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Young Writers Society


Problems, creative. I know



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Tue Jan 03, 2012 3:40 am
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Hamingway says...



Poem I wrote a while back, free verse, not super good.

No matter how catastrophic the event
That which we believe to matter
Matters to none at all, but only to us.
Our feelings being objectified as overzealous or unjust
Our problems being caused by Octuple winged wombats
And other such figurative-magical creatures
For problems caused by something so seemingly fictional
Cannot really be problems at all
Our attitudes towards life omitted as petulant or ignorant
What happens to us, is really a drop in the storm
should we really just get over our trifling conundrums?
And move on to something better? Or is there nothing better?
Is a life where nothing matters, really a life at all?
  





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Tue Jan 03, 2012 5:56 am
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Audy says...



Hamingway,

You know, I like this as a starting point. Like a springboard. Now you just have to make us care. What I'm getting at the moment is the speaker's musings, thoughts, and viewpoint into a poetic form of lines, and then some open-ended questions there at the end. Ask yourself is this a poem or a rant?

Sure, I can walk away from this with some interesting ideas and thoughts (and I'm not going to lie, it was definitely insightful)- but this isn't a blog entry, or a lecture hall, this is posted as lyric poetry and I have to wonder where the emotions are.

Remember that poetry serves to provide the reader with an experience. Think about it this way, why do people read stories? There are a bajillion reasons why: for entertainment, for fun, for escape, to relate, to learn, to experience and empathize. Stories through words can take us into the minds of others, and it is here, we truly learn to empathize.

A poem is the same way except even more compacted. A poem is a mastery of words, through it, you get emotions, you get sounds/lyrics, you get images, you get stories, you get memories and experiences, you get people.

So where's the story? Where's the images? You know, besides hypothetical wombats.

I love your ideas. But how can you tell this very same idea using only images? How do you make this idea into a story? How do you make that story into a poem? Hope this helps, PM me if you have any questions.

~ as always, Audy
  








In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
— JRR Tolkien