Poezija brez ritma ali rime

Kot berem po internetu je večina ljudi mnenja, da poezija ne potrebuje nobenih pravil ker naj bi to poeta samo "omejevalo". To verjetno izhaja iz modernih pesnikov tipa E.E.Cummings, ki pa so istega kova kot abstraktni slikarji, ki nočejo biti omejeni, ko "izražajo čustva" brez kakšnega smisla.

Skratka... po mojem mnenju je poezija brez ritma in rime proza... če ne je tudi tole poezija:

Newton's Laws hold only with respect,
To a certain set of frames,
Of reference called Newtonian,
Or inertial reference frames,
Some authors interpret the first law,
As defining what an inertial reference frame is;
From this point of view,
The second law only holds,
When the observation is made,
From an inertial reference frame,
And therefore the first law,
Cannot be proved as a special case of the second.

Formo naj si umetnik izbira sam.

Seveda... samo naj ne imenuje potem slike knjiga.

jype je 8. maj 2011 ob 17:36 izjavil:

Urby-Kris> Seveda... samo naj ne imenuje potem slike knjiga.

Eh:

Osnove!

Okej... povej potem zakaj potrebujemo dve besedi za prozo?

Včasih je pravilo prekršeno z namenom, včasih ker je bil umetnik nesposoben, včasih pa ker mu je bilo vseeno (kar ni nujno isto).

Your point? Poezija brez rime in ritma je proza... drugače lahko eno besedo ukinemo. Edino, če je edina razlika v tem da je poezija bolj nasekljana

Pa je res? Poezija je lahko tudi slaščičarski izdelek.

Ja, se strinjam, da ne moreš spremeniti pomena besede, lahko pa z "napačno" uporabo podaš sporočilo.

Huh? Odloči se.

Tvoj primer ne-poezije brez težav obravnavaš kot poezijo, če v tem vidiš smisel.

Moj primer poezije je nasekljan odstavek iz wikipedije.

jype je 8. maj 2011 ob 17:36 izjavil:

Urby-Kris> Seveda... samo naj ne imenuje potem slike knjiga.

Eh:

Osnove!

Made my day
Drugače pa - le čevlje sodi naj kopitar.

PS: Priznam, sam o poeziji (in prozi) nimam pojma, zato se umikam iz debate. Nisem si mogel pomagati, da ne bi vsaj malo pospamal teme.

Urby-Kris> Moj point je to, da če je vse kar moraš narediti, da proza postane poezija to da prvo malo naselkljaš ne potrebujemo dveh besed.

A, ti si eden avtorjev 14. izdaje novoreka?

"It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well."

Torej je narobe, da isto reč opišemo z besedama "punčka" in "deklica"? Kaj pa "pes" in "kuža"? "Levo" in "narobe"? :)

Edini kriterij je uporabnost in prenos ideje.

Vse ostalo je 'noise'.

Tukaj sta naprimer primera klasične in modernistične poezije:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everything Changes

I've always been taught that everything changes,
And yet here we stand exactly where we always have,
About an inch from where we both secretly want to be.
No amount of confession or truth can break this spell,
That's keeping us this devastatingly small distance apart,
I know because I've tried; oh how I've tried.
It took everything I was to let you as far inside as I have;
Everything and yet you look at me as if it's nothing.
At this point I have no secrets, no deceptions,
No half-truths or carefully laid lies to fall back on.
I have no safety net, no gray area to run back to when this all falls apart,
Because in those few seconds when you were completely real,
I threw everything I was at you with an honesty I didn't know I had,
In blind hopes that it could make you want to be saved.
I confessed a love I have yet to fully understand and you didn't even react.
There was nothing, no split second heartbreak, no sudden confessions of your own,
No emotion at all, nothing to save me from the words you wouldn't say.
I laid myself on the line and you just left me there.
I don't know where to go from here; I've hit my limit.
But it hurts to know that I can't give up, I just can't.
It's not a choice, it's not something I can just turn off,
I can't give up on you, but I need to know you won't give up on me either.
I need you to say something, anything, just stop standing there like that.
Break my heart if you have to, scream at me for ruining your little world,
Where you are completely unloved and safe from everyone but yourself.
Hurt me in the truest sense, but don't just abandon me here,
Don't think I will be okay because I won't this time.
I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Podobno kot bi primerjal:


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Danes je itak že kar vse umetnost. Par prostakov posname par fotk in to je umetnost Lepo vas prosim.

Sam stojim na stališču, da bi morala edina umetnost biti le ta, ki je bila tradicionalno priznana. Torej slikarstvo, kiparstvo, klasična glasba in morda še kaj.

Fotografi, alternativni slikarji in podobni hobiji niso umetnost in tudi nikoli ne bodo.

Potem je umetnik lahko tudi lokalni čapac, ki obvlada fuzbal, ali pa šiptar, ki napeče najboljšo plesko v mestu.

Da je nekaj umetnost, se mora izviti iz oprijema akademskega.

as
the
spirit
wanes
the form
appears

-H.C. Bukowski

And in other news: don't feed the troll!

don't feed the troll!

How overused...

Svašta. Kje si se pa ti šolal, da ne poznaš ene najosnovnejših oblik poezije?

Poznam haiku, poznam samo, če ima uveljavljeno ime to še nič ne pomeni. V vsakem primeru je samo nesmiselno (tudi tukaj vem, da ima pravila... ampak nimajo veliko smisla) nasekljana poved.

Povej raje zakaj misliš, da so verzi, če ne zaradi rime?

Res grozno, ja: Cubism @ Wikipedia

Veliko slabše izvedeno...

Kot tole:

Alternativni? Misliš Picasso? He ain't. Morda mu je sredi šestdesetih še kdo rekel alternativen, danes je pa praktično vse, kar je narisal, povsem "klasična umetnost".

Zakaj je to pomembno?

khm.. kaj je fora tiste slike s pipo?

A poznaš kakšno obliko umetniškega sporočanja, ki poustvarja podoben kognitivni odziv kot haiku?

Nevem... kakšen kognitivni odziv pa poustvarja?
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Kot berem po internetu v podobnih temah je pogost argument, da so rimajoče pesmi "otročje" in preveč "sing-songy". Še dosti bolj žalostno pa je, ko nekdo, ki je prej pisal rimajočo poezijo nekje odpre temo "My Fisrt Non-rhyming poem" kot, da bi bil to nekakšen napredek.

Smešno je, ko začnejo razlagati kako je rimajoča poezija (ali klasično slikarstvo) všeč samo "masam", ki so nanje navajene in da jih pogumni mavriki z moderno poezijo ter nesmiselnim slikarstvom "izobražujejo"... ampak seveda se "mase" "bojijo" njihovega revolucionarnega izdelka.