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Poetry's a Mere Drug, Sir!

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by

Noelle Panlilio

on 4 March 2013

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Transcript of Poetry's a Mere Drug, Sir!

Abstract | You can't: touch, see, hear, taste, smell | Varying Rationality | Subjective | James-Lange theory: physical symptoms No: Body Language, Facial Expression, Oral Representations | Language | Words | Syntax | Diction | Stylistic Devices To communicate something from one person to another | Emotion: Not as a means to convey knowledge but as the actual knowledge Poetry's A Mere Drug, Sir. ~ Sir George
Farquhar Are we able to express emotions through written language? Can written media be emotionally evocative? Poetry SMS Literature Facebook Twitter Tumblr Skype Email Novels po·et·ry
Noun
1. Literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm;...
2. A quality of beauty and intensity of emotion regarded as characteristic of poems: "poetry and fire are nicely balanced in the music". I don’t know how to feel right now
How do I say it, how do I –
fix my eyes onto the corner of the room;
Empty but serves its purpose to the tee
(more than I can say for me)
To make ends meet
– alas, I wish
that I was able even this.



A corner! Mere; inanimate
and I, of flesh and conscious thought,
of greed
and ignorance
and sloth,
while it wants not.



Have I its complimentary view?
I flatter, perhaps, someone or two.
No, see, to even attempt to jest
clearly isn’t for the best.
I lay my case to rest.




Yet still, the thought remains to plague my conscience
parked like upright slabs of concrete.
Two, in fact,
that make ends meet.



MAGNETISM! from this corner




90 times I’ll rip my hair!
And gouge my eyes
and flail my arms out everywhere
in opposite directions
more often than not
as parallel as my inability;
as absent as what they think I’ve got.




90 times I’ll turn to stare!
While it lays bare!
And all my hair
is balding like J.




A minute and a half:
I haven’t gone full circle.
In fact, I’m a quarter of the way
and 90 degrees mocks me all day.




No critics, pressure or disappointment;
Not much is said about these walls
(this isn’t true for me at all)
In spite of this, it does its fill:
supports a home,
protects someone,
makes ends meet.
It is what it’s expected to be
(more than I can say for me)




Defeated, discouraged, seated in that corner;
I lose, it wins.
I feel the sensation of rolling salt on skin.
I failed the adequacy test,
compared to me, the corner is best.
I lay my case to rest. When I was feeling inadequate... But for me... When I felt I had burnt out... Explode in Ink
I want to breathe.
I want to think.
My imagination is at the brink.
Trapped and locked without a key
But gone too long;
It must be free.

There was a time
it filled the air
With vibrant colours everywhere.
New ideas,
Bold and bright;
Unafraid
With shimmering might.

It glowed, it shone,
It blazed like fire
Wider still
And even higher.
So high in fact
That one cursed day
The flame quite simply
Blew away.

And left was I in endless dark
Bogged down,
Burnt out,
Stopped at a park.
With other things to clog my mind
But none with vigour,
Zeal or shine.

A sad, sad era did succeed
A wounded soul,
No room to bleed.
Confined by cold
And hard distaste
A rusted trophy
Such a waste.

And sadder still,
I did not know
That I was letting it all just go.
Sinking far into the deep
Of ignorance
And restless sleep.
So there I stayed for far too long
Bound by chains
So fearfully strong.

Until...
It struck me like a bolt
My paceless walking
At a halt
What life have I corrupted to?
To be so empty,
down
And blue?

Am I prepared to throw away
What used to make my every day?
What put the smile upon my face;
A joyful and
Infectious grace.

Or has it long since disappeared?
Lost forever?
Cut and cleared?
No more to fill my days with glee
Or bestow that pure ability
To roam
And write
And make
And draw

... Accessible to me no more.
And even now
the tears collect
For that which I could not protect.
Regret knocked hard upon my core
An angry banging
At the door

So ceaseless, fierce
And fit to burst;
An almost ...kindled
Raging thirst
Yet lacks the uniform despair
Exuding quite a ...different air

I realise it's something more
A friend
I thought I lost before
Who fought so hard
And valiantly
Until the day
I set it free

So with a feeble,
Choked out sob
I reached my hand
and turned the knob.

An instant rush
Ran past my face
As if to blow a warm embrace.
Reignited were my eyes
A flame I now know
Can't just die.

My mouth curled up
I felt so strong.
I'd had it in me all along.
I shot from zero
Up to ten
The moment I picked up that pen

So now regained,
I cherish more
The blessing that lets me jump and soar.
And paint the world
with strokes of smiles
Crocheted with laughter
That rolls for miles

And now with newfound
Self esteem
I say with oomph
And cheeky gleam
"I want to breathe.
I want to think.
Let creativity
Explode in ink." When I was making an observation... Three ways to succeed in life

Live in learning;
scholarly.
Know all there is to know,
that knowing this is unknowable
and giggle at the thought.
Survive shell shots of questions
and receive a golden medal.
Have your name on fancy paper
and frame it on a wall.
Achieve a bigger number
on the corner of a sheet
and feel the warmth
in your tummy
like a freshly printed page.
Be recognised
but not quite satisfied.
Sit high, aim even higher.

Jump right into it;
whatever it is.
Take the certain step off of the cliff.
Fall free,
fall long,
fall grand and wide
in love.
The deeper you drop,
the faster the wind
that rushes past your face.
The larger the breaths
the gulps and swallows
the fuller and hungrier you get.
And from fuelling
the flame
of fervour
you feel
it burns ever bright, ever great.

Be that person;
a social maxim.
Judge little,
enjoy the company.
Any company. Every company.
Don’t puzzle yourself with fitting in
even though you do
because in the puzzle of fitting in
you’re probably the picture.
Don’t mind being alone,
though seldom found as such.
Be comfortable, be humble,
be serious, be light.
Be light.
Shine, shine like the sun,
the brightest but never criticised,
give life,
draw others in,
rise every day. When things were heavier than usual and I didn't know how to react... The world feels like it's cracked in four,
Like east and south and west and north
defined their quadrants and split away;
and turned their backs to the light of day.

The misfortune of one; so too of another.
The anguish of someone over his brother.
Tears that are shed, as heavy as rain,
in helpless despair over her sister's pain.

To watch and witness, cringe and hurt
unable to utter a single word,
when all he wants is to set him free
and all she wants is for her to flee.

They watch behind the inch-thick glass
praying and begging that soon it'll pass
but trials like these will never cease
even when they're on their knees
wishing it were them instead;
No more sleepless nights in bed
helpless with a heart that bleeds
for their sibling's broken needs.

Tear-stained sheets, eyelashes glitter;
Inside is black, inside is bitter.
Will her faith make her life better?
Will his prayers free his fetters?
These four lives are torn apart.
Two ordeals; four broken hearts. When I thought something was interesting... SONDER
Someone else’s voice whispers in your ear.
You turn too late and wisps of a soul escape your clutch, like smoke.
A name. Someone is calling your name.

Tapping noises like boots on cement run away from you.
Your turn once more to no avail.
When did everything become black?
You close your eyes (do you?).

The whisper returns, joined by another
and another and another

The shoulders you can’t see are being bumped and pushed.
Your eyes open to brightness blurring and focusing into a crowd in a walkway.
A sea of bodies wearing cottons
and wools
and silks of different colours weaving through each other and moving moving moving
pressing forward unware of everyone else around them
eventhoughtheyreallthesame
They’re all the same.
They’re all the same (but they’re not); they’ve all got lives, loves, stories, sadness, blessings, badness


THEM.


Like it does for you. And me.
In their world you’re just a distant star.
One that doesn’t even feature in their skyline
seen twinkling softly only once in a lifetime when all the planets have cosmicly aligned
(or when you brush past each other on a busy boardwalk at rush hour)
(in a city fundamentally like any other)
full of millions of little galaxies.
PEOPLE: STARS: SUNS: LIVES: EXISTENCES
STORIES: EMOTIONS: HANDICAPS: STRENGTHS
Twinkle! Twinkle!
Distant star stranger,
How I wonder what you are
and how you are
and who you are.
Can you see me?
Are you close enough?
Will I ever mean something to you?
Do you ever wonder about (me) the person on the other side of the street stock still in a surging crowd?
Do you ever wonder (sonder) about the person wondering (sondering?) about you now?




() Oh.
I see.

Ipickupmyfeetagain
and melt into the milky way monopolis
It’s time to pack up my stargazing kit and go back inside.
Time for the stars to become irrelevant again.

My story returns;
Cloudsmythoughts and fillsmymind.

I’m the sun again.
So bright I blind myself
So blinded I can’t see other stars
I can’t see the feeble sparkle lightyears away
and on the other side of the street, you spare me a glance full of questions and thoughts.

but I don’t notice that. When I thought something was ridiculous... To see the world in a grain of sand
and heaven in a while flower
To view the world through reductionism and
not let your face turn sour

For the world is far greater than a piece of salt
as of these it holds more than millions
and who are we to so exalt
such things though mere civilians?

‘Cause to touch infinity is plain ridiculous
let alone to grasp or hold it
For a concept as abstract and meticulous
the meaning would be remoulded

So as to think that all eternity
can be restricted to an hour
is like feeding an elephant to a flea
and expect it to be fully devoured

And I’d tell Sir Blake explicitly
should he ever cross my street
that his understanding of simplicity
is as mad as his conceits

So my message to metaphysicists
and reductionists alike
is to please just see things as it is
so to not confuse a tyke. Outlet
Fun
Clarity
Publication In case you forgot:
Can we express emotions through written language? Doesn't like reading.
It's boring and too wordy.
It doesn't make sense. Once it was researched and understood, an appropriate reaction came about. People have been known to cry or feel strongly about novels and poetry. No. Yes. To what extent: Perceptions influenced by:
Experiences
Culture
Religion
Observations
Environment "Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood." ~ T.S. Elliot Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
~ suggested by Liam Rawson Sailing to Byzantium by W.B. Yeats
~ suggested by James Mullin The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Elliot
~ suggested by Victor Bonev and also Jeremy Martin and also me [anyone lived in a pretty how town] by eecummings
~ suggested by me Most of Shakespeare
~ suggested by Moon Lo Sonder
~ Suggested by David Hambly "Half the things eecummings does"
~ suggested by Tia Dirnbek-Gabron Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas
~ suggested by Lisa Olsen Dear Esther
~ suggested by Carter Looker "You get it but you don't really get it." ~ Dr. Brohier Subjectivity within the Media: Some poetry I like and some poetry I don't. The Tyger by William Blake
~ suggested by William Davidson Genuine poetry can also communicate emotions before it is understood. Are we able to express emotion through written language? HOW? What factors instigate an emotional reaction to written language? POETIC
DEVICES Empathy It stimulates the imagination and thus allows us to project ourselves into situations that go beyond the spheres of our own experience.
Draws on common experiences that are easy relate to to explain those that are not. repetition for emphasis shape of the poem enjambment end-stopped syntax hyperbole Poetic Meter Trimeter The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? Tetrameter Fear No More the Heat o' the Sun
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
GUIDERIUS. Feare no more the heate o' th' Sun,
Nor the furious Winters rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast don,
Home art gon, and tane thy wages.
Golden Lads, and Girles all must,
As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust. An iamb is an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable as in par-TAKE.
A trochee is a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable as in BAN-jo.
A dactyl is a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed syllables as in CAP-it-al.
An anapest is two unstressed syllables followed by a stressed syllable as in sev-en-TEEN.
An amphibrach is an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable and then an unstressed syllable as in ar-CHA-ic.
A cretic is a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed syllable and then another stressed syllable as in TRAM-po-LINE. Common Meter Advance Australia Fair

Australians all let us rejoice,
for we are young and free.
We've golden soil and wealth for toil
Our home is girt by sea. Iambic Pentameter (Feminine Ending) Emily Dickinson Poem #712

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The Carriage held but just Ourselves
And Immortality. To be or not to be, that is the question.
* / * / * / / * * / * Poetic Meter
affects subliminally as humans Text Speech Song Are we able to express emotion through written language? What makes written language exclusive or isolated in its ability to convey emotion? Written Other Diction
Poetic Meter
Poetic Devices:
Simile
Metaphor
Onomatopoeia
Repetition
Hyperbole
Symbolism
Puns
Idioms
Poetry Speech "Don't die so easily! Fight it, stay with me!" Do not go gentle into that good night
Rage, rage against the dying of the light! Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain S T R U C T U R E S H A P E S Y N T A X G R A M M A R & P U N C T U A T I O N (love song, with two goldfish)


(He's a drifter, always
floating around her, has
nowhere else to go. He wishes
she would sing, not much, just the scales;
or take some notice,
give him the fish eye.)

(Bounded by round walls
she makes fish eyes
and kissy lips at him, darts
behind pebbles, swallows
his charms hook, line and sinker)

(He's bowled over. He would
take her to the ocean, they could
count the waves. There,
in the submarine silence, they would share
their deepest secrets. Dive for pearls
like stars.)

(But her love's since
gone belly-up. His heart sinks
like a fish. He drinks
like a stone. Drowns those sorrows,
stares emptily through glass.)

(the reason, she said
she wanted)
(and he could not give)
a life
beyond the
(bowl)
Grace Chua's Exclusive
Stylistic
Devices Imagination Physical Expressions Visual Stimulus Vocal Expressions Verbally communicated with the intention of the writer herself intonation pacing pause emphasis audible rhythm "Daddy" by Sylvia Plath Other's interpretations can distort your own. LANGUAGE Language Creative and Open Ended The Arts Poetry "Oh My America!" - John Donne in To His Mistris Going to Bed
16th Century Europe would get it.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;" - T.S. Elliot in The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock.
Anyone from the 18th onwards would get it. CONTEXT Are we able to express emotions through written media? The End. "Poetry is meant to be read aloud."
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