Bruce Levine Jul 7
My dream of academia
Is an idealized one
Mr. Chips and the Paper Chase
Classes of five hundred
In lecture halls the size of stadiums
Students focused
Totally absorbed
Hands flying skyward
With thoughts, questions
And answers
Always thinking
Always searching
Always seeking the challenge
Digesting facts and adding knowledge
Connecting dots from places obscure
Yet always looking for hidden meanings
Layers and levels and subtexts
That clarifies cognition
And opens the portal
Of the enigma unknown
Child of the state has an acceptable life
is there
as she thought right
she was
just a kid, herself.

Stuck in the maelstrom of prideful ways
and her father
taught her
and so made
two babies,
batter and baste
and begone --

only to admit in the future
to a confused
son and daughter
deeper reasons:
hurt for love,
hurt for the company. . .

. . . (so)!

Keep it going!
Forget, "slowly."
Keep it going,
you're doing

Keep it going!
Forget slowly,
that education is
Keep it up!
if someone criticizes
it's because
James Khan Jul 3
I am what people all assume iamb,

A mix of rampant rouge and cold cyan,

If God exists and really gives a damn

Then Lord, I beg you, please impart your plan,

Derelict, feathers forgotten, downtrodden like pterodactylic hegemony,

Suffering, sabotaged senses allude to myself: the insidious enemy,

(Lebanon, isn't that a terror-dactyl also?)

With a tertius paeon they play on defences,

Enamour the logic through glamourized lenses,

With amphibrachs backing the river of rythmn

To cover the cost of our sins, unforgiven,

Iridescence illuminates spiralling smoke,

Carravagio's footprints, his masterful stroke,

Celebration, the principles proffered by loss,

Elevation, Saint Peter upturned on the cross,

Anapaestic, majestic the cadence of words,

Illustrations, emotions, emphatic in verse.
There's not enough education these days about meter in poetry.

Forget the fucking mathematical nomenclature of feet and meters, I'm talking about the natural syllabic rhythm of verse that carries the poem along like a lilting river of logical phonic progression.

In music, you have your metronome, your drums and percussion to keep time. The beats per minute AND the accentuating musical notes keep the rhythm ensuring the words fit in melodically.

In poetry, we read and have no idea of the required backbeat that keeps rhythm for us. That's why we have set meter measured in syllabic stress / unstress on words to act as the metronome.

Words have their own natural prodosy, their structure gives them emphasised or muted vowel sounds and these are the drum kicks of bass and treble or the ticking metronome.

In the above piece, the first stanza is iambic pentameter.

The second is dactylic heptameter.

The third is a mixture of tertius paeon and amphibractic tetrameter.

The final stanza is anapaestic tetrameter.

Hopefully, the natural sounds of the words will allow the verse to be read in the required meter without too much much effort required.
Taanish Arora Jun 27
Schooling- the best phase of our lives
Schooling- when we develop

We are told a thing is important- evolution
But we learn it the way workers did during the industrial revolution.

The “Modern” school sysem is supposd to be greater,
But truly, it’s about cramming words and becoming the topper.

We have degrees, we have information
And whatever happened to practical application.

We sit through 8 hours of lecturing each day
All of our freedom is taken away.

CGPA, exams and marks are what count. Whilst Knowledge and innovation are out somewhere roaming around.

         By- Taanish Arora
pk tunuri Jun 17
I left my home in the name of education
I left my hometown in the name of higher education
I left my state in the name of graduation
I left my family in the name of aspiration

At times, I miss my childhood
Although, the fun & friends weren't the same in my adulthood
In order to get rid of their falsehood
I left them too, for my own good

I have traveled so far away from home
Now, When I let my thoughts to roam
All they bring back is sadness and pain
And then, I left my tears to drain

I lost myself in this whole journey of life
There were times when I often looked for a knife
Not just to kill me but to end the pain
I left everything and I'm waiting for a magical rain
They say heaven and hell
will be the final in one’s end
But to us, we’re already there
We’re already witnessing stage one on planet earth

We’ve got so much as nothing to eat
and so to the streets, we take to feed
We just have to not die but live
since they’ll always be that caring hand who is willing to give

We’re children of those with nothing
We’re living in a place with nothing
living with a life of anything (comes and goes)
and so we too do not think of becoming something

Please, can you help us?
We don’t really think of becoming more
But you who is strong and can conceive greater thoughts
Please, teach us how we can live life with joy!

Please teach us what it’s like to be a child
To growing to youthful ages and then a fully bred man/woman
Please help us grow wise
And live our lives while on the right path!

Please, we do know we’ve got nothing to offer
and if we continue on this, we’ll grow wild
we’ll only set our minds on getting the cash
and if begging wouldn’t provide, we can just turn to rob people and banks.

Please, save our lives
For we know this we are children of circumstance
But we too want to become people of substance
and surely make impact.

Please save a dying soul.

©Emmiasky Ojex
Help someone hungry get better in life.

You never may know what they're passing through!
James Khan Jun 9

poetry permeates,

saturates sentences,

stealthily integrates,

into the words,

metering miracles,

clarify consonants,

sublimate syllables,

spoken and heard,


embellished aesthetics of ardent emotions,

emphatic exponents of everyday notions,

prosaic performances captured and pondered,  

perfunctory phrases exquisitely bonded,

translated to text and embalmed with catharsis,

empiric expressions are etched by the artist,

communicate vistas through verbs and adjectives,

impress the ideals of the poets' perspectives.


the word is heard but seldom sensed,

acoustics lost on muted ears,

effaced of grace, the phrase dispensed

is worn from handling through the years,

a crust of lime on rusted rhyme

from unrelenting overuse,

the verbs and nouns run-down with time

lay bruised and battered from abuse,

the poet plucks the crux of words

to resurrect the latent shines

revealed within the peeled-off skin,

the potency between the lines,

a lexicon of languid prose,

majestic language decomposed,

renewed to glory by the skill

of storytellers' ink and quill.
To highlight how consistent meter in rhyme can effect the inherent syllabic rhythm of the piece (prosody) here's three vignettes written in Dactylic meter, Amphibractic meter and Iambic meter respectively.

The natural phonics of the words should provide the rhythm even if one doesn't understand the metering terms I've use above
R Jun 7
Yet a needle has been injected to me again.
I couldn't resist, I couldn't fight back.
This is no fun place...
I want to go back.
Where's the fun in learning?
I am
Perfectly crazy.
I don’t deviate
From my mission of madness
In the slightest degree.
In contrast,
The President of the United States,
Donald Trump,
Is imprecise and incoherent.
His message and governing philosophy shifts
From one day
To the next.
Though he has been endorsed
By some of the most respected Clergy in our Nation.....
Placing their hands on his shoulders
In order to bless him
And his Regime
I prefer to remain esconsed
In the Shrine of Satan.
Though all my incantations
Might be condemned by Others
As blasphemous and demonic,
I prefer to be precise
In my prayers.
"It is the mark of an educated man to look for precision in each class of things just so far as the nature of the subject admits."----Aristotle
Fighting on the front lines
With red pens
For creativity,
For independent thought,
For common sense
Not Common Core

This is a battle in a bureaucratic war we’re losing
Keep pushing and shoving against a stubborn concrete wall

Children look down on us and they ask,
“Will this be on the test?”
And say,
“Get the fuck out of my face.”

Why is “mistake” a forbidden word?

Taught by parent(s) to resist.
Kids who fail to create
But recite, recall, and retaliate

School is no longer a safe haven
Testing, testing, 1-2-3
Safety off and then on

Following the curriculum map to X marks the standardized test.

And if we don’t perfectly align the bland soldiers, we fail.
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