Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Perfect Poet Award- thursday Poets' Rally Week 38

FamaSemperVivat wanted me to share this award with the group, letting you all know that i won runner up for Perfect Poet Award on Jingles Thursday Poetry they run every second thursday. I have really grown even more and learn from other poets and made some wonderful friendships through sharing of poems and also following each others blogs. I recived this award fro the 38th Thursday Rally for the Poem The Wait this poem has been one of my favourites, I hope you guys read it and maybe get inspired to join us. To read any of my other work on my blog here is the link : My Poetry & Writing . You can also find me on Allpoetry at this link : FallenWingz.

Thank You Jingle
for your kindness and devotion,
for hosting such awesome
challenges for the poets.
i know that we all truly are
thankful for your appreciation
of our work.
thanks for this honour.
I hope i will spend more time
with you all.
To Jingle, you are the best.
you give our art a voice.

Copyright C Davids

I nominate IBeing Me for week 39 Perfect Poet Award

Monday, February 28, 2011

Spotlight Award Winner of Month #2 Theme was "Love"

The Theme was "Love"

Congratulations to this months winner of February 2011 on Allpoetry. redheadhorselady for her stunning poem The Love of My Life  and Sands of Time for his poem Once in April .

The Spotlight poem :    redheadhorselady

The Love Of My Life

A spring breeze blows through the willows of my heart,
I cherish every beat, each shining spark.
A walk along a creek near my vintage home,
a place where my favorite creatures are known to roam.

My favorite stone placed gracefully by wondrous hands,
right in the middle of some snow white sand,
slightly tilting to the creek's side my hidden place I sit to write.

Staring into the running creek, I notice it's waters run very deep.
Little tadpoles piled in a row, flounder to the bank for a peep show.
I remove my tablet and my quill, the day is slightly breezy yet still.

No lovers embrace could ever remove this place, all that is here is very real. Chickadees pouncing all around, gathering tiny bugs, to be found. A guarder snake, suns across the bank, laying still, lifeless his time to think.

I watch the fish deep near the mud, wondering what's life like to live through a flash flood.  A frog swimming to the other side, like an old man doing a breast stroke in perfect stride. Looking up past the sun, are fluffy blue clouds on the run, as I dip my pen in the ink .

How could anyone not fall in love forever... with all the sweet nature's missing links. I will never understand my love, for he comes to me in many forms. Until then, I will take off my shoes, dip my bare feet in the creek while I write, and think!

"No nicer lover, I have met than the natural sights near my home."

Second Runner Up:   By Sands In Time

Once In April

Once in April, I found my love true
making my star-light hours sweet,
casting me into a most gentle spell.
April love awakes me from my sleep.

Written on the pages of my memory
the first chaper is now called you.
The first words are here is my love
for all eternity, the one that's true.

Come to me in day or dreams tonight,
come as you are to me a million times
in love songs that last in eternal flame,
lasting as the poet's romantic rhymes.

I carry your heart deep along with mine
deeper than my love and hope can hide,
the deep spirit of love is found everyday
I find love sweet and alive in my mind.

From out of the sky one arrow flashed,
Cupid's aim was perfect hitting its mark
He married my sun like a pin to the morn,
Cupid was bowed, his arrow hit my heart.

Once in April, I found my love true
making my star-light hours sweet,
casting me into a most gentle spell.
April love awakes me from my sleep.

All poems is copyrighted by the authors redheadhorselady & Sands in Time

Theme Contest Winner " The Road Less Traveled"

The winner of this contest was Riddles one of the poets from Allpoetry

I should have known

"I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference"

There is nowhere to turn around
and I've lost a lot,
I took the untaken path.
No doubt,
I wish I'd taken the other route.

This path has shed blood
My family's lives broken
I'm doing well - my career sprung
has brought me ascension
whilst my family
my mother, sister...

oh brother...
I'm happy, they're miserable...

I should have taken the other path
but now my family suffers
suffering at the hands of wrath
a pestilence disturbing
a war unending
a death to come soon
famine entered
then left the room

trading them for me,
I'd sooner me for them

Might I go a few steps back?
My family thus would never lack

But I couldn't know -
and no one could tell me so.
To view this poem on the Allpoetry site click here : I should have known
To read about the poet click here : Riddles

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Congrats to Spotlight Award Winner of the Month #1

Let's all congratulate this months Spotlight winner of January 2011 on All Poetry.
FallenWingz for the poem, Poetry. And runner-up gerrynan2 for her poem The Climb.

Now on to the winning poems beginning with:


Is poetry the flow of love?
That trembles of the tongue
Into a desire of greatness
Enchanting fantasies
My take on writing poetry
It leaks from emotions
That was once bruised
Healing in a way that can't hide
What the eye can’t see.
Words have ways of saying
More then an actual gesture.
I am a poetess.
I am a whore in love with words
I make love to it when ever it
Enchants the desires
That bestows me.
That burning desire that it
Tempts you daily.
It’s my crack that keeps me up
At night,
Burning the midnight oil
As the love making
Of two individuals
Explore each other’s bodies.
Trembling of passion.
My words speak of desire,
Of feeling that high
That neither human can fill.
Poetry is a temptation
I crave in the hours of
Desperation and desire.
I snuggle up to it
While I sit endless hours
As the words tumbles out of me.
What human desires cant I feel?
That I give it over to the lovemaking
Of words that jumble and touch each other.
All these might just be words pouring
Out of my mind as I touch the
Keypads on my keyboard
Lingering word after word.
What desires doesn’t poetry fills
In my life.
When I spread my power through.

Now our runner- up entry by gerrynan2:       

        The Climb

Looms huge, grey, the crags
Half in cloud hid.
Mountain! of heights, of lights;
Cold and the spires of Heaven.

Trudging up to first base,
Gathering the hills which are preludes.
Sky and stones and streams,
Grey in the wintry day.

This climber too small.
Flesh weak, and cold, all shaky.
Doesn't know how; doesn't know why.
Heart still unbowed yet bows,
To their splendours these mountains of Perfect.

Silence like heavy weights.
Pressing the head,
Like the exhausted quiet of the dead.

Cliffs loom. grey and sere.
Neither rope nor helper nor axe;
Yet it is ''Thou shalt climb!
Climb thou, or die''!
Inching up, inching up,
One handhold here, there another,
A place for the foot, another...
Inch up, inch it easy?

Gained! Lie full length, gasp  your thanks!
More cliffs, more curtains of grey rock.
The same fateful struggle.
Fail! Gain! Gain! Fail! Gain! Gain again...
The lone battle in the air.
The battle of the mountains.

This narrow cleft of rock is called a chimney.
Use your back as a brace, carry yourself like a cross,
Walk your legs up the chimney.
Slowly, inch by inch. Swing out at the top.
If you dare; safety is dangerous.

Muscles like lead.
Heart labours, bursting.
Its high and cold, but I sweat with toil.
Great eagles sail below,
Glaring up at the climber.
Above their proud flight.
And it is night.

The winds howl, battering the thin fabrics.
Within my tiny shelter I cower.
Hearing the ghosts in the shrieking blasts.
Hearing the echoes of all that is past.

At midnight it ceases.
In silence extreme look out O climber!
It is Jehovah-Jirah....
Wonders rising to the universe of lights,
The stars glitter in their distant dreams 
Calling, calling the souls of those who must climb.
Hail to the universe, older than mountains!

Pray, to whatever sketch of God they taught you.
Try to sleep now,
Caught in the wonder and the pain.
Can you?

Its dawn, the sun rises with a silent shout of joy!
Rejoice in the floods of golden light!
We dance together!
Dancing in the mists golden bright!

Again to the climb.
The rocks are iced in light.
Snow in great banks of white
Glistens its beautiful diamond sparks
Into the listening quiet.
On  a ridge of high snow
Majestically sailing on...
Only another
Look around, look around...
None other found.
Its the peak. The peak of Perfect!

The mountains called Perfect.
Climb now. What choice hast thou?
There is no way but down, back to evil.
Or lonely annihilation.
For who can live here?

Jagged, sharp, the last peak like a black fang.
No saviour save my own hands.
Try to see the depths of the fall.
Its too huge. See nothing at all.
Below in their warm mirks,
The people remembered
Fade as worms in their dirt.
But look straight and all about,
The blue distances spread
Like omniscience, like toys the world waits quiet;
Waiting for the touch of a master.
So rise, begin!

Vicious this last battle.
We fight to conquer, kill, survive.
This black fanged death.
Swing loose, hanged on one screaming hand,
This fool who would be free!
The fool called by thee.
In defiance of all gravity,
That pull back, that pull down.
Don't. Won't. Can't. Shan't...give in!

Suddenly reached. The peak.
The wind quietly flies snowdust
Like a flag in salute.
I have won.
Death is done.
I stand, a little tree.
The sun. The mountain. And me.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Poets In Training Contest #2 Winner for 2011

Well once again one of our younger poets wrote the best for this weeks contest on AP and he's a two time winner, amazing! So once again congratulate our very own Adrian Dayne aka Superfirst for his amazing poem written using a picture prompt!


She Walks On Water

It isn't for the flowers
Though he picked her favorite kind
So delicate.  So fragrant.
Perfect flowers these may be
She does not walk on water

It isn't for the dresses
Though he picks the perfect fit
So beautiful.  So flowing.
Perfect dresses these may be
She does not walk on water

It is for his love she walks
Though it can't be worn or held
So magickal.  So wondrous.
Perfect arms these may just be
For love... She walks on water

© January 20, 2011. Adrian, All rights reserved

Saturday, January 15, 2011

We've got two contests on All Poetry! One is for a one-month Silver Membership!

Just posted on All Poetry! Enter and maybe your winning poem will be shown here next week!  Also don't forget to go and visit AP (All Poetry) if you aren't a member join (it's fee, just has ads) then join the group Poets In Training, and enter the contests (we've got 2 going this week)

Okay enough blabber on to the links to the contests

Poets In Training Poem of the Week Contest #2
Would you like to have this??

Poets In Training Spotlight Award of the Month #1 Big Points! Silver Membership!
or this???

or both??

Friday, January 14, 2011

Meet This Week's Poet!

Adrian Dayne aka SuperFirst

Our latest addition to our group of contributors, as well as our youngest one is our Poet this week we’d like you to meet, his name is Adrian Dayne aka SuperFirst on All Poetry, and he’s also the primary contributor of our latest blog section “Young Poets Corner”  he is a well-versed young man and does a wonderful job as a poet for one so young, he’s already won a Poem of the Week Contest here and he’s also become a group official for our group on All Poetry.  (he’s also the most willing to share himself with others)   

Adrian: Thank you for the interview. It was fun. Thanks for all the opportunities that you and Suzie have given me. It's really great now since I'm all injured and can't run or train for a few weeks.

Chiminese: Tell us a little about yourself.

Adrian: Well, I'm twelve years old. I live with my uncle who is like the most awesome guy in the world. My hair is long, down to my waist, and I'm not cutting it until I'm 18 and I can join the army like my dad. I've been through a lot but I do my best to live in love and stay positive. My girlfriend's name is Strawberry, which is the most awesome name ever for the most awesome girl ever.

Chiminese: What is it about poetry that makes you want to write?

Adrian: I don't really know. It's like freedom, challenge and expression all rolled into one. And, it's like you put a little bit of your soul into every line.

Chiminese: Can you remember your first poem?

Adrian: I don't know if this was my first or not, but the first one I can remember was called “Egg In A Nutshell”. I don't remember the words but it was based on something my brother said about not building up your defenses too much. The last line was actually his words "An egg in a nutshell can still get scrambled."

Chiminese: What style or styles of poetry do you write most or prefer to write?

Adrian: Honestly, I don't know much about different styles of poetry. I barely knew what a stanza was before I joined All Poetry. I just like to write. I don't know a lot of the forms and mechanics behind it yet.

Chiminese: Do you write more than poetry? What else do you do creatively?

Adrian: I try to write stories, but I don't really have the attention span for that. I also write songs sometimes. I know it's almost the same thing as poetry but it just feels different when you're keeping a melody in mind.

Chiminese: What poem, written by you, do you like the most?

Adrian: Well my most popular by far is "Too Young To Say I Love You." My favorites though are probably my weakest two, poetically speaking. The first one is called "Please, Oh Brother, Guide My Hand" and the second one is called "Pick Me Up See The Lights?" Those are about as personal and special to me as any poem could be.

Chiminese: Do you have any mentors?

Adrian: My uncle, my brother and my dad. My uncle is the wisest, most kind person I have ever met. He stopped at nothing to find me and make sure I had a home and a family. He taught me to carry the fire and I hope I can grow up to be half the man he is. 
     My brother still teaches me lessons and helps me through life even those he's been dead for almost a year. All I have to do is look at the way he lived his life for a guide on how I should live mine.
     I don't remember much about my dad. All I really have are pictures and a few little scenes in my head and the stories my uncle and other people tell me. I know he was a great man. I know that he loved me. He was in the army on 9/11 and he died trying to save people when the first tower fell. He wasn't ordered to help or anything. He saw it as his right and duty as a human being.

Chiminese: Who is your favorite poet or writer?

Adrian: Geraldine Stevens. She goes by gerrynan2 on All Poetry, but I just call her Nan. Her writing is so vivid and so pure that whenever I'm reading one of her poems it feels more like I'm living it rather than just reading it. I also like that she doesn't fit into any real forms. She writes in what she calls a "narrative style" and it just feels so classic and natural. Please, give her a read.
    (I tend to agree with this, so here’s a link to Geraldine’s Poetry for you.. )

Chiminese: What is your favorite poem by the poet you chosen?

Adrian: I think my favorite is "Poet's Winter" but please check out more of her work. Poems like "Spartan!" and "The Dance Of Life" are amazing too!

Chiminese: What is your favorite type music?

Adrian: I like so many types of music, it's unreal. Here are some of my favorites.

Nickel Creek - Celtic-ish bluegrass style music with writing that really blows my mind.
Andrew WK - Simple, stupid and amazing. Piano metal with very inspiring lyrics.
Adiemus - A vocal project to show how united mankind can be. They do this by taking musical styles from all over the world and singing in a made up language that means nothing. It sounds like it would be a train wreck but seriously, look them up!
Busta Rhymes - I know I know I'm too young to listen to him, but he's just way to much fun. He's awesome.
I also really like to listen to my brother's music. His guitar playing always makes me feel good.

Chiminese: What inspires you?

Adrian: In poetry it's not really one thing, it's everything. We can get poetic inspiration from everything in life, the world around us, and in our memories.
In life, it's people who do great things, despite the consequences. People who will do the right thing and defend what they believe. I try to live this way the best I can.

Chiminese: Do you have a favorite book or author?

Adrian: I think my favorite book is "The Book Of Five Rings" by Miyamoto Musashi. It's a warrior's philosophy book written by the most famous duelist in all of feudal Japan after he had retired.

Chiminese: How about a favorite quote?

Adrian: How about a few?

"Accept no way as Way. Accept no limitation as Limitation." - Bruce Lee

"Be like water." - Bruce Lee

"Reject anything that does not stand the test when it is brought to the Anvil of Truth and hammered with nonviolence." - Gandhi

“If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well.” - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Honestly, if you're not too familiar with the teachings of Dr. King, do yourself a favor and look him up. He was full of so much wisdom and love.

Chiminese:.Any other creative passions? 

Adrian: Well, I write my own music and I play guitar. I have real bad nerve damage so my left hand doesn't really work the way it should, but my brother showed me how to play through it and thanks to him, I'm getting pretty good. I try to sing sometimes, but that's kind of a bad idea.

I also run Parkour and free running. If you don't know what they are, look them up on YouTube. It's so freeing and so expressive in it's own ways. It's a real challenge and you've got to conquer yourself in order to do it.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

First Poem of the Week Award Winner for the New Year!

Let's congratulate the first Poem of the Week winner from our group of entries on All Poetry this week,  the theme was for a lullaby or child's poem for bed time, since it is for the "birth" of a new year.  And our winning entry was written by All Poetry Member drala, (real name not shared) any way here's the winning entry--

Angels fly by

Hush my baby enter your dreams
See angels fly with silvery wings
Smiling white lilies pure and refined
Whisper lullabies in consoling rhyme

Hush my baby enter your dreams
Angels take over, rest with ease
Waving their silvery luminous wings
Rocks my baby back to sleep

Hush my baby enter your dreams
Angels fly by waving their wings
Gentle and quiet, cuddled in the crib
My baby lies in a sweet restful sleep
© drala All rights reserved

If you enjoyed this, be sure to visit drala's page on All Poetry and read more..
Here's the link to their poetry collection --  and
Here's the link to their profile--

So be sure to visit and I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.
Your ever faithful
Poet In Training,
Suzanne Wyatt aka FamaSemperVivat

Monday, January 10, 2011

Classical Poet review by heidiim2 "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrok"-'T.S.Elliott'

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock – ‘T. S. Eliot’

I should initially start with a confession; I have loved this poem since I was 15/16, have read it almost non stop for the past 8 years, and even wrote my dissertation on it. However, whenever I mention the poem I am greeted with blank faces. ‘T. S. Eliot’ brings a sort of nod of school memories and a social osmosis effect (similar to the way people know what 1984 is about without ever reading it), but any particular poems are outside of their knowledge.

In my opinion, this is one of the greatest poems ever written. We start with an Italian introduction before Eliot, or Prufrock, our narrator takes on a journey through the evening and through a neurotic man’s mentality with so many hidden meanings that it can mean a different thing to everyone who reads it, and will mean more each time you subsequently read it.

The poem was first published in 1915 when Eliot was living in, or had just left (I can’t quite remember) Europe. The world was in a strange place – there were the tensions of war juxtaposed with what we can suppose was the start of modern continental culture in Europe. The poem encapsulates the two lifestyles – there were the soldiers having sex whereas (in Britain in particular) sex was as taboo as ever and talk on the matter was suppressed (the two only collided in 1922 when the government intervened due to a breakout in STDs).

So, with that in mind, and in the words of Eliot, ‘Let us go then, you and I’...

We start in the evening, ‘spread out against the sky’ with ‘yellow fog’. Despite the initial negative ideas with the imagery of ‘fog’, ‘smoke’, ‘arguments’ Eliot creates a sense of calm – even the fog ‘curled up and fell asleep’. Therefore, we get the feeling of a certain tediousness in life, war is underway in Europe and has been for about a year, rationing, bombing, gassing and deaths so there is an air of quiet exhaustion and perhaps the propaganda ‘Go on lads!’ message has faded.

From the evening, Prufrock begins his pondering of ‘time’.
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create

This, perhaps, sums up the ideas almost perfectly. There is the idea of hiding behind a mask, particularly later in the poem, and oxymoronic ideas throughout the poem. The fickleness of life is also brought up in this stanza – ‘a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions’. And we finish introducing the theme of civilisation – ‘the taking of toast and tea’, which Eliot goes on to compare with the primeval desires – the good old id vs. Ego conflict.

I’m going to speed up now, because otherwise we could be here all day. So, in the next stanza we come back to that idea of time and begin to discuss the idea of fate. Does a learned man believe in such ideas? Well clearly, Prufrock believes in autonomy – ‘a hundred decisions, and revisions’’, but does this man have faith in a predestined idea of balance in the universe? After all, ‘do I dare disturb the universe’ certainly suggests an idea of an entity.

We have now almost hit key theme number three. Firstly, we must introduce man’s greatest weakness –women. Prufrock has ‘known them all’ but, in ‘pushing the moment to its crisis’ he’s ‘afraid’. What does this mean? Well, many have argued, myself included in aforementioned dissertation, that Eliot is asking if man is so full of knowledge (e.g. Shakespeare whom he mentions) and civilisation (toast and tea) that we have become too neurotic for the animal urges, such as sex, which reside in all of us.

I’m now going to fast forward, or we’ll be here all day, to the very end of the poem. Time has passed, Prufrock is an old man now – with the bottom of his trousers rolled – and we introduce the mermaids. What is he saying? Well, there are many arguments – firstly that the mermaids are the metaphor for the problem of women and that even at the end of his life he is still haunted by his neurotic tendencies. Secondly, there is the idea that impending death and drowning is the metaphor of becoming too submerged in thoughts and troubles that it takes over your life.

That’s my (supposedly quick) summary of Prufrock, but there’s so much more in the poem, and if you read it you’ll almost certainly fall in love with it.

-heidiim2 from All Poetry

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Rainier Maria Rilke 4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926

Letters to a young poet

Between Franz Xaver Kappus - June 1929 & Rainer Maria Rilke - February 17, 1903

When I read this article or letters between the two poets it really amazed me what poetry entails, how we start to call ourselves poets and why we are poetess. What makes us poets? These letters are about life, feelings, anything that surrounds us, nature.

So this is my theme for the article. Letters to a poet. If it’s possible most of our loved poets are dead ones but what about them inspired us to become poets or poetess'.

The following are just snippets of the letters between the two poets, and I just chose the parts that stood out to me.

After all this it is not hard to understand how I was determined in that very hour to send my poetic attempts to Rainer Maria Rilke and to ask him for his opinion. Not yet twenty, and close on the threshold of a profession which I felt to be entirely contrary to my inclinations, I hoped to find understanding, if in any one, in the poet who had written Mir zur Feier. And without having intended to do so at all, I found myself writing a covering letter in which I unreservedly laid bare my heart as never before and never since to any second human being.

Many weeks passed before a reply came. The blue-sealed letter bore the postmark of Paris, weighed heavy in the hand, and showed on the envelope the same beautiful, clear, sure characters in which the text was set down from the first line to the last. With it began my regular correspondence with Rainer Maria Rilke, which lasted until 1908 and then gradually petered out because life drove me off into those very regions from which the poet’s warm, tender and touching concern had sought to keep me.
But that is not important. Only the ten letters are important that follow here, important for an understanding of the world in which Rainer Maria Rilke lived and worked, and important too for many growing and evolving spirits of today and tomorrow. And where a great and unique man speaks, small men should keep silence.
Berlin, June 1929

The replies from Rainer Maria Rilke

Letter 1

Dear Sir,
Your letter arrived just a few days ago. I want to thank you for the great confidence you have placed in me. That is all I can do. I cannot discuss your verses; for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to me. Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings. Things aren’t all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.
With this note as a preface, may I just tell you that your verses have no style of their own, although they do have silent and hidden beginnings of something personal. I feel this most clearly in the last poem, “My Soul.” There, something of your own is trying to become word and melody. And in the lovely poem “To Leopardi” a kind of kinship with that great, solitary figure does perhaps appear. Nevertheless, the poems are not yet anything in themselves, not yet anything independent, even the last one and the one to Leopardi. Your kind letter, which accompanied them, managed to make clear to me various faults that I felt in reading your verses, though I am not able to name them specifically.
You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your while life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose. Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds - wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to rise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, and a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it. So, dear Sir, I can’t give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.
But after this descent into yourself and into your solitude, perhaps you will have to renounce becoming a poet (if, as I have said, one feels one could live without writing, then one shouldn’t write at all). Nevertheless, even then, this self-searching that I as of you will not have been for nothing. Your life will still find its own paths from there, and that they may be good, rich, and wide is what I wish for you, more than I can say.
What else can I tell you? It seems to me that everything has its proper emphasis; and finally I want to add just one more bit of advice: to keep growing, silently and earnestly, through your while development; you couldn’t disturb it any more violently than by looking outside and waiting for outside answers to questions that only your innermost feeling, in your quietest hour, can perhaps answer.
It was a pleasure for me to find in your letter the name of Professor Horacek; I have great reverence for that kind, learned man, and a gratitude that has lasted through the years. Will you please tell him how I feel; it is very good of him to still think of me, and I appreciate it.
The poems that you entrusted me with I am sending back to you. And I thank you once more for your questions and sincere trust, of which, by answering as honestly as I can, I have tried to make myself a little worthier than I, as a stranger, really am.
Yours very truly,
Rainer Maria Rilke
Letter 2

Today I would like to tell you just two more things:
Irony: Don’t let yourself be controlled by it, especially during uncreative moments. When you are fully creative, try to use it, as one more way to take hold of life. Used purely, it too is pure, and one needn’t be ashamed of it; but if you feel yourself becoming too familiar with it, if you are afraid of this growing familiarity, then turn to great and serious objects, in front of which it becomes small and helpless. Search into the depths of Things: there, irony never descends - and when you arrive at the edge of greatness, find out whether this way of perceiving the world arises from a necessity of your being. For under the influence of serious Things it will either fall away from you (if it is something accidental), or else (if it is really innate and belongs to you) it will grow strong, and become a serious tool and take its place among the instruments, which you can form, your art with.
And the second thing I want to tell you today is this:
Of all my books, I find only a few indispensable, and two of them are always with me, wherever I am. They are here, by my side: the Bible, and the books of the great Danish poet Jens Peter Jacobsen. Do you know his works? It is easy to find them, since some have been published in Reclam’s Universal Library, in a very good translation. Get the little volume of Six Stories by J. P. Jacobsen and his novel Niels Lyhne, and begin with the first story in the former, which is called “Mogens.” A whole world will envelop you, the happiness, the abundance, and the inconceivable vastness of a world. Live for a while in these books, learn from them what you feel is worth learning, but most of all love them. This love will be returned to you thousands upon thousands of times, whatever your life may become—it will, I am sure go through the while fabric of your becoming, as one of the most important threads among all the threads of your experiences, disappointments, and joys.
If I were to say who has given me the greatest experience of the essence of creativity, its depths and eternity, there are just two names I would mention: Jacobsen, that great, great poet, and Auguste Rodin, the sculptor, who is without peer among all artists who are alive today.
And all success upon your path!
Rainer Marie Rilke

Letter 3

You see: I have copied out your sonnet, * because I found that it is lovely and simple born in the shape that it moves in with such quiet decorum. It is the best poem of yours that you have let me read. And now I am giving you this copy because I know that it is important and full of new experience to rediscover a work of one’s own in someone else’s handwriting. Read the poem as if you had never seen it before, and you will feel in your innermost being how very much it is your own.
It was a pleasure for me to read this sonnet and your letter, often; I thank you for both.

And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it. This very wish, if you use it calmly and prudently and like a tool, will help you spread out your solitude over a great distance. Most people have (with the help of conventions) turned their solutions toward what is easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must trust in what is difficult; everything alive trusts in it, everything in Nature grows and defends itself any way it can and is spontaneously itself, tries to be itself at all costs and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must trust in what is difficult is a certainty that will never abandon us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be one more reason for us to do it.
It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation. That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time ahead and far on into life, is - ; solitude, a heightened and deepened kind of aloneness for the person who loves. Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent - ?), it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances. Only in this sense, as the task of working on themselves (”to hearken and to hammer day and night”), may young people use the love that is given to them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them (who must still, for a long, long time, save and gather themselves); it is the ultimate, is perhaps that for which human lives are as yet barely large enough.
But this is what young people are so often and so disastrously wrong in doing they (who by their very nature are impatient) fling themselves at each other when love takes hold of them, they scatter themselves, just as they are, in all their messiness, disorder, bewilderment . . . . : And what can happen then? What can life do with this heap of half-broken things that they call their communion and that they would like to call their happiness, if that were possible, and their future? And so each of them loses himself for the sake of the other person, and loses the other, and many others who still wanted to come. And loses the vast distances and possibilities, gives up the approaching and fleeing of gentle, prescient Things in exchange for an unfruitful confusion, out of which nothing more can come; nothing but a bit of disgust, disappointment, and poverty, and the escape into one of the many conventions that have been put up in great numbers like public shelters on this most dangerous road. No area of human experience is so extensively provided with conventions as this one is: there are live-preservers of the most varied invention, boats and water wings; society has been able to create refuges of very sort, for since it preferred to take love-life as an amusement, it also had to give it an easy form, cheap, safe, and sure, as public amusements are.
Letter 4

And about feelings: All feelings that concentrate you and lift you up are pure; only that feeling is impure which grasps just one side of your being and thus distorts you. Everything you can think of as you face your childhood is good. Everything that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is right. Every intensification is good; if it is in your entire blood, if it isn’t intoxication or muddiness, but joy, which you can see into, clear to the bottom. Do you understand what I mean?
And your doubt can become a good quality if you train it. It must become knowing, it must become criticism. Ask it, whenever it wants to spoil something for you, why something is ugly, demand proofs from it, test it, and you will find it perhaps bewildered and embarrassed, perhaps also protesting. But don’t give in, insist on arguments, and act in this way, attentive and persistent, every single time, and the day will come when instead of being a destroyer, it will become one of your best workers - perhaps the most intelligent of all the ones that are building your life.
That is all, dear Mr. Kappus, that I am able to tell you today. But I am sending you, along with this letter, the reprint of a small poem * that has just appeared in the Prague German Labor. In it I speak to you further of life and death and of how both are great and glorious.
Letter 5

It must be immense, this silence, in which sounds and movements have room, and if one thinks that along with all this the presence of the distant sea also resounds, perhaps as the innermost note in this prehistoric harmony, then one can only wish that you are trustingly and patiently letting the magnificent solitude work upon you, this solitude which can no longer be erased from your life; which, in everything that is in store for you to experience and to do, will act as an anonymous influence, continuously and gently decisive, rather as the blood of our ancestors incessantly moves in us and combines with our own to form the unique, unrepeatable being that we are at every turning of our life.

Yes: I am glad you have that firm, sayable existence with you, that title, that uniform, that service, all that tangible and limited world, which in such surroundings, with such an isolated and not numerous body of men, takes on seriousness and necessity, and implies a vigilant application, above and beyond the frivolity and mere time passing of the military profession, and not only permits a self-reliant attentiveness but actually cultivates it. And to be in circumstances that are working upon us, that from time to time place us in front of great natural Things - that is all we need.
Art too is just a way of living, and however one lives, one can, without knowing, prepare for it; in everything real one is closer to it, more its neighbor, than in the unreal half-artistic professions, which, while they pretend to be close to art, in practice deny and attack the existence of all art - as, for example, all of journalism does and almost all criticism and three quarters of what is called (and wants to be called) literature. I am glad, in a word, that you have overcome the danger of landing in one of those professions, and are solitary and courageous, somewhere in a rugged reality. May the coming year support and strengthen you in that.
R. M. Rilke

That was the last letter To Mr Kappus the young poet who correspondent with Mr Rainier Maria Rilke for six years.

Bio on Raineir Maria Rilke :- information from Wikipedia

Rainer Maria Rilke (4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926) was a Bohemian–Austrian poet and art critic. He is considered one of the most significant poets in the German language. His haunting images focus on the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude, and profound anxiety: themes that tend to position him as a transitional figure between the traditional and the modernist poets.
He wrote in both verse and a highly lyrical prose. Among English-language readers, his best-known work is the Duino Elegies; his two most famous prose works are the Letters to a Young Poet and the semi-autobiographical The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. He also wrote more than 400 poems in French, dedicated to his homeland of choice, the canton of Valais in Switzerland.

The book Rainer wrote was called Letters to a young poet, himself and Kappus collaborated on the content of the book. Above is a review on the book.

An Insight On Life
Written: Jan 02 '04
Pros: Words of WisdomCons: Wish he had written more letters.The Bottom Line: This is a poet speaking to a poet; writers in general should love this book, also look for advice on life here.

Alena's Full Review: Rainer Maria Rilke and Franz Xaver Kappus - Letter...
This book was one of the unexpected gems that life causally throws you every once in while. A friend of mine lent me this book and I am so glad she did. It is an insightful little book on being a writer that could probably be applied to any art or perhaps to life itself. The premise of this little "novel" if you will is a collection of ten letters written by the poet, Rainer Maria Rilke (German Poet), to a young man who originally writes to Rilke to ask him to look at some poetry he has written. They strike up a correspondence, which turns into the ten letters in the book. We never see the young man's letters. Rilke's letters are gems of knowledge about life, solitude and love. He also speaks on what it is truly to be a writer.” Can you avow that you would die if forbidden to write?" They can be disheartening at times, but seem to me to be full of wisdom. They also seem to say yes, someone else has walked your lonely road. In a way, they speak to me, comfort me and teach me. A couple of my favorite quotes include: "To love is also good, for love is difficult. For one human being to love another is perhaps the most difficult task of all, the epitome, the ultimate test.". . . "We are unutterably alone, essentially, especially in things most intimate and most important to us." The wisdom of a solitary poet. I enjoyed these letters and the pearls of wisdom within so much that I bought a hardback for myself and bought a paperback to give to another friend. The book is translated by Joan M. Burnham, since Rilke was a German poet, and there is a forward by Marc Allen. If you are looking for some words of life, look here, or if you are looking for a bit of comfort from a solitary life, the kind that comes from knowing others have walked here. Then delve into this book, it might just be the haven you are looking for, and besides it does give you some insight into the life of Rilke.

If you know a teen writer or a young adult writer who is seeking guidance, Letters to a Young Poet makes for the perfect gift. Rilke is better known for these ten short letters, especially outside of Germany, than he is for much of his triumphant poetry. Writers often praise Letters to a Young Poet as special insight into Rilke’s writing process and his gentle genius.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Congrats to Spotlight of the Year Award Winner and Runner Up!

Let's all congratulate our Spotlight of the Year Award Winner on All Poetry! Tanisha for her beautiful poem Colors and our runner-up P Nixon with his poem Rain Storm, each of these poets won a month's premium membership with AP Tanisha a gold and P Nixon a silver. Now on to the winning poems beginning with...

by Tanisha
I am but a painter
And I paint the canvas of life
With a million multi hued colors
I stroke, each shade a beauty so sublime

Blue, of quiet tranquility
Of water, the essence of life
Of the sky, of an endless limit
Of the promise held in mother's arms
Of the ocean-the past, present and future, of time infinite

Green, of life and birth
Of the creations of life inhibiting
the lush forests, meadows and valleys
Of the seeds and the saplings
A new birth, a new chance, a new breeze

Yellow, of light and glow
The radiance and energy of the sun
The closest and brightest star we know
Of a new day, a brighter dawn
Of gold, of nature's bounty galore

Red, of warmth and love
The threads that wound the hearts
Of the soft bliss held by a rose
Love captured in a hug or kiss from a friend
Of the embrace held in everything dear and close

Pink, of innocence and bliss
Of little children and their dimpled cheeks
Wonder held in two eyes
Of their musical laughter, first words
Soft and blushing in gleeful delight

Orange, of bravery and sacrifice
Of the bravery of the soldiers
Battling in a battlefield, for truth, for justice
Of the sacrifice of their mothers
Sitting by the window, searching for a silhouette of their sons

Life with its million shades
Each unfurl a story with time
I am but a painter
I stroke, I paint my canvas
With the million shades of life.

Now our runner-up entry by P Nixon...
Rain Storm

Swollen clouds over burdened crowds,
Resistance, indifference.
In a sullen hush they rush
this rains persistance.
Coats and papers help escapers
as they flee the flooded gloom.
Waters rise to meet its prize
as rivers mate,immuned.
Anguished faces pressed to pane
show distain, their day disrupted.
Without slack the rain drives back,
resistant, uninterrupted.
Perched aloft in veneered splendor,
Gargoyles hiss and spit their load.
From roof to gutter its gargled splutter,
then slips beneath the road.
Flashes of spray as cars make their way
sea monsters in their wake.
Tossing great waves
as drains become graves
to creatures unable to escape.
The Heavens boom in breathless awe,
it casts its lightning rods.
From ruptured skies,its claim despised,
churning earth and mud.
Just as fast this storm will pass,
its encore soon to play.
As fading rumbles, and distant mumbles,
in time will fade away.

Please, congratulate both of these wonderful poets and visit their pages on All Poetry!

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