Purpose of a Poem (and a Poem)

I think most people writing poetry or writing about poetry, has their own concept of what should be, what shouldn't be, what is, what is not: you know, our own little world of poetry. Not sure if any of us are right: we think we are, but whose standards are we going by? So I shall give you my propose and if it doesn't fit into your box, burn it: your' may be better anyhow.

When I use to read a poem, and I assume when many people do read a poem, and when I do read a poem myself, nowadays, besides my own, I, like most people want to know what the heck it means. As I have stated before in other poetry articles, and as I believe it should be, each poem is mini-story unto itself. With that in mind, we shift to the word, "Paraphrase," or I can live with 'substance,' of the poem: again I am saying: the purpose of the story, what is the purpose of the story in the poem? You see, we flip back to step one. As I have told my wife many times, as she questions my poetry, she says: "Why this?" And I say "For effect." And she says: "What~!" and I say, "See I got an effect from you." Like any story you read, you are looking--I would think, for its effect, its outcome, what does it produce. If you were to read, "In Cold Blood," by Mr. Truman Capote, the effect would be, or the result may be: stunning, for he book is one big upshot of wonderment. Poetry should do the same, or its aim should be the same, so I believe.

How To Write A Sonnet

So now we got a poem, it is a story, and we are looking for its purpose within its given effect on our body and minds, which is called 'paraphrase,' now lets take this one more step, one more level, if you don't' mind. We have read the poem three times, and now we have interpreted it to how it has affected us. Our flesh, or organs and our mind, is jumping, our bones are being melted, or we are frustrated, and say: hell with the poem, I get only irritation out of it. Perhaps you can extract some meaning from the lines that hit home, and perhaps the poem is crap to start out with, so go find a poet you like. To the poet, he should have an aim with his poem; know where he wants to take his reader. It is like most things in life, why waste your breathe the readers time, if there is no reason behind it; nothing gives anything, breeds the same: nothing.

Purpose of a Poem (and a Poem)

Now I will give you a poem (look for the effect it has on you, name it):

To Too Much

I have had way too much,

To too long, way too long,

To know that that I'm way

Too old to admit my 'twos'

Are wrong.

I asked a person what effect they got out of this: "I wondered why the writer was so tired." Is what the person said. Now for you, what did you get? What did the author want? To perhaps see if twos [to, too, twos] can make a stanza, isolated the framework of the poem into a spell, hopefully, out comes the prose meaning: the person is old and is tired, very tired. If the poems were to continue, it would result in you knowing, or the person knowing who read the poem, more of the person who is tired, and perhaps you can identify with it, and why he or she was tired could make a difference.

In one way, it is nice to read poetry, it is quick, it is condensed, and it is the top of the line as far as writing goes: and a story of 10,000-works can be put into 10-stanzas. It draws out our emotions, or can and should: and should be of the best man has in his mind and heart to offer. And again, don't take any of this personal, it is just my opinion, no more than that, and again, perhaps your reasoning is better than mine. So take it for what it is worth, and enjoy it.

Purpose of a Poem (and a Poem) Hip Hop Lives feat. Yoshi Tube. Duration : 3.53 Mins.

Hip Hop Lives I got second verse. Pun Intended Vol. 1 Yoshi Verse 1 and chorus KRS-ONE Verse 2: Yoshi No one can stop me, im dynamite, ready n lit n ull get blown to smithereens by tryna hose down the wick im a bomb, countin down its last couple of tics ni light the world up when i get the lead n paper to mix chain reaction, bet ur life the spread will be massive its just a matter of time till im radio active. get it? u wont be able to weather the storm comin ur way electrifyin and thunderin, clouds more black than grey u cant turn off my light dont even try to dim it i pulled down the sky i was chasin, my limit's non existent to get from great to me, the barrier aint to thin im fuel to my fire, to my sail, i bring my own wind im atomic, supersonic, im a product of this product its ironic i dont reflect the place in which ive been brought up that i was destined for classical but ive mastered ebonics that im stayin clean in an industry intertwined with convicts but drop the act, cuz ull no from this flow i aint no comic smash u with a glass of tonic faster than ud get smashed on it i write poetically, but fuck, ill never write ua sonnet im god's son but this rap shit's got me turnin demonic

Keywords: Hip, Hop, Lives, krs-one, marley, marl, yoshi, pun, intended, jay-z, eminem

There Is Purpose To Pain

Eyes of fire met mine

through the hole in the wall,

the hole, where they passed through his food.

Only sixteen years old

but he'd lived more of life

than someone seventy-five.

He pushed his hand through

looking for love,

if he'd had, he wouldn't be there.

In a 8x10 cell,

going no where,

a scapegoat for the sins of the world.

I cradled his hand

whispered, "tell me your pain,"

his story flew out of his mouth.

The hell of his life,

from those he loved,

a world where no body cared.

The mistakes that he made

just to endure,

the choices which put him in there.

I caressed his cold hand

said, "I understand,"

my own past came rushing back.

Of nights all alone

in the midst of turmoil,

from parents who cared more for themselves.

The mistakes that I made,

just to fit in,

it could have been me in that space.

I told him my story

and what I had learned,

both the good and the bad.

There is evil in life,

but God does love us,

and there is a purpose to pain.

To lead us to what

God sent us to do,

that's why I was holding his hand.

And just like God's Son,

who died in his pain,

we too can be Saviors of men.

It was time to go,

the guard took my chair,

I kneeled on the cold cement floor.

Oh that I could squeeze through

and hold in my arms,

there really was someone who cared.

Our hands held
tight as he asked me to pray,

I asked for his comfort and peace.

Tears flowed down his face,

tears ran down mine too,

flaming eyes now were serene.

I threw him a kiss,

in a room filled with light,

angels were filling that space.

His hands squeezed mine tight

as he whispered his thanks,

a sweet smile, my gift for the day.

I got up from my knees,

my heart over flowed

with thanks for a mission to fill.

I walked down dark halls

with so many doors,

lost children I needed to save.

This Poem was taken from Eva Fry's Book -

Letters from Juvenile Hall, Kids Helping Kids