- Notes on Poetry -

Notes by Richard J Turner

Why do we like to read poetry?

Poetry is simple. It is a form of expression. The same form of expression say, throwing your arms in the air when frustrated may be. Or the same sort of expression that a painter's brush may paint. It is simply the freedom of thought, of creativity, and of imagination projected onto paper via pen and ink to induce an emotional reaction within its reader.

There have been, obviously, phases of poetry - more of which is described in this page. The imagination and opinion of the writer changes, with time, having to be flexible to the demands of the current time period. One may, for example celebrate an occasion whereas another poem may look tragically at one. Poetry is a creative way of presenting one's independent thoughts. It is also interesting to see how two different poets can look at one single event in two completely different ways. If poetry from the Great War is taken as an example, great poets often went though several phases of emotion, opinion, and expression about the war. The experience of the writer leads to the experience of the reader.

Experience plays a key role in the emotional effect that a poem has. A lot of poetry is written to prompt an emotional decision or reaction in a reader. The experience of the writer and the experience of the reader may not be the same, and this is how different interpretations of poetry comes about. It is important to realise that poetry is not always written to be understood, but rather to have judgement passed on it.

 

What makes poetry by teenagers different?

To put it simply, if teenage poetry wasn't different, then I wouldn't have made this website. I believe there are several hallmark differences between teenage poetry and adult poetry, and it is often easy to tell which is which - in the same way you can tell a female writer from a male writer.

I think one of the key factors that makes the poetry so different, is the maturity of the writer. Adolescences are exploring a world that is becoming new to them with new emotions; new people; new experiences - and their poetry often reflects the exploration of these new feelings. After reading the poetry on this website, it becomes very apparent that teenage poetry varies very little. The poetry seems to reflect the new emotions that the writer is feeling, and most of the poems on this website share this. Each one raises the questions that every teenager feels, and so make the poems easy to relate to.

Take, for example, the following poem:

Battle with Love by Grace Lawton

A teardrop falls off your face,
Your body no longer moves with grace.
You’ve changed so much, so recently,
You never let anyone close to you see.

The pain you went through every single night,
Seemed to help you think things were right.
But you always knew the truth was there,
You just never got the courage to let anybody care.

You thought they’d turn you away,
Tell you to come back any other day,
You took this as people wanting you hurt,
You only let the situation get worse.

You couldn’t help it, I more than know,
You figured yourself you had nowhere to go.
You kept it all locked up inside,
You were a little girl again wanting to hide.

Now the pain’s still around,
It’s just not constantly pushing you to the ground.
You’ve fought your battle and almost won,
You can now live your life and easily move on.

Although Grace may be talking about herself here, the repetition of the world "you" gives the reader a way of relating to the feelings that Grace portrays. The title is convenient, as the "Battle with Love" is something that teenagers grow with.

The way I would summarise this, would be by saying that teenage poetry raises the questions of growing up. It helps share the pain and joy with other young people in the same position, not with understanding, but with questions. Poetry by adults may add a sense of understanding to these topics. I would therefore say that teenagers and their emotions provide a solid and significant foundation for the deeper and more understanding poetry by adults, and should be recognised for doing so.

But let's face it. Since the days of romanticism a lot of poetry has revolved around emotion and feelings. During the teenage period, a lot of emotional changes take place, and it may be these changes that lead to great poetry. I would therefore say teen writing is not only different, but a fundamental stage in the creative and emotional elements that make great writers.

 

Poetry to Remember

The Sick Rose by William Blake
 
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
 
Had found thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
 
 
 
I wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth
 
I wandered lonley as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodils;
Along the Lake beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.
 
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:-
A poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the shew to me and brought:
 
For oft when on my couch I lie
IN vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
 
 
 
 
London by William Blake
 
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
 
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
 
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning church appals;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.
 
But most thro' the midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
 
 
 
London by William Wordsworth
 
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters, altar, sword and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy sould was like a Star and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In chearful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on itself did lay.
 
 
 
The Tyger by William Blake
 
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
 
In What distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
 
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? And what dread feet?
 
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
 
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
 
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
 
 
 
After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern Physics by Auden
 
If all a top physicist knows
About the Truth be true,
Then, for all the so-and-so's,
Futility and grrime,
Our common world contains,
We have a better time
Than the Greater Nebulae do,
Or the atoms in our brains.
 
Marriage is rarely bliss
But, surely it would be worse
As particles to pelt
At thousands miles per sec
About a universe
In which a lover's kiss
Would either not be felt
Or break the loved one's neck.
 
Though the face at which I stare
While shaving it be cruel
For, year after year, it repels
An ageing suitor, it has,
Thank God, sufficient mass
To be altogether there,
Not an indeterminate gruel
Which is partly somewhere else.
 
Our eyes prefer to suppose
That a habitale place
Has a geocentric view,
That architects enclose
A quiet Euclidean space:
Exploded myths - but who
Would feel at home astraddle
An ever expanding saddle?
 
This passion of our kind
For the process of finding out
Is a fact one can hardly doubt,
But I would rejoice in it more
If I knew more clearly what
We wanted the knowledge for,
Felt certain still that the mind
Is free to know or not.
 
It has chosen once, it seems,
And whether our concern
For magnitude's extremes
Really becomes a creature
Who comes in a median size,
Or politicizing Nature
Be altogether wise,
Is something we shall learn.

 

 

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This website was created and maintained by Richard J Turner (evangelic@roughnex.co.uk). Find out more about me here!