What makes good poetry?

Poetry, unlike other forms of writing, involve a fierce combination of raw emotions and heart centered reflections. A temporary lense used to zero in on the basic/complex world of human experience and interaction through pastels of diversity. Poetry is by far more difficult to express than other forms of art since poetry originates in the repressed depths of the mind and soul. Attempting to bring these things forward leaves you naked before the true nature of yoyrself and those around you.

Often, even when I understand Modernist poetry, I don't like it. I read The Waste Land and didn't like it. I read all the notes 'explaining' The Waste Land and still didn't like it; I listened to lectures and debates about its meaning and still didn't like it, I listened to it being read by both actors and T.S. Eliot himself and still, nothing. No matter how clear its meaning became to me, it still failed to move me or enlighten me, shock me,amuse me or make me think anything other than, "I strongly disagree with T.S. Eliots view of modern life" and now I feel like it wasn't really worth the effort; an empty puzzle box.

I really enjoy writing poetry, its taught me alot about expressing myself, i get to use a voice in me that i don't in every day life, but yes, when it comes to reading poetry i find it harder to enjoy; especially long ones. But when you do come across poetic lines that talk to you with clear and simple words, it can be moving/healing for the reader.

The good thing about reading on here rather than sticking with the classics is that you can interact with the author. There is a huge snobbery involved with poetry. We are supposed to 'know' what the writer's on about and if we don't 'know' then the poem is so profoundly brilliant that we don't need to know. We should just accept it as beautiful writing. And when people are commenting, wonderful, brilliant, fantastic, so you feel stupid for not getting it, when clearly the rest of the solar system does. If you don't get something...ask. I think it's an insult to the author not to. Of course some of them are just so cryptic that you're probably not meant to understand them. How are you, the reader, meant to know that dead primroses are symbolic of the author's love for their favourite hamster. Or that an old grey sock symbolises their child's first day at school? There are some really good poets on here and I've found them very approachable.

I think Pastels of Diversity

will the title of a new anthology. What have we started!

Here here, Archie and Sooz. I love a bit of poetry. Wordsworth's 'Michael' is among my favourite poems. When I read it at University, it became apparent that the only obstacle someone might have in understanding it was the oldy-worldy English - when you break it down to the subject matter, it is a fantastic and steadfast poem that still has relevence today - no pretention or elitism - quite the opposite. This is what I look for in poetry. I certainly don't feel myself any more equipped to read poetry than anybody else, but there is a level of BS which you have to deflect - evidenced by the Anthony Madrid poem. You can still be affected by the contrast of words, the sounds made - some of it is still beautiful, but when you zoom out and look at it as a whole it means f**k all, and thats the unfulfilling part. 'Not to everyone's taste, maybe. But I'm a depressive... and when my mood is very low, I can read that and smile and feel a little uplifted. That's worth more than all the medication in the world.' I feel like that, Stan. When I get to the end of a good poem, it's like a surge of energy brought on by the feeling that you are relating directly to someone. It feels like a circuit being completed and a little light bulb coming on. It's a bit like an amazing guitar riff or piano piece - when the music resolves, it's almost the same feeling, I find. So essentially, and I know its a well worn phrase, the beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

i reckon there's a touch of the 'emperor's new clothes' about poetry. you write shite and bluff that it has some deeeep meaning and there are those who'll applaud you. there is enigma code poetry that works but words like pretentious and pompous often spring to mind. not always tho.

For me poetry is a love of the language- a way to describe feelings, symbolize,experiment,hope, dream,anguish- pouring out your soul. Most of my poetry would probably be labelled inaccessible- the really deep ones but I love to play with words and emotions. I think Whitman and Blake are my favourites. I haven't read as many of the famous poets as others have but in my simple (inaccessible) way I love writing it. I have Norton's Anthology of Poetry- it's quite a masterpiece. I should read much more poetry. Even more than I do here on Abc.

I found poetry inaccessible and snooty before coming to abc. After a year, I tried writing some blank verse poetry and loved it. Poetry takes no prisoners. There can be no room for falsehood, so I'd say that honesty, accessibility, relevance, humour, insight, sensitivity and above all a desire to expose oneself as an antannae of the soul are the most important ingredients of poetry. Those, and cutting through the piles of bullshit that whirl around my head. If I'm angry, I can write, but if if I'm resentful and angry, my mind is blocked and nothing constructive comes from it.

Pia, I can feel the emmotion in your poems even if I don't always understand what they're about. Likewise, I think that Dylan Thomas is one whose poems are still powerful even when they're inscrutable. The reason I didn't like Eliot is because I studied both The Wasteland and Four Quartets with the OU and I thought that not only was his style of poetry elitist, but that snobbery was also at the heart of his poetry aswell. However I have no problems with a modernist poem like this imagist one which I've always found very striking and beautiful: In a Station of the Metro The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet, black bough. — Ezra Pound

Hi,pom99. I think pia is highhats name. I only started saying pia instead of highhat because I saw others doing it. My name is John if you prefer it to well-wisher.

The Anjum Hasan poem makes perfect sense... in so much as I can form my own interpretation of it, and the words please me. If the MD hadn't just walked into the office, I might have droned on with my opinions on the matter. Consider yourselves lucky! :)

I agree with ItsSteveDave about the Hasan poem. It seems to deliberately rush along and I think the poet is deliberately trying to sound confused. It's like someone whose rushed through life trying to find their way and made mistakes along the way. That was my reading of it anyway but I may be wrong.

Mind you, the Hassan poem is a translation. Perhaps it might be a bad translation of a great poem.

Is the Anthony Madrid poem about alcoholism? All the stuff about units and gallons reminds me of units of alcohol. The person in the poem seems like maybe he's out of work. Perhaps he's had some injury because he has a physical therapist and perhaps he has low self esteem and is just griping about life and those who look down on him or judge him.

Is it a translation, he's American isn't he? I thought it was rubbish.

I admire Poets and readers who step beyond themselves to look at our world from other viewpoints. Perhaps we need to look at a base for all meaningful human communication: shared cultural references. To reference Poets Past, we need to consider their crux, they wrote and performed and more importantly, published for an elite crowd, one who could read and afford to purchase books. Look at the traditional historical patronage of poets, the royal court, the church, most with a thorough grounding in classical literature. Where diversity and a broader picture of poetry arises is a seperate oral tradition of spoken word, of local cultural memory, traditional song/rhyme. We have the benefit of both. It is not that one trumps the other, they are different representational forms of human history/ art and thought engendered by personal experience and references. Some reach out to more with a commonality of relatively new media/internet driven conciousness. Step out of your shoes and walk a mile in someone elses, it's not always comfortable.... … and it's not necessariy commercially driven :-D

Czeslaw Milosz's Gift, however, made me instantly weep with understanding.

I think Anthony Madrid sounds like a grumpy old man. How old is he?

The two poems you selected Pom are quite similar in meaning. The fisherman is an archtypical figure and this Indian poet (translated poems are not my cup of tea, though this one is okay) is pouring from his soul rather well known emotions. I like both of them but prefer Anjun's. They are both accessible in my opinion.

He's described on the University Of Chicago website as one of the "young poets": http://www.uchicago.edu/features/20101108_poets/

OMG hehe no didn't like his poem-it was so crass- cynical, dark,sardonic,grumpy,bourgois,elitist I think, egotistical,and a lot of other horrible adjectives

Ok so I warned you all earlier, and now I'm back from the office, I'm going to bore you - I've done my own little GCSE level analysis of Hasan's poem - or rather I read it and made a few crappy notes, just to show how I read it, and what each part made me think about. I might be way off the mark, but I can still enjoy poems without being massively in depth about literary references etc. - i.e. the 'pretentious' side of poetry. 'My heart beat fast or did not beat at all;' I was all or nothing – either passionate and driving my ideas home, or completely switched off. Almost autistic undertones. 'I could not say all that I thought and thought till words deserted me.' The world is too large. There is too much to say to put in words, I could say nothing, was overawed, but my silence drove me inside of myself and I dissected everything until words themselves had no meaning anymore. 'I loved too abstractly.' My love was idealised. I desired perfect love rather than the often difficult, and far from divine, reality, therefore, I was left disappointed. 'I dreaded how all there was to give was me— like water, this biography.' The dread of doing all this thinking/analysing of the world, and discovering that there is no ‘devine meaning’ to life – All there is to give is me, I can’t offer you the secrets of the world. 'I unravelled far too easily then fled to selfish deserts and slept on the hardest rocks.' I gave up my convictions too easily when things got hard, and receded back to selfish/self-indulgent thought, where I could appease myself. The guilt arising from this being the ‘hardest rocks’ on which I sleep. 'I couldn’t make what others made and broke and broke and made, that sweet choreography.' My thought got in the way of the process of life. If I give up my convictions and run when things get hard, I do not ride out the bad times and fight for the good; that ‘sweet choreography’ that makes others’ lives seem more complete than my own – they live their lives in earnest and I have cheated. 'I went alone and missed the world continually.' Self indulged, looking too hard for truth and not seeing the wood for the trees. 'I misread smiles; I stuttered before open arms, but time passed too fast for disappointment’s imprint on the glass of memory.' All this made me unable to relate to my fellow man, there was too much going on below the surface, too many meanings for everything – do I trust this person? Have I hesitated over their intentions and missed my chance to connect with them? Time moves too quickly to tell. You do not have time to analyse to this degree - life comes at you too fast to stop and take stock of missed opportunities. 'I sought the future even when the blood swirled now,' I looked to the future, but did nothing in the present to facilitate the kind of future that I wanted. 'I let the past decide too greedily.' My past experiences tainted my view going forward. 'I kept searching out the window, I tried to stay half hidden by the light.' Absolutely no idea. Anyone have any idea what the last line means?! I have a feeling that this was only fun for me... :)

A verse misused is a ruse, It clearly has no objective. But when noun meets iambic, Adjectives cause havoc, So mind your A, E, I, 0, and...You!

‘Trust nature completely!’ How does he start? Since when was nature shown on a canvas? Untimely is the smallest corner of the world! – He paints what he likes. And what does he like? What he can paint! A translation, but a great poem. Nietzsche, 'The Realistic Painter'.