I think this forum needs a place for poets to post poems, lyrics, ideas or anything that inspires them to write what they write. Who are you inspired by? What style, if any, do you try to incorporate in your own? I dunno... I spend a lot of time reading poetry, and it's one of the most important things for aspiring writers to do. Anywho, post away. I'll start off with one:


"Why I Am Not a Painter"
by Frank O'Hara


I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.



O'Hara rocks ass. I not only like the fact that everything just seems to be in the right place in this poem, but the fact that it manages to be somewhat loose and feathery while still having a concrete "meaning," or so to speak. It's the idea that a poem can be anything one wants it to be, which I think is the most important thing to keep in mind. His prosey style has influenced me a lot; it's a huge departure from all the rhyming iambic pentameter I've had to sift through in school.

"Praying Drunk"
by Andrew Hudgins

(I actually had dinner with this guy last year. He's kinda weird, but really damn good. I read this poem for about 2 weeks straight. Awesome use of imagery).



Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk.
Again. Red wine. For which I offer thanks.
I ought to start with praise, but praise
comes hard to me. I stutter. Did I tell you
about the woman, whom I taught, in bed,
this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form
keeps things in order. I hear from her sometimes.
Do you? And after love, when I was hungry,
I said, Make me something to eat. She yelled,
Poof! You're a casserole! - and laughed so hard
she fell out of bed. Take care of her.


Next, confession - the dreary part. At night
deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden.
They're like enormous rats on stilts except,
of course, they're beautiful. But why? What makes
them beautiful? I haven't shot one yet.
I might. When I was twelve I'd ride my bike
out to the dump and shoot the rats. It's hard
to kill your rats, our Father. You have to use
a hollow point and hit them solidly.
A leg is not enough. The rat won't pause.
Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back
into the trash, and I would feel a little bad
to kill something that wants to live
more savagely than I do, even if
it's just a rat. My garden's vanishing.
Perhaps I'll plant more beans, though that
might mean more beautiful and hungry deer.
Who knows?
I'm sorry for the times I've driven
home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge.
Crested with mist it looked like a giant wave
about to break and sweep across the valley,
and in my loneliness and fear I've thought,
O let it come and wash the whole world clean.
Forgive me. This is my favorite sin: despair-
whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer.


Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees,
that nature stuff. I'm grateful for good health,
food, air, some laughs, and all the other things I've never had to do
without. I have confused myself. I'm glad
there's not a rattrap large enough for deer.
While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept
when I saw one elephant insert his trunk
into another's ass, pull out a lump,
and whip it back and forth impatiently
to free the goodies hidden in the lump.
I could have let it mean most anything,
but I was stunned again at just how little
we ask for in our lives. Don't look! Don't look!
Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling
schoolkids away. Line up, they called, Let's go
and watch the monkeys in the monkey house.
I laughed and got a dirty look. Dear Lord,
we lurch from metaphor to metaphor,
which is -let it be so- a form of praying.


I'm usually asleep by now -the time
for supplication. Requests. As if I'd stayed
up late and called the radio and asked
they play a sentimental song. Embarrassed.
I want a lot of money and a woman.
And, also, I want vanishing cream. You know-
a character like Popeye rubs it on
and disappears. Although you see right through him,
he's there. He chuckles, stumbles into things,
and smoke that's clearly visible escapes
from his invisible pipe. It make me think,
sometimes, of you. What makes me think of me
is the poor jerk who wanders out on air
and then looks down. Below his feet, he sees
eternity, and suddenly his shoes
no longer work on nothingness, and down
he goes. As I fall past, remember me.

I found this piece both unique and wondeful (and a bit out there)...the simple thoughts in life. Quite refreshing to read!
HR

im inspired by how i feel really... i think alot maybe too often, that plays a big role in what i write, things i imagine, or feel, somehow, metaphorcially get put in there. Then again thats hat a poem is.

Music inspires me alot...the angry lyrics of megadeth get me writting vivid poems of destruction while emotional songs from staind influence me to write more dramatic poems.

Also many times i write lyrics which tend to appear the same as poems but are indeed not.

Many things influence me, life and "the momemnt" to be general...

and i, also, think way too much. my mind is one constant thought. seeming to travel in many different directions at one time. its hard to get my thoughts collected enough to sit and write something, so when i do it doesnt usualy make sense. i am told my poems and storys seem to go from one topic to another and not make sense in the end. ah well if its what comes from my mind then i really could care less.
i get most of my inspiration from books, internet sites, people, places, things i see, music, other peoples poems, maybe even just a word or a phrase here and there strike up this feeling and suddenly i have to sit down and type out whats going on in my head..
usualy when i sit down to write anything out its really long, i cant seem to collect my thoughts enough.
(as you can tell, as this thread is already getting really long )

Dust:p

To tell you the truth, my influences are mainly my poet friends...I think that it's important to feed off famous poems and specific styles, but nothing is a more powerful influence to me than the experience of writing with my loved ones, bouncing feedback off one another, and growing together. Literature is a journey, and even though a lot of the artists out there choose to walk it alone in their humble and tormented ways, I feel that I'd rather sneak a peek into the minds of those who are closest to me now and then. It's really a great thing, deep down inside, rather than being awestruck by the work of a detached entity whose experiences may or may not resemble my own. You may not agree, but in my opinion, the special bond between friends goes beyond the social relationship, it's in the hearts and minds of each friend, and isn't that where poetry comes from?

Eh, not in my case; I don't really have any poet friends It's all part of being a fratboy.

ehh...i'd rather be a lousy beatnik

My inspirations come from the people around me. Things that have been said, done, the emotions that come from hearing/seeing it.

what inspires me:

outer influences:
-Poe
-Khalil Gibran
~~though I surely won't claim my style to be anything close to their beautiful words...



inner influences:
-emotions
-my past
-my present
-my fantasies
-my dreams
-the people around me (be them loved or hated)
-and sometimes just simple whimsy

The Poet



He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is
A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.


He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing
Fruit which the hungry heart craves;
He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed
Spirit with his beautiful melodies;
He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon,
Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life,
Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to
Preach the Deity's gospel;
He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness
And inextinguishable by the wind. It is filled with
Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.


He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and
Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his
Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night,
Awaiting the descending of the spirit.


He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the
Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the
Harvest for her nourishment.


This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life,
And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly
World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.


This is the poet -- who asks naught of
Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and
Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings;
Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.


Until when shall the people remain asleep?
Until when shall they continue to glorify those
Who attain greatness by moments of advantage?
How long shall they ignore those who enable
Them to see the beauty of their spirit,
Symbol of peace and love?
Until when shall human beings honor the dead
And forget the living, who spend their lives
Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves
Like burning candles to illuminate the way
For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light?


Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have
Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.


Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and
Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.


Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will
Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

~Khalil Gibran

Well I also enjoy Dr. Seuss and Lewis Caroll...so I suppose they could be my influences too...

...doll face's post~so sad and so very true, all too sensative to the world around him the poet is and all too cold and gauche and indifferent his world is to him while he lives. Actualy as the days advance into a new age, even harder and harsher its become and becoming as he is now looked at as ODD and WEIRD

"Recording angels and the poets of the night
Bring back the trophies of the battles that we fight "David Sylvian


I am often influenced by ducky's undies:p

[quote]Originally posted by ~:fAllen sTar :~
Music inspires me alot...the angry lyrics of megadeth get me writting vivid poems of destruction while emotional songs from staind influence me to write more dramatic poems.

Yeah! ALL HAIL MEGADETH!!:metalhead

I find music to inspire me mostly as well. Usually Alice in chains and marilyn manson.It's not the singers, but the songs, that transcend dreams and reality, almost like prophecies-you could say.

Men. They make me crazy and they fucking drive me insane. Emotions, Anger, Lust all of that. I suck right now but I'm going to stick to it. I want to be able to write my feelings down without sounding stupid...I want to be able to write a poem without a single rhyme.

I wish you the best of luck!

I used to be hooked on rhyming too

blug, i was too, back in the highschool days. I wasn't aware that poems could be written without. I refuse to rhyme now; I just can't. It sounds so processed to me, ya know? I don't think a meaning should fit the words; I think words should fit the meaning.

Influences?


Me.

Thanks for the encouragement.
Anti...I had NO idea you were so much more than a pretty face. Your shit is fucking craaaaaazay. Wow!