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Issa Poetry |
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Issa makes it easy to export the poems you write for your friends, your enemies, or all the world to see. This page is a forum for Issa users to display their poems.
Please note that we are no longer accepting submissions for this page, as Issa is no longer one of our products.
 
by Jonny Appleseed
by M. Spade
Peter Heffner, a beta-tester of ours, wrote a little piece (some might call it a "rant" :->) about the purity of fridge poetry that we'd like to excerpt here, since we find it to be inspirational and true.
The point of fridge poetry is its spontaneity. If you write something you'd like to keep, you just punctuate and capitalize it when you write it down later. This is assumed in fridge poetry. This is the process of creating.
Do you remember in composition or English classes where the teacher says "You have five minutes to free-write. You can correct for mechanics later?" That's fridge poetry: a free-write. Who cares about capitalization and punctuation? You don't need them when the meaning's clear.
Here are a few other poetry-related tidbits:
A nonsense poem by Lewis Carroll called The Hunting Of The Snark.
A takeoff on it that my friend Eli Meir and I wrote, called The Hunting Of The Model.
And I will leave you with a poem by e.e. cummings that my sister read at my wedding:
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
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