A sudden burst of Creativity

XyberDragon

In a sudden burst of creativity, I made a poem! Isn't that odd? Especially for me, since I don't like writing.
So here goes!!! :toast:

"Ode To Imagination"

The thoughts travel and swirl around my head
Providing sanctuary, amazement, and fantasy
They entice vivid scenes of color and sound.

As I welcome this perfect embrace,
I become lost in my own imagination


That very word is like the plucking of a harp.
It is what describes my very deepest recesses of my soul

As I welcome this perfect embrace,
I become lost in my own imagination


That very word is the essence of my dreams
Both asleep, and awake, the fluid reality of it all shakes my body to the core


It is the greatest feeling of all: It’s a piece of heaven!
To just let your mind float away in the embrace of a daydream


To stand upon a cloud,
To vanquish unimaginable enemies,
And simply to explore vivid worlds of unrealism

As I welcome this perfect embrace,
I become lost in my own daydream,
Just a fragment of my personal imagination

Hope you like it!!! :toast::toast::toast::toast::toast::toast::toast::toast::toast::toast:
 
Another sudden burst of Creativity!

This poem is from a while ago, about a week or two back. Some of the lines are too long for the page width and so deducts from the overall layout >:( :pirate:

"The Pianist"

The Pianist practices, his fingers flying over the smooth keys
His determination set in his wide grin, his eyes analyzing every page of music
The Pianist is getting ready for a concert

Playing all the pieces he has learned for the recital
At 16, he is a genius, too far ahead of everyone else to compete with.
Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Mozart flow from his fingers.

As he travels to the concert hall,
His hands get sweaty,
His face toughened and hard like steel.

His jaw sets as he comes onto the stage,
In a tuxedo suit and his hair uncomfortably slicked back.
He forces a smile and bows, a hand resting upon the side of the shiny black piano.

The crowd applauses wildly
Then he is sitting on the seat, fingers touching down lightly
On the keys of the piano.

1000 eyeballs, watching him, daring him to fail
The tension is literally crackling through the air like a live wire
Sweat seeping into the finely tailored tuxedo.

He begins to play, and the magic of his music ripples through the crowd.
"Not making a single mistake!" they whisper.
But is he nervous? Absolutely not! He isn't thinking the crowd is even there,

For in his mind, he is back at home, playing to his family.
He is serene, as the last note drops like a thunderclap onto placid water.
The crowd, completely stunned, immediately gets to their feet and applause wildly.

And he simply stands there, smiling. For in his mind, his deceased grandparents are
Looking down on him, smiling. He knew he had made them proud.
And that was all that mattered.
 
I read this as "Another sudden burst of Christianity". I think that goes to show how many stupid religion discussions we've had lately.
 
any mods that read this thread, excuse the double posting before this post. I merged two threads, so these "double posts" weren't really double posts to start.
 
You've been doing nothing but correcting me and being on my tail all day XD
Care to explain why? :toast:

Methinks you saved my bacon from an infraction.
 
Posting multiple threads of the same topic is the reason for a merge.

Additionally, I extremely enjoyed the "feel" of the second poem. Haha, made me want to go back to Piano lessons...
 
There's a poetry thread here that could use some life so it'd be cool if you could direct all future bursts of creativity in that direction.

I'm digging the vibe from the 'ode to imagination' piece a lot, though your transitions (if any truly existed) could use a little more work.

Also your avatar is an exact replica of my current desktop wallpaper so i guess im digging that too
 
AquOs said:
Imagination

That very word is like the plucking of a harp.
It is what describes my very deepest recesses
Of my soul
Click to expand...

That is just really, really awful. Of my soul being broken off like that seems like some really bad attempt to be poetic or...something. Attempting to talk prettily is not really creative nor poetic; true creativity shows itself even crudely written, and this shows none.

Also, saying a word a lot (imagination) does not suddenly give it some deep meaning, nor even make your poem more cohesive and intelligent. In this case, it again strikes at being profound and fails.
 
@ck: Duchamp painting "Nude Descending a Staircase" and me taking a massive shit are both equally creative acts; there is no universal standard ("true creativity"?) that they are both measured against.

That being said, poems are made of words. If you don't want your work to sound stiff and descriptive like plain journalism, don't make everything so clear. Expressing your thoughts through sparser wording lets you create space: the most poignant ideas in your poem should be formulated by the reader's own imagination, not by the literal text on the page (screen).

This is just one way of going about writing but I think it could enhance your stuff here very well.
 
Do you know what this is?

fountainbymarcelduchamp.jpg


Do you know what it means?
 
Personally, I don't want to jump onto either the "Wow, you wrote a poem that's incredible!" or the "Boo this is total shit" boats as neither are really helpful in the slightest to a writer wanting feedback and, when it comes to poetry, I cannot distinguish good poetry from doggerel, nor can I really appreciate poetry (I have AP Language and Composition and AP Literature and Composition to thank for that).

Anyway, all I have to say right now is, in the first poem, the flow seems odd, mainly because of the punctuation. You lack any sort of punctuation on lines that would be endstopped when you read them aloud. For example, in the first stanza, "Providing sanctuary, amazement, and fantasy/They entice vivid scenes of color and sound." if you read that out loud you would pause between "fantasy" and "They" since "They entice vivid scenes of color and sound" is the beginning of a new sentence or, at the very least, an independent clause which the preceding dependent clause is linked; in either case, you'd want either a period or semicolon if it's the former, a comma if it's the latter and an end stop on the preceding line as well. That kind of stuff was all throughout the poem and kinda threw me off when I read it. I suggest reading it aloud to get a sense of how it should sound then making the appropriate corrections to the punctuation.

In the second, I dunno, I just didn't feel it for some reason. I don't know if you were going for any sort of meter or anything, but it seemed pretty wordy at parts; again, something you could fix by reading it aloud. Also, the whole dead grandparents thing just came outta nowhere and seemed pretty superfluous. This may just be personal opinion, but I think it would be better if you either nixed it or alluded to it earlier in the poem so the reader isn't left sitting there thinking, "Wait, what?"

Oh yeah, and diction is word choice, in case you were wondering.

Hope some of that helped.
 
I'm with CK here, picking at the semantics of the word creative doesnt change the fact that the poetry here is uninspired. I'd also like to agree that taking a dump is about as creative as most of Duchamp's work, but probably not for the reasons you were trying to imply.

My advice, is when you want to be creative, you have to work out what it is you want to create. And I dont mean like "a poem", you need to work out what it is you want the intended audience of your poem (or whatever) to experience. Then you need to work out how is the best way to accomplish that. Everything else is secondary.

And I for one dont believe in bursts of creativity, I mean at least not in the sense that I think you are suggesting. To me creativity is a long slow process with a lot of screwed up pieces of paper spilling out of a bin beside your desk. Anyone who can churn out works suddenly and without a great deal of effort does so because they have the groundwork already in place. They already know what they are creating, and so one sudden spark of inspiration can lead to something big because everything else can be derived from their previous ideas (or technique or whatever) and still be new and exciting because of that one spark.

I'd also like to note that I know next to nothing about poetry, and I generally dont like even the stuff that is supposed to be good. So while I can say I dont really like your poems, that could be just a lack of understanding of poetry in general. But I do think I know a lot about aesthetics generally, and my advice is very good.

[edit] - also I hadnt read the second poem at the time I wrote all this, I like it more, but I think still you need to think more about how you say things and not just what you say. Like when you say "But is he nervous? Absolutely not!" this kinda feels patronising, like you dont think I would be smart enough to understand this without being told outright. It'd be nicer if like, you could find a way to make sure your audience understands this without just saying so..

Have a nice day.
 
well, that's okay, it's not as though there's a clear-cut division.

what i mean when i say this is prose pretending to be poetry is that the writing is in the poetical form, but it doesn't take advantage of any of the strengths of poetry, and it doesn't avoid the weaknesses of poetry.

i mean take something like uh

death of a naturalist by seamus heaney which is free verse:

All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragon-flies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window-sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst into nimble-
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
In rain.

Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross-bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.

it's pretty obvious that this could not work as a prose piece. imagine a novel written in this style, the imagery would exhaust the reader after a page or two. but in a ~30-line poem, we can take the time to savour every word - the length of a novel or even a short story doesn't afford us the kind of very detailed analysis we can apply to poetry.

the length also means heaney can work this poem to crafted perfection. he can evaluate every single word individually, and for an extended period. the ideal novelist would do this too, but the logistics of editing a 500-page work on such a level are totally impractical, and a novelist has a far greater picture to hold in his mind while doing so; his attentions should first and foremost be on the larger aspects of the book

it's kind of horrifying to hear people saying they write poetry because you can get something finished in half an hour. nothing good will ever come out of half an hour's work. i'll guarantee this poem went through at least ten drafts and took weeks to finish. of course, that kind of extreme focus results in quality - look how heaney has considered every aspect of his poem: every word is chosen to contribute to the overall sensation. the sun doesn't shine, it punishes. fields aren't green, they're rank with cowdung. there's not a pleasant word in this whole poem. he doesn't go with the first piece of shit that pops into his mind, as aquos is doing. heaney's extreme attention to detail shows in pretty much every way you can think of. the sounds of his words - rotted, spotted butterflies, slobber, clotted water, jampotfuls, fattening dots - mimic the slopping, slurping sound of frogspawn, and those sounds run through the poem until the frogspawn hatches, when the images turn from organic and disgusting to weaponized, primitive and uh still disgusting

if i look at aquos's poem i can't see anything like this. there is no depth of composition, no complexity, no effort. there's a very contrived linear narrative, told with no panache, awkwardly spaced to mimic the look of a poem. the line "the tension is literally crackling through the air like a live wire" proves that he hasn't considered the meaning of his words even as he is writing them, and i would say are evidence that this poem has never seen a redraft or edit

i would provide more examples but nearly every line in both poems has something drastically wrong with it, i don't know where to start

it's like the verse equivalent of watching a baby falling down a flight of stairs

(i wouldn't be so rude but i'm 80% sure this is some kind of troll, nobody real writes this poorly)

anyway i guess my answer to your question is "free verse distinguishes itself from prose by taking advantage of poetry's unique strengths in an effective way"


um
 
Thanks a lot, Floppy! The other poem, not the Pianist, in my opinion wasn't very amazing. I just put it out there for follow-ups. Like I said before, I hate writing, and so don't expect me to put these out here again.
 
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