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A place for Poets to discuss their craft

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  1. What's new in this club
  2. Ae Fond Kiss by Robert Burns Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for-ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met, or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel alas, for-ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
  3. Fresh off the oven https://www.gayauthors.org/story/asamvav111/euphoria-and-other-poems/10
  4. I quite agree. It is really good.
  5. @BDANR has posted an Elegy. I think we should all check it out and encourage him with our thoughts https://www.gayauthors.org/story/bdanr/loving-fiercely-how-i-resist/14
  6. What an eloquent way to talk about the eternity of the moment. Thank you for posting this.
  7. I was curious about a phrase I had used in Mojo and googled it. Surprisingly, the phrase was used by a poet I had not heard of before. Looking over his work briefly, this poem really reached out to me. I hope you enjoy it. Eternity by Samuel Waddington ‘Of old,’ spake the priest; spake the parson and preacher – ‘After death, Oh my Friends, after death is Eternity.’ ‘Not so,’ cries my Spirit, ‘not so, Oh wise teacher! It was, and it is, and it ever shall be – Now, now is Eternity! Is it for thee?’ _
  8. this is rather special too ... i love this .. read it several times
  9. Thank you for posting this. It remains one of my favorites, and ever shall.
  10. Shakespeare's W.H. Sonnet No. 116 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. Oh no, it is an ever fixèd mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ nor no man ever loved. _
  11. In a recent Ask an Author segment, I was asked about Sonnets. I started spewing...um, er...writing the information below, but scrapped it in favor of a more general reply. Here’s what I had to say about getting inspired to write Sonnets specifically ---------------------- Oh, boy. Advice on writing Sonnets.... I think I can only answer this by relaying my personal journey with the form. First of all, I hated high school. It was awful for me; a real daily nightmare of abuse and feeling like no one cared if I lived or died. It’s when I started writing poetry, and might have been the only thing that saved me. That first year, when I was 15, Mrs. Kennedy included a day on Shakespeare’s W.H. Sonnets. I still have the photocopied handout she gave us with two of the poems on it. I saved it mainly because No. 116 utterly baffled me. I could not understand it all, but I knew there was immense meaning to it. I tormented myself with it, using the dictionary for tricky words but still was not able to puzzle out what he was saying, except the obvious fact that he loved a man. Of course, others of his sonnets are much easier to grasp. By the time I was in college, I was experimenting with the form and producing some mangled attempts. Sonnets would have stayed a very minor part of my poetry if not for a book I bumped into when I was twenty-three. Now I have a love-hate relationship with Stephen Booth’s 1977 “Shakespeare’s Sonnets” because he shows the incredible dirtiness and raw meanings (many of them sexual and wonderful) that contemporary readers of the W.H. Sonnets would have gotten immediately. Finally here was my key to unlock No. 116 and understand arguably the greatest love poem one man ever wrote to another – but I hate the priggish way Booth felt obliged in 1977 to cover up and obscure the same-sex love at the soul of these 154 love poems. Thinking about that, and how there continues to be a whitewash denial of the obvious even to this day, makes me incredibly angry and frustrated. So, if you are interested in Shakespeare’s W.H. Sonnets, you must have Booth on your shelf, and you must relegate it to the sad insistence of non-Gay people to write that same-sex love did not exist in the past, despite the overwhelming amount of evidence they are forced to bury in empty rhetoric every day. (For those of you who do not know the circumstances of the W.H. Sonnets, they are these: Shakespeare edited and prepared the text for publishing himself; the volume was published in Shakespeare’s lifetime; the volume of 154 love poems [containing such lines as “O thou, my lovely boy…”] is dedicated like this: “To the only begetter of these ensuing Sonnets, Mr. W. H., all happiness and that eternity promised by our ever-living poet.”) _
  12. i came too late to know the man while alive, but the love and respect shines through and makes me wish i could known him and not just the shadows of peoples memories. to live in the hearts of others is to live forever.
  13. This is the book rack that inspired the poem. You can see some interesting titles, and many more were stacked 3 or 4 deep in each cubby. _
  14. I posted this today. https://www.gayauthors.org/blogs/entry/16575-skinnys-sorry/?page=3&tab=comments#comment-62035 In tribute to Skinny, I'll re-post one of the poems I wrote for his memorial. ----------------------------------------------- I saw one of those wire racks The drug stores used to hold their stacks, When I was but a little child, Of the tawdriest paperbacks. The day was bright and on me smiled, Calling me to the used books compiled Lovingly in the little shop To browse the titles they had aisled. Straight back to the Poetry crop, Quarantined as it were atop The highest, loneliest shelf, where Twix Plays and Art they always plop. The drug store rack was loaded there With artless ease and simple flare, But not with pulp's raunchy fiction – Flashed in covers of chests half-bare. No, as if to flaunt tradition, Softbacks of hard erudition Stacked themselves four to five deep each And offered me benediction. My walled-off heart needed a breach, For its beat had been robbed of speech And silent with the recent news A dear friend had come in Death's reach. But here timeless works stood to choose: Antigone; In Cold Blood – whose Author ate rich at Tiffany's – In Our Time; Red Pony peruse. Madame Bovary's sure to please, As Illusions with symmetries; Vanity Fair and Twist infuse Some laughter and conspiracies. Chekhov and Mary Shelley muse, While James Joyce and Steinbeck enthuse On mankind and the tyrannies Virgil and Gore Vidal excuse. Lessons from Will and Sophocles Vie with Oscar Wilde's litanies; 'Gainst racy Andros and Balzac, But all offer epiphanies. Though nothing special of a rack, I saw David's work join the stack: His Twoey, and his lovely Toph; His Ian and Miles nothing lack. For then my heart was filled with hope – Though gone, I have no need to mope – Each time I read him, he'll be back With his undying love to help me cope. _
  15. Found this essay on poetry, and thought I’d share. I hope you find it as interesting as I did. http://poetrysociety.org.uk/underwood-uncertain-subjects/
  16. A small poem... https://www.gayauthors.org/story/emi-gs/MIP_MGK/31
  17. I was going to post this observation earlier, but was distracted.... Finches, fierce and feisty, feed so ferociously, fighting furiously to claim each seed; cheeky chickadees so chide each other, they cheerfully change place with a needy nestling.
  18. You humbled me and made me smile with this...it is wonderful!
  19. Thanks for your comments, Sas. I appreciate them.
  20. All of them are equally amazing, but no 2 and 7 are especially so. Thank you for sharing them with us.
  21. I was cleaning up my bookmarked pages and came across this..naturally I thought of @Parker Owens Small Kindnesses There are many kinds and none are truly random, a mathematician might say. They’re all calculated, multi-variable functions of the recipient. Small, even infinitesimal acts, when we integrate over the interval from zero to infinity, give us the whole, filling in the area under the curve. Reply
  22. Poems in different languages

    it is wonderful AC ... beautiful and very moving xo
  23. Poems in different languages

    I wrote this translation as a tribute to my mom. I don't know how any singer can get through Mahler's music this without being reduced to tears at the end. Thanks for her support go to Lyssa and Mikiesboy, as always. https://www.gayauthors.org/story/ac-benus/translation-trashbin/5#comment-303522 Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen, Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben; Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen, Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben. Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen; Ob sie mich für gestorben hält, Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen, Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt. Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel, Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet. Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel, In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied. ----------------------------------------------------------- I’ve been missing from the world lately, Away from those I once spent so much time; They’ve not heard from me, so long, ultimately, They think I’ve moved on to Death’s colder clime. I’m done caring about them all greatly; They think I’m dead or unsteady, Let them think so, calm or irately, ‘Cause I’m dead to this world already (world already). On the world’s turmoil, I watch sedately, And can rest detached right where I belong, Living alone in my heaven stately (in heaven stately), With only my loves, and with my song. _

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