rhythm-
I have flat lines
One after the blank other
A mind without depth
A sense of lack
But no real way
Of making a music of poetry
All my efforts now
Are like these lines
Without resonance
Simple and single in meaning
Not what a poem at its best
Should be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Post Tops Stop Spot - Anagram Verse
GLEAN from ANGEL we derive
WINGS which SWING, keep hope alive,
FORM FROM patterns living spread,
surviving though some seem as dead.
DARE READ between the lines instead
of mixing in and out - DEAL LEAD
by first impressions, TALE LATE found
containing, CHUM, so MUCH profound.
TEAM-MATE, when penning prose or VERSE
SERVE ideals high, FILE LIFE, rehearse
LIVE, - who OPTS POTS VILE underground
SPOT all TOPS POST, clocks STOP unwound.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Offspring - 0242 - Current Version of Once
True offspring of pure poet's pen
As unclaimed orphans wait till when
Life's links are stimulated, trace
Each ph[r]ase in roundelay's embrace.
Once catalyzed, and only then,
Find we without tri[s]te mise en scène,
Purity Time can't deface,
A note in tune with Time and Space.
Reality? Hallucinogen?
As senses swirl clock seems suspen.
Drawn in, laid out, both breath and verse,
Impact intense all should rehearse,
Subject of, to, experience?
Echo imagination, sense?
Reflection fair? rhyme? prose perverse?
Epic dramatic, haiku terse?
Flow grows at nobody's expense,
Links old to new with no pretence,
Extending themes, dreams universe
Creative. Centuries traverse
To future from the present tense,
Sustains ideas, ideals immense.
Underwriting bards of old
Pure poetry need ne'er grow cold,
Of course, new meanings may appear,
Need reference points, text should stay clear
Providing into story told
Outstanding insight all behold
Excluding copies insincere
That plagiary posts to pay small beer.
Refusing censor's stranglehold,
Your poet chimes rhymes manifold.
(2 September 2009) Offspring - 0242 - Current Version of Once
Acrostic Tale of Paradise Reflects Upon Poetry
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Can You Hear Me?
Inspired by inspiration
A pen bleeds emotions ink
Saturating page in prose
As a parched palate, in need, have drink
Fluent, fluid, a liquid thought
Invisible until written free
Exposing itself in lettered form
Each line molding, what's soon to be?
Words oozing with vivid imagery
Capturing reader within its clasp
Eyes hearing, ears capturing site
A shared experience within words grasp
Inspired by Inspiration
A pen bleeds emotions ink
Drizzling, doodling, dripping
Ideas, can you hear me think?
poem by Wendy Bureau
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Poets on Poetry: a collage
she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.
You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.
Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…
Words…words...
I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.
In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.
Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip
Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.
A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…
But be.
You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism
A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.
Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.
Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.
Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.
A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.
That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.
I, too, dislike it at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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46
she, too, dislikes it, because it gives her the feeling as though
her head is taken off, makes her body cold so no fire can ever
warm her again. One does not look on poetry as a closed work, the poems go on and on
at all times on one’s head, and snip off a length.
You mush remember the homely definition,
Poetry is the best words in their best order, words in their nth power.
Bony ideas, bloody nerves, held together by the delicate
Tough skin of words…
Words…words...
I agree, I have never started a poem where I know the ending
Always the ending is unpredictable.
Poetry is your personal
Expression making it public, a revelation, a revolution of sort, you throw a pebble to the world.
In essence, poetry is an emotion, said, written in measured motion,
And that motion is an art.
Drip pity, drip pity, drip drip drip drip
Like a dripping rain, from a leaking roof, while one sleeps
To its rhythm.
A wording of highest thoughts, appearing as a
Remembrance, it does not really mean anything, it is simply magical…
But be.
You make a poem, but the reader recognizes it as his own,
But there is no accusation of thievery or plagiarism
A sea animal, evacuating to land, and now wanting to fly in the sky, that is poetry.
Making familiar things rare, as though they are
Not familiar anymore.
Giving habitation to airy nothing.
Giving nothing to everything.
Giving a nobody a nice home like he is now a somebody.
The invisible, made visible, and the visible made invisible.
A quarrel within himself.
In his tranquility, he recollects powerful feelings, and give in
To an spontaneous flow of giving.
That is poetry. Giving, and always giving, no taking, nothing taken.
I, too, dislike it at first.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Prophet And The Poet: Parallelism In Biblical Poetry
Is one-third
of Biblical Old Testament
written in poetry?
Entire books Job Psalms Proverbs
the Song of Solomon Lamentations
except for short prose sections.
Large portions of Isaiah Jeremiah
the writings of Minor Prophets
adhere to poetic form and content.
Observe three main divisions
of an inspired Old Testament
the Law the Prophets the Writings
all contain prized poetry
in exultant larger amounts.
Why did God choose poetry?
Why do seven Old Testament books
Leviticus Ruth Ezra Nehemiah
Esther Haggai Malachi lack poetic lines?
Poetic elements
commonly found
in contemporary
poetry alliteration
assonance rhyme; are rare
in Hebrew Biblical poetry.
God promoted
an essential formal
characteristic
parallelism
the content
of one line
is repeated
contrasted
or advanced
by the content
of the next line
in sense rhythm
characterized
by thought
arrangement
not word
arrangement
or rhyme.
The three main types
of parallelism
in biblical poetry
are synonymous
antithetic
and synthetic.
What mysteries
are in each hidden
what secrets cloaked?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Must Rhyme Draw Blank..et Criticism?
It’s sad to see that rhyming‘s thought redundant
by those who’s bark can’t steer poetic star,
who grudge, shout out, doubt scope, spout words abundant,
seek validation they’d from others bar.
‘Free verse’ disperse if this your fancy tickles
to jar the winter of your discontent,
with fallen leaves, sheaves garnered, unhoned sickles,
with [f]lagging letters, jagged sentiment.
Rhyme carries more than meaning: music, timing,
pattern, play, holistic core explore,
link sense to ‘whither’, ‘whence’, nor mummer’s miming,
nor lead tread led astray by crow’s harsh caw.
‘Rich rhyme’ or ‘prose’ debate is academic
when eight in ten can’t read three thousand words,
what counts is sense and sentiments – polemic
remains the province of small minds in herds
where wherewithal is lacking for expression,
where envy, laziness, or both hold sway,
where turn of phrase is tacky, where aggression
replaces g[r]ace to interface p[l]ace play
with music, sounds send pulses through wave spectrum,
or melt souls’ polar icecaps with accord,
twin chords to cords aligned through playful plectrum
with formal training going by the board.
So be it coral strand or fair complexion,
dire prophesy or cornet candyfloss,
womb, doom and gloom, or in-depth introspection,
imagination's never at a loss.
Thus formal sonnet, couplets rhyming gaily,
with sunny disposition to the fore,
should mirror music, method, context daily
evolving outside all one's writ before.
In pictogram or beaded decoration
in Roman font, linguistic interplay
wed words’ harmonic melody’s elation
responds to tune the key no words may weigh.
To underline, the savant English written
retains both [s]cope and [s]pace for verbal tricks,
like Skelton take the Rap, as playful kitten
re[th]ink link frames for Caxton’s twenty-six.
Where feet and metre merry dance may caper
from poets Lake to Blake, have Don[n]e, imPound
who’d underscore square thoughts – recycled paper!
can hack’s slack style replace paced silver sound?
Each line when spun ends up with tails or faces,
where tale replaces touch much of the time,
such is the paradox which interlaces
arguments around repeated rhyme.
When fish flew, forests walked, alliteration
best impressed stressed message – few could read –
mnemonics reinforced the iteration
recalling legend, fairy-tale or creed. remember
Now pigs think they have wings above their station
maintaining rhyme no R[h]APsody retains
while ‘thinaccessible’ becomes negation
to mask task’s challenge failed, spite p[r]ose fee pains.
If attic muse can ante antic up, wise,
prefer cold garret’s ‘ashes and a crust’
rehearse blank verse predictions s[l]ick, applies
remorseless morse to dash dot hoarse course dust.
For formal frameworks offer waft and weft which
the poet threads with frugal concentration –
as filtered light through prism rainbow span stitch
hues limitless whose wavelength condensation
upon cones, rods, retinal flash achieving,
imagination infinite invites,
refines mind’s focus, - hocus-pocus leaving -
versatile, both stimulates excites.
Of course this discourse could continue weaving
until the cows come home from lea poetic,
winged leeway granting Pegasus, conceiving
examples prosy, - rosy or pathetic.
Our arguement is: structure, sense, in motion
may catalyze emotions more than prose,
in multi-mode dimensions, flowing ocean
flexible, reflexible, that grows
crescendo bringing mind and matter’s code a
springboard from which rich images may bloom,
concluding on note elegant a coda
whose aftertaste no waste-land texts assume.
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Creative Perceptions
Artist appropriate palette prepares
as poet intuitive channels and shares -
perceptions highlighted in paint or in rhyme,
on screen, paper, canvas, [b]rushed, touched outside Time.
Each reaches out writing, foresighting, prepares
stalls [f]rigid for music of spirit sublime.
But few can interpret the talent they praise
in the style of an artist in true paraphrase.
(24 September 2005 robi03_1306)
Bridgework
Artists palette, paints, prepare,
poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
imagination interlinks.
Each respective stream compares
perceptions, self-respecting, thinks
perspectives sensitively, shares
intuitive fruition, links
symphonic patterns, well aware
individuals everywhere
sense beauty way beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Images accompany
free originality.
(7 May 2008 variant of As Artist, Poet robi03_1396_robi03_0986 16 February 2002 robi03_0986 and also variant of Creative Perceptions
24 September 2005 robi03_1306_robi03_0986)
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets channel insight rare.
One canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams, compare
perspective, sensitively share
where, true to self there neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, aware
that perfect strangers anywhere
may beauty sense beyond time's brink -
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free.
(16 February 2002 robi03_0986)
for previous version see below
As Artist, Poet
As artists palette, paints, prepare
so poets insight channel, air: -
one canvas fills, one paper inks,
the foremost and the least of links.
Both tune respective streams with rare
sensitive perspective, care.
When true to self then neither sinks
as each through intuitions thinks
the way to harmony, to share
with perfect strangers anywhere
how beauty may beyond the brink
horizons widen, never shrink.
Both pictures form, accompany
creative thrust with spirit free...
(16 February 2002)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Sonnet: Poetry versus Prose
Some write their poetry almost like prose;
The two are not diff’rent in any way?
How can a thorn ever become a rose?
The grain is grain; the hay remains but hay!
But some write prose with emotions afilled;
Or add some verses in-between the lines;
One can’t become the other, howev’r skilled;
How can the noon be dawn although sun shines?
The functions poems do, prose can never,
Where right words placed, give music and rhythm;
But of the two, the poet’s cleverer;
His work is shorter, neater, and more trim.
All praise the bard; his glory’s forever!
For prose can’t stand the test of time ever!
6-25-2002 by Dr John Celes
poem by John Celes
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Introductions 0167
Intelligence with instinct should unite,
Nor compromise, nor seek presumptious reign,
To speed-link poet to true fancy's flight.
Reject this rede, all industry is vain.
Outlaw all superficial sketches trite,
Draw joy if joy, if sad, etch inner pain.
Uncertainty can't humour or delight.
Create an atmosphere whose inky skein
Tight winds round reader, s[h]ifting wrong from right.
Ideas conveyed suggest in language plain
Outline he or she completes as write
New insights offers, no need to explain.
To this love's labour, harmony ensure,
Sonnet writes itself, and may endure.
If healthy symbiosis we sustain,
No effort should be spared, by day, by night.
Try to improve, not prove, harsh words soon wane.
Revise, resize, help reader see the light
Offer hints, instruct and entertain,
Draft and redraft, with care craft, brain finds flight,
Unleashed imagination, hidden lain,
Can rise from hibernation, latent quite
To share, prepare layer after layer, thus train
Inner evolution. Do not indict
Or censure pass, or censor soul's refrain,
Nor unduly influence outright.
Through form may free verse learn to grow true, show
Flow whose rich rhyming interplay may glow.
(18 January 2010)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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I never was very capable of expressing my feelings or emotions in words. I don't know whether this is the cause why I did it in music and also why I did it in painting. Or vice versa: That I had this way as an outlet. I could renounce expressing something in words.
quote by Arnold Schoenberg
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lesson in Perspective #1
Art students learn early on
what perspective means
by dint of practice
ONE POINT PERSPECTIVE
An imaginary vanishing point
on the horizon takes on life
as students draw vertical lines
angling toward a meeting
at some distant point
far off the drawing paper
TWO POINT PERSPECTIVE
Pencil and straight edge
suffice as students put
pencil to paper drawing
cylinders in square boxes
like skeletons in coffins
floating on white sheets
STILL LIFE HOMEWORK
Lesson ends as students
are assigned to draw
a study done in pen
and india ink
of three cylinders
transformed into creamer,
cup and coffee pitcher
nestled together
in a still life
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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