(When I was a kid)
They taught me how to
I guess they knew how
Cruel (life) is going
When I was a kid
(They all said) it (will get
The war will one day
When I was a kid
They taught me the art
(I am not a kid anymore),
But all the priest preaches I
Heard when I was a kid, are
Now making sense.
If you preach hate,
Those words are instantly
Carved in the heart.
If you preach love,
(Say it once again), it does
Not break through instantly.
Say it with confidence,
(Make me believe).
The world (may be) broken,
But (hope is) not (crazy.)
You have to read the poem the first time as a whole. Then read only the brackets.
First time writing in this style. It should also work if you read the poem without the brackets, but I'm not that good. I tried.
Last two lines are from a quote by John Green.
honey you should see me with the crown
jewels stacked atop a pyre
moaning like a beatnik and a 4 AM cheap hooker
at a truckstop in Saint Louis
i have heard the failure
of words dripping
from ten thousand suburban roofs
from tongues of boys who would
have been around the point
of intellect and left with
nothing but like's and um's
and snatches and playing
with their privates
and slogans like
hip hobart my hip hobart
and god bless america
and for god and country
and heil hitler
wheres the last train to cool
out of a moral landscape
from a moral heart
from a moral chest
shine your shoes read the news
about motel art and the price of oil
clinging to the side of a lifeboat
of boredom and inadequacy
in a world of grey pinstripes
and papers in latin with seals
of broken fuse boxes and cluttered attics
ive heard crying
bookshelves and binary friend limbo
playground bullies and their mother's
nipples when they were bit in the 90's
all in the shape of noise to come
in uncommon deference
to never better
to the shake shake
shaking of basements
on broken foundations
honey you should see the chop of Seneca
and the drowning of dumb
deaf blind Zarathustra
One of the topics that broached while in class was…Is Rap Poetry…I simply replied yes that it is in fact poetry and that I ‘am a poet there was a quick reply quite loudly stated that no it is not, as to this response I was baffled as to why students firmly believed that Rap is not poetry. Hence the debate
Debate: Is Rapping Poetry
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Rapping (also known as emceeing MCing, spitting bars or rhyming) refers to "spoken or chanted rhyming lyrics". The art form can be broken down into different components, where it is separated into “content”, “flow” (rhythm and rhyme), and “delivery”. Rapping is distinct from spoken word poetry in that it is performed in time to a beat.
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This particular information was obtained from the world renowned site Wikipedia under the title Rapping, so the quote rhythm and rhyme are associated with what is commonly known as Rapping.
It has been a fascinating eye opener for me to write this particular piece in regards to the origins of both rap and poetry…both types of oral communication through which we like to convey to the audience in a lyrical format that all can understand and appreciate. So Rakim and Big Daddy Kane agree upon the fact that rhyme is often thought to be the most important factor of rap writing…rhyme is what gives rap lyrics their musicality.
These men are well known Rappers in their own right and have written a book simply called ‘How to Rap’ It has been noted that rap’s use of rhyme is some of the most advanced in all forms of poetry – music scholar Adam Bradley notes “rap rhymes so much and with such variety that it is now the largest and richest contemporary archive of rhymed words. It has done more than any other art from in recent history to expand rhyme’s formal range and expressive possibilities.
RYHM is in as we all know part of our English which encompasses the use of lyrical words in a format which depending the writer’s expressive writing can either be in Poetry format or lyrical poetry format…and depending on the syllabus and the tone of the writing of poetry or lyrical poetry it can be expressed in song, poetry or rap.
I would like to demonstrate with you my own rhyming of words that I wrote myself to demonstrate this factor.
My Rap Poem
Ryming and Poetry
Yo yo lets Rap it..
Yo yo lets gap it…
Rhyming and Poetry
Don’t diss a poet
Whose passion is words?
What fool told you
That rap aint poem
Aint it a fact
That rap is words
Aint it a fact
That poems is words
So don’t tell me
RAP aint poetry
Take it from a poet
Whose passion is words?
TAKE DAT….WORD OUT
I would also like to quote a poem that was written by a poet and this particular poem became famous not only in the poetry world but world wide
The Rose that Grew from Concrete
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk without having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.
This poem was written by a Mr Tupac Shakur or better known as 2pac, Shakur began his career as a roadie, backup dancer, and MC for the alternative hip hop group Digital Underground, eventually branching off as a solo artist he was also a poet.
Is Rap Poetry or not Poetry
This debate came about when we were in class and my tutor said that Rap is Poetry, Myself and Lee said verbally no it is not. This is why we are having this debate.
Rap is one of the biggest selling music genres today, and many rap artists also consider themselves modern day poets, as do their fans. Whether you prefer poetry over rap or the other way, around there are definitely similarities and differences between both art forms. The main difference is the music. In poetry, a combination of words will create a rhythm such as iambic pentameter, the first word is an unaccented syllable followed by an accented syllable with total of 10 syllables with a total of 10 syllables per line. There is a rhythm to the phrasing of poetry and rapping. The difference is that. The rhythm of rap, works in conjunction to the beat of the music, so although the phrasing can be different, both retain a certain type of rhythm and flow of words.
Although rhyming isn’t always present in rap or poetry, it certainly is common. In some poetry, the words at the end of two consecutive lines will rhyme, or the words at the end of the second or fourth lines. However, some artists will make a variation of rhymes throughout the poem. Rap will also rhyme, but the beats of the music will sometimes dictate the phrasing as well as the placement of the rhyming words.
With poets and rappers, one of the biggest similarities is their desire to convey a message. The content may differ, but the need to evoke an emotion response is the same. It’s typically driven by their view of the world or society and wanting to state their point of view. There is often the use of metaphors within poetry and rap to convey their message and some is written that allows readers or listeners to make their own interpretation.
The most obvious difference in these two artistic styles is that rap is words put to music, and poetry is not. Also, big considerations in rap music are the beats and the groove. In poetry, there is nothing consider but the words and the rhythm and rhyme. However, in rap the importance of the beats can sometimes overshadow the importance of lyrics. Rappers are also sometimes concerned with whether or not people can dance to the song. Chances are you won’t find many poets that are concerned with whether or not their poems will inspire them to dance while reading them.
As an old saying goes listen to the music not the beat, the words feel the pain and emotion it screams listen to their story as in the life you learn from the stories. You gain pain you feel emotion, you get lost in the rap. Know what their dreams and hopes are in the word, as the beat was just the drive like your own heart, different beat, different words, but one heart and one song. I remember a time when music use to relate to what we do, a thing we hope to say to a lover, or a crushing dream, or to be a Casanova knowing that if you could not say a thing in your mind or heart the song could say it for you. One time I remember being so angry at the world, and my family, had dark times my world, writing poetry couldn’t cut it for me, it could explain and yes it rhymes it sounds good, but it always seems to miss its point for me, but one thing remains with me, I time a shared with friends around a few drinks, I heard a song by 2pac about his mama, what he said, really explained what a mother is thinking, this guy knew what I was thinking and how I felt, he knew how to explain his point. I sat their listening to his rap, he said; ‘Aint no women alive that can take my mamas place’. I wondered as I kept listening to his song, I felt we related on a higher level, I can’t explain how this guy can put words in a rap that helped me through a dark time in my life, and Rap as always been a big influence in my life.
It was interesting how the topic ended, and as a poet I still believe in the positive but the opposing team closure had me thinking again but then I realized he has not been exposed to poetry in general…so therefor it was indeed an eye opener for me. The positive was myself the negative was a student of mine Matthew, His last conclusion of the debat was written in his own words, I am very proud of his work and I will as a poet will introduce more works to him as the course grows...I have told them I am a poet...they laughed at me hence the debate... I just had to prove my point and you know me...never step down from any challange...grins...anyone else want to prove to this young man that Rap is Poetry. Negatives 5 votes Postitive 5 votes...that was a surprise in itself.
My students are Matthew, Lee, Samson, Ken and Ngametua.
I would also like to thank Silentwriter for giving me the idea Rythem And Poetry as a heading for my rap thank you sir.
Being genuinely loved by someone gives vigor;
loving someone extremely gives you bravery;
An Ink Pot represents an art of virgin women;
The writing pen symbolizes a poet of beauty;
Let her fill the colorful ink of her own sacred life;
And the poor poet to spill the lyric of love to link!
BY WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
(All poems in this series are, translations from Malayalam, originally written in author’s mother-tongue, “Malayalam’”, the language of Kerala, in South India.)
BY WILLIAMSJI MAVELI
Having none of my own,
Your light leads me on.
My paths are dark,
And my way is sinful.
Born human sets my destination,
Toward death I rapidly walk.
All seems lost
O God where art thou?
My heart cries out for help
And yet all stays silent.
My soul is weary and fragile
But Your strength overcomes.
My weakness is proven
By your eternal love.
Without You I am nothing.
Without You I am lost.
Through Your power,
O Lord be my all,
A lost orphan I come to you,
Empty and pleading
For Your fulfilling love.
You are the King of Kings,
You are the Father of Fathers.
May God be exalted!
May my life glorify His holy name!
Let the whole earth praise Him,
And come to Him in thanksgiving,
Forever be glad and rejoice in the name of the Lord,
For He alone reigns, forever!
I thought, one restless night, of the perfect title,
For a piece of comic verse,
And it I did disperse,
Unto my poet friend.
He sipped his juice, laughed his laugh,
But the laughter did subside,
And with candour, with pride,
“I’m sorry, old chum, the poem’s doomed
For Art is far greater than one
another year older
but it feels as if a life time has passed since i last stood in this place
my face hasn't aged
there isn't a damn thing that stays the same
the boys are going grey
the girls have all run away
and those who haven't
stayed behind to master the art of procreation
we haven't been bright eyed kids
for quite some time now
we cry now
twice as often
and thrice as sly
our eyes stay dry in the daylight
for the sake of acting strong for those we love
but we'd love nothing more to unwind
to hide behind the curtains
and watch our sorrows flow downward
forever pirouetting towards the sea
happy birthday to me
birthday cake taste like a musty wake
when layered with day-old whiskey breath
and somber advice for the future
shared by older souls
my best-dressed celebration turned death-day contemplation by the ill-fated sands of time
i'm getting way too old for this shit
The light of my life.
The poem of my tongue.
The fire of my chest.
The wind of my loins.
The hate I loathe.
The beauty I view.
My hesitant rainbow.
My fearless tears.
My coverlet and starlet;
my blanket and dainty amulet.
My distant promise and cautiousness;
but in all my darling; looking ever so stately-
yet not like yon faraway, morning dew.
The hands I adore;
the fingers I want to kiss.
The solitude I live in;
the fate I was born in.
A pair of eyes ever to me too divine,
A charm that loyally strikes, and glows and shines.
A lock of hair that petulantly sways and sweats.
A midday tale of love; as how it is mine,
a beauty that this world ensures,
but cannot adore.
Even the brisk turquoise sea
is ever less glossy than thy eyes,
for their calmness is still less harmful,
unlike unbending, thus insolent tides, at noon.
Ah, Matilda, thou art yet too graceful,
but tricky and indolent, as the puzzling moon!
Thy purity is like unseen smoke,
tearing the skies' linings like a fast rocket,
making me ever thirsty, turning my heart wet,
but still this attentive heart thou canst not provoke;
thou art a region too far from mine;
but still luck is in heart whose fate's in thine.
And as thou singeth a tone I liketh to sing
I cannot help but more admiring thee;
And as thou singeth it genuinely more,
thou capture all my breath and give it all a thrill;
for I realise then, that thou canst be stiff, as sandless shores;
but thy beauty canst so finely startle,
and whose startledness
But deadness, and ever desolation
are vividly clamouring in thy eyes;
Thou art but distinct, distinct indeed-from serenity;
for thou warble thyself, but gladly-away, from thy sullen reality.
Ah, Matilda, how canst a soul so comely
be hateful to fame, and dishonest just from its frame?
Matilda, to those merciless hearts indeed thou beareth no name;
Thou art a shame to their pride, and a stain to their bitterly fevered, sanity.
Yet still, thou art to innocent to understand which,
and in love naively, as thou just art, now-
with that feeble shadow of a pampered young fellow,
Whose stories are also mine,
for his father's money is donned,
and coined every day-by my servant's frail hands;
The sweat of my palms obey me in doing so-
I am my master's son's poor sailor,
and he his sole heir-and soon is to inherit
an indecent boat; full of roaming paths, doors, and locks
And at nights, costly drapery and jewels shall be planted in their hair-
yes, those beastly riches' necks, and skin fair,
And thou be their eternal seamstress,
weaving all those bare threads with thy hands-
ah, thy robust virgin hands,
whilst thy heart so dutifully levitating
about his false painting, and bent even more heartily, onto him.
Ah, 'tis indeed unfair, unfair, unfair-and so unfair!
For such a liar he was, and still is-
Once he was betrothed to a bitter, and uncivil Magdalene;
Uncivil so is she, prattling and bickering and prattling and bickering-
To our low-creature ears, as she once remarked,
She who basked in her own vague hilarity, and sedate glory
And so went on harshly unmolested by her vanity, and fallibility;
But sadly indeed, occupied with a great-not intellect,
As not sensible a person as she was;
At least until the winds knocked her haughty voices out-
and so then hovering stormy gales beneath,
took her out and gaily flung her deep into the raging sea.
Still he wiggled not, and seems still-in a seance every night,
whenst he but cries childishly and calls out to her name in fright.
Her but all dead, dead name;
'Till his father tears him swiftly out of his solitude
And with altogether the same worried face
but drags his disconcerted son back into his flamboyant chamber.
Ah, and I caught thee again, Matilda,
Bowed over the picture of yon young sailor;
'Twixt those sweet-patterned handkerchiefs
On thy lil' wooden table, yesterday
And curved over yon picture, I was certain;
I caught some fatigued tears in thy eyes-
for from thy love thou wert desperate,
but still unsure even, of the frayed tyings of cruel fate.
Ah, Matilda, your hair is still as black as the night
The guilty night, though nothing it may knoweth, of thy love,
and perhaps just as unknowing it seemingly is;
as th' tangled moon, and its dubious arrows
of unseen lilies, above
Shall singeth in uncertainty; and cordless dignity
And which song shall forever be left unreasoned
Until the end of our days arrive, and bereft us all
of this charismatic world-and all its dearest surge of false,
and oftentimes unholy, fakeness.
Oh Matilda, but such truest clarity was in thy eyes,
And frightened was I-upon seeing t'is;
As though never shrouded in barren lies
Like a love that this heart defines;
but never clear, as never is to be gained.
Ah, Matilda, and such frank clarity dismays me;
It threatens and stiffens and chortles me,
for I am certain I shan't be with thee-
and shall ever be without thee,
for thou detest and loathe me,
and be of no willingness at all-
to befriend, to hold, or to hear-
much less reward me with thy love,
as how I shall reward thee with mine.
Matilda, this love is too strong-but so is, too poor
And neither is my heart plainly bruised;
For it is untouched still, but feeling like it has been flawed
Ah, why does this love have to be raw-and far indeed, too raw!
I, who is thy resilient friend, and fellow-sadly never am in thy flavour;
for in his soul only-thy love is rooted;
And this love is forever never winning-and it is sour,
Like a torn, mute flower; or like a better not, laughter.
And my heart is once more filled with dead leaves-
Ah, dead, dead leaves of undelight, and unjoy;
Whose cries kick and bend and strangle themselves-
all to no avail, and cause only all its devouring to fail,
For his doorless claws are to strong,
Stealing thy eyes from me for all day,
and duly all night long.
How discourteous! Virtual, but too far, still-
corrupting me; ah, unjust, unjust, and discourteous!
Tormentingly-ah, but tormentingly, torturously, insincere!
Ah, Matilda! But soon as thou prayeth,
every single grace and loveliness thou shall delicately saith;
Thy voice is as delightful as nailed, or perhaps, cunningly deluded vice-
Which I hath always feigned to be refuting tomorrow,
but is only to bring me cleverer and cleverer sorrow
'Till hath I no power to defy its testy soul,
that for no reason is too shiny and bold,
but so dull, and bland as a hard-hearted summer glacier,
and too unyielding as hurtful, talloned wines.
Oh, but no appetite I hath, for any war
against him-for he is fair, and I am not,
He is worthier of thee, than my every word;
He who to thee is like a graceful poem,
he who is the only one to smirk at
and hush away thy daylight doom.
Matilda! For evermore thy heart is mine;
and mine only-though I canst love thee
only secretly, and admire thee from afar,
Still cannot I stand bashful, and motionless-too far,
For I wish to hath been born, for thy every sake
Though it shall put my sinless tongue at stake
And even my love is even gentler then blue snowflakes;
and more cordial than yon rapturous green lake.
Ah! Look! Upon the moors the grass is swirling,
so please go back now; and be greedy in thy running.
Still when no music is playing,
all is but too painful for thee,
which I liketh to neither witness, nor see,
for upon thee the moon of love might not be singing,
as it is upon all others a song,
But somehow to nature it not be wrong,
for he cannot still be thy charm, nor darling.
O-but I hate thinking of which affectionately,
when thou crieth and which sight, to my heart, is paining.
Ah, Matilda! For even to God thy love is but too pure;
for it is faultless as morns, and poisonless-
like those ever unborn thorns;
Of yon belated autumn melody,
But is, somehow, fraught and dejected
With sorrow, for it is him, that yesterday and now
Thou loveth softly and securely,
Two hours later and perhaps, in every minute of tomorrow.
Matilda! But still tell me, how can thou securely love a danger?
For I am sure he is but a danger to thee, indeed;
Once I witnessed how his face
grotesquely thrusted into furtive anger
As he burst into a dearth of strong holds,
of his burning temper-under the blooming red birch tree;
And as every eye canst see,
He is only soft, and perhaps meek-as a butterfly,
Whenever the world he eats and sleeps and feeds on in-
Tellest him not the least bit of a lie;
Ah, Matilda, canst I imagine thee being his not,
ah, for I shall be drowned in deflating worry, indeed-I shall be, I shall be!
I dread saying t'is to thee-but he, the heir of a ruthless kingdom,
and kingdom of our God not-within their lands and reigns of scrutiny,
His words are but a tragedy, and a pain thou ought not to bear;
O, Matilda, thou art but too holy and far too fair!
Thy soul is, so that thou knoweth, my very own violin-
To which I am keenly addicted;
I am besotted with thy red cheeks-;
As whose tunes-my violin's, are thy notes
as haunting and sunnily beautiful,
And cloudless like thy naivety,
Which stuns my whole nature,
and even the one of our very own Lord Almighty.
Ah, Matilda, even the heavens might just turn out
far too menial for thee;
and their decorum and sweet tantrums idle and unworthy;
Thou art far, far above those ladies in dense gowns,
With such terseness they shall storm away and leave him down.
But why-why still, he refuses to look at thee!
Ah, unthinking and unfeeling,
foolish and coquettish,
unwitted and full of deceit-is himself,
for loving should I be-if thy smile were what I wished,
and thy blisses and kisses were what I dreamed;
I wouldst be but warmer than him,
I wouldst be but indeed so sweet,
I wouldst be loftier than he may seem;
and but madden thee every sole day, with my gracious-
though sometimes ferocious-ah, by thy love, ever tender wit.
I hath so long crept on a broken wing,
And thro' endless cells of madness, haunts, and fear,
Just like thou hath-and as relentlessly, and lyrically, as we both hath.
But not until the shining daffodils die, and the silvery
rivers turn into gold-shall I twist my love,
and mold it into roughness-
undying, but enslaved roughness;
that thou dread, and neither I adore;
For for thee I shall remain,
and again and again stay to find
what meaningful love is-
Whilst I fight against the tremor
and menace this living love canst bring about-
To threaten my mask, and crush my deep ardor.
Ah, my mask that hath loved thee too long,
With a love so weak but at times so strong;
and witnessed thee I hath, hurt and pained
and faded and thawed by his nobility
But one of worldliness; and not godliness
For heavens yonder shall be ours, and forever
Shall bestow us our triumphs, though only far-in the hereafter;
Still I honour thee, for holding on with sincerity-
and loyalty, to such contempt too strong
For thou art as starry as forgiveness itself,
and thus is far from yon contempt-and its overbearing soul;
And perhaps friendly, too unkind not-
like its trepid blare of constant rejection, and mockery
And as I do, shall I always want thee to be with me;
For thou art the mere residue, and cordial waning age of the life that I hath left;
For thou art the only light I hath, and the innate mercy I shall ever desire to seek;
and perhaps have sought shall, within the blessed soul of my 'ture wife.
Oh, Matilda, thou art the dream t'at I, still, ought not to dream,
thou art the sweetness I ought' only charm, and keep;
As thou art the song, that I may not be right'd to sing;
but the lullaby; which in whose absence, I canst shall never sleep.
The moon's pale face regards the nighttime skies
As the stars pass by on their ancient quest.
Silent shadows glide 'cross the ground
From clouds that move and make no sound.
Nighttime is when her spirit will rise
To ever wander and never know rest.
Eileen was the name of the red-haired girl
Who lived in the castle near the sea.
It was the only home she'd ever known,
This ancestral fortress made of stone.
It was a simple and tranquil world,
The only place she wanted to be.
The castle was home for ages long past
For her father, his father, and beyond.
Their memory lived within the grey-stoned walls,
Their deeds were remembered in each of the halls.
The castle was safe; its walls held fast.
Yet its fate lay within a wizard's wand.
Galyn was a wizard of dark renown,
Winding his way from times of ancient yore.
Great was the power at his command;
Deep was the knowledge he kept at hand.
Few were the secrets he had not found,
As he labored at his art behind a locked door.
Standing on a tower's balcony on a grey, windy day
Eileen could feel the sea's breath on her skin.
Galyn would watch her standing there,
The wind playing and dancing with her hair.
Though for ages he walked a solitary way
The sight caused a stirring deep within.
From ancient ages he searched in shadows dark
Seeking answers in places unseen and unknown.
Yet this power was one never felt before,
Twisting his emotions and piercing him to his core.
It ignited within him a powerful spark,
A burning desire to make her his own.
Eileen never e'en thought, not once in her life
That she could hold sway over a wizard's heart.
Her youthful innocence knew naught of such a thing.
She dreamt of knights slaying dragons, or even of marrying a king.
She could not fathom Galyn wanting her for a wife
Be it through trickery, treachery, guile, or blackest art.
This is a work in progress.
I was upstairs doing science
I came down for a break
I had sixty seconds to eat a snack
So I fixed myself a shake.
I sipped for fifteen minutes
Then my mother said, "Alright.
It's time to go upstairs to work
or we're gonna have a fight
I looked up at the clock
and I said to mom, "Already?
I still have fifty seconds left
and I still want some spaghetti."
I went to my computer and
I played a fishing game.
I played for twenty minutes
till my mom called out my name
"It's time to go upstairs, my dear!
The day is near its end!"
I still had forty seconds, though
and emails left to send
I sat down on the piano bench
and played the whole book through.
My birds began to chirp and tweet
I clapped my hands and stomped my feet.
My mom began to scream and shout
"Get up, go work, or you'll be out!"
"I only played six songs you know!
I've thirty seconds left to go!"
I opened the door
and stepped quickly outside
I searched for ten minutes
for a good place to hide.
I heard some rustling
very nearby and
a short moment later,
my mom cried out, "WHY??"
"You're deliberately wasting!
Go on! Do your school!
You're driving me crazy!
I'm starting to drool!"
"Please mom, come on!
I thought you were smart.
I've got twenty seconds,
I think I'll do art!"
I got out my pencils,
crayons and paint
I scribbled on paper.
My mom, she felt faint.
"You're getting me mad!
My hair's turning grey!
My skin's turning purple!"
She started to say.
She collapsed on the floor
and screamed bloody murder.
I think everyone in the world
could have heard her.
"Why aren't you working?
I really don't know!
Waiting for you is like
watching grass grow!"
My painting of oranges,
roses and pears,
was super fantastic
but mom didn't care.
I cleaned up the brushes
and rinsed out my hair.
And all this I did
with ten seconds to spare!
I looked out the window,
the sky was pitch black.
The day, it was over,
there's no turning back.
My science, unfinished,
my math stayed undone.
My mother lay limp,
but at least I had fun!