Leon : Yes. He was with Arthur. In the corridors. Alone.
Gwaine : What was their excuse this time?
Leon : Poetry.
Gwaine : They aren't fooling anyone.
Indirectly stating what you mean or directly stating something that parallels what you really mean. Adding depth and making the reader use their wit through parallels in indirect examples allows for powerful connections and is characterized as poetic writing. Commonly created by patience in organization and witty connections.
>> Cliche Poetry
Often misused and abuse by depressed teen girls (see self proclaimed genius) as they vent a conversation of themselves talking to about or to something that they have relationship problems with. They address the thing they have emotional conflicts with as "you", spoon feed their emotions, add some rhetorical questions, repetition, sometimes end rhyme, and call it a poem. (see venting tool) Common themes are, you don't know me, why are you so mean, definitions of; love, death, innocense, etc., you'll cry when I die, and you'll never understand me.
2. You goth, go write your poetry. Don't sit at our table.
3. That was great poetry! It really said many things between the lines and was very intelligently organized.
FIRE AND ICE BY ROBERT FROST
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice.
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
WARNING BY SHEL SILVERSTEIN
Inside everybody's nose
There lives a sharp-toothed snail.
So if you stick your finger in,
He bite off your nail.
Stick it farther up inside,
And he might bite your ring off.
Stick it all the way, and he
May bite the whole darn thing off.
Poetry has been around for over 5,00 years and it's still young, vibrant, and growing. Poetry might even go further into the past, since most people memorized poetry and passed it on orally; 5,000-year-old poems from Mesopotamia could have already been old when they were written.
The practice of memorizing poetery and passing it on by word of mouth is pretty much gone.
Humans change, but maybe their nature doesn't change very much; practically everything that could be said through poetry has already been said, often many times, albeit in different ways. Poets must be original and avoid any cliché if they want to look competent.
Chan eil fìor. Abair thugam (It’s not true. Say to me)
Nach eil fìor. Mas e ur toil e... (That it’s not true. If you please...)
O h-iochdaist! ‘N dualchas sin ann- (O goodness! That culture there-)
Mar a bhuin dhuinn o cheann fhada... (What belonged to us long ago...)
Sean dòighean mar a bh’againn... (Ancient ways that we had...)
Rudan gun robh, ‘s nach eil a-nis... (Things that were, and that are no more...)
Ar daoine, ar dualchas glan... (Our people, our pristine culture...)
Am faic sinn iad a-chaoidh a-rithist...? (Will we ever see them again...?)
Seallaibh! Na òg daoine seo... (Behold! These young ones...)
Nach faic sinn tannasgan idir... (That will not see us ghosts at all...)
Fhathast th’ann beagan gun tog (Yet there are some that will)
Ar dòighean suas. Th’iad òg, làidir... (Pick our old ways up. They are young, strong...)
Linnean o cheann, bha sinn ‘nar (Ages ago, we were a)
Clì gun do riaghal thar an tìr (Force that reigned over the land)
Far an dh’fhan sinne... ‘s an nuair (Where we lived... and then)
Sin nuair thàinig iad: an-iochd fìor... (They came: true cruelty...)
Ciamer a ‘s thèid do àite (How can a place)
Bi mar seo: cho mòr ‘s cho dòmhail...? (Be like this: so spacious and so crowded...?)
Tha ‘n guthan seo nas ciùine... (These voices are quieter...)
Dh’fhàs iad nas ciùine anns an dail (They became calmer in)
Seo. O cheann thàinig iadsan... (This meadow. Since they arrived...)
Chan urrainn dhomhsa chuimhneachadh (I cannot remember)
Na rudan gun rinn sinn an (The things that we did)
Uair sin. Ar n-aodach, ar taighean... (Then. Our clothing, our houses...)
Poetry (2). The worst possible form of torture that you can possibly put a living creature through.
1. I wrote your name in the sky,
but the wind blew it away.
I wrote your name in the sand,
but the waves washed it away.
I wrote your name in my heart,
and forever it will stay. - Jessica Blade
2. As I opened the refrigator I felt all of my hair fall of.
It landed in a nice pile on the floor and hurriedly hid under the trash can.
As I took a deep breath I felt my toenails crack and my left hands fingers fell of.
I saw my nose turn black of gangrene and a second later it joined my fingers.
As I bended forward my heart stopped beating and the world fell into darkness.
It was then I understood that I should have gotten rid of the medwurst a long time ago. - Sebastian Viklund Åsberg
3. There's everything in this movie,
Everything that fits.
From the Meaning of Life in the universe,
To girls with great big tits.
We've got movie stars and foreign cars,
Explosions and the lot
Filmed as only we know how,
On the budget that we've got.
We spent a fortune on locations
And quite a bit on drink
And there's ever the odd philosophical joke,
Just to make you buggers think.
Yet some parts are as serious
And as deep as you could wish
But largely it's all tits and ass
And quite a bit of fish.
Other bits are fairly childish
And some are frankly rude
But at least we've got a lot of nice girls
All banging around in the nude.
So take your seats, enjoy yourselves
And let's just hope it's funny
Because it's not only done to make you laugh
But to make us lots of money.
So sit back and have a good time
With your boyfriend or your wife
Relax and just enjoy yourself
For this is the Meaning of Life - Eric Idle
4. The dead swans lay in the stagnant pool.
They lay. They rotted. They turned
Bits of flesh dropped off them from
Time to time.
And sank into the pool's mire.
They also smelt a great deal. - Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings
As practiced in modern times, poetry is a discredited means of (supposedly) communicating aesthetic thoughts or feelings in verbal form. Thousands, perhaps millions of person-hours, disc/server space, and trees are wasted to develop and store this tripe.
"Award winning" poetry is usually the worst kind, representing the vilest outcome of combining incestuous art-cronyism with self-indulgent self-promotion.
2. A complete waste of time.
Small trees that shine
out of watery depths
With broken limbs, like
Not why I write.