Roethke is *brilliant*. You're on the right track.

If I wanted a collection of Emerson writings, could anyone suggest a good one, new or used?

So, if I wanted to start writing poetry (*gasp*) are there any good books out there on the craft that are worth a purchase? I've found The Ode Less Travelled and it looks good for the basics and entertaining (though one reviewer didn't like the lack of modernist forms). Actually, I should see if my library has it (I'm sure they do) and check it out first before buying (I swear Amy's voice was just inside my head, and I've never heard her voice). Any other suggestions?

And I know read read read more poetry (just as with prose) is always a good way to learn form and style and what I like and don't, so I'll be doing more of that too (I really like this thread).

quote:

Originally posted by JeePz:
If I wanted a collection of Emerson writings, could anyone suggest a good one, new or used?

hrm. I read all my Emerson out of textbooks, or I'd give you my stuff. never really took to the american transcendentalists. here is The Complete Prose Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson. kinda pricy, and none of his poetry...but, then, he's not really known for his poetry, is he?

I don't know him for his poetry so much, and not wanting to limit myself to just poetry exactly, just looking for a good collection of more of his writings.

Hmmm, Abebooks has copies for about $40 post paid. That's still a bit too pricey for me right now, especially for something I'm not even sure I want.

I found this link to a lot of Emerson poems.

The Complete Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson online here.

aaaaand jackpot!

JeePz-if you're serious about wanting to write properly structured prosody (that's poetry to you and me), and learning about metre, rythym and composition, then the book I would most recommend is The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry. Nothing else I've ever read on the subject compares and it's very user friendly to boot.

aww, no free-style verse?

(actually, I kinda hate free-style verse. why not just write prose and be done with it? I guess because the fine art of the essay is dead and gone. meh.)

Stephen Fry (who we all know is a very clever man)calls free verse 'arse drivel' which I find both hilarious and perfectly apt.

heh. works for me.

it just seems...lazy? if you don't want to write something long, but you don't give a shit about meter/rhyme, you do have options besides writing write a poem that isn't. Hemingway's vignettes are short and sweet but don't pretend to be poetry.

S'why I like to do flash fiction, but it's still very much prose. I want to actually learn to write poetry, not 'arse drivel'.

pssst...read Hemingway! background in journalism means no stupid drivelly long-winded crap!

Or there's always the 100 word short story - I mean, I absolutely adore Nicholas Was and Babycakes, by the wonderful Mr Gaiman. Here's one I wrote over a decade ago and, last time I checked, it ranked 9th in MoreWriting's top 10 short stories of all time, which did, I admit, make me feel inordinately proud - probably the last thing I need. The theme is adult, and it's entirely fictional:

Paula

I've known her since we were kids.

Intelligent, gorgeous, lacking one vital attribute; common sense.
Since nothing bad had happened to her, she assumed that nothing could.
I warned her about the risks, walking alone in this city at night, time and again.
Until the rape; then, she knew.

One of her abusers had HIV.

After the violation, she changed, became a nocturnal creature.
An urban vixen prowling the streets.

She's been raped again, seven times.

Fearing for her life, I call that madness.
Fearful of that life, she calls it justice.

Paula's my baby sister.
I'll always love her.

FIN

(Don't judge me too harshly on this, I was young when I wrote it).

wow, that's stark.
*has nothing meaningful to say in response*

Yeah, but Babycakes was no less horrible, just in an altogether different way - the same could be said of Nicholas Was. I've another one, Barren, that's even darker and more terrible, but when I posted it on MoreWriting, a lot of people were offended, because they believed it was simply gratuitous, which wasn't the case: I kind of loathe self-explanation and recrimination, but I write this kind of thing to highlight a blight that has afflicted society since the dawn of time - the abuse of women and children (Tiberius's 'minnows,' for example), not to glorify or get off on depravity. I think that it may be because I'm a man that some people find it harder to understand my empathy for victims of abuse, but, without going into too much personal detail, I've walked in some very dark places, so I'm not just pontificating entirely for my own gratification. Not ever, though it may sometimes come across that way.

hey, I had nothing meaningful to say in response to "Nicholas Was" or "Babycakes," either. that's one thing that I love and hate (as a born discusser-of-everything) at the same time about sparse writing—there's nothing to say that hasn't already been said better than you can say it.

I don't know - I always feel that a writer has to be his own harshest and most unforgiving critic - so I feel that this story could be better - but doesn't everyone who creates things feel that way about their work? The strictures of the 100 word format come into play, as does fact that I'm trying to address a massive issue in brief. Here's a poem in a similar vein, which I feel works much better:

Silent Scream

This is Munch's silent scream
A bell around her neck. Unclean!
Secrets that cannot be shared,
All alone and very scared.

Curled up in her bed at night,
Daddy comes to hold her tight,
Stubble rasps upon her back,
Eyes squeezed shut, she dreams of black.

Later, whispers in her ear,
On top of pain, a dose of fear
'If you tell, I'll say: you lie!
And then, my pretty, you will die.

It's only that I love you so,
So this is how I let you know
That this is every Father's right,
I'll come, again, tomorrow night.'

When he has gone, the tears can come,
Aches are fading, she feels numb,
One last place for her to hide:
Razor blade and open wide.

They weep as she is lowered down,
The preacher wears a sombre frown,
Why would she damn her soul to hell?
They could not know; she did not tell.

But little sister understands,
She too has known her Daddy's hands.

(I'm sorry, truly, if it hurts to read this...but, in my heart, I feel that it is supposed to).

yeah, it is supposed to.