The poetic views of an average somebody

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Larkin teases the reader, presenting a rational argument laced with doubt and agnostic cynicism. Acerbic in tone, the speaker is just human enough to acknowledge that A serious house on serious earth it is , suggesting that people will always need a holy space to worship in. This poem is packed with a rich mixture of common and rare vocabulary. It can be read out loud, it can be whispered quietly, it can be read in silence - it seems to satisfy all criteria for the reading of a poem. Here endeth is the classic King James bible wrap-up phrase for the end of a sermon.

The language is that of a non-believer certainly, an atheist perhaps but not such a devout one, and gives the reader the impression that here is someone out to poke fun at the established church. He's in and out in double-quick time. The speaker appears to be a person who frequents churches with the attitude of a museum-goer - he's only there for the history and the architecture, and to have a laugh with a biblical text - yet he is humble in one respect: he rides a bicycle and wears old fashioned clips to stop chain oil getting onto his clothes.

He feels he has to do this, perhaps because he's been brought up in a god-fearing environment, where it is proper to be clean; after all, cleanliness is next to godliness, as the saying goes. After mounting the lectern, which suggests he fancies himself as a minister, a vicar, a priest, he confesses an ignorance, which is a pretext, for he knows a lot about church interiors, and knows the names of things. This humble cyclist is more than he makes out, for he starts to ask himself serious questions about churches in general, what sort of future have they in a world that seems to be ignoring religious tradition.

A world that's becoming more secular, more materialistic. Has it been mere superstition holding the fabric of the church together for so long? Power of some sort has to continue but how? Just imagine a time when the last ever person leaves a place of worship such as this.

It could a carpenter, a pious tourist, an aged worshipper - or someone else with a religious impulse who wants to rebuild and start over? To comment on this article, you must sign in or sign up and post using a HubPages Network account. Other product and company names shown may be trademarks of their respective owners.

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2. Her closet is your closet.

HubPages Inc, a part of Maven Inc. As a user in the EEA, your approval is needed on a few things. To provide a better website experience, owlcation. Please choose which areas of our service you consent to our doing so. Andrew Spacey more. Philip Larkin and Church Going Church Going is a medium length lyrical poem that explores the issue of the church as a spiritual base.

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Church Going Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut. Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence, Move forward, run my hand around the font. Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky, A shape less recognizable each week, A purpose more obscure. Or will he be my representative, Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt So long and equably what since is found Only in separation - marriage, and birth, And death, and thoughts of these - for whom was built This special shell?

For, though I've no idea What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth, It pleases me to stand in silence here; A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet, Are recognised, and robed as destinies. Analysis of Church Going A poem of seven stanzas, each with nine iambic pentameter lines mostly, all with end rhymes, a mix of slant and full. So this reflects tradition, the common metre meter in USA of the land, setting a steady five beats per line on average: Of gown -and- band and org an- pipe s and myrr h? Or will he be my rep re sen ta tive, And note the astute use of enjambment - when one line flows into another, without punctuation, to keep the sense flowing - particularly strong in stanzas five and six but present in each one.

Readers will note the almost sneaky way the speaker enters the church, only when there's nothing going on , and moves forward through the tense, musty silence, Brewed God knows how long, before mockingly announcing Here endeth and listening to the response - The echoes snigger briefly. What follows is reflection , sparked by the simple observation that this is something he does on a regular basis.

How curious to visit a place that makes him feel at a loss. Then comes inquiry - wondering, What we shall, if we shall, Shall we before finally there appears a rough philosophical outcome, to be more serious, gravitating, was proper to grow wise in. Summary This is a poem of unusual reflection although it starts out ordinarily enough. Often people will applaud poems by people they know or that is family, regardless if it is any good.

Only way to know is to show your work to a larger audience and not just those who already read your work, or within a click. I love how you said to cut out anything unnecessary in your poetry.

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The beauty lies in simplicity and personal artistic impression. Thank you for the tips for writing a good poem! This idea leaves me awe-inspired. You can google a line of my poetry and it will lead you to my website. Poems are people. The inscape of your imagination coming alive. Juxtaposing words in new ways to express your unique voice. Everyone is a story,unfinished. Actually I write according to my mood, but now I want to take it long as my career depends on that only. So how can I just improve it.

I hope you understand that I am in my teenage and I am of just sweet 19, so when I was just started it from past three years being honest towards my poem, it seems to looks so childish. So what I have to do? Please give me some suggestions. True Art is the effective manipulation of the material things in life, Art is Mortal Morontia, the intervening field between man the material and man the spiritual.

George Orwell: Poetry and the Microphone

Poetry is an attempt of the Poet to find Spiritual Values from the material realities of life. I have written about poems. I have been published all three times I have submitted my work. I never really liked writing. I was off work with an injury and just wrote a poem and everyone liked it pretty soon I had a notebook full and they just kept coming. Some are happy some sad.

I have been told numerous times I should publish a book of poems. For me it is one that someone likes. I have no style or training but I have poems hanging at a university. Does that make me an artist? I guess it depends on who you talk to.

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In fact, I really love writing. Good Poem? One that is moving for the reader, even if it is only thyself. In class, we submitted our poetry anonymously and the teacher read them out.

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After mine was read out, the whole class was completely silent for a few moments. So I guess I hit the points 1, 4 and 7. It is a very good poem, but I am terrified of trying to get it published. The poem is about profound grief, but my grief is lessened every time I work on it.

To me, at least, it is a brilliant, heartbreaking, perfect piece of work. How could you express the emotions like this? You have a beautiful heart and a romantic one. You should never stop writing. And I agree with zeroset about views on a poetry. I believe poetry is a personal journey of discovery.

My early poems were really poor but I was proud of my efforts then. For me the basics are the need to write and the creativity to meet the need. For me people like glork are wrong.

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Poetry is, for me, whatever I say it is. There are no universal, set in stone rules for everyone about any form of art. Maybe for glork and people who think like glork, but not for me and, I imagine, many others as well. Poetry most certainly is someone writing a rush of words evoked from a mood they are experiencing. It may not be for some, and I respect that, but please, do not presume to make that true for me. I can only speak for myself when I state that there are absolutely no rules to define absolutely what art is. Doggerel by a Senior Citizen. Journey to Iceland. Ode to the Medieval Poets.

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