Why is poetry not discussed much on this board?

Why is poetry not discussed much on this board?

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gutenberg.org/ebooks/54580
philo.swu.bg/biblioteka/Ferguson, Salter & Stallworthy, The Norton Anthology of Poetry.64.pdf
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too many figurative fags not enough literal ones

How do I learn to read poetry? My understanding of the aesthetic value of words is incredibly poor. Is there a 'how to read poetry' book?

Start with Homer.
If you have trouble with his 2, read secondary literature.

>Why is poetry not discussed much on this board?
I love poetry but it's one of those things that you can't translate so, for example I love Heine, Rilke, Hölderlin, Nietzsche (underrated poet), Goethe etc., but since they aren't accesable to non-german speakers it's pointless trying to discuss them here, I bet there are a lot of anons from non-anglo countries that feel the same
so yeah prose is much more accessable to everyone independent of language

So then alter the question somewhat;

Why is English- language Poetry not discussed much on this board?

lads I am a poetry pleb, should I read whitman or something?

Have you read Homer?

n-no, should I?

you need to apply yourself to learning the craft of poetry (form, lineation, rhyme, rhythm). Veeky Forums is too lazy to do so.

You need to become familiar with a wide body of poetry. Reading alot of poetry is time consuming and you cant do this whilst watching youtube, playing vidya, listening to music etc. Veeky Forums is too lazy to do this.


in the olden days people would do this for fun, not just because they need to pass a literature course.

Because people here are too pleb to read poetry,
Then again, i don't read much of it, but english isn't my language.

He is the first great poet, I suppose.

what sort of poetry or subject matter are you interested in?

Just read something simple but powerful like Larkin. Also read out loud. Poetry is all about how words sound.

Poetry takes actual reading comprehension skills and actual writing skills to discuss.

It's actually also discussed plenty on here. The critique threads are poetry discussion threads.

No.

>The critique threads are poetry discussion threads
kek

If anything I'm grateful for it. Modern poetry is just prose for people not talented enough to formulate their ideas in lyrical and engaging prose.

Because (most) poetry doesn't have a plot and poetry can have incredibly different aesthetics from one poet to another, so it can be hard to foster a community of likeminded readers of the subject.

Reading homer will not in any way help you read poetry written after the 19th century. Epics have little to nothing in common with Modernist, Postmodernist, or contemporary poetry.

You idiot. You absolute fucking imbecile.

>epic poem written in meter and employing poetic devices will teach you nothing about """Modernist, Postmodernist, or contemporary poetry"""
user, I...

Did actually read ANY modernist?

Yes. Reading Homer won't get you anywhere aside from helping you understand allusions in TS Eliot.

Epic poetry follows one metre. It won't help you with scansion of Romantic poetry, and how the fuck do you expect it to help when most poetry written after WWII is a) without metre, b) seemingly "random" line breaks and shift in text wrt space on page (random to the inexperience reader of contemporary verse), and c) a variety of poetic devices that weren't established until after Verse broke out of its lyrically-dominated stage.

Riddle me that.

I'm not saying one shouldn't read Homer. But if you think doing so will help anons understand how to read and engage with any poetry written in the past hundred years than you're greatly mistaken. It's like saying to someone who wants to understand John Hawkes and Don DeLillo and Thomas Pynchon to read Boccaccio. Will reading The Decameron be fun and worthwhile in its own right ? Of course ! But will it help someone understand (more) contemporary works of prose fiction and how they operate? Absolutely not:

>Reading homer will not in any way help you read poetry written after the 19th century

that's what you said (which is false)

Plenty more than Eliot use Homer extensively

Whether reading Homer will help you understand
>PLEASE HURRY UP ITS TIME
is a different story, but it will
>help anons [...] engage with any poetry written in the past hundred years

Also Free Verse is still rooted in meter (especially during modernism) and understand meter helps a good bit

whoops

'The Ode Less Travelled' by Stephen Fry is the book you're describing. Don't listen to the other anons, you know more about poetry than they do.

Western Wind by Nims looks at different techniques in poetry and has tons of examples. It's used in courses so picking up an earlier edition is cheaper.

>You idiot. You absolute fucking imbecile.

Gosh, people on this Veeky Forums website sure are mean sometimes!

Here's my favourite poem by Philip Larkin(in the OP's pic). Hope you like it.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Leaves of Grass is worth reading.

Poetry is not read in general. Why? Because in poetry there are billion of metaphors, and you need a guide book for the particular poem so you can understand it. But there aren't any guide books. It's not like it's hard or antipseud, Finnegans Wake is so much more tedious, but there's a plot and you can understand at least something.

Well, there is such a thing as secondary literature.

Some poets are trying hard to write a poem, so the reader should sweat for it too as T.S. Eliot says.

I guess it is like literature. You can have a complete western schooling on the subject and still come empty handed on what it is. Then maybe you read a book that resonates with you and you finally "get" it.

Try reading some popular poetry, and find what you like. What works for someone else won't necessarily work for you.

An aside, but wasn't that also DFW's intent with the endnotes and footnotes in his works? I remember hearing a radio interview where he said that he enjoyed sort of "junk food" popular lit of the time like crime novels etc, but he wanted to counterbalance it with a work that required some effort to get the most out of with Infinite Jest.

>Then maybe you read a book that resonates with you and you finally "get" it.

This is very true. I used to care fuck all for poetry personally but then one day I was reading Kahlil Gibran's "The Forerunner: His Parables and Poems" and it just clicked.

THE DYING MAN AND THE VULTURE
Wait, wait yet awhile, my eager friend.
I shall yield but too soon this wasted thing,
Whose agony overwrought and useless
Exhausts your patience.
I would not have your honest hunger
Wait upon these moments:
But this chain, though made of a breath,
Is hard to break.
And the will to die,
Stronger than all things strong,
Is stayed by a will to live
Feebler than all things feeble.
Forgive me comrade; I tarry too long.
It is memory that holds my spirit;
A procession of distant days,
A vision of youth spent in a dream,
A face that bids my eyelids not to sleep,
A voice that lingers in my ears,
A hand that touches my hand.
Forgive me that you have waited too long.
It is over now, and all is faded:—
The face, the voice, the hand and the mist
that brought them hither.
The knot is untied.
The cord is cleaved.
And that which is neither food nor drink is withdrawn.
Approach, my hungry comrade;
The board is made ready,
And the fare, frugal and spare,
Is given with love.
Come, and dig your beak here, into the left side,
And tear out of its cage this smaller bird,
Whose wings can beat no more:
I would have it soar with you into the sky.
Come now, my friend, I am your host tonight,
And you my welcome guest.

I was having a horrible day, to the point where I was almost paralyzed with grief and anxiety, and that poem just helped me express how I felt.

Give the book a try. The last story in particular ruined me.

gutenberg.org/ebooks/54580

>this is now a Larkin thread


I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
—The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

>The committed student needs to be wide awake, to look and listen closely, to slow down, scrutinize and reflect. The language of poetry is so dense, so multivalent, that it demands a concentrated act of attention — and offers its greatest rewards only to those who reread.

There is no point in figuring out meter, it doesn't add anything to the work. Prove me wrong.

it can disambiguate what word is being emphasized

Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
For all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

Well said, Pound. I like your style and movement.

I'm continually amazed at the amount of people on Veeky Forums with little to no knowledge of poetry; in my schooling it was emphasised much more heavily than prose and drama. Anyway, for anyone new to poetry, I'd recommend getting some kind of anthology, which doesn't have to be very thick or exhaustive, then reading at a slow but not meticulous pace until you come across something you instinctively like. Spend some time identifying what it was that you liked, whether it was metric, rhythmic, structural, thematic or whatever. Then try to find more poetry that fits with what you enjoyed. This will not only give you an entry-point to exploring poetry but will also get you thinking critically about it, which is vital as well. Also take a cue from and learn about the technical aspects of poetry. Without them you'll never understand poetry; with them you'll understand get way more out of it than 'oh that sounds nice' or 'that's a good way of putting it'.

understand and* get way more out of it

How do you learn the technical aspects?

philo.swu.bg/biblioteka/Ferguson, Salter & Stallworthy, The Norton Anthology of Poetry.64.pdf

At the end of this anthology there's an essay on versification by Stallworthy and one on syntax by Ferguson. Start with those. Once you think you've got it, actively apply what you've learnt to the poetry you read. Practice scansion in particular; a good ear for poetry is essential.

ah, you like one of his two good poems? good for you

Thank you, user.

>How do I learn to read poetry? My understanding of the aesthetic value of words is incredibly poor. Is there a 'how to read poetry' book?

Edward Hirsch's How to read a poem and fall in love with poetry and his other book Poet's glossary. Read those 2 closely if you are serious about this. Then get some things like the collected poems of Philip Larkin (OP"s jpeg), some Auden, some English Romants like Shelley and Byron (stay the fuck away from wordsworth tho, trust me, though his lit criticism is aight), peep Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Coleridge, the waste land by Eliot of course and his prufrock and Mr. Possums book of practical cats, hit some Sharon Olds, some Slyvia Plath, Emily Dickinson if you are American, marianne moore if you aren't, that should be a fine start for ye. Best o luck

>stay the fuck away from wordsworth tho, trust me, though his lit criticism is aight

I wouldn't let your personal aversion to Wordsworth get in the way of giving someone else the opportunity to discover him for themselves. In spite of his unpopularity today, Wordsworth is still one of the great poets in this language. If nothing else, acquainting yourself with him is essential to understanding the course of English poetry: I wouldn't consider anyone well-read who hasn't read at least his Prelude.

Why Marianna Moore if you aren't American? I'd say read her regardless.

>Why Marianna Moore if you aren't American? I'd say read her regardless.
twas a joke mane, just wanted a counter point to Emily Dickinson. Obviously everyone should read her especially as a cool reaction to freud.

and re >> 9752625 , yeah you right I shouldn't have brushed him off. Everyone should discosver him for theyselves

My pleasure man, let me know if you need anything else. I'll be lurking this thread until it 404s.

infinite jest is a bad example because it's not actually very challenging

Because people unironically think T.S. Eliot and Allen Ginsberg are better than Swinburne

just now seriously getting into it

It's not subjective.

And novels are?

Only if the OP can read Homeric Greek.

Would you not suggest reading Homer in translation considering he is the first great poet?

well, I'll just say it.

poetry sucks

Swineburne is a puffed up third rate, him and Ginsberg are equally terrible but for different reasons.

Read Pessoa op, even if he is a bit overrated

It's raining. There is silence since the rain itself
Allows no sound but peacefulness.
It's raining. The sky's asleep. When the soul's been
widowed
For what it cannot tell, feeling's blind.
It's raining. My self (who I am) I take leave of . . .

The rain is so peaceful it loosens itself in the air
(Not even seemingly cloudy) so that it seems
It's not rain but a whispering
Which in its whispering forgets itself.
It's raining. Nothing to long for . . .

There's no wind hovering. There's no sky I feel.
It's raining far away and imperceptibly,
Like something true that lies to us,
Like some overwhelming wish deceiving us.
It's raining. Nothing in me feels . . .

Do you think the essays are worth reading for non english poetry, too?

Because post WWII poetry is just like plastic art, it's made up of complete shit that's meant to seem deep but really is just a way to set itself apart (elitist).

What about someone like Frank O'Hara or Louis Simpson or Charles Simic? They aren't impenetrable in the least. I mean Jesus I love Frank O'Hara but my friend who dislikes poetry described him so well: "just some New York faggot complaining"

I really didn't explain myself well. What I wanted to say was, just like with plastic art, there's 90% shit out there. Main reason is because A. artists try to seem like they appeal to some high metaphysical ideal or hard to understand principles - just read critical review on modern art if you don't believe me. B. artists are hugely valued for personal qualities or for belonging to a minority group - for WHO they are, instead of WHAT they are.

My guess is the poets you mentioned fall to the latter category.
Don't get me wrong, there are still real poets, but they get little attention, and except for very few trained readers it's very hard to appreciate their works among all the pretentious trash.

And because that son of a bitch,
Franz Josef of Austria. . . . . .
And because that son of a bitch Napoléon Barbiche…
They put Aldington on Hill 70, in a trench
dug through corpses
With a lot of kids of sixteen,
Howling and crying for their mamas,
And he sent a chit back to his major:
I can hold out for ten minutes
With my sergeant and a machine-gun.
And they rebuked him for levity.
And Henri Gaudier went to it,
and they killed him,
And killed a good deal of sculpture,
And ole T.E.H. he went to it,
With a lot of books from the library,
London Library, and a shell buried ‘em in a dug-out,
And the Library expressed its annoyance.
And a bullet hit him on the elbow
…gone through the fellow in front of him,
And he read Kant in the Hospital, in Wimbledon,
in the original,
And the hospital staff didn’t like it.

And Wyndham Lewis went to it,
With a heavy bit of artillery,
and the airmen came by with a mitrailleuse,
And cleaned out most of his company,
and a shell lit on his tin hut,
While he was out in the privy,
and he was all there was left of that outfit.

Windeler went to it,
and he was out in the Ægæan,
And down in the hold of his ship
pumping gas into a sausage,
And the boatswain looked over the rail,
down into amidships, and he said:
Gees! look a’ the Kept’n,
The Kept’n’s a-gettin’ ‘er up.

And Ole Captain Baker went to it,
with his legs full of rheumatics,
So much so he couldn’t run,
so he was six months in hospital,
Observing the mentality of the patients.

And Fletcher was 19 when he went to it,
And his major went mad in the control pit,
about midnight, and started throwing the ‘phone about
And he had to keep him quiet
till abut six in the morning,
And direct that bunch of artillery.

And Ernie Hemingway went to it,
too much in a hurry,
And they buried him for four days.

Et ma foi, vous savez,
tous les nerveux. Non,
Y a une limite; les bêtes, les bêtes ne sont
Pas faites pour ça, c’est peu de chose un cheval.
Les hommes de 34 ans à quatre pattes
qui criaient “maman.” Mais les costauds,
La fin, là à Verdun, n’y avait que ces gros bonshommes
Et y voyaient extrêmement clair.
Qu’est-ce que ça vaut, les généraux, le lieutenant,
on les pèse à un centigramme,
n’y a rien que du bois,
Notr’ capitaine, tout, tout ce qu’il y a de plus renfermé
de vieux polytechnicien, mais solide,
La tête solide. Là, vous savez,
Tout, tout fonctionne, et les voleurs, tous les vices,
Mais les rapaces,
y avait trois dans notre compagnie, tous tués.
Y sortaient fouiller un cadavre, pour rien,
y n’serainet sortis pour rien que ça.
Et les boches, tout ce que vous voulez,
militarisme, et cætera, et cætera.
Tout ça, mais, MAIS,
l’français, i s’bat quand y a mangé.
Mais ces pauvres types
A la fin y s’attaquaient pour manger,
Sans orders, les bêtes sauvages, on y fait
Prisonniers; ceux qui parlaient français disaient:
“Poo quah? Ma foi on attaquait pour manger.”

C’est le corr-ggras, le corps gras,
leurs trains marchaient trois kilomètres à l’heure,
Et ça criait, ça grincait, on l’entendait à cinq kilomètres.
(Ça qui finit la guerre.)

Liste officielle des morts 5,000,000.

I vous dit, bè, voui, tout sentait le pétrole.
Mais, Non! je l’ai engueulé.
Je lui ai dit: T’es un con! T’a raté la guerre.

O voui! tous les homes de goût, y conviens,
Tout ça en arrière.
Mais un mec comme toi!
C’t homme, un type comme ça!
Ce qu’il aurait pu encaisser!
Il était dans une fabrique.
What, burying squad, terrassiers, avec leur tête
en arrière, qui regardaient comme ça,
On risquait la vie pour un coup de pelle,
Faut que ça soit bein carré, exact…

Dey vus a bolcheviki dere, und dey dease him:
Looka vat youah Trotzsk is done, e iss
madeh deh zhamefull beace!!
“He iss madeh de zhamefull beace, iss he?
“He is madeh de zhamevull beace?
“A Brest-Litovsk, yess? Aint yuh herd?
“He vinneh de vore.
“De droobs iss released vrom de eastern vront, yess?
“Un venn dey getts to deh vestern vront, iss it
“How many getts dere?
“And dose doat getts dere iss so full off revolutions
“Venn deh vrench is come dhru, yess,
“Dey say, “Vot?” Un de posch say:
“Aint yeh heard? Say, ve got a rheffolution.”

I love Pound's Jewish caricatures. They are funny.

This I do agree with, yes.

It depends on which language you have in mind, but I'd say so. You'll have to account for differences, especially w/r/t stress-timed/syllable-timed language, but the principles of versification should be applicable.