This ink upon this blank expanse of white,
These meaningless stock cliches I must write:
What soul can be captured by such duress
But one invented merely to impress?
How then to show the truth within my heart?
No way but silence of the mystic's art.
Yet still I write, here I must play my part.
Comments? Criticism?
The scrub brush scrubs
But it never fails
To leave mill dirt under
My fingernails.
That sneezy tickle
That comes and goes
Is the mill dirt pickled
Inside my nose.
The Q-tip tip
Confirms my fears:
There's mill dirt way
Up in my ears.
I'll soak and soap
Until I squeak
But I won't be clean
For at least a week.
I.
Romeo and Juliet and all the other
little sad-birds
nipping eachothers' tail and chomping down
make a rope,
twirl like a ribbon in the wind
II.
She held my hand as we walked out of the barn-
straw-dreams trailing behind us.
when we reached the house there was a fire
so you went inside and i
pondered the mystery of a half-broken fire extinguisher
outside the sunset shifted violently.
III.
strangely steamships prowl around
in my bathtub, mysteriously fog-whistling
into the cricket-night
and you are there - frowning strangely at me
as we fail
to understand
so i'm left alone - the wind whistles also
AKA, you are a fine poet. In a previous thread you posted a poem called "Skygazer" which I printed out and tacked up in my office, because I couldn't get it out of my head. You also posted a piece of a Conrad Aiken poem which was brilliant.
Your taste and your turn of phrase are impeccable, madam. You should find a journal which accepts submissions and submit! If you ever have a mind toward publishing your verses in any form, you have one reader waiting, at least.
Comments? Criticisms?
[This message has been edited by Wayde (edited June 02, 1999).]
Dmichael:
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
A poet's heart
Ain't in you!
[This message has been edited by Wayde (edited June 02, 1999).]
Today on "Arthur" (kids' cartoon) one little girl read her "original poetry." Here is a line she read:
In the room the women come and go/
Talking of milk and oreos.
Tee hee!
Anyone get it? Is this show really written for kids?
I stand alone
By the window.
I am important.
or how about:
You are like an island
in my soul
I am a rose unflowering
for you.
Please count my petals.
I'm telling you, after reading stuff like that, I feel enlightened- in a strangely violent sort of manner.
I actually got into poetry in my youth and wrote some. But I guess I just don't have the patience to read through it anymore. My eyes glaze over. (My ears if it's a speaker resorting to it.)
I'm not quite sure why. Maybe it's because so many people think poetry is supposed to be murky and unintelligible. Maybe it's because so many people resort to it when they want to get particularly sappy. Or maybe I just want to hear what you have to say without couching it in flowery language. Or maybe I'm just lazy.
But the good stuff out there is exceedingly rare and precious. Very rare. So rare that the meat is raw and bloody and ripped straight out of the fresh carcass.
Mmmmmmm. Fresh meat.
So if it's not a poem that immediately induces a subatomic reaction in your skull- with the atomic splitting and the kicking and the biting (oy!)- it's probably been done before.
[This message has been edited by Fractured (edited June 03, 1999).]
But no original stuff today - I am too tired. Just a comment on poetry from a poet - Elizabeth Jennings. This verse comes from her poem "Considerations."
But poetry must change and make
The world seem new in each design.
It asks much labour, much heartbreak,
But it can conquer in a line
Anyway, I like this opportunity to share poetry, so here goes. Don't laugh, though, it's not funny.
Uncensored
In the movies
Heroes get the bullet or
Sigh a last beath in the battle against some savage disease
And they always
Whether forward or backward
Fall with mouths closed
And can be held and caressed and never turn cold.
What, are they kept from rigor mortis
By tears if someone loved them enough?
Are they somehow saved the humiliation
Of not looking nice in that final hour
By the violins?
Or have these filmmen never stood in the room where Grandpa died
Where the rag held his mouth not-quite-shut
The skin turned to parchment
And, as if life were sucked hard from him, his body tightened inward
And, because no breath would blow him out again, stayed that way.
Where I said good-bye to the wall
I think they have not.
Or perhaps they have and they know
Nobody wants to see their hero like that.
So how about if I regale you with some lyrics from a song I wrote. That counts as poetry, doesn't it? Please remember these lyrics are copyrighted by myself. Please also take note of the title and don't expect Disney.
"Song of the Carthage Drunkards"
When the first star shows tonight
I will wish I may I might
Kill those dirty filthy Mormons
Just to do it out of spite
We will shoot them in their backs
Gun them down right in their tracks
We will take their women folk
Poke the parts we should not poke
Roast their children up for dinner
Pick the bones so we won't choke
(I'll let you all figure out for yourselves what this tune is about.)
Is this like one of those Mad Magazine parodies? sung to the tune of...
[This message has been edited by Wayde (edited June 09, 1999).]
Ian
It began because the chorister kept forcing the song to move from verse to verse without the normal caesura to allow a breath, a closure between verses. And then I just watched the familiar patterns of Mormon ritual, though I was in a congregation with which I was not very familiar.
Under the Chorister's Baton
Under the chorister's baton we bow
Breathless at tempos relentlessly beaten.
Prayers are intoned. Amen, we say, and now
Pass along trays so that bread can be eaten:
Body of Christ, and blood is in the cup.
Sip it and pass it: the pattern we follow.
Like the apostles, custom makes us sup,
Barely aware what it is that we swallow.
Once having promised, we will keep the vow.
Habit acts out what we barely remember.
Water appears - we lift, we drink it up.
Fire that once burned in us now is an ember.
Over and over we go through the motion,
Acting on faith like the waves of the ocean.
- Orson Scott Card
Ian
There are times
When I lose myself
When I feel like
inside me I am adrift,
unconnected to the me everyone knows
I float, trying to be found
trying to be heard
I hear myself calling
but what am I saying?
How do I accept?
The boy
it is him
how do I accept him?
What must I do to be
whole?
He calls
I answer
We are the same
We are disparate
I am lost
I cannot see who I am
But I can see myself-
I know me
But what do I now know?
Is it the me that I have constructed?
There are emanations
from my core
My deepest passions
hungers,
compassions
The actions are facade- artificial, contrived
like me
But am I me?
I am me, I am everyone
The little boy cries
do I love him?
why did I hate him?
all he wanted was love
acceptance
I fought him
I beat him
I berated him
and punished him
and banished him
How do I call to myself?
Where is he?
How can we unite?
I am he
he is me
I love him
he is me
You were good
I don't despise you
I accept you!
Join me
I am you
I have always been you
I will always be you
we are one
Ian
[This message has been edited by Darlene (edited July 27, 1999).]
But on a side note, I'd like to state for the record that I'm more serious than you think. For instance, that haiku I just posted was a true story (and it didn't involve the Guiness Book of World Records or such similar novelty gimmicks). It actually involved a truly insane individual who hears voices in his head and one day showed up with a razor blade dispenser and proceeded to brake the blades into flakes and then swallowed them like pills with a glass of water.
Comedy is only good when truth is the punchline. Or as Homer Simpson put it: "It's funny 'cause it's true!"
Eye See Eye
I watch your face
Reading mine.
What is it that you see
In these new familiar eyes?
Do you see them soft
Liquid compassion, gently caressing?
Or brightness, steel fire
Of ambition blazing?
Or do you see them now turn inward
In fear and doubt
Become a glassy wall
Blocking you
Watching me?
You do; these eyes lie then.
For looking in
You look out
Through these new familiar eyes
Watching your own face
Reading mine.
Go on dmichael, do your worst! And anyone else, for that matter!
i gave blood because
no other part of me was worth giving
skin and nose and plastic organs
all newly pressed and begging to be used
none up to code though all standard enough i see
no one seems to want these components
though no matter since they aren't worth it
i wrapped up a few organs in a blanket
the other day
drip of smeel of rust and hot feet
and wax runside bulbs to make it quick
limbs and tiny manhood and threads for good measure
dragged the whole package to the depot
a bundle
and scraped some thinkware from a bony downturned bowl
the pretty girl at the counter looked it over
and told me flat out, "junk!"
skunky stains on my blanket so sleep is a wet affair
fastened it to my belt, so i wouldn't know anyway
and weighed me under to sparksplah glug gasp and finally shut up
I can't do my worst, because my eyes glaze over when I see poetry, so I don't know what you wrote. I justy check here to see if some other topic reared its not so ugly head (not so ugly as poetry, that is), like the Simon and Garfunkel thread for example.
The downturned bony bowl is great! What a good image. Like upturned except with the normal orientation being upside down.
Does Mikie like Beck? If he doesn't then tell him I think if he did he would.
Sacred
A girl before the altar
Sings a prayer to one she cannot see.
Her eyes are shut tight against tears,
And blood flows from her aching mouth,
So long unkissed.
Naked and trembling, she kneels,
So cold in the light of the fire,
Her palms pressed flat against the earth,
Her breath coming in sobs.
She is bathed in a cold relentless sweat.
Her voice is ragged with the screams.
Her fingernails tear her skin,
For her own blood is all she can give:
Her blood and her tears and her song,
Silenced too soon.
The drops of blood in the dust
Seem to tell a story
In a language no one can read.
The holiest of scriptures.
The soul.
What would dmicheal's uplifting lyrics be without the music?
(I was going to post this a long time ago, but forgot about this thread until Tifa put it back up top.)
Youth
The cool autumn air
Silence
Broken only by
Voices, imparting visions
Of the future
Any future
Our future?
Black velvet sky
Pierced by billions
Of burning cold dots
Of blinding hot light
Satelites tracing faint lines
Dust, becoming brilliant
Falling stars
The cold hood
Of my mom's car
The hard windshield
Behind my head
The warmth of your body
So close to mine
So very close
Drinking in
The dark heart of the night
The growing cold of winter
The huge expanse of the universe
The endless futures possible
Feeling the burden of it all
'Till I feel I will burst
You kiss me
I melt in your touch
Fully aware
Your body
My body
Knowing with every breath
I can bare any weight
Face any future...
So long as you kiss me
As you do in this moment
My Brothers and Sisters, Hope you’re doin well,
I’m here to tell you that you’re goin to Hell.
Unless you do as I tell you, you’re gonna burn.
So listen real close and hope that you learn.
No using foul language, or the lords name in vain,
Using bad words earns you eternal pain.
You should always be pure, you should always be clean
and, unless it’s to heathens, you should never be mean.
You mustn’t sleep in, you mustn’t cut class,
and “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s ass!”
Don’t worship false gods, and don’t worship idols,
the thing you should worship is this leather bound Bible.
No wearing short skirts, they should cover your toe,
(bare skin is the work of the devil you know.)
No sex with a girlfriend, no sex that is queer,
no sex with yourself, and no sex in the rear.
No sex using toys, no sex with your mouth,
We have laws against that, down here in the south.
No rock and roll music, no ska, rap, or punk.
Good Christians don’t listen to that kind of junk.
So now I’ll be straight, and now I’ll be level,
I’ll tell you right who’s gone to fry with the devil.
Hey Catholic! You’re dammed! and so are you Jew!
God burns Buddhists and Moslems, and atheists too.
Those who don’t eat their beans, those who watch the “X-Files”
Those who saw “Armageddon”, they will lose Heaven’s trial.
If you don’t like Swiss cheese, or the color blue-green,
if you don’t own a cross, or a sewing machine,
Oh Lord it is true, I finally see,
They’re all damned to hell, unless they think just like me.
-Thomas Jenkins
Here's a poem of my own, which is of a totally opposite nature and delivery. ("And now for something completely different...") It's not really a poem: more a prose, if I use the term correctly, and an attempt at a conceit. I wrote this in high school, by-the-way, so without further exposition...
You toss me about like a ship at sea. When you have me, I am without direction. I am
simply moved by a force greater than myself.
I spread sails like the boat. I want to catch you. But am I really catching you? Or do I want to be caught by you?
My seas were quiet until I was caught, and now I am motivated? moved? inspired? How much can words describe of the ways a wind propels a ship?
The seas around me become a blur. I speed over them and they do not matter. Only when
the wind is gone must I look about the rough, dark, and depthless ocean.
As a ship, I care about
the results of your presence.
But winds must do so many things.
Wear down the beaches, make the trees fall, produce that beautiful sound of your mere
passing through.
But do you notice how you propel me? Can you even, like I do?
And if you do not notice, can you possibly care?
Or am I just floating debris?
You can get to it, though, by going to: http://www.plastic-castle.com/tom/ and clicking on the books.
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited January 04, 2003).]
[This message has been edited by Jacob Porter (edited October 17, 1999).]
Lovesick is stupid
inconstant and clueless
it has failed me again with its
yellow ripping suns spraying
rainshine onto
twittering flowers
irelevant and illogical it sinks again
into its green-slime bog
to gurgle-and-burp up a new
world-
victimizing me and
sirening beauty's composition;
true stars crying while their
hastily developed image
is plastered in a plywood room,
awaiting my
enthrallment
Oh well. Here is a poem I wrote last year, but I just found it. Tell me whatcha think._Helios_
Upon horizon's bosom blue
Thy throne is set.
As scholars deem Thy streaming rays
Thine epithet.
I marvel at Thy warmth and care,
This lovely place.
They curse the light forbidding them
To see Thy face.
Through darkness, mists, and bitterness,
Thy seed has won-
Over men who gaze at stars,
Yet miss the Sun.
[This message has been edited by Annie (edited October 17, 1999).]
_He's Still There_
Me and Mama sat beside the fireplace on night,
Watching cabin shadows flickering with firelight.
Papa still was up in the West Coulee moving stock,
So it was me and Mama - chittin, chattin, women talk.
I asked her "Mama, sometime I been thinkin' long an' deep-
You think a man's still out there for me, dreamin' in his sleep?
You think he wakes and works the cattle, rides along the range,
A simple country fella, not conceited, proud, or strange?"
My mama smiled and years of sunlight showed upon her cheek,
She said "Darlin' he's there somewhere for ya, humble, good and meek.
He may not be a flashy fella, may not wear a tie,
But I guarantee he'll love ya darlin', till the day he die."
Salty drops of tears rolled down my mama's face and mine,
"Mama, I just hope to God he's there for me to find.
I hope he's willin' not to have the purtiest of faces,
But just a good ol' country girl from good ol' country places."
Me and Mama hugged beside the fireplace that night,
The sturdy log walls held out all the sorrow and the fright.
I never will forget my mama, in her old red chair,
Whisperin' softly in my ear, "Oh honey, he's still there."
Before we came to earth to dwell
and took upon us mortal clay
each child of God unblemished stood
and all in perfect beauty stayed.
There were no broken minds or forms
no shackles dull to weigh us down,
no twisted limbs, nor clouded eyes,
no lonely ears in silence bound.
Man is not just his mortal form
full more than half his stature hides
where we must search to find it out-
search with hearts and not our eyes.
Look close and catch a glimps or two
of brother, sister, child divine
and you shall be so richly blessed
to find within dear friends of thine.
So hand in hand as we go forth
let's gather each one heart by heart
and strength on strength shall love encrease
til fear and loathing must depart.
*********************************************
So now that's over and I'm having a stress attach so be kind!
This is one of my favorites.
JUST ANOTHER LOVE POEM
This is a love poem
You know I hate reading love poems
and hate writing them even more.
But I know you like them.
So here goes.
I love you.
There, I've said it.
We're from two different worlds.
Someone says Nirvana, I think Seattle, you think Sidhartha
(whoever he is)
I call you up at 2 a.m. and you listen.
When I forget your birthday, you pretend it dosn't bother you,
even though I know it does.
You like walking on the beach.
And whenever I'm broke (which is often) you loan me money,
knowing full well that I'll probably never get it back to you.
It drives you crazy when I buy your ticket for you.
And when that cop thought I was drunk because I was going 90 down Hwy. 17 blowing bubbles and singing campfire songs in Russian, you backed me up all the way.
You act like you like my taste in music and movies.
We borrow from each other, never expecting to get our stuff back,
except maybe as a last minute birthday gift.
You'll shoot a look across the room, confidant that I know what you're thinking,
(I rarely do, but I appreciate it anyway).
If I'm ranting and raving about something pointless,
you know that if you just stay quiet, I'll bore myself out of it.
So there you are. Here's your stinking love poem.
You put up with me, and I love you for it.
And that's it. I've just bled out all available romantic emotion.
This more than exceeds my mushiness quocient for the day.
Hope you're happy.
****************
Well? what do ya think?
CRANKY PEOPLE
Cranky people aren't much fun!
They go stomp, stomp, stomp
Waaah, Waaah, Waaah
Whine, Whine, Whine!
Cranky people are no fun at all!
They COULD run around and play
or smile through the day.
They COULD laugh and jump and run
Happy people are lots of fun!
But cranky people have forgotten.
They're stuck in a mood of being rotten!
Cranky people are no fun at all!
So how can we make them happy?
What will make them smile?
Perhaps a hug and a kiss
or playing with them a while.
A surprise tickle attack can do the trick.
But whatever it is - do it quick!
Because cranky people aren't much fun!
Hope you adults can stomach it, and if you have any 3 or 4 year olds, exaggerate the obvious movements and it works every time!
[This message has been edited by userAnnie (edited October 23, 1999).]
I don't have any kids but I teach 4 year olds on sundays. Great poem for kids! And I enjoyed it too.
Someday
Ages and ages hence
When you finally know what it is
You were fighting
for
You will
Remember this day
And know what I meant when I say
We've already won
the
War
Pickled in fomaldehyde of envy
Blackened in the iodine of pride
Skewered on the scalpel of your vengeance
Store your tissue samples in the file
But...
Before you touch a warm and living heart
Kindly wash that poison off your hands.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited October 26, 1999).]
Since the first was receive well, I guess i can share another. Tell me what you think of this one.
Ode to the Wild Iris
Amid the wild and rocky ways
You lift your fragile, pallid face
Strength belied by a slender form
In poorest soil you bloom with grace
Before the rain and windy storm
You bend and dance, submissive - meek
Or trodden down by passing foot,
You rise again in beauty sweet
[This message has been edited by ducky (edited October 27, 1999).]
Uncle Orson, I like your poem “Under the Chorister’s Baton.” I couldn’t help but think, as I read it, “Yes, that’s exactly how it is sometimes.” And one can hope that as he continues to ‘go through the motion, acting on faith,’ he’ll get the fire back? I was glad I got to attend your lecture at the U of U on Sept. 12th. You mentioned there that you like to write poetry. I don’t know why I was surprised by that, but it’s always nice to discover a new dimension to an author I like.
“Uncensored” – Lara, nice work. Well, it’s not a “nice” poem, is it? (We’ll leave that to the Joyce Killmer types.) But it strikes some chords. Well done.
Oh! Great masteroftheobvious, < picture a guy genuflecting with his arms extended over his head > “Youth” is a wonderful poem. I bow to your imagery and skill. It carried me back to many a night of stargazing. And the last five lines border on the sublime. Oh heck, what am I saying? It crosses over the border! I’m going to add your poem to my scrapbook of favorite verse.
“If I Ran the Afterlife” – Thomas J., I laughed and chuckled through the whole thing. We’re both going to hell for this, you know. Thanks a lot.
Annie, I really like “Helios,” and I’m sure I haven’t understood it’s full richness yet with just a couple of readings. I need to think about this somemore. But tell me this: Is it metaphors for the Son of God? (Is “metaphor” or “allegory” the correct word?) “He’s Still There” is sweet.
Ducky, I’m adding your “Before we came to earth to dwell” to my favorites also. I think it stacks up well with William Wordsworth. I read somewhere that it is one of the tasks of poets, to subdue the rhyme so it does not jangle and such. You have done beautifully there. I hope I can learn to do it even half as well. It is musical. (By the way, what is it’s title?)
I do write serious stuff but I thought that in honor (or maybe dishonor) of the World Series, I’d post a parody I wrote during the big old hairy baseball strike several years ago. I figure there are few poems so bad you can’t at least make them worse by using them for parody. By the way, Wayde, I submitted this to Mad Magazine, but they sent it back wrapped around a rock, saying, “We are a visual medium, but keep trying.” So I don’t know if it stunk bad or if they just didn’t need it at the time. I do know that it doesn’t lack for satire.
WARNING! If you hate parody and/or you think baseball is the only true and living sport, don’t read this parody. If you choose to read it and then feel a desire to have me put to death, just remember -- YOU WERE WARNED.
CASEY ON THE MAT
(with apologies to Ernest Thayer)
The camera's eye is on him as he saunters to the plate.
He rolls his head and pulls and tugs till all his clothes are straight.
He taps the plate but steps away . . . (he's got all afternoon)
And all the fans can only hope there'll be some action soon.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he looks around,
And now the batter swings a few, and spits upon the ground.
And now the pitcher scuffs the dirt, and still he's holding on.
And now the air is shattered by a loud collective yawn.
In the midst of this exciting sport the players said, "See here,
"We're just so great no way we're livin’ on six million bucks a year!"
Straight to the bargaining table these mighty Caseys sped.
"Tough beans," said the owners. "We'll strike!" the players said.
So, as the money slipped away--a seasons worth or more--
You'd think that someone would get wise and end this strike before
The fans begin to wonder why they ever paid to watch
Some yahoo spitting on the ground and digging at his crotch.
Oh somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The fans are spending somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And some are losing sponsors' dough, and somewhere players pout.
Since fans have learned there's more to life--mighty Baseball has struck out.
Samuel M Bush
Mention love to me
I'll try to find meaning in the moment
Seeking words from you
That I cannot unbidden pronounce
To myself
Let alone share
As a topic
As an idea
Mention me to me
What you see in me
Casually
I find a meaning to hold onto
And pass it back playfully
Seeking words from you
Because I cannot unbidden pursue
Your sweet company
I feel tied down by my fear
Thrown there by my pleading voice-
Forced still
And left waiting, Wanting
To rise and be greeted in the open
My existence made okay by your eye
That won't look away
But that will hold steady
Until I cannot do anything but move
Thank you for your gracious praise. You made my day! As yet, I have not named that poem.
I loved CASEY AT THE MAT!!!!
I think it speaks to every baseball fan. Wonderfully done!
Now, for all you Dr. Suess fans out there(or should I have said, "Sorry to all you Dr. Suess fans out there.") Here is another tasty parody to munch on.
FRIED EGGS AND HAM
That Sam-I-am!
That Sam-I-am!
I do not like that Sam-I-am!
"Do you like fried eggs and ham?"
I do not like them Sam-I-am.
I dare not eat fried eggs and ham.
"Would you could you in a tree?"
I would not could not in a tree.
They would kill me instantly!
"Would you eat them with a roast?
"Would you with Parkay on toast?"
Not with toast! Not in a tree!
Not with a roast! Sam, let me be!
"Would you with popcorn and pies?
Or with a Big Mac, Coke, and fries?"
I would not eat them with a Coke nor with fries!
Not with popcorn, not with pies!
Not with a juicy roast!
Not with Parkay on toast!
'They're bad!' the Surgeon General said.
If I eat them, I'll be dead.
"You do not like them so you say.
"Try them and you may, I say."
Sam! If you will let me be, I will try them
You will see.
Say! I like fried eggs and ham!
And I would eat them with a roast.
And I will with Parkay on toast.
And with popcorn and with pies
With a Big Mac, Coke, and fries.
These sure do beat tofu and sprouts.
Those food police are silly louts.
I do so like fried eggs and ham!
That health food craze is such a scam.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited October 30, 1999).]
It just hit me today that I ought to write a sequal to Dr. Suess's "Green Eggs and Ham." It would start out:
That Sam-he-was!
That Sam-he-was!
He's such a scuzz that Sam-he-was!
The plot would be that the narrator almost died from SAManilla poisoning (what did he expect from eating green eggs and ham, for crying out loud!), and now he is looking for Sam who has changed his name and is fleeing from prosecution. What do you think? Would it work?
I'm, a Dr. Suess fan too. I think he would enjoy your parodies. I know I do. I also like green eggs and ham. Ever eaten green eggs? I am not talking about dyed eggs but the real thing.
[This message has been edited by ducky (edited November 01, 1999).]
Unravel
Taking out the safety pins
that hold my life together
and keep me from unraveling
And now for a longer, more depressing poem
I was wearing that necklace when I heard,
when she told me in hushed tones by the water fountain
that you tried to take yourself from this world to the next.
When the one who loved you like I did
told me to kiss the necklace clasp and make a wish,
she said "I know what you wished for."
And she did. It was what she wished for too.
And every time I kissed that clasp, I prayed
"God let him be ok, bring him back to us."
You'll never know how many prayers were said on your behalf.
But as time passed, I forgot sometimes,
and I no longer reached for that golden circle when I was afraid
The summer was too hot for jewelry, even for my talisman.
I left it guarding my home,
but who was guarding you?
I haven't forgotten you.
I can't tell if I love you or hate you,
but I know that your presence hurts me.
I will always wonder if you are happy.
I will always wonder why you never needed me.
Questions? Comments?
Amira T, your app. form is good. It reminded me of something my old English teacher told us. But I’ll tell that later.
aka, I like Biology .
ducky, you’ve done it again with Ode to the Wild Iris. Nice work.
I do have a serious side that twinkles through the mists once and a while. It’s different from my sirius side which I use when I’m trying to write doggerel. So here is a serious one. Let me know if I’ve mixed any metaphores that I’m not aware of.
Worship Service
Cathedral mountains and their wind sculptured steeples arise
Surrounded by each climate's gardens beneath the stained glass skies.
Where every hill is a house of prayer and every grove a shrine,
The world reveals it's secrets slowly line upon line.
There are hymns of praise in a rain shower’s susurration,
And the vesper breezes whisper the “Kyrie eleison.”
The myriad choirs of the earth in lilting oratory
Sing, "For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory."
There are mighty sermons preached by storm and thunder's roar
As the ocean pounds its fist upon the pulpit of the shore.
Colliding continents shout, "Hosanna, to God and the Lamb.
And valleys echo back in benediction, "Amen and Amen."
There are prayers of faith in each mother's gentle caring.
And prayers of hope in every root and seed. They all are sharing
The promise of the spring. For all that sleep beneath the winter's cruel
Snows, have hope to see the advent of the sun and life's renewal.
Give me ears to hear and eyes to see, and quicken my spirit sense
That I can see, in the bowing grass or the planets whirling in space,
The oblations that they offer and the testimonies that they bear
That indeed there is a heaven and a loving Father there.
Samuel M Bush
April 1998
(there now, I finally corrected 'its' on line 10 per Annie's suggestion -- 1-12-00)
[This message has been edited by Samuel Bush (edited January 12, 2000).]
The wind blows.
The rays of my existence,
they are almost gone.
I am pale.
The bright colors that once engulfed my body have faded.
Shades of brown and yellow now pierce me.
My usefullness to the mother has ended.
I know that i will die soon.
My grasp to the foundation is tearing.
A searing, ripping pain courses through me.
My last ties with the mother are severed.
Death is upon me.
I fall.
For what seems like a million miles i glide towards death.
A lone wail escapes as i plummet.
Soon i will be nothing.
In the waining hours of dusk.
A thousand screams pierce the woods.
Heard by noone,
mourned by nothing,
except their own silent mothers.
the reason i wrote this is very simple. when i was in DESERT STORM, i had a pen pal who told me that i wrote so vividly that i could make people hear leaves falling. I had to try. I dont come up with poetry through planning. it is a spur of the moment thing that hits me and usually takes me only 5 to ten minutes to write. trhank you for reaqding it. it is one of my works that i am most proud of.
The wind blows.
The rays of my existence,
they are almost gone.
I am pale.
The bright colors that once engulfed my body have faded.
Shades of brown and yellow now pierce me.
My usefullness to the mother has ended.
I know that i will die soon.
My grasp to the foundation is tearing.
A searing, ripping pain courses through me.
My last ties with the mother are severed.
Death is upon me.
I fall.
For what seems like a million miles i glide towards death.
A lone wail escapes as i plummet.
Soon i will be nothing.
In the waining hours of dusk.
A thousand screams pierce the woods.
Heard by noone,
mourned by nothing,
except their own silent mothers.
the reason i wrote this is very simple. when i was in DESERT STORM, i had a pen pal who told me that i wrote so vividly that i could make people hear leaves falling. I had to try. I dont come up with poetry through planning. it is a spur of the moment thing that hits me and usually takes me only 5 to ten minutes to write. trhank you for reaqding it. it is one of my works that i am most proud of.
The Cedar Chest
________________
Great-Grandma had a dusty cedar chest.
At times she'd take it out and show me treasures it concealed.
Her dusty voice would paint for me the pictures
Of years and lands gone by as on her handmade quilt we kneeled.
A faded black & white of grandpa showed
A noble, regal man in decorated uniform.
She told me how he flew across the world,
And braved the horrid thunders of that god-forsaken storm.
Newspaper clippings dated '41
Announced aloud in bold italic font, "We've Come to War."
Her faded Western Union envelopes
She never let me read - I never understood what for.
At rest beneath the scraps and trinkets sat,
As once the Ark sat sacredly upheld in wond'rous awe,
A faded banner of the softest felt
Adorned with stars of blue and gold, whose like I never saw.
I dared to ask her one October day
What was the meaning of the reverence for this ensign?
Her melancholy eyes pierced to my soul;
She told me of a pain no words could dare try to define.
The freedom and the solace of our lives
Are not eternal; they came only after sacrifice.
Our generation fails to understand-
The greatest gift the world has ever known still had a price.
I'm glad you like it. The "Ensign" editor didn't, alas.
PASSION
Hearts meshed, intertwined
Arms locked, holding tight
Lips touch, parting slightly, lingering...
Souls connect, holding steady
Becoming one, combining, ecstasy forever climbing
Rising like the sun, but never setting
The love begins to flow, to grow
To shine like the stars, but never dying out
Like an eclipse, your heart envelops mine
Like a life begun, our love is renewed
Inspirations unfold, never growing old
Like tinted glass, we mirror each other's love
And like the glowing moon, we know our love will never fade away.
Running around
and around and around
Falling down
Getting up
to spin again
for that giddy dizzy feeling
Racing to a hidden spot
turning back
Racing to the starting point
turning again
Racing back to the magic spot again
for the thrill of the wind on your face
Singing a song
over and over and over
As loud as you can
for as long as you can
for the joy of knowing the words and the tune
Climbing impossibly tall trees
Wading into mucky ponds
Tramping through deep dark woods
Rolling down green hills
Breathing in pure excitement
Exhaling adventures
Living fully in each moment
Oh, to be a child again.
~Stacy
Samuel, So you have been published. I was wondering. I've been to chicken to submit anything. Hatrack is making me more courageous though. I still can't believe I had the guts to put any of my poems on the forums.
(I usually decimate whole forests with rewrites and then I still don’t know if I’ve done any good.) I didn’t get “The Thousand Screams” at first. But when I finally did, it was like a picture coming into focus. Thanks for one of those thrills-of-discovery that add spice to life. Nice work.Annie, userAnnie, and masterofthenostalgic, hmm do I like “The Cedar Chest,” “Passion,” or “Reminiscing” the best. I’m having trouble deciding. Oh well, I’ll think about it tomorrow.
ducky, I must have been unclear. It was NOT published. The “Ensign” rejected it. Oh well. (If you are interested in my unlustrious history of published stuff see the “Hatrack writers in print” thread in the writers forum. You’ll be underwhelmed.) As to your being chicken – I know how you feel. Keep submitting. You are good. A few hours ago, I saw the following on a ballet poster in my daughter’s dance studio and I thought of your last post. It didn’t say who wrote it.
Dream your dream
Then do your best . . .
Never doubt and never rest
Until that dream is yours.
The Day It Was Hot At Dusk
The sun has just begun to set.
I enter the clearing.
He is standing on the far side.
a young man preparing to die.
Oh the rashness of youth.
An unintentional insult, rage, the challenge.
The only honorable answer.
My identity revealed, the contanance of fear.
It has been played out too many times.
Rapiers clash, blade upon blade.
How i loved that sweet music.
The more skillfull blade always foung its mark.
ONE FALLS, ONE STANDS
ONE DIES, ONE WALKS AWAY....WEEPING
So here we are.
The master and the novice.
He stands before me.
Brave in the face of death.
We bow in proper respect.
We take the stance.
Rapiers clash,
Blade upon blade.
I hate this racket.
Oh the skill of this youth.
Blade connects with flesh.
A look of shock on his face.
I finally smile.
ONE FALLS, ONE STANDS
ONE DIES, ONE WALKS AWAY....SMILING
this one i came up with when i was perusing through SHAKESPEAR. I was reading a sword fight scene and i said to myself i can do that too.
Sorry, Samuel, I guess I misunderstood. I really enjoy reading your poetry. I do not always agree with whoever picks those items that appear in the Ensign. They turned one of my mother's down years ago and everyone who has ever read it loves it! I'll have to find my copy and post it here to she what you think.
I am really impressed with the quality of work I keep reading in this thread!
Please, PLEASE I want to read 'Mother's Button Jar'
My whole family has a thing about buttons. Especially if there's a story attached.
My poetry is mostly written for members of my family.
This was written for one of my nephews
EYES
I looked into the child's eyes
and saw the ages roll.
I wondered who the man would be
that dwelt within that soul.
A spirit old as time itself,
a greater one than me?
I pondered how the boy would grow,
what wonders would he see.
I looked into the eyes of youth
and saw the glint of steel.
I knew what battles he must face;
my fears for him were real!
The world would try to strip away
the armour of his soul.
I prayed that he would find the strength
to reach his highest goal.
I turned my eyes to 'Father'
and offered up this plea:
"This child, this man, this mighty one,
Please, keep him close to thee!'
"Please, teach him who he really is,
show him how to find
The courage to preserve himself -
a royal son of thine!'
~Laurie Weston~
[This message has been edited by ducky (edited November 19, 1999).]
[This message has been edited by ducky (edited November 21, 1999).]
Well, ducky, about posting Button Jar -- I’ll think about it. Ok, I’ve thought it over and I’ll send it later. In the mean time, I like “Eyes.” Now, I like comic verse; I like rambunctious and even dark poetry too; but I also like the sweet stuff. And yours are really nice. Some people eschew rhyme, but they can just go and chew on a shoe for all I care. Keep up the good work. (Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of really good non rhyming verse out there too.)
There are just three little errors, or at least I think they are. I’m certainly no grammar and punctuation expert by a long shot. So if I am mistaken and/or these are deliberate, please just ignore this: Should there be a question mark at the end of line 6 after “me”? And does there need to be a question mark after “see” at the end of line 8? Does the end of line 11 need a semicolon?
It’s a wonderful poem regardless.
My wife has accumulated a big enamel canning pot nearly full of buttons. Even as old as I am, there is something soothing about sticking my hands in there and stirring those buttons around once in a while and hearing their hiss and clatter. Probably because of my mother’s buttons, I don’t mind (very much) picking up a few buttons after my darling little niece gets through playing with them. She used to fill her pockets full of them and then when it was time to go home her mother would have to empty the pockets. We didn’t mind her absconding with a few (we have plenty of them after all) but her mother didn’t want to have to pick them all up when she got home.
Well, that’s still not the story yet. What happened was my wife was doing a craft project. She took some fancy jars, made nice needle point lids for them and filled them with buttons. While she was doing this she suggested that I write a poem about buttons for her and she would print copies and include the poem with the jars. I couldn’t resist the challenge. Drawing on my childhood and my mother’s buttons, I wrote the following poem. I don’t know how it stacks up poetically with guys like Bob Frost, but at least it’s nostalgic.
MOTHER'S OLD BUTTON JAR
My mother had an old button jar
With a million buttons at least.
Just bits of plastic and metal and bone
In more colors than Monet could have guessed.
Sometimes I tiled the Taj Mahal
Or dug up a pirate chest.
Sometimes it might be a king's ransom
Or a scaly old dragon's nest.
But it was always chubby little fingers' delight--
The toy that I loved the best.
Samuel M Bush
April 1994
Not all of my stuff rhymes either. I love prose and free verse. Sometimes they speak far mor eloquently of our deeper feelings as in this prayer.
Father, forgive all the pettiness of my mind. Increase the love and charity within my heart and teach me to forgive as I would be forgiven. Bless me with compassion for all thy children. Fill me with light and set me, as a candle, wherver there is need of me. Help me to accept thy will in ALL THINGS! Take me by the hand and lead me home; but help me to remember that I must do my part. Do not let me forget that it is my task to take another's hand and guide it into yours.
[This message has been edited by ducky (edited November 21, 1999).]
Amira, back in May you posted a poem about your uni application form. I really like it. It made me remember something my old HS English teacher told us that I hadn’t thought about for many years.
His name was Charles Hunter. Think of Alfred E. Newman (Mad mag. mascot) on steroids and you get a pretty good picture of Mr. Hunter. If he had a motto it would have been “What! You better worry.” He was ornery, crass, and cynical. He could read about 1300 words per minute and he refused to grade on the curve. If the whole class deserved an F on an assignment then the whole class got just that, and it would seem to make his day. He could spin around and bounce a piece of chalk off the head of a whispering student from clear across the room. I was terrified of him and I had the good (yes, good) fortune of having English from him both my freshman and senior years. He was one of the best teachers I ever had.
Besides having a sir name of Hunter, he also was an avid hunter. He also had an extensive gun collection –both antique and new. Two of his freshman students gave him a card one day near the start of the year that said, “Old hunters never die, they just smell that way.” He liked it so much it hung at the edge of the blackboard the whole year.
He also loved poetry. He was one of the few teachers I ever had who would teach it – even if he had to make a course himself and squeeze it into the regular grammar and spelling course which he was required to teach. That’s exactly what he did with us.
One time he was telling us seniors about some of the academic stupidity we would be facing in college. He mentioned a personality profile test he had to fill out as part of his summer school masters program. One of the questions was, “Do you like guns or poetry?” He said that he threw down his pencil and threw back his head and roared with laughter. If he told us how he ultimately dealt with the question, I don’t remember. But I can picture him either just giving them the answer he figured they wanted to hear, or suggesting to them some uncomfortable place they could store their test. It could go either way.
He may even have been the one who wrote “On flunking a nice boy out of school.” I just don’t remember. He certainly was the one who introduced it to us. I memorized it for a skit we did in which I was imitating him. He loved it. Good old Mr. Hunter – may he rest in peace.
No pain could ever pierce me near as deep
As this dark disconnection in your eyes,
No fear is to the core so wholly near
As in the presence of your absence lies.
How is the soul connected to the flesh
So that he every cell of him informs?
How is the thread enwoven in the mesh,
the stars in seas, the stems in wreathes of thorns?
From deep in the heart of warmth I call abroad
Across the frozen rim to where you roam,
Edain, oh stranger to us and we to him,
I stand at the door... come in, come in, come home.
Samuel, your English teacher sounds brilliant. You never forget people like that. An ironic note on the uni application poem... I ended up writing a completely conventional personal statement. Lol!
I can't write a thing.
I've been sitting in front of a screen with my finger's on the keys and my mind has wandered to the point that I have played an hour of solitaire without noticeing it.
I've been staring at this blank page, but my pencil might as well be a strand of overcooked spaghetti, at least then I'd have an excuse for gnawing the eraser off.
I have 10 term papers, 2 plays, 1 letter to my mother, 50 e-mails to friends, and 1 check to the electric company I really should write.
But nothing happens.
I have ideas, that's not the problem, I've got beginnings without endings, middles without beginnings, several witty sayings, two good lines of dialogue, and an idea for a modern retelling of Oedipus Rex, entitled "Oedipus was a Motherf*cker".
But my hands are gone.
They used to write poems that sounded good even when someone read them monotone, trying to be artsy.
But now the ideas travel from my brain and get lost, spilling into the air, and leaving me with this one, blanck page.
Let me guess: "Ode to a Fetal Pig"
code:So Quietly
pleads
Here There are lost dreams
and we quietly grieve Them
For Their dreamers are fled and will not Follow
and They must lie unfulfilled
In This cold shadow
The candlelight of mens dreams
So near extinction
Yet comes the morn
To those that hope
and wrest eternity
from death
In silent Battle engaged
for The dreams men dream
To God
[This message has been edited by aka (edited December 23, 1999).]
Now when it 4:20 and you know its time
To light up that joint and smoke that dime
You better step back when I start to rhyme
Only Sprite got's the flavor with the lemon and the lime!
i dont think that can compete with anything else on this thread, but it was just so cool how he made this up right off the top of his head!
i have some original poetry at my house ranging from spiritual to funny to pointless stuff. but im at my friends house now and he just came up with the above, so when my cable modem is working again i will post some of MY poetry. until next post, cya!
Edit: Hey! ScottR, there was a poem of yours here right before this post of mine! Did you delete it? Why?
[This message has been edited by aka (edited June 15, 2001).]
Thomas J., I liked “To Writer’s Block.”
Scott, DITTO to what aka said: WOW.
I wrote a poem today. This is the fastest I’ve ever done that. It takes me a long time to write one, and then I usually let it sit for a while after I have “finished” it and then see if I can still stand it after a few months. But I’m going to take a chance on this one and post it now. Most likely I’ll want to change some of it in the future. We will just have to wait and see. It was inspired by two things: 1) I have a close relative who is having problems with depression right now. And 2) I’ve wanted to try to write a poem for Christmas and this subject (i.e. Christ’s message of hope) fit. So as a Christmas gift to all of you, here it is. I hope it doesn’t turn out to be a ‘white elephant’ type.
Feather-snow
Once verdurous, it now lies
A sere and sienna field of despair,
Until a waft of feather-snow
Wraps the meadow quiet in repose.
Then the day dawns clear and white,
And crystal radiance reveals the miracle
Wrought soft here in the night.
Once shepherds trembled
In darkness and despair,
Until the songs of heaven
Wafted peace into each soul.
Then each face turned toward Bethlehem,
And, from each heart, the miracle of hope
Dispelled the fear.
Samuel M Bush
Dec. 23, 1999
In that spirit, I am submitting this little piece written just after the birth of my little girl.
'Twas the Eve of October
Twas the eve of October, and in our small house
Mandy was screaming, she scared even the mouse.
The curtains were drawn and the lights were all out
But Scott was awake and pacing about.
Mandy was sprawled out all over the bed
If she could have stood up she would have damaged Scott's head.
A pain so intense, like ten million slaps,
Kept her from sleeping, no not even a nap.
Scott was confused by all of the clatter,
His brain wasn't working, he asked "What's the matter?"
"Grab all of our things and don't forget cash,
We'd best hurry up, but try not to crash."
And soon to our wandering car did appear
The hospital! "Thank goodness we're here!"
The emergency personnel weren't lively or quick,
And we were in no mood to put up with their schtick.
"On doctors, on nurses, and on medicine men!
The epidural we want, we want it times ten!"
And in a twinkling we were up in our room,
The medicine was dripping, it did not come too soon!
We drew in our breaths with sighs of delight
And tried to get rest, it had been a long night.
But of rest there was none, no, not even a wink
The baby was coming! We were right on the brink!
So Mandy did push with all that she had,
And Scott cried out loud, "I'll soon be a dad!"
After sixteen long hours, and none of them mild,
We finally progressed to the birth of a child.
With a head full of hair and eyes like the sky,
We greatly rejoiced to hear our baby's first cry.
Scott R
I liked the above- it gave me the sense of spinning out of control through a terrifying world. Madness, chaos- I don't think I've ever read them described so well as in your poem.
Of course, I could be totally off base in my interpretation of your work. In which case, I beg you to enlighten me.
Scott
code:Senses
I am still
and quietly hear the soft click
and scrape of a pawn
I am still
and Reverently Touch the cold
shapes of my dead
I am still
and cautiously inhale the fragrance
of the crushed flowers and damp mossy earth by The stream
I am still
yet with feral anticipation taste blood
and Hunt my enemies
I am still
So the cool springs of mind
reveal the wider horizon
I am still
and look so Tentatively for the Eyes of a Friend
shaded and Deep pools that
shine softly with a warm
and comforting
yet painful
In Their shielded recess
Light of calm happiness
[This message has been edited by aka (edited December 31, 1999).]
Survivor, I am in awe of the imagery in your poems. They are simply beautiful!
Scott R, I have to ditto the Wows for Autumn #1. Again, the imagry captures so much! Very well done! Twas the eve in October brought back the memories of the births of my sons. Thank you for that poem. No rain was a haunting poem, it brought back the memories of a dear departed friend and how she lurks around corners in my dreams at times. I am curious to know what inspired it.
Samuel, Feather snow is very moving in it's beauty. I truely enjoyed reading it and will remember it for a long time.
Lord Ragged, I feel like your poem is just touching on something that is just barely out of reach of my concious understanding, but if I can just reach whatever it is, I will know what is wrong in the world and be able to figure a way out of it. It is a stirring piece. Very well written. I find myself reading it again and again to try to touch what it contains.
"No Rain" was written while I lived in Italy-it started out as a short story in my mind. I kept going over and over the theme of loss and redemption, and when I finally put it down into words, it came out as a poem. The idea to make it into an anthology of connected works came later, after I returned to the States.
As for inspiration, I'm not sure where "No Rain" came from. I could just "hear" it settling down in my mind, line by line. I've only lost one good friend (only? Like one is not enough. . .), and don't consider myself very experienced in the field of loneliness. I guess that's where empathy comes in.
Scott
New poetry is not happening right now, but I'm going to post an old one that I don't think this forum has seen.
Inarticulate
Woke to the world wheeling, room empty,
Desk full, papers strewn, random
Tunes blaring from the radio alarm.
Drank coffee from stained mug
Through gritted teeth, fingers
News-blackened. Left, slamming door.
Home in the dark of car headlights, street
Lamps spewing dull light. Wrote essays
On God's nature, James Joyce, mechanics.
Dreamed of a world apart, the manic
Life now a dream. On the open sea
A small boat, tossed on the wind. Turned
Into the grey dawn. Woke to angry music
Devoid of love, drums beating, heart
Wrenching. More coffee. Out.
In. More essays. More dreams. Up.
Drink coffee. Read newspaper. Out. In.
Essays, dreams, coffee, newspaper.
Newspaper, coffee, dreams, essays.
Wrote of the wrenching separation,
The chasm of creator from creature.
Dreamed of a fall into fire, a rope
Flung into a void. Woke on the brink
Of an abyss, looking down, reaching up.
Prayed for a firm hand, a strong grasp,
A steel bridge, a shrinking gap. No
Answer.
Any comment or criticism is most welcome!
"Inarticulate" was not so inarticulate at all. I think you capture our harried lives very well. The rush and movement of the poem is what really caught me. Like the last week of finals, after working a 70 hour week in a busy restaurant.
Whew. Very well done. I think I need a nap now.
Trails carved by neglect
traverse a ravaged arm.
A toppled pedestal subtly
hints at perfection, at disease.
Stones shatter.
Line by masochistic line,
powdered shards
overwhelm a haggard heart;
these shards cut blissfully deep.
Crimson trickles from the nose
to caress the lips;
a drop of blood
for every amorous rejection;
for the supple, gentle hands
that lingered upon a face
forced away. Bound by pain;
capitulating grace for the parasite of pity;
glamour for life; envy for love;
dependence for direction;
oblivion for agony.
A procession of intertwining almosts;
A surrogate existence conceived in fallacy;
A final,
unsatisfying
compromise
of rest.
"Chameleon"
His callused hands clutch
at the waning sands of autonomy.
The borrowed pride that he transfuses
daily refuses to buttress his fragile ego.
Sometimes he stands in front of the mirror
for hours, fixated on catching some fleeting
sign of recognition. The myriad
faces before him melt and merge
into a grotesque, featureless mass
that almost could be called a man.
Long ago he resigned
himself to the mottled shroud
that blankets his true countenance.
The sparse approbation, doled
out in grudging spurts
from a bitter man, assured
that he would forever lust
after accpetance like a blood-frenzied
shark, gaunt from lack
of proper nourishment.
He adjusts his brightly painted noose
as he prepares to squirm
his way through pallid
colleagues, hoping to appease
enough for promotion, always assuming
the form of another's dispostion.
At lunch, he cannot look into the eyes
of the engineer, knowing the contentment
in them will always be at the periphery;
knowing it is the one thing he cannot mimic.
I wrote these about a year ago & I would appreciate any comments and/or criticism you might have. By the way, some of the poetry on here is amazing.
Eight years old, at summer's dawn,
I went to search for butterflies.
Into the field of dun and fawn,
To capture colors of the skies.
A fleeting touch, a flash of white,
And soon she rested in my net.
I fed her leaves, I fed her honey,
But soon she died, and I'd forget.
As now I gaze upon the field,
The haze of dusk obscures my view.
Where once the butterflies would dance,
I see only fading dreams of you.
I must have lost my trusty net,
I must have kept the jar too tight.
I have forgotten where she lives,
I fall sobbing into the night.
I've searched the world for butterflies,
I've searched the world for my true love,
I have forgotten who I am,
I've lost the path lit from above.
If I could only see the days
When love was only butterflies,
When all I needed was a net
To keep the darkness from my eyes.
I wasn't going to post anything here, but changed my mind.
The following poem is a Sestina one of my favorite forms of poetry.
Friends
Jordan L. Hyde
My Grandmother talked to 'things' as if they were alive.
Stove, vacuum cleaner, kitchen sink, dust mop, garden shears.
My mom said she was talking to my Grandfather who is dead.
But that wasn't true, I watched her and I listened to her talk,
these 'things' were her friends.
She would only look at the framed photograph of my Grandfather.
I can't remember my Grandfather,
he was gone before I was alive.
He was a social man with many friends.
He would spend hours talking to his neighbor Mister Shears,
then my Grandmother would join in the talk.
Soon after my Grandfather, Mister Shears too was dead
My Grandmother was quiet after my Grandfather was dead.
She loved and missed him, my Grandfather.
After a while my Grandmother began to talk.
At first this was good, she seemed so alive.
She would go to the window and look outside, pulling away the shears.
Then she would let the drapes fall and talk to her friends.
In the beginning it was when she was alone with her friends.
After all, everyone she had loved was now dead.
One day my Mother found her in the yard talking to her garden shears.
My Grandmother told her she was talking to my Grandfather,
because to her it was like he was still alive.
When my Mom left, she continued to talk.
Soon, it was clear this was more than just self talk,
she started telling people about her friends.
No one could think of a friend that was still alive,
all her acquaintances were long since dead.
They excused it as pining for my Grandfather,
but just to be safe, they took the garden shears.
She talked to her vacuum and sink when they took the shears.
She just needed someone to listen. She needed to talk.
But she would only stare at the photo of my Grandfather.
She had a whole new circle of friends,
friends who would never be dead,
because they were never alive.
Garden shears, kitchen sink, vacuum cleaner - friends
They let her talk - now she is dead,
with my Grandfather. Now I talk with them, because I am alive.
Jordan L. Hyde
May I kindly have permission to post your poems in one of the lists I belong to? My old college friends are posting poetry right now so I'd like to share your with them. Pleeeeeeaaaase!
Piman- okay, that hit way too close to home this early in the AM. I worked at a mental hospital for a time, and at least twice a week went to the senior citizen's wing. Most of them were people who had no one to listen to them. I liked the simplicity and clearness of your sestina. You conveyed the emotion of loneliness very well
I just ask three tiny favors: (One) Please spell my name correctly. ‘Samuel M Bush’ -- there is NO period after the middle initial. I know that sounds kind of picky, but a guy has to be allowed at least one quirk.
(Two) Let me know where to find the site. It sounds interesting.
(Three) If you figure out a way for us to make any dough off this stuff, please let us know.
Puzzle
around, up, & down
the long corridor winds endlessly
double back & dead end wall
still the ball rolls down the track
beyond the traps, left & right
finally arriving, what goal to see?
the end is the beginning.
Piman, I’m glad you decided to post. Reading “Friends” was an emotional experience. Well done, sir. By the way, are Sestinas hard to write? I’ve never dared try to write one yet.
After all the fine posts lately, it seems a little like a desecration to post another parody satire. Ah, what the hell. Here goes anyway.
The original is “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service. It’s one of my favorite comic poems. Especially in extremely cold weather like we are having now. It must be 58 degrees above zero out there. Brrrrrrr! Why, when I look out the window, I see polar bears cavorting. Wait a minute . . .my mistake. That was just a TV Coke ad reflecting off the window.
THE CREATION OF TRASH TV
(with apologies to Robert Service)
There are strange things writ by the self-styled wit
by the ones who script for cash.
They think they're smart, and they call it art
but it smells a lot like trash.
And sponsors reap as they lure the sheep,
and their profits guarantee.
So to entertain those with half a brain,
they created trash TV.
So they gave us some shows where anything goes; where the young and the restless debauch.
As another world turns and the guiding light burns, there is one life to live (or just watch).
And the trashiness glares for certainly there's more sleaze that the writer contrives
In a half hour show than the rest of us know through all the days of our lives.
"Not my fault", groans little Jenny Jones. And Oprah is a big success.
Geraldo's face was there to catch a chair. Sally's still trying to impress.
There is Marilu and Springer too (another show that reeks).
Is nothing taboo! And just where do they dig up all those freaks?
Now the Povich guest is a swine at best. But Maury's such a sensitive guy:
When his guests repine and berate and whine, he make you almost cry.
And that Connie Chung is no longer young, and she wants a kid real bad.
But her big mistake if a child she'd make: she needs a real man for its dad.
"If we can't find news to fit our views, we'll make up some that will.
"Few facts attest? Invent the rest. We've got some time to fill.
"Experience shows that all the schmoes will believe anything we say
"If our smiles are bright, and our makeup's right, and Stossel has enough hair spray."
Can PBS really pass the test in the TV market place?
With their constant screech as they rail and preach of how evil man's laid waste
To the habitat of the roach and rat. Oh weep for Gaea's fate!
And the audience horde they hope won't get bored watching animals mate.
And the prime time fare?--no improvement there. Good taste won't stand in the way
Of the bedroom scenes and the joke routines and the fluff they show each day.
And they're making bets we'll be glued to our sets and they can sell some more cop shows
If they make with more of the blood and gore and a little less with the clothes.
From your hygiene needs to a car that speeds, they'll sell you all they can,
With a catchy song you can sing right along with a bozoid
fast food man.
Or the party throng with their beer and song--not a fat one in the bunch.
No hair out of place nor a zit on a face . . . I might just lose my lunch!
There are strange things writ by the self-styled wit
by the ones who script for cash.
They think they're smart, and they call it art
but it smells a lot like trash.
And sponsors reap as they lure the sheep,
and their profits guarantee.
So to entertain those with half a brain,
they created trash TV.
By Samuel M Bush
Feb. 1995
(P.S. If any of you think I have stepped off the foot path of satire into the swamp of mean spiritedness, let me know.)
[This message has been edited by Samuel Bush (edited January 14, 2000).]
[This message has been edited by Samuel Bush (edited January 14, 2000).]
[This message has been edited by Samuel Bush (edited January 14, 2000).]
LordR- about that rhyming meter. . . For a long time I hated rhyming poetry. If it rhymed, it sucked. Then I started reading Robert Frost, and I saw the wit in it. Frost is succinct and elegant at the same time. As I read, I think it was "The Tolling of the Mill Bell" I hardly even realized it rhymed. He's that good. Anyway, I took it as a challenge to make some rhyming poetry, and now find I enjoy searching for the right turn of phrase.
Anyway - has anyone else written sonnets? I love sonnets, and I think it's because they're such a challenge. Rhyme and meter matter so much, and yet the words still mean something. I wrote one that I really liked while I was at home over break, but I wrote it on paper (astonishing for keyboard-happy little me) and forgot it there. If I go home anytime soon (don't hold your breath) I'll post it for you. Meanwhile, I'll try to find my sonnet rules again and write another.
But still, Shakespeare's sonnets are the best. My favorite one (of course, now I can't remember the number or the title) is the one where he makes fun of the methaphors used to describe beauty by saying his true love is less-than-spectacular-looking ("If snow is white, why then, her breast is dun"), but then concluding that he loves her anyway, and finds her extremely beautiful. What a sweet little poem!
Why doesn't anyone write me adorable little sonnets and lovely poems? Sigh....
Yes, that's a good one! I also love...
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done...
Especially the line
Thy adverse party is thy advocate.
Shakespeare kicks butt, no question! I've never written any sonnets, though. Lord Ragged requested to see skygazer so I thought I'd post it here on the new forum. Apologies to those who have already seen it.
Skygazer
Stars like clotted dust across the sky,
You fit the Barlow, focus, squint your eye,
As gleaming planets swim into your view
I watch the night, the telescope, and you.
Exploding starsurf winds, galactic seas
Across the aeon spins in mysteries
Of long ago, of here, the never now
The deeping cold, the whistling void, and thou.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited January 14, 2000).]
I love "Skygazer," AKA! If I read it before, I don't remember doing so, but I really enjoyed it. It's one of those situations I've found myself in before, strangely enough. Cute, cute, cute. Yet refined. Gotta love it.
[This message has been edited by Annie (edited January 14, 2000).]
"Chronos"
With hourglass he lightly treads
past soiled sheets and diseased beds
whose withered occupants berate
the passing of his malignant charm.
His threadbare robes and wizened eyes
have seen Caesars fall and tyrants rise
like pistons churning inside
the iron belly of a locomotive.
Conceived to die besieged by time,
I am the undead paradigm.
As Thanatos comes close behind
to ferry the souls that Time strips
from their flesh like rain soaked clothes.
He grants reprieve to famished lands
while plucking soldiers one by one
from crimson fields with his sniper's gun.
He is the drunk behind the wheel;
the cancer in the smoker's chest;
the maniac in the old school tower
with rifles poised to shower whirling
lead upon pedestrians far below.
Conceived to die, besieged by time,
I am the undead paradigm.
With a surgeons skill he stitches closed
the wounds afflicted long ago;
sutures shut the longing for the big black
bike that never came on Christmas day;
sutures shut with cold barbed wire
the lies of an unfaithful lover;
sutures the searing pain
of an overdosed and dead dear brother.
Conceived to die, besieged by time,
I am the undead paradigm.
He mutes the voices that bestow
the wisdom of compiled years upon
the sponge like ears of a naive young boy.
He negates the choices that weave together
to form the weathered road that supports the weary feet of all who tread upon it;
until all that remains is a withered frame in soiled sheets
berating the passing of his malignant charm.
I'm reading a book called "Triggering Town" by Richard Hugo for my texts & critics class - and it's basically a lecture on how to write poetry. I agree with a great deal of it, but the examples of poetry in it can at times make my skin crawl. I can't stand it when people think of a few good metaphors, chop all the transitory words out, and staple them together on a page to form a gob of mismatched nothings that are supposed to express some emotion. I can't stand poems that simply describe a situation without bringing in a meaning. Situations in poems should be "triggers" (according both to the book and my own personal tastes) that lead to a moral lesson/observation/profound truth/whatever instead of just saying it how it is. It's like one of those unattributed quotes that swim around my brain "We're drowning here, and you're describing the water." No matter how "poetically" you say something, it should have a point. On the opposite end of the spectrum, poems that are solely about emotion and use phrases like "I stand here, desolated and melancholy" are just as bad - emotion should come across without having to actually use words to describe the emotion. That's why I really admire poems like "Chronos" - they use such beautiful methaphors and poetic language (souls being stripped like wet clothes), aren't afraid to conform to rhyme or meter (and although "Chronos" isn't strict about either, it is lightly fringed with form, and that's nice), and still mean something that you can spend the next few hours thinking about!
Well, everyone, there's Annie's discertation on poetry today. Hope you enjoyed it. Here's a pleasant little poem that has nothing to do with any of that crap I just said, to make your day a bit brighter:
A birdie with a yellow bill
Hopped upon my windowsill,
Cocked his shining eye and said,
"Ain't you 'shamed, you sleepyhead?"
-Robert Louis Stevenson
Samuel M Bush
Last night I lingered
just a little too long
viewing the screen,
with the bright yellow
reply.
Trying hard as I might
to dispel my delight,
at encountering freedom
to write my thoughts
tonight.
However,
the keys gave way
to my fanciful word play
a little too quick
a little too harsh
for the gentle reader.
Suddenly,
I found myself alone
with a few to answer
calling me names
calling the shots
against this gentle writer.
Nothing finished
no one harmed
we grimace, then smile
and continue along.
"Point Zero Eight"
drip
drip
The I.V. slips through
pale skin to meet the gushing
hunger of the big, blue vein.
The transparent tube, an umbilical chord,
sways back and forth in the tamed breeze
flowing through the open window.
drip
drip
The EKG blips a waltzing beat
whose green peaks reflect on the face
of the rolex watch resting
on the chrome tray littered with the contents
of emptied pockets; a stick of chewing gum,
a scuffed leather wallet. and a cheap, black comb.
drip
drip
He flips his disheveled hair back
from his brow and orders another
shot. The shrill shouts of his
wife still echo inside his skull;
so he drowns them in scotch,
another night spent on the rocks.
drip
drip
He trips over a short, squat stool
as he stumbles through the oppressive
smoke towards the door. He focuses
on the seconds ticking by on the face of his Rolex watch as he fumbles
through his pockets for the keys to his car.
drip
drip
Thec concrete pylon rips
through the steel frame of his BMW,
his head caroming off the steering wheel
like a billiard ball. The shattered glass
settles in his hair and shines
red in the spinning lights of the ambulance.
drip
drip
The door to the room whips open
as a thin, green line traverses the face
of the Rolex watch resting
on the chrome tray littered with contents
of emptied pockets; a stick of chewing gum,
a scuffed leather wallet, and a cheap black comb.
_Peerless_
$3.97 for lunch and $15 in the gas tank.
Three hours and three grain elevators later,
I pulled off at a brown sign.
I talked with the senior class - three girls.
They envied my cup from McDonald's.
The horizon was a Mobius strip.
Postcards from visits litter my desk.
A piece of postcard-sized letterhead
Says "Peerless" in black ink.
My wall is covered with men who will never love me
And works of art that no one will ever see.
The window is shrouded in branches.
I am a mosaic of poster putty and compact disks.
None of my plastic voices can comfort me-
My neighbors can't hear my stereo.
The wind whimpers, wounded by the mountains.
The answering machine stares at me with one eye,
All-knowing, unblinking.
In Peerless, girls with beautiful hair
Wake up early and curl it painstakingly.
Thirteen people see it.
I stick pictures on my third-floor window and
Three hundred people pass. I wish loneliness
Came in neon tubes.
[This message has been edited by Annie (edited January 17, 2000).]
Now Sam’s pate is not so dark.
The little bird has found her mark.
His wit is stumped of things to say
To gentle Annie but – “Touché!”
Annie, your poem is great. I felt melancholic and lonely reading it. The book on poetry you're using seems to be giving you perfect advice. I'm curious, what do you not like about your poem? Maybe it's Peerless, Montana that you don't like. But I like the choice of your poem. Peerless--the name is ironic because it means "without peer, unique." And that makes it a lonelier place than other places that may physically compare with it.
Sarfa, a darkness hovers over your poems. There is death, tiredness and a sort of meaninglessness to existence. That is what I'm getting. I do not sense hope, just terrible lonely endings. I'm curious about Point Zero Eight. Did the drunk driver die or were you wishing him dead in your poem? Just curious.
To everyone on this thread or those simply looking in I'd like to ask a few questions which I hope you'd all answer. Can you make a happy poem when you're sad? Or a sad poem when you're bursting with happiness? Or is poetry too much tied to emotion to be anything other than what the poet feels at the very moment when he or she writes?
What would I have been
if she wasn't born
those many long years ago
I was already here
just two years old
on my way up to Idaho
My birth had begun
in a southwestern town
with tacos and cacti galore
And here I am now
in a southeastern town
where she's blessed me with so much more
What do I owe her?
The list never ends
She's given me peace and joy
She gave me a baby
now a two year old girl
(when at the time I wanted a boy)
She gives me good sense
when it's not to be found
in my shallow and empty brain
She keeps me in line
and guides me home
when all others have dropped the reins
Her birthday's today
She is lonely, depressed
Her spirit is withered, fatigued.
She holds in her hand
the key to my heart
And thus I too have grieved.
I want to give her
a present that will
make the world in her eyes look better
Without much money
will someone please tell me
what in the world I should get her?
Though still just a child,
And ignorant too
I really do firmly believe
That your true love
And your gratitude
Is the greatest gift she can receive.
No, I did not want the drunk driver to die (and he didn't). The poem is not even losely based on the story behind my friends death, I just transfered some of the feelings I had during the event to a made up circumstance for poetic purposes.
I do think poetry is too tied into emotion (for me)to ever write a happy poem when I'm sad or vice versa.
To her what meant more
than gifts from some store
was to do what came akward to me
So I did my best
to grant her requests
to do what came unnaturally
I must have looked foolish
or crazy to some
but I went and "took one for the team"
But when it was done
we had loads of fun
and her eyes had recaptured "that gleam"
On that note, here is a real oldy (I'm almost out of recent material, guess I'll have to get depressed so I can write more poetry ) If you haven't noticed, I finally took the time to check the FAQ to learn how to make those smilies.
FOR THE ACCEPTANCE OF THE UNWORTHY
Stumbling across a cluttered room,
he was a befuddled giant, trying in vain
not to crush the petrified villagers
below with his immense feet. His eyes
shifted nervously as he stifled soft sobs.
"At least I made them laugh," said the jester
as his finger traced the sinuous scar
that traversed the breadth of his temple
like a dried up worm on sun scorched concrete.
He turned away and began foraging
through the decrepit shelves that lined the walls,
mumbling to himself as his fingers grasped
the smooth, cool surface of a large glass jar.
He hobbled over to a plush sofa,
setting the jar on a desk as he melted
into the inviting folds like a stick
of butter over an open flame. "I got drunk
and broke a broomstick over my head,
today." His inebriated state caused
him to slur his speech. The only response
that seemed appropriate was "why?"
"I thought it was funny," but his careworn
expression revealed more than his meager
words ever could. I knew that he had failed
again; laughter does not equal affection.
He was a convict incarcerated
in a prison of his own design;
the eternal ouroborus, doomed
to forever devour his own tail.
"I should use this more often," he muttered
as he tapped the jar, causing the content
to stir. I could only grimace and nod
He plunged his hand into formaldehyde,
extracting the shriveled mass of flesh
that rightfully belonged in his vacant skull.
When I sparked that recent little sparing match with Annie with my smart alecy crack about the early bird, I was trying to convey a grumpy attitude. I most definitely was in a wonderfully happy mood. Wide awake, and the time I would have to start hating my alarm clock again was many days in the future. Of course that was just a bit of doggerel and I don’t know how well I succeeded. Serious stuff, though, takes more work.
I have a copy of Judson Jerome’s “Poets Handbook” and in there he quotes an old poem by I-forget-whom in which the poet is saying that he tried to learn all the forms and tricks of the trade of poetry but couldn’t seem to get it right. Then he was inspired by some Muse or something to just “reach into thine heart and write.” Jerome points out that this brilliant little poem was crafted that way. There was very little of the spontaneity that the poem conveyed that went into the deliberate crafting of it. (I guess it is sort of like Scott Hamilton making skating look so easy.) Jerome says that a lot of crap has been written by people just trying to spew emotion on to a page and calling it poetry. That’s not to say that a well-crafted poem can’t be composed quickly. I’ve seen examples of that, but even then some polishing is usually needed. I tend to agree with Jerome on this. In my own case, I tend to agonize over every word and comma, and then I’m still not sure I write it right.
I had to laugh when Scott R said, “For a long time I hated rhyming poetry. If it rhymed, it sucked.” It tickled me because I started out on the other side of the boat. Because of my basic ignorance, I thought poetry was supposed to rhyme. To me, if it didn’t rhyme, it was prose. Oh well, you live and learn. I think that we should bring back all the old forms as well as experiment with new. I think we should also break the “rules” if we want as long as we can make it work. I think we should master every tool and use whatever it takes to craft for the effect we want. I think that we shouldn’t be scared to use poetry to just describe – say a pretty flower for instance -- if we want to just because some snooty avant-garde fad says, “Oh! Flowers are so not with it, man. You dig?.” On the other hand, if we want to explore some deep dark emotion, then I say, “Go for it.” I guess what I am saying is there is only one rule – “Craft well.”
Not too long ago I was in on a scifaiku (science fiction haiku) list and the first poem I posted was one in which I was trying to convey what Clarke’s space elevator from “The Fountains of Paradise” would look like off in the distance with the already set sun hitting just it. I had also just seen a program on the History Channel about the transcontinental railroad meeting near Promontory, Utah and how it had ushered in a whole new era of commerce and communication. So I wrote the following little thing and posted it. I was mildly chided because it . . . RHYMED. Oh my! I had broken a rule. I don’t know if it worked well enough to justify the crime. You judge.
Distant shining trace –
a golden spike through the clouds.
Railway into space.
-- Sam
Usually some phrases or words just start coming to me, then I go over and over it searching for what is in the blank spots and finding a better word here or snipping something unnecessary from somewhere else. Once the entire meter changed after a day of playing. It always feels like I'm discovering something which is already there rather than inventing something which does not yet exist.
The same type thing happens when I'm painting or drawing. To me those feel exactly analogous to writing a poem.
I learned otherwise, and I hope my poetry reflects that. I may still be quite vague, but I'm not vague on purpose anymore.
Like aka, I usually start a poem with a phrase that pops into my mind. I try to build the poem around that phrase or theme, and let it grow from there. I love to play games with poetry- take three words, selected at random from the dictionary, and incorporate them into a poem. Dump a jarful of stuff onto the table, close your eyes, and pick up the first thing you touch. Then write a poem about whatever you picked up. (I wrote an awesome analogy about how a paperclip symbolized life's quirks and journies- I lost it, of course.) Playing with words like this has helped me get a grip on my style, and is fun to boot.
I don't usually write fixed form poetry, but here is a sonnet about (sort of) a very bad relationship I had. I wrote it for a creative writing class I took a year ago 9which is the only reason I think I would write in fixed form). I did not like it much then, and still do not like it much now. Give me your honest opinions. (surprise, it's Dark )
INFECTION
A boy is wakened from his slumbering rest,
and lured beyond the confines of his walls
to meet a cunning mind with supple breasts
whose wicked plot it is to make him fall
in love. But he does not know love from lust;
his brain sees only perfect form, but her
perfection shrouds disease, which, like rust
decays the mettle of the boy. She butchers
his fledgling pride and laughs her caustic laugh.
She adds the broken boy to her batch
of cloistered shells with whom she vents her wrath
upon, releasing only to later catch.
The callused, clammy hands close around her,
to grope and bruise the flesh of a frightened daughter.
(The last two lines are supposed to be indented, but I could not get it to post that way)
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 25, 2000).]
(I'm not really that negative, but somehow art seems to bring out those negative feelings in me).two smiles
for every frown
still can't help, but bring me down
maybe four
or five
six
But this could not the problem fix.
A hundred, maybe a million more
could possibly start to even the score.
But if that many smiles did abound
I cannot help to think I'd drown.
I've been scribbling absolute heaps lately. Heaps of rubbish mostly, but here's one that I was quite proud of.
One Soul
He created you from one soul – Holy Qur’an
A Mu’min (believer) is a mirror for another Mu’min – Hadith of Prophet
Muhammad (s.a.s)
Once a unit, created together,
Why did we fragment
Into a crowd of broken mirrors
Glittering at each other;
Sharp at the edges, roughened
Or dulled by contact with evil and pain,
And a rare few polished,
Made clearer by love.
I long to be made whole again
And reflect the face of Allah
Entire in its glory.
But until the Last Day
I must be content to see my fragmentary
Reflection reflected in your fragment.
Comments, anyone?
. The poem has great potential though (sorry I kind of picked it apart, but the only reason I bothered is because it has the potential to be a really good poem) Now here is one for you pick apart. I also wrote this one for the same creative class as my last one. It is not fixed form, but it did have to be in iambic pentameter (which I can't stand when used throughout an entire poem). This is my least favorite of the poems I have written that could be considered passable. It is about integrity, Let me know what you think
PORCELAIN HANDS
A clever mind with dexterous fingers
can build a thousand wonders with sweat and steel;
massive girders that stretch their shining tendrils
upward, balancing clouds on fulcrum tips
like Atlas holding the sky aloft.
But Janus lurks within the engineer,
exchanging nimble digits for hooks and claws;
gnarled, ugly things that rend and tear the flesh.
Fragile limbs, cracked by twisted minds, attempt
creation like a cripple striving to walk again.
But shattered hands can never build;
once destroyed, they become a barren plot.
A simple gesture now draws blood;
to wipe a tear is to scar the face.
These jagged hands, they only kill.
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 26, 2000).]
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited January 26, 2000).]
The Stars Shone bright,
With purity and prudence covering patient lips
Of people moving softly against silent halls of salient comfort.
They enter shimmered rooms that shone green shining trees,
A promise of glory making greatness the goal proscribed.
Houses are built for masses who start mirroring a master's heart
Among frames facing upright.
We must do and see, like Son for Father.
We will do and see, like Brother for Son.
We have seen and done, in turn back to Father.
The dreaded darkness vanished
And the ground does grow as against great skies
Forming brown seed against blue for a better day.
The bright sun emerges, stopped sudden by the moon.
Flapping wings arise with other wierd creatures new,
And thier kind and God's kind were kept together.
With rest reastablished the sacred.
A garden was given for two groveling folks
Who were tricked by the half truth of a trouble maker
Sent forth toward the field to fulfill a promise.
How great is our fortune
What delight now I see.
Not before, but now shall we be
Like a seed makes us He.
This is only the first part of a three part poem I am trying to write. Most people who read this will know what this is about. For others it might hold deeper meanings and for this reason I have to ask if the poem works. If it is badly written or seems to go too far in a certain direction I don't want to waste my time (because it took a long time to complete) trying to write the other three parts.
I corrected some of the punctuation.
[This message has been edited by Jettboy (edited January 30, 2000).]
Here's mine, redrafted.
One soul
He created you from one soul - Holy Qur'an
A mu'min (believer) is a mirror for another mu'min - Prophet Muhammad.
Once a unit, created together.
Why did we fragment
Into a crowd of broken mirrors
Glittering at each other?
Sharp at the edges, some roughened
Or dulled by constant scraping
Against the mud and stone
Of our own inhumanity;
But a rare few polished,
Made clearer by love.
I long to be made whole again
And reflect the face of Allah
Entire in its glory.
But until the Last Day
I must be content to see
My fragmentary reflection
Reflected in your fragment.
I'm thinking of exchanging the word incompleteness for inhumanity. What do you think?
she hung it up on her wall.
she printed it herself
in the dark
focused on light and chemicals
the negatives danicing
searching for clarity
among lenses and filters.
she filtered reality
through the gray sheen of a 3x5 glossy
mesmerised by her past
by a moment
by an elusive smile on the face of a stranger.
one second that won't die
makes her afraid sad and sometimes
sends her into a religious ecstasy
and she makes ferverent promsises
obsequious and pathetic
she worshipped immortality
in a look that was immobile.
when she was sad the picture grinned
showing hunter teeth
displaying status
grinding into dust
her delicate webs of love.
and other times the picture smiled
it was redemtion
it was the love of a stranger
on a 3x5 glossy.
it was a photograph that she hadn't taken
on a negative she found on the sidewalk
and someone's camera
having captured the smile of a pedestrian
changes shutter speeds elsewhere.
she developed it herself
and now it hangs on her wall
and she looks at it
trying to understand
whether the woman paintedin chemicals
knows her
loves her
and wants her to live reflected
in her glossy eyes
in her glossy heart
in her glossy dreams
--
what do you guys think?
there should really be a separate forum for poetry.
-unperfect
Jettboy, it is good, though their could be some more puncuation. Run on lines without consistent puncuation can lead to much confusion, and take away from the poem itself. I loved the use of alliteration. there were a couple of lines I had a bit of trouble with:
"Bright sun emerging, stopped sudden by moon" and "Who were tricked by half truth of a trouble maker." you really need the word "the" before bright sun, moon, and half truth. You use complete sentences throughout the poem (even if the puctuation isn't consistent), the use of the fragments in those two lines break up the continuity of the poem. Other than the lack of the puncuation & a few missing prepositions, the poem is great, I look forward to reading the next installments.
unperfect: I really liked your word usage. The poem was vivid and profound, but please punctuate. It is very hard to tell where one thought ends and the other begins, it is really distracting, as a reader, to have to go back and re-read part way through the poem because of lack of commas and periods.
I wrote this one a couple of months ago, it is the most recent of my works.
Surrogate
Her bleached-blond hair dusts
the sweat slick floor of the stage.
The lights flash blue, green, red
against her oiled torso;
contrasted by the dark pucker of areola
and an oriental dragon wrapped sinuously
around her navel.
She unfurls her legs in front of a pudgy
man with wispy hair and horn-rimmed glasses.
Her dark thatch of hair is reflected, distorted
by the thick lenses.
The rhythmic vibrations of the bass
fade away, replaced by the bored,
gravely voice of the announcer.
She gathers up her clothes
and begins to pluck
the crumpled wads of green paper
that are strewn across the stage
like tufts of wild grass.
As she trots down the steps
to the dressing room,
she glances at the pudgy
man in the front row with wispy
hair and horn-rimmed glasses,
consummating their affair
with a smile.
code:In
Men's Sight
All That hear me
Fear not for Thy life
Rather
Listen To The quiet places
And caution yourself
Against the darkness
That obscures The whispered protest
They bring
Men all learn
one day or another
the perilous Thinness
of The Illusions
That preserve them
from destruction
Those who stray too far
from The lines of reason
And remain deaf
Cannot withstand the morning light
Which dispels the shadow
[This message has been edited by aka (edited January 30, 2000).]
The Moon makes them all
Come a little closer along the climbing latter
With a name in their hearts another never hears.
Those having washed hands shall wear white robes
Signaling the gratitude of glorious people grasped firm
In the love of the laborer who leads the thrones.
Those believing bow to the promise.
Innumerable Kings and Queens unite strong as a tree.
With Holy Heaven approaching,
The annointed are two of the heart, the humbled knee and hungered soul;
Having the past and present bound together to promise the future.
In circles do the commited try to conduct peacefully
As they pray for those persons who see problems of life
Ever growing carefully gaurded by a garden of thorns.
All holy houses stand forward.
This one is more cryptic than the last. I don't know how many people would know what it is about. That is the bueaty of art, to be able to interpret another's language to make sense to one's self.
This thread is number 18. Are our first 200 threads back, then?
Wow, that Survivor poetry is good! I think I may have another one somewhere to post.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited May 20, 2000).]
code:
Creations
I Sit here, by The soft hum and click of Idling
machines
And Am startled by The light and far muffled Laughter
that Their smug semi-activity seems to emanate .
And I must wonder, what do they show of their maker's
soul .
Each hum, every soft click, a Long suspended action
performed vicariously
To the artist by His artifact .
And if They go awry
does Their artist not
feel that pain ?
by Survivor, of course.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited May 20, 2000).]
[This message has been edited by aka (edited August 26, 2000).]
Those Trains
Those trains slam into the sound of living here
Way too much; I can't even play guitar,
Without being forced to harmonize
With some godawful minor chord
Not quite in key, which drops about
A whole tone at the crescendo and fades away.
Lucky to go a whole song between two trains
With maybe a tortured diminished fifth next time...
And they crash my dreams as trombone tones in hell
And they clash with the Cure and Chrissy and Run DMC,
Adam Duritz' sweet pain, das Punkins, and TMBG...
But my beautiful Beck makes 'em sound so sweet
Like he knew they were coming and planned it that way,
And always above and behind the beat
Singing way too loud, coming in, sliding down
And finally, painfully, fading away...
Those trains just egg him on out there
Into weirder and groovier places inside the soul of listening to him.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited August 27, 2000).]
Recluse
Let me write you long love letters
That I can spend hours composing
So rattling mouth and frivolous brain
Won't be allowed to betray me again.
This deep slow swell of serious joy
Quietly shining here alone
In your presence that shallow fear
Wraps blather around and bundles off
Before it can get any signal through
To let you know it's here.
So read my long love letters
And learn of a secret sweet
One who's true and burns for you
Whom you can never meet.
I can't bear to let it die, though. There's so much stuff I like on this one. I haven't written any new poems in a while. Where did Luke Miller go away to? I like his stuff. And we're due for another funny Sam Bush poem, too, I think. Sarfa, don't you have any new poetry to post?
*points at the the "original poetry continued" thread*
Hey, Lissande! Look on page one to find where I heard that Arthur / Eliot reference. Hahahahah!
[This message has been edited by aka (edited June 15, 2001).]
In fact, I'm thinking it may be time for Original Poetry III...
Rest your head and fall alseep,
He is there your soul to keep.
When morning comes open your eyes,
He is there waiting to rise.
He always knows just what to do,
When his wife is feeling blue.
Watch her sleep all through the night,
Makes her feel like dynomite.
(laughs) can't wait to be married some day!!
SOME DAY
[This message has been edited by Ruffs100 (edited June 17, 2001).]
I suggest you should redo the last couplet, though. Rather than "any woman" I think the poem would be better if your words seemed to be about a particular women (even if non-specific).
Well, I just noticed that it's in second person all through until the last couplet. Why not just stay in the second person? Make the penultimate line "Watch you sleep all through the night"?
And then rewrite the last line.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited June 16, 2001).]
Spring flower-thoughts bloom
Reduced, on ice, I mail them
To fragrant later
To My Senses
Three months ago I thought
I could cut metal with my fingertips.
Said those exact words.
Not by bread alone I said.
But some kinds of bread are so tasty.
A long French baguette, I think I could eat a whole one
eat yards and yards.
And black pumpernickle rye with pastrami in the middle
(probably meat counts as bread in the proverbial realm)
and my dad makes such a loaf with that mix of his.
I could go on for a while and now I wish
I had more room in my belly for bread.
There’s another girl and until I’m with her
bread will fill me up just fine.
But somehow they feel evangelical, I think. Not only do they not like poetry but they think we shouldn't like it either. So they're kindly giving us the benefit of their viewpoint, I gather. Which we, of course, gratefully receive.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
(Not original aka poetry, btw. Robert Frost. aka only wishes she could write something that good.)
Thanks.
Sand-walker
How do you fly?
Across the shaking dunes
Across the swirling sky
Sand-walker
Where do you belong?
Come back to the rock
Where once you lived so long
You wander alone
As we lie on our stone
Safe here in our homes
O, why did you go?
O, what do you know?
O, why don’t you sink like the others below?
Skipping o’er the land
A master of the sand
You are at peace.
You really see
Truly free
Not like me
O, can I be
A sand-walker?
[This message has been edited by Tresopax (edited June 22, 2001).]
Meantime . . .
Tres, I like "Sand-walker."
Dean, I really like your haiku. Nice image. As for the phrase “fragrant later”: What aka said! She took the words right out of my keyboard.
BUT . . . you said that you are not poetically endowed. Endowed schmowed! It’s a craft that can be learned. Good haiku is not easy to write, or so I’ve read. This one either just flowed out of you spontaneously in it’s oh-so-smooth form or you took a lot of effort to make it look like it had. Either way -- nice work. Keep writing stuff.
Destineer, I like “My Senses.” I don’t completely understand it yet but each time I read it I get a little more. And it is very rereadable. I like the rhythm too.
Aka, what can I say? Of all the really good poets in Hatrack, you are certainly one of them. Thanks for posting “Those Trains” and “Recluse.” Are a couple of “wow”s in order here or what? 
However, I feel that I must critique one little thing you wrote. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can but two little words must be said in response to your statement: ”(Not original aka poetry, btw. Robert Frost. aka only wishes she could write something that good.)”
YOU HAVE.
The poem I’m about to post came close to being the first thing I was going to post on the Forum way back when. Then I chickened out and went for flippant instead. I’ve chickened out several times since then because I’m still not sure how I feel about this poem. But I’ll take a chance.
I wrote it and my sister-in-law composed music for it with the intention of entering it into a hymn contest which we did indeed enter. But alas, we didn't win. I have changed some of the words and polished it up some since then. This form doesn’t exactly fit the music anymore either. I have always felt that it isn’t worthy of her music. The music she composed for it is very good -- every bit as good as the music in many of the hymns that we use in my church. Maybe the judges weren't ready for a hymn which is, in part, about fractal geometry. Of course there is the remote possibility that they had a lot of better hymns to choose from that year. At any rate, here it is. <drum roll>
THE TOUCH OF THE HAND OF GOD
In keys of all nature, perfectly tuned,
Lilt worlds full of lyrical sights.
With scent, sound, and touch in harmonic blend
On rhythms of savory delights.
In flawless arraignment His masterworks roll --
Sonatas of God to enliven the soul.
Performed in one endless glorious round
By the touch of the hand of God.
A galaxy's ponderous pirouette
Is mirrored in eddies of foam.
The dance in which all God's creations are set
Are marvels of balance and form.
The beauty in all of His uneclipsed art
Both pleases the eye and gladdens the heart.
Choreographed in all the light steps of hope
By the touch of the hand of God.
If the thrill of discovery here heightens a sense
Of wonder that nearly overwhelms,
What might we see, from small to immense,
Amid God's celestial realms?
For eyes have not seen, nor have ears ever heard,
Nor have mortals imagined the great things prepared -
Serenity here; full happiness hence -
By the touch of the hand of God.
Samuel M Bush
Jan. 1993
I'm not a big churchgoer, but I like your hymn. Certainly I understand the urge to praise the intricacies of the world, and I think you did it eloquently. Too bad you can't post the sheet music... though I can't read music anyway, I'm sure somebody would be able to enjoy it on that level.To understand my poem better, you might want to look at "Original Poetry Cont" which contains several pieces I wrote about a girl that I was in love with last year. "To My Senses" is about me realizing that I'll be okay without her.
This is one that I don't think I'll ever sell- so here it is in its entirety:
Something Southern
mama velvet has a potion,
and a notion,
your mojo's been cursed.
the lady is versed
in honeysuckle and voodo,
so whatever you do,
stand in the surf at dawn
before the last star is gone
and drink to her health.
in exchange for your wealth,
she's got notions and potions aplenty.
at least twenty.
the seams of the road
beat a rhythm to goad
weary travellers to seek
a path more meek-
a narrow tree lined track
limbs to dense to see back
to that Hell of a trail
the asphalt snake pale
and scorched beneath the sun.
turn away and run
through trees, down hills
until your flight kills
the need for roads and seams-
trackless, boundless, freedom dreams.
(There's a "to" in there that should be a "too".)
I wish I had something to contribute, lately, but my wells of poetry seem to have run dry lately. So for the moment all I can do is cheer on others' efforts.
), so I was inspired to write this little guy (feel free to critize, since I just wrote it, it's still pretty much a rough draft):Deja Vu
Your face is a familiar wound,
a scar upon my ravaged breast.
Your blue-grey eyes once blessed
me with a warm and sweet repose
that came as such a needed boon.
But now, see how they start
to rend the stitches from the sore
and tear the flesh that lies before
their awful gaze, to but expose
the infection that is my heart.
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited July 14, 2001).]
Nimue.
Mage, why must I ward against your spell?
That lesson hard you taught me well.
Can you think that you are just any man
To take my heart into your hand?
I had hoped that your wizardsong could hush my cries.
Promise me that you'll sing me only lullabies.
Let me dream:
Cast your spell within the magic circle 'round the star.
Hold me enchanted and protected in your heart.
My wizard lord.
~Ele
Would "but to expose" not be better than what you have? I like the rhythm of it, and it just reads better that way to me but sounds a bit archaic, maybe, a sound that I like but you perhaps would not.
"Your blue-grey eyes that once had blessed" scans a lot better, but then the "that" that comes two lines later would sound funny because of being repeated too close, and perhaps you like that one better. "Came then as such a needed boon", maybe?
Love the rhyme scheme! It works just right.
Great poem! Sorry about the girl, though. <hugs>
[This message has been edited by aka (edited July 15, 2001).]
I tried saying the ninth line both ways out loud, and "to but" rang truer to me than "but to" ("but" seems like a word that would be more naturally accented than "to", making the iambic rhythm more consistent), but either way would work ok.
Ele,
you've got some great imagery in there, I'm impressed. One suggestion I have is to use less fragments. For example, adding the the word "of" to the beginning of the second line would connect the ideas conatined in the first two lines better, and make the language flow more smoothly. It will also help to soften the rhymes a bit, which I think would be a great benefit to the poem, as the rhymes are rather harsh in some places (endstopping rhyming lines will do that, and even though your rhyming lines aren't always technically endstopped, because you've written in fragments, they scan as if they are in fact endstopped). Complete senteces make poetry much more coherent and smooth out the language.
Also, the second line "That lesson hard you taught me well." reads a little akwardly, as does the line with the word "lullabies" in it. Taking out the second "me" would fix the latter, the use of "me" twice is not neccessary, its removal will smooth out the line and the readers will still know who the lullaby is being sung to. To fix the first,you'd have to shuffle a few of the words around to smooth it out.
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited July 15, 2001).]
Ankle Deep
I stand beneath the dew slick deck
of lifeguard tower number three,
burrowing the tips of my toes
into the surface of the cold, damp sand.
The night veils her face, but I can hear
the frown in the timbre of her voice.
Her words are in a foreign tongue,
and so I stare at the moonlight dusted
waves rolling onto the shore.
She wraps her arms around her waist,
and though I wish mine were in their place,
I am grateful they remain stuffed
inside the confines of my pockets.
I realize her glossy sheen is but a thin veneer
That wipes away with the utterance of a single phrase.
I drive her home while the humming engine
converses softly with the stereo.
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited August 22, 2001).]
<puzzled>
I really like the poem in general I just want a bit more clarity.
7
She continues to elude me
no longer will I search
for the meaning of my freedom
in the silence of a church.
A chill I feel upon my arms
I look down at the floor
lines never-ending
windows without a door.
The midnight smell of summer
the sound of a distant train
dreams unforgotten-unrealized-
numbness replaces pain.
However, the second two stanzas don't seem to follow what you've started. The imagery begins to get too personal or too arcane for such a short poem, and I begin to lose you.
If you ever feel like re-doing that poem, I think the first stanza is a great starting place. What it makes me want to know is:
1. who is "she". (If "she" is "the meaning of my freedom", I'd use "It" unless you have a more specific reason for more personification).
2. What did you find lacking in church?
3. Will you find the "meaning of my freedom"?
4. Where will you search for it?
Not that you have to answer all of those questions, and not that you can't answer some other question, but the following stanzas don't seem to do either.
On second thought, you might be expressing dissatisfaction with religion in general. If this is the case, the driving rhythm of your first stanza seems to be setting up either a determined tone, or perhaps a bitter tone, but your closing note is one of despair and surrender.
Or, it could be that I'm totally misreading the whole thing. So take all of the above at face value. I wouldn't have posted at all except that I really do love that first stanza.
You may fade from the light of the Sun and the Moon
And the Stars in their black-velvet sea.
And the Earth be bereft of your lyrics and tune,
But your music lives always in me.
[This message has been edited by KarlEd (edited August 22, 2001).]
24 HOURS BLUE
Snatch the dawn
and kill the cock,
but still! the clock will scream.
So kiss the night
and fence the world
with polyester chains.
Swim in dusk
but drown in light
and shiver in blue flames.
We hide from day
and scratch our eyes
but soft! the sun will scream.
"She" is certainly a girl (not quite sure how I'd drive the sea or a ship home). was it this line that confused you:
Her words are in a foreign tongue,
and so I stare at the moonlight dusted
waves rolling onto the shore.
I originally had it like this:
Her words are in a foreign tongue,
so I ignore her and stare at the moonlight dusted waves rolling onto the shore.
I took it out because I didn't think it needed to be there and that it just cluttered the language a bit, but I guess it might make the poem a little unclear without it.
[This message has been edited by sarfa (edited August 22, 2001).]
I stand beneath the dew slick deck
of lifeguard tower number three,
burrowing the tips of my toes
into the surface of the cold, damp sand.
The night veils her face, but I can hear
the frown in the timbre of her voice.
Her words are in a foreign tongue,
so I ignore her and stare instead at the moonlight
dusted waves rolling onto the shore.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see
her wrap her arms around her waist,
and though I wish mine were in their place,
I am grateful they remain stuffed
inside the confines of my pockets.
I realize her allure is but a thin veneer
That wipes away with the utterance of a single phrase.
I drive her home while the humming engine
converses softly with the stereo.
This line is fabulous, sarfa. I forget that tone of voice can be just as expressive as actual facial expressions.
I also like how the toes interact with the damp sand at the beginning of the poem and then at the end the engine converses with the stereo. I think the reason I like these images is that they frame the poem well. They show an interaction that is lacking in the interim i.e. with the girl, and yet they also make sense in the context because neither interaction is necessarily romantic (or at least not classicly so).
Anyway, we had this trend where no one would post poems that rhymed. Every time someone would post one, several people would say that it would be better without the rhyme, that the rhyme restricted your use of vocabulary and that they felt it didn’t allow you to express yourself freely. I wrote this in couplets because I like couplets and I felt someone needed to use some sort of rhyme. So, unless you really mean it, and are willing to go into detail, don’t tell me to change it! The rhyme scheme, I mean.
Please, read it for enjoyment first, then read it to critique last, if you read it to critique at all. And the commas are there for a reason! It’s not meant to be read fast! Or at least that’s my opinion. But what do I know? I’m just the author.
Snowflakes
I look inside the window, at the snowflakes falling there.
They try so hard to stay aloft, but gravity’s a gentle snare.
They seem unique and wonderful, but still they fall the same.
I watch them as I wonder. They seem so very tame.
Just floating there until they land, and cluster on the ground.
Putting pressure on each other, still they make no sound.
Molding together effortlessly, their pressure making one.
Waiting for the spring to come, so their winter will be done.
I yearn to follow them, let the simple things take flight.
To be as one, forever one, we would not fear the night.
Melting in the springtime, below the brilliant sun.
Turning into raindrops, when our winters done.
I’m still alone, the waters froze, and I remember fear.
My eye sees for the first time, and from that eye, a tear.
This feeling is so new, like cold, but only more extreme.
I forget why the snow is falling. I remember now, a dream.
Cold ice is on the windowsill, snowflakes in my hair.
I wonder how I went inside, the window isn’t there.
I see them all around me, softly they start to call.
I love them for the peace they bring, as I begin to fall.
I’m more interested in your overall feeling at the end, and whether or not you found it confusing.
I trust if you’re reading this, you read the poem. If not, read it before continuing! I figure this poem will have more meaning for my peers, but tell what you think, age-group-wise.
And yes, the beginning could use some work, but I’m not sure what to take out and what I should add. Actually, I almost didn’t post it because every time I read it I think that it could be a lot better if only I had some time. I hope that some criticism will help it along.
. I think you have some really good ideas and a great theme for this poem, but there are two major problems that I see with it.First off, I won't attack your rhyme scheme (when properly done, rhyme can be a very effective poetic device), but I will call into question your execution of said rhyme scheme. You endstopped every line of the poem, and that creates a very harsh mechanical feel, and endstopping with couplet rhyme only exacerbates the problem and kills the mood of the poem. Stick with the rhyme scheme, but try running your sentences and thoughts from one line to the other, and ending them mid line. It will greatly enhance the emotional impact of the poem, and smooth out the harshness of the rhyme (but not so much so that it looses the impact of the rhyme).
Secondly, the poem is overflowing with abstractions (words that represent an abstract idea or emotion, like love, freedom, jealousy, etc.), poems are much more effective when they use concrete words and examples to create the abstract feelings in the reader, instead of using the abstract words themselves. Here are a couple lines from your poem that suffer from too little concrete description of abstract emotions/ideas:
"They seem unique and wonderful"
why are they unique, why are they wonderful? paint a picture, with words, that illustrates this. If done properly, you won't have to say they are unique and wonderful, the reader will realize it himself because of your word usage in describing them.
"I’m still alone, the waters froze, and I remember fear."
what makes you afraid? describe a specific instance of fear.
there are others in the poem, but that is a place to start. You also should consider using more detailed descriptions in your poem, I cannot stress enough the importance of good imagery (it's the whole idea of showing, not telling).
I hope I didn't rip your poem apart too much (it has some great potential). And don't worry too much, those are two of the most common mistakes young poets make, including myself.
Or listen to it here:
http://www.coveworld.net/cove/listen.html
Fugues of Amnesia
Isn’t this the first time you’ve ever watched someone?
The first smile you’ve ever seen?
Frightening to realize how much you’ve learned
from a look.
Frightening to think how much more
a hand on that face could teach you
or lips on a face that lovely
or her voice.
Childlike
you can’t think of names now
or even ask her name.
You wonder what could make her forget
the way you’ve forgotten names
and what she can’t help watching
the way you can’t help watching her.
And to make room for this wondering you’ve already lost
the rest of life.
Tabula rasa is the word for it-
an abiding question in bare black
Just a clean slate but still wanting her answer.
Somewhere in those eraser smears you think you’ve seen pictures of other girls.
Maybe you loved someone last year. Maybe ten years ago
you looked across a classroom
and saw the first question asking itself.
Could be she was drawn in there once
maybe ten times
and now that you’ve wiped it clean you’re drawing her in again
and you want to draw her closer.
Every slate is the same- just stone. Life is life.
But none of this changes your questions.
Must be this new cleanliness.
Must be those old memories gone.
[This message has been edited by Destineer (edited November 06, 2001).]
Just wanted to resurrect this thread... more poetry please!!!!
Don't you have any new ones to post?
Anglo-Something
People make my nationality a guessing game.
The raven hair and pale skin reveal nothing.
The accent is no help either, it is chameleon:
Something vaguely foreign in the speech-rhythm
But any Londoner drops their ‘t’s when they talk fast,
If I speak slowly, choosing my words with care,
My voice is precise, giving nothing away.
And so I let them guess: Greek, Spanish, Israeli,
They latch on to something closer to home
Than the correct answer: East African Gujarati.
Surprised when I tell them: for how can I
So like them, come from so far away?
But perhaps I have no right to claim the label Anglo-Indian.
Too white even for that, my very poetry
Westernised to the core, yet not at home
In this white skin, for my brown soul
Yearns for saris and dandia raas and Bollywood films.
For the Qur’an and Rumi and the Pirs of Gujarat.
And so I am condemned to an in-between existence
My words fall through the gap between my roots and my home.
Ennui
Everything is quiet here
No breeze stirs the sluggish air
No sound greets my waiting ear
Unlife meets my unreal stare.
I close my eyes and cease to care.
Aelysium
Who hopes
For the land of the dead is the heart's size
And the star of the lost the shape of the eyes
Mechanical
One_by_one, the greenskin pulled agonizingly from the flesh
Drips spraying into the air nearclear and to my eyes
There is no sting, with nonacid lubricating
A little breathing factory
Over_and_over, with onefocus which inherently must be directly before
Dulls and quiets
animalfactory
As the urges WEAKEN and the dumbness overtakes
livesavingdumbness
Which wills the mechanized to continue
Thy savior Singlemindedness
eating away at the guesses and the conjectures and the
theories
our heaven is stupidity..
-pH
Dragon’s Bane
We trod home with the dragon’s bane and thought our welcome passing strange
For in the eye of passerby the war was long since lost
With lances raised above our dead and saddles hung with dragon’s heads
We brought no cheer to those who fear they cannot pay the cost
With gravity we took our vow and valiantly returning now
We had our share of peril but were still alive to follow
We left our king in such great haste returning proud to warm his face
To find our dragon victory not enough to ease his sorrow
He spilled some wine upon himself and coughed some on his counted wealth
The scribe next to him jumped to save the scroll he was inscribing
He sobbed into his thinning beard, ”The very thing that I had feared!
I heard the news, I was confused to see you now arriving.”
We fell at once upon our knees and begged him with our poetries
To cheer himself, for we had solved the cause of all his woes
So strange to see the tears he shed when we held up the dragon’s heads
His anguish should have left him, but it held him in its throes
“Though many years ago it seems, I see it nightly in my dreams
A dragon swooped down from the skies and took our seven daughters prize
I thought they long ago were killed, but now I find their blood was spilled
By the men I sent again to try to slay their captor.”
Maiden’s heads, not dragons as our recollections vaunted
Purest royalty the ugly trophies that we flaunted
We stripped our armor off to curb the fury of his ire
When all at once the monarch doused us all in dragon’s fire
Because I lay upon my face with nothing left to prove
The fire shot above me roasting those who held the daughters
On looking up the castle I had traveled to was gone
The visage of the king was now revealed in real form
I cast my gaze around me cowards cowered in dismay
Or howled in bloody torment from the fireworks display
I almost saw him taking off the amulet he wore
Tail slashing through the standing men the worm let out a roar
Remembering the wisdom of the dragon’s was my king’s
And seeing bands of gold around his claws which were his rings
Spines with crusted jewels was the crown upon his head
The drink he spluttered on himself was thick and deeply red
“Dragon King!” I shouted and the throne slowly uncurled
In the hall, which seemed much bigger now it’s wings unfurled
I hefted lance and ran headlong into a waiting claw
Glowing diamonds loomed above a giant portal jaw
Pulled into it’s face, I jabbed my lance into his eye
When he tried to stuff me in the lance began to pry
Flying out of socket flew the bloody perfect jem
Hanging from the hole it left the ravaged hanging stem
Globs of blood fell down on me in acid clinging rain
King dragon opened up his mouth and sang an earthquake pain
I fell at once upon the floor and loathe to test my honor more
Clutching tight the eye so bright I scrambled from the lair
Even as I left the cave the air was choked with sound
In rage the creature struck the earth, it threw me to the ground
Crawling up upon my horse I rode till she was sore
Then wrenched upon her tangled mane and made her travel more
I came unto the palace and I found the place was solemn
Hanging on the elbow of the king a filthy golem
Slashing through the monster there was bile in my throat
I pulled my sword out of his chest and threw him in the moat
The weeping king was silent and his head was deeply bent
On the hand that clutched his face were bloody tears that he had spent
Slowly then he raised his head to show his face to me
A gaping hole under his brow where his right eye should be
I knelt before the monarch then and when I kissed his hem
I held above my facedown face the dragon stolen jem
“Arise,” he said, “You serve me well to bring to me this blessing,
Though I expect your other news will no doubt be distressing.”
I rose and almost answered him but all my blood had froze
For the king had crushed the thing alongside his nose
Pulling skin around the prize, Blinked and quickly had two eyes.
By Erich Clark
Wow.
I don't know what it is in 'Anglo-something' but you touched a chord in me.
Thanks.
I wrote these over Christmas break when I was sad. The second one is kind of a prose poem, which is weird for me.
She Told Me
Every few minutes I feel that old scream
welling up-
the one that can’t come out of my mouth.
I thought with her help I’d done something
about that scream.
The Giving Tree
There was a nice old tree where I grew up.
He gave me everything I wanted when I was a little boy.
Today I went back to my tree and asked him,
“How would you like to be my crucifix?”
The Cave
In a cave in the heart of the hills
There is a beach that no light sees
Long ago the rocks were sharp and cruel
Shattered from the timeless walls
By quake and fingers of ice
Laying on the dark shore
Worn by the endless churn
Of tide no one has seen
The rocks are worn and smooth
They fade away into mud
Washing into depths none will ever go
Their faint clicks as the waters move
Will never be heard or picked
To skip across the surface that cannot be seen
Or piled to make anything useful
Even whimsical and frivolous use
Is not an option now
They will not stand upon each other
Small swimmers on their backs
Paddle with tiny oars to set sail
Beaching again where they cast off
They are the explorers here
Vikings of miniature continents
Conquerors of emptiness
Sailors that have no future
To be seized from underneath
By jaws mysterious to them
In darkness never warned to steer away
They disappear one at a time
Without a cry gone forever
For a fish lives there, never caught
Growing lazy uncontested
Eating what he may, could not see
If light were ever given, does no good
To him who has no eyes
Would not swim away at the approach
Of fisher’s footfalls on shore
Would take the bait like a glutton
Swallowing the hook and line
Confused to be drawn out
Little chance of that, he will die old
His flesh will flake off
Smelling bad to no one
His bones ground by smooth stones
To become splinters that erode
In the soft mud until they are gone
Smut
butt
rut
slut
gut
jut
nut
tut
tut.
My mother's heart is made of glass
Bodies are shapeless
Solid and silent
Gliding through doors, Hugging 'round stairs
Watercolor outlines, nothing to hold
Warm love surrounding, but my center is cold
And her heart is fragile, crystal glass.
This is relatively new. It's about a quote by Blaise Pascal that I mentioned elsewhere. Referring to outer space, he said,
quote:
"The eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me."
Pity Song for Infinity
When you think of your death my darling
and you think of how a corpse must wish
for movement
wish for walking and all the motions of mind,
Think of what longing they must have
These huge quiet openings.
When you feel the heat of rage
or the heat of a real burn marks your soft hand,
Even then do not envy the coldness
of these great gaps.
When night reminds you of what’s in store
Remember your only darkness falls around your shoulders
with soft hair
and blends your pupil with the edge
of your eye’s brown iris.
These sorry spaces make up the night.
If they could mouth desires could you guess at their pleas
for some taste of our heat and substance?
How long would you beg even for tears
if you were so dry?
Time is a slayer to us.
To them it sets the pace of vacuum
and shows a single speed
Never expanding round a kiss
or thinning hours of sleep into moments.
I know what you’ll say, and I agree:
One day we’ll know and justly fear
that all our heat is spent.
But what scares me more than time’s meager plan for us
is eternity the way they’ve had it
these poor pieces of space.
Enter in the faithfull few
A rag-tag band of happy men
Veer not from your path now new
It will be worthwhile it in the end
Now usher forth an age of might
Go and make a worthy fight.
What will hapepn when I grow old?
Will I be able to find that box in my mind?
Will I even have a box?
A box to open and share;
How old must you be to have a box?
10,40,78?
What is the year when you get a box?
A box just for me from good times to bad;
Does a box get full?
Does it ever get lost?
Or does it stay forever?
A box for me, to open and share
A box of memories
My soul is like a rainstorm
Trying and appearing to be peaceful rain
But dominated by the clashes of the tearing thunder
The trees of my heart sag
While the rivers of joy sing.
Can such differences exsist without tearing the soul apart?
The happy and content exterior is just that
A face, a picture to show the world
No one knows of the inner torment
That undoes the hearts bindings
Alone in the storm.
I'll be your pillar in the darkness
Together we weather all the trails
I may not stand as strong as you need
But you will always have me.
Well, I chickened outta putting up a fourth one, cuz its long and about the death of my grandmother. But those are my poems. I don't rhyme, but oh well.
http://www.poetry.com/Publications/search.asp
That's a link to more poems I wrote for a school assgn. some of them are pretty bad, and I know it. But I really like some of the others. (I'm Ray, Allison)
~~IrishAlli~~
[This message has been edited by IrishAphrodite19 (edited February 24, 2002).]
Bent to hell
Leaning towards it, anyway.
That giant wrenching sound you hear is just me,
Going over, folding it in
Kneeding a mix of this n' that into melting mettle.
Stick me on a lathe and shape me
Punch me full of holes
and roll me out in strips
or stretch me into wire, miles long
To hang a bridge on.
I don't care,
I'm bent all to hell and all mixed up with you
Make me a can,
an urn, maybe.
Make me into tinsel and I'll be tossed out by epiphany, hanging on some dead tree from your living room.
Ah, what the hell,
I could'a been a car, a space ship,
or a pin on your memory chip.
I would'a felt at home in a socket.
All plugged in and warm.
But I've turned,
bent and useless
And messing up your instructions
at millions per second.
And just not fitting company anymore.
Maybe I should be a blade?
Or a cage?
Could I keep you then?
Priceless Gifts (To Renae)
priceless gifts
are often spoke of,
but few in life
can really know of,
just how priceless
these priceless gifts are.
the gifts of life,
of love,
and thought,
all priceless, for
such are the gifts of humanity.
the gifts of friendship,
of seasons,
and freedom,
all priceless, for
for such are the gifts of friends.
the gifts of understanding,
of empathy,
and being,
all priceless, for
such are the gifts of dreams.
the gift of light out of darkness,
priceless.
the gift of hope from despair,
priceless.
the gift of joy out of grief,
priceless.
such are the gifts you guve to me,
and for that i am thankful.
Howl
In heart torn agony I cry
Shutting my eyes, i lify my face
To the sky, the cold stars.
From my throat, a howl,
Tearing, pain filled, a plea,
For mercy from the sky,
Is ripped, piercing the night.
And still, these pictures,
Of pleasure unmatched,
And pain unbearable, pound at my mind.
But I can give no vent, no escape.
My torment rages,
And I lift my face to the sky.
I cry out for release, for an answer,
But all I hear...is silence.
[This message has been edited by Briseis1000 (edited February 24, 2002).]
i knew you'd ask.You, like Ender try to speak the truth as you see it. But instead of welcoming you, people shun you because of it. Truth often hurts, as it forces you to look at many things that you don't want to. It is a rare person who invites that, much less tolerates it. So you, too have a sort of isolation because of who you are.
[This message has been edited by Human (edited February 24, 2002).]
I mean, I came here looking for discussion of my poetry (without, of course, having to read anyone else's). And what do I get??? Not one post about me, but a bunch of stuff about whether Human and Briseis are on the same wavelength...
Arrrrrrrgggggghhhh.
Thread killers!
Threadocides!
(just kidding. Please, continue.)
[This message has been edited by Bob_Scopatz (edited February 25, 2002).]
Just kidding. I, too, can see other people's point of view, but while this, in you, seems to have engendered an increase respect for them, mine has pretty much created an intense hatred of the whole thing. I'm wrong almost all the time, other people are wrong almost all the time, hell, we're all probably wrong almost all the time, so why the **** should I put up with other people's poitns of view if they aren't internally consistent? In a discussion, I thus do my utmost to demolish opposing points of view, unless I respect the person voicing them are are fond of them.'Tis all.
Tally-ho, pip-pip and all that rot~
Aelysium
quote:
I never knew there were other people out there who don't share my personality
Pere, that's one of the funniest things I've read on Hatrack in months!!!
Good one!!!
Yes, they've told me.
They all have told me,
that i'm a little weird.
When i do,
what i do
I ask what they fear?
I'm not right?
I feel alright.
This has gone on so long.
Time has told me,
answers for me.
Too insecure for a song.
Yes, they've told me.
They all have told me,
that i'm a little weird.
When i do,
what i do
I ask what they fear?
I wrote it this summer, when I was doing a German course. An impression on the dormitory.
Klaustrophobie
ich schliesse die zimmertuer hinter mir
die welt lass ich draussen
alleine in der leeren kabine des weltraumschiffs
geometrische figuren ohne phantasie
stammen aus dem dreissigsten jahrhundert
voellig unangebracht fuer ein junges maedchen
in ihrer sturm- und drangzeit
mit ersten lieben ersten trennungen
weisser kalter steriler raum
-der krankensaal wird die romantik heilen
I'm going to work on the translation now, but if anyone so wishes they may translate this for all the hatrackers who don't speak German.
Poetry, it seems to me
Is abuse of the “Enter” key
The subject artificially
Ripped from its closing verb
Why cannot the poet see
The ideas of her poetry
Are conveyed more effectively
In plain, prosaic words?
All the poems of history
Are nothing more, essentially
Than op-ed columns cleverly
Disguised as pretty verse
Let us tell it as we see
Eschew nebulosity
Without its crutch, can poetry
Speak to our best and worst?
Feelings expressed honestly
Without tearjerking homily
Or punctuative trickery
To clothe the writer’s soul
I suppose it’s not to be
If poets deigned to write plainly
Then all the world could clearly see
The breaking of the poet’s spell
Peace
policy
You seek to touch what you must taste,
want to grasp and pinch for ripeness.
You measure out in teaspoons
the pinches, the handfuls,
the seasons.
You pull a net across the sky,
and wonder why the wind keeps blowing.
It rhymes when it's time;
it finds order in chaos
and breaks
where it must
because prose ain't all
it's cracked
up to
be.
You dig?
Deeper.
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited February 26, 2002).]
Comments? Criticism?
I can but wonder what is amiss
AH! There it is!
An Ass To Kiss
Comments? Criticism?
-----
soundbyte
poetry is a lot like advertising
if they remember it well
well they remember it
sex moves so
watch every head turn to watch
and somewhere behind the calvin klein
cummings is saying the exact same thing
I realized, too, that the link to most of my poems in the earlier parts of this thread is now long dead. Here's the update: http://www.plastic-castle.com/tom/poetry.shtml
Departed from us,
known in no history book.
Like servents to the greats,
only to be overlooked.
Markers in time,
signs of a lost city.
Events march on,
waiting to be used when ready.
Where did it lead?
What were we to follow?
Something grand and great?
Or evil and hollow?
If I had a dollar for each time I thought of you.
If I had a dollar for each moment I wished we were two.
Oh if I had a nickle for each time I wish'd I had you on my motor-sickle.
Well, baby, I'd have Two dollars and thirty-five cents.
your gun.
it speaks
focus (attraction)
fascination. (rubber soles
good for marble floors.)
don’t. pull.
remember (in/grab the cash/out).
moving parts cleaned oiled (in/out)
in. out.
lovingly in dark, no
precision/timing/concerns.
damp. (they’ll find you there)
no.
don’t think.
they’ll accept/ what it says.
not friends/but respect.
don’t (speak).
cut the thread (speak).
now.
And so comes the night
Brawny as a stallion
Consuming the fading light
Devour, devour, yea ravenous dark
Descend on us like locust
Upon our forehead we find your mark
Memory, memory, fading fast
Brightness dies in the mind
Smothered in the void come at last
Lonely souls weep in fear
As the emptiness comes inside
And the Eve flashes an ebon leer
Forget, forget, forget the Sun
You senseless children
Your foolish hearts have buried the Son.
Here's something I did about a month ago, I guess...
He's No Dreamer
You'd like to see where things
are going with him
though maybe there's no future in it.
You know you can't strike a flame
in his chest.
His blood won't burn for you like mine will.
His blood isn't fuel for you
like mine.
And you know what that means:
His words don't come from fire.
How can they compare to this steam I must breathe
when you soothe away the needs
you made for me?
Innocense, that prize is now ignorance
As I pry the last fleeting moments of life from deaths grip
And yet, in that moment of clarity
The deepest and purist beauty is found
Floating upon the invisible strands
Bringing the leaf of fall to its resting place
Reminding me that no tomorrow exists and no yesterday lasts.
But the now is what should be loved.
[This message has been edited by Baldar (edited March 12, 2002).]
----------
Poohsticks
And so,
by way of demonstration,
I pull a cobble off the bridge
And drop it, hard
and heavy, off the side.
“Now, look,” she said,
her arms spread wide,
“You’ve got me wet.”
---------
Prince Ahmed and the Peri Banou
Conjure up visions of tempests and fire;
stride across deserts with Sufis and liars;
measure out prayers to the width of a hair –
and you’ll never approach my desire.
But passion is lacking in time and perspective,
and visions and prayers only get you so far.
Sure, tempests are fun – but when all’s said and done,
if you’re still in the desert, who knows where you are?
A flash of your flesh in the steam of the shower,
A brief demonstration of feminine power,
A beckoning grape in the nape of your neck:
Love is forever; these things pass in hours.
These are lyrics to a song by a singer by the name of Kate Bush that I thought might be appropriate for Hatrack:
Deeper understanding
As the people here grow colder
I turn to my computer
And spend my evenings with it
Like a friend.
I was loading a new programme
I had ordered from a magazine:
"Are you lonely, are you lost?
This voice console is a must."
I press Execute.
"Hello, I know that you've been feeling tired.
I bring you love and deeper understanding.
Hello, I know that you're unhappy.
I bring you love and deeper understanding."
Well I've never felt such pleasure.
Nothing else seemed to matter.
I neglected my bodily needs.
I did not eat, I did not sleep,
The intensity increasing,
'Til my family found me and intervened.
But I was lonely, I was lost,
Without my little black box.
I pick up the phone and go, Execute.
"Hello, I know that you've been feeling tired.
I bring you love and deeper understanding.
Hello, I know that you're unhappy.
I bring you love and deeper understanding."
I turn to my computer like a friend.
I need deeper understanding.
Give me deeper understanding.
[This message has been edited by aka (edited May 04, 2002).]
"Blown from the fall of even
"Blown from the dayspring forth
"Blown from the noon in heaven
"Blown from the night and the north."
[This message has been edited by aka (edited May 04, 2002).]
For Sam
When
The time's burden laid simple and bleak
Truth loses sight
Soldiers lose conviction, wandering in thick air
And the trainer becomes the trained
Then must windows be resealed
The hearth be fed and stoked
And a short end bidden to long ago gone.
Brief glimpse
Painted on telescope with gossamer brush
Wears tracks in the landscape green
With or without the light feet of morning.
In sleep, no delicate strands of heavy night
In smile, no ships put to sea
In time no time at all.
And so the vision of walking rolling flight slide
Hangs green as the air moves grey
Strings tempered, jangling but sublime
The moon revolves once again
In her orbit round the sun's jest.
And so, away.
Take care
-Justin-
A sonnet entitled: Ode to the Suckiness of Ed.
Ahem,
Today i pondered how much thou dost suck
Thou dost in truth suck more than a vacuum
Thou suckest like a fish feeding on the muck
Thine great suckiness dost thine life consume
Thine arrival is cause for great despair
Everyone gasps and falls to the floor
For thine sucking has stolen all the air
Thou ar condemmed to suck forevermore
Shall i to a remora compare thee?
In truth thine sucking doth rival that fish
Sucking so hard seems to fill you with glee
If suck were food you'd be one tasty dish
I believe your suckiness knows no bounds
When you are near i hear a sucking sound.
Thank-you,
b
An ode to the pain I feel when I read your poetry....
Two poets conversed through electronic mail;
One was a poet-the other did suck;
How many classes did she fail
With the inability to rhyme a tale
That could even entertain a duck?
Then I read the other, and it made me smile;
The words he wrote were making sense
It's clear he went the extra mile
To make his words as far from vile
As a cow from an electric fence;
Yet both of them I studied and read
To search the former for a bit of talent;
I looked until I finally said,
"I could look until the day I am dead
And never read a phrase that's gallant."
The latter was an amazing guy
Whose bust should be upon a hill;
Two poets separated by a gift, and I--
Pity those, who in vain try
To get by with their lack of skill.
If?
If you take the tears from my crying eyes,
would it stop the hurt?
If you take away my trembling,
would it stop my fear?
If you end the pain in my broken heart,
would the wound still be there?
If you stole my voice away from me,
would it stop my sound?
If you take away my brain,
would I still have my thoughts?
If you take away my hope,
would I be alive?
If you know the answers to my questions,
would I even care?
I like this thread
Being Habitual
I don't wanna be your albatross;
I don't feel the need to stay.
I don't wanna be your heavy cross;
you don't want me that much anyway.
If I leave, would you miss me?
If I seethe, would you kiss me?
If I breathe, would you piss me out?
If I try, would you hurt me?
If I cry, would you burp me?
If I fly, would you jerk me down?
I can't tolerate your fear of loss;
I can't take your pushing me away.
I can't win this (I've already lost);
why do you keep forcing me to play?
The opening image: albatross
The closing sentiment: why do you keep forcing me to play?
Now everything in the lyric builds from the opening image to the final exclamation of frustration, but there's on line in particular that makes it work for me:
If I seethe, would you kiss me?
Classic.
The other thing is that this seems a little more complicated than your normal passive aggresive response to a dominant, whimsical lover. For instance: the lover has a 'fear of loss' and pushes the narrator away, and yet in this very statement (the poem itself) the narrator (esp. with the questions) keeps playing all the while complaing that he [or she] is being forced to play.
At least that's how I see it. Other interpretations?
There was a man, who was quite red, because an apple, fell on his head.
Now the apple, it seemed quite true, was made of nothing, but ruddy glue.
The man it seemed, on second glance, had not been hit, merely by chance.
For in the tree, above his melon, perched a young lad, was quite a hellion.
The man cried out, the boy climbed down, and in a moment, was nowhere found.
The man by now, was quite disheartened, and red grew redder, as his face darkened.
Then he jumped up, from where he sat, he screamed and yelled, he even spat.
But soon he stopped, when it was clear, no matter what, no one would hear.
So feeling sheepish, he sat back down, under that tree, there on the ground.
He hoped the lad, now gone from sight, would not come back, to further fight.
And so he sat, under that tree, and soon asleep, with head on knee.
But moments later, awake once more, from a sharp pain, a head quite sore.
“Damn all to hell!” the man cried out, and turned to find, the culprit out.
No boy this time, he saw with fear, his attacker now, was an angry deer.
The deer stood tall, with frightful horn, and eyed the man, gaze full of scorn.
For his part now, the man stood frozen, unable to move, as he’d have chosen.
The deer charged forth, his head bent down, skewered the man, right through the crown.
The man fell quick, his face quite bloody, though barely showing, since already ruddy.
And so we see, the moral is, when under trees, beware of kids.
Now some may think, when reading here, a better moral: “beware of deer.”
But ah my friends, you’re soon to find, men killed by deer, are one in nine.
Whereas the ones, whose foul end, comes from a child, is nine in ten!
Post McDonald's Epiphany
Something you said in the minivan,
The moment my fingers brushed your hand,
Caught the beat of my mind and held it still.
What was it there, between the soda spill
The Barbies and Hot Wheels and happy meal toys?
This quiet, mercurial, still-unheard joy,
Doled out without thought, like cups or fries,
Is all that binds the trees to the skies.
And it binds us together, here in our van
Whether or not I hold your hand.
[This message has been edited by Scott R (edited July 30, 2002).]
Tom, I'm curious to know the reason for formatting 'Being Habitual' as you did. I hate to jump to conclusions, but the rhythm and lyrical qualities are so strong, I'm tempted to think that this was written to be a song rather than just a poem.I think that you have a good, tightly constructed piece of work here.
I like the way the narrator alternates between imagery of independence and forced reliance on the object of the poem.
Quite frankly, I envy your talent. I'll trade you my job for your writing ability. . .
But I set my Gift aside
To delve in darkness
of my own creation
And suddenly I found
That my Gift was walled away
I grasped for it, but it was not there.
How do you break down a wall
That you yourself have made
How shall I reclaim my words
So they can flow once again
And brighten the pages
With their pictures and stories.
I Did Not Know Him Well
By Dan Davis
I did not know him well
He was hard to know
Quiet and hidden
Like a pearl beneath the shell.
I knew his magic hands
That sculpted wood
Turned cold iron into roaring power
Crafted a garden from the earth.
I did not know him well
Reserved and difficult
Aloof and demanding
Like the essence of rose adrift on the summer?s breeze.
I saw his magic hands
Call a fish from the water
Rev a dead engine
Create beauty from scraps
I did not know him well, tall and thin
Straight and unyielding
Like a fortress wall defending his heart,
Defending his loves, his family
I shook those magic hands
That created hope and a future
From tragic beginings
Over and over again.
I did not know him well
He strove to make you happy
In his own ways
What else need I to know
I held those magic hands
He did not know me well
Yet we shared a smile
What else need I to know
This day above all others serves to show
our feelings' mutual ambiguity.
You ask if I'm alright? Well, yes and no.
Your guarded question tells me nothing, though
your blue-eyed glance reminds me wordlessly
the heart has reasons reason cannot know.
I hope but dare not hope too much, and so
I smile and keep my silence fearfully.
You ask if I'm alright? Well, yes and no.
Must all our assignations undergo
this same wilfully sure uncertainty?
The heart has reasons reason cannot know,
but when I came to love you, long ago,
I learned of faith in things we cannot see.
You ask if I'm alright? Well, yes and no.
The heart has reasons reason cannot know.
It's a wonderfully challenging form, but I think if I tried to write more than one or two a year I'd start to go crazy or turn to drink. Um, cf. Dylan Thomas.
I am SO BORED
and I have no effing will to write
or the energy
I feel hungry
but I am full.
wtf?
"Lima Beans (for Libby)"
It's true that we may never see
a poem as lovely as a tree,
for when you try to end each line
with an excruciating rhyme,
your once-majestic oak, you'll find,
becomes a lima bean.
O Miltie, with your slick and slanted words,
Your vaulted notions heavily earthed o'er,
Bare not one stone to our fierce, searching gaze,
But bury us, instead, in tangled lore.
Devoutly do we dig, nevertheless,
Deeper into dark and noxious earth;
Faithfilly you lead us into moist
And marshy bogs, 'til, waist-deep in your worth,
We dive to drown ourselves in watery
Allusions e'en elusive for your age;
As Orpheus' strains to earth-bound ears give wing,
Our dying breath goes bubbling up the page.
Quickly snarling,
the broken ghost
weeps blood
and brittle dreams.
In a steely smile,
rotten wind
bumps along
rusty junk.
High surprised monkeys
juice moose into
sparkling cake,
and dance on loony sails.
Pounding ribbon
sticks to cross
clowns with
green warts.
Velvet lions fly
through delicate
dreams, chasing
steel cake.
I just couldn't pass up the chance for a song lyric."Paralyzed"
You hope and pray, and always say
you don't believe in these "futile gestures,"
but in the dark at night
I know you know you do.
This doubt is everything to you --
your very own religion.
Take a look at yourself;
you know it's true.
But every time that we sit down,
it seems you've got the higher ground,
'cause every word I try to say
won't leave my mouth.
So take your time; I'm paralyzed.
I'm going nowhere.
I'll be right here when you come home,
right here waiting.
This time I'm paralyzed;
we're getting nowhere.
I'll be right here when you come home,
right here all alone.
Call it a masochistic streak;
I know my position's a little weak:
an atheist misologist
versus a shameless idealist.
But still we go around again,
hoping this time we both might win,
but we can't even agree
on what we're fighting for.
And every time that we sit down
it seems you've got the higher ground,
'cause every word I try to say
won't leave my mouth.
It's getting late again
and, once again, we're stuck in nowhere.
It's past time to turn and walk
and never look behind.
But I'm not the kind to walk away,
even with the battle over;
I'm stumped, but still hanging around.
And every time that we sit down,
you know you've got the higher ground,
and so I sit here like a fool
and write it down.
Take care
-Justin-
quote:
the heart has reasons reason cannot know.
read too akwardly, but upon rereading it, I like it that way because
a) it's damn clever
b) it makes the reader focus on it more, making it stand out from the others.
the same can be said for
quote:
I hope but dare not hope too much, and so
it was an expertly crafted poem.
Armor
The window has cracked.
The shards buried in the carpet
pierce my bare soles
as I approach the pane.
The sunlight shines brightest
through the jagged hole.
I thrust my face outside
to see the bluer sky.
A gust of wind rakes
needles across my skin.
The mirror has cracked.
The shattered pieces lay strewn
across the damp countertop.
Each tiny sliver reflects
a different angle, a different world.
My face stares back
through each, warped and skewed.
My eyes are drawn to the empty
frame. From within I see
my every virtue, my every blemish.
The egg has cracked.
Fragments of the shell
settle in the plush yellow plumage
of the new hatched chick.
The tiny bird struggles
within, thrusting it’s head
through the opening.
The incubator’s gentle
hum halts as the clear
plastic lid opens with a click.
(and not for any selfish reasons at all )
Office chairs
and Ouija boards
Dry Erase markers
and faxes from the coast.
We plan, we plot
we Strat-e-gize, man!
We build elitist dreams,
And just melt that friggin candle.
All the things we say we'll do
We've done before,
by different names,
on other shores.
But now we planned that they shall be
the future of our company.
Like brilliant stars
we shine and glow
We preen and show
Act like we know
Until the day our emperor goes
and demonstrates he has no clothes.
Bob, do you work for my company?
Patriotism is alive
and I hate it
It divides us
And splits us
We can't seem to shake it
It's all about us
But what about them?
The ones who we bombed,
Whose lives that we end?
Who mourns for them?
We punish the many
For the sins of the few
Look in their faces
I can, can you?
They're human, too.
But we're blinded by hate
and dazzled by war
A taste of blood on the news
We start screaming for more.
The slaughter begins.
Where did it start?
Rather, where does it end?
Once killing starts
It's not easy to end.
Tommorrow I'll mourn
Not for those in the towers
But peace, blessed peace
It's gift we have shattered.
(Note: Also posted on the Young Writer's Forum)
I used to think Death came
on little cat feet.
He had a British accent,
and wore black because it
went with everything.
Black hides the blood,
that's all,
and who has lungs to speak?
quote:
He had a British accent,
and wore black because it
went with everything.
no, Tom that's Neil Gaiman . anyway, I loved this little gem, it's going on my list of all time favorite hatrack poems.
somebody read a poem all bent
(with nary a clue as to what it all meant)
saturday, sunday, monday, today
somebody searched and strove for a way
to understand just what mr. cummings was stating
when he said “up so floating” -- the question was grating.
she searched and she worked and she toiled all the eve,
till her sanity was ready to pack up and leave.
but suddenly (and in a flash of great joy)
she saw what he meant, about the girl and the boy
how they grew and they loved in their own special way
from year to year, from day to day.
and quick as a flash she had tears in her eyes
for the plight of the anyone was her in disguise.
for she sang her didn’t and she danced her did,
and longed for a noone, this somebody did.
and the story gave hope to a withering heart,
with cheer in the message the tale did impart.
and somebody, so glad of what to her it all meant,
wrote words of a girl who read a poem all bent.
(edited for ambiguity)
[This message has been edited by Leonide (edited September 28, 2002).]
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited September 28, 2002).]
I. En arche
Logos
in the beginning was,
in the end shall be.
But there was between beginning and end
a Light
that shone in the darkness,
and a Darkness
that resembled the Light
but the Light comprehended it not.
I am not that light.
I have been that darkness.
But I will bear witness of that Light.
I will show you what was, is, is to come.
I will show you what letters
come between
alpha and omega.
I will show you what Words
come between
beginning and end.
(edited for font issues)
[This message has been edited by Dante (edited September 28, 2002).]
love the e.e. cummings references, too...very very clever!Kira ;0)
In a dingy, common attic
we huddle together, one soul with thirteen bodies
(or maybe twelve), all One, but with one
who was before us, who sits before us.
He is a stranger to me, this man who says
he is in me, and I in him--his words
come from my mouth (for we are one)
and reach my ears
but do not touch my heart.
“Eat,” he says,
and I eat,
rending the plain bread to manageable portions,
chewing three times, then swallowing the unwieldy mass.
It has no taste and sits heavy in my stomach.
“Drink,” he says,
and I drink,
letting the sanguine wine anoint my lips,
feeling it burn my throat like bloody flame.
The more I take, the more I thirst.
“This is my body, this is my blood,” he says.
But his body is my body
and his blood is my blood
for we are One.
And as I eat his body and drink his blood
he is in me, and we are one.
And as he gives his body and sheds his blood,
I am in him, and we are one.
But what will happen
when I am no longer in him,
when he has discarded blood and body
and all my bread and wine avail me naught?
And what will happen
when he is no longer in me,
when I have purged him from my body and blood
and all my prayers and tears can’t bring him back?
And what will happen
when I have consumed myself entirely,
when I have eaten and drunk damnation to my soul,
when I twist for a shred of thought or drop of pain
and there is nothing?
Then I will have a holiday repast
and swallow their stale bread and staler theology,
and subsist on their sour wine and sourer hope.
If they have kept his saying,
they would shun mine also.
In a dingy, common Attic
these things I have spoken unto you
being not present with you.
Eat your meals,
you who have believed through my word,
and pray you may not be one
as I am.
Arise, let us go hence.
[This message has been edited by Dante (edited September 30, 2002).]
This is mine, on the same topic:Mr. Fix-it (You've seen him on TV)
Hey there mr. fix-it man,
i wanna, no, i gotta know if you can
fix-it all up spic'n'span,
find it in your master plan and
Hey there Bobby
sleeping in the subway
joking with the junkies
looking for his own way
home
to the place where the marigolds grow
and Susan and her children seem to know
that God's in the Easter basket,
God's in the air,
God's in the resurrection,
God's in your hair
so
Who can fix it if not mr. fix-it?
If not mr. fix-it, no-one can.
Who can fix it if not mr. fix-it?
We got no-one else but the fix-it man.
See em on the streetcorners
slipping out of straitjackets
working for a dime and
handing out pamphlets
now
they believe and they know that it's so
and telling you is saving you if only you'd go
but God's in the street mime,
God's in the prayer,
God's in the caterpillar,
God's everywhere
so
What if mr. fix-it heard?
What if mr. fix-it learned?
What if mr. fix-it cried?
What if mr. fix-it died?
Hey there preacher
stitching up his sermon
picking out a parable
to make his point
that
he understands that He knows what he sows
but he doesn't care 'cause He knows that you know
that God's in the Sunday mass,
God's in the teacher,
God's in collection plates,
God's in the preacher
We've all seen dear mr. fix-it;
we've believed in mr. fix-it;
we all need our mr. fix-it;
(where in hell is mr. fix-it?)
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited October 01, 2002).]
Tom, I think some of the imagery in my last one is a bit heavy, but I figured that the images I was using were a bit trite and overused by their very (dual?) nature, so I didn't worry about it too much. As for your latest entry...I like it a lot. The choice of form and style is perfect, and your commitment to it is constant. The rhythm is absolutely delightful, and the mixture of a light sound and heavy meaning works very well.
Lord, in the shelter of thy name
(a secret since the world began)
we meet to praise thy son who came
to dwell among us as a man.
The darkness drowns the sun’s last ray--
Lord, let us see the break of day.
Too soon our Master leaves forever,
his the glory, ours the loss.
Deserted, we must learn together
to bear the lash and mount the cross.
Our mortal god must soon away--
Lord, let us see the break of day.
Another Comforter will come
and teach us what we are to speak--
but now our faltering tongues are dumb,
flesh unwilling, spirits weak.
The world drowns out the words to say--
Lord, let us see the break of day.
Lamp, torch and hearth are shadows of
the way our hearts have in us burned,
yet, though the inward flame of love
thy son has taught, we have not learned.
The night obscures thy holy way--
Lord, let us see the break of day.
Now tears are shed for mortal grief
as blood is shed for human sport--
the rising sun our sole relief,
a day, a life, too soon cut short.
Grant us the light! Do not delay!
Lord, let us see the break of day.
Cradled in amongst the hair,
Smells, and sounds of you,
Undiscovered world view,
So I lay me there.
Survival is not our care,
Death has lost its hue,
Pleasures take we not a few,
Gems no longer rare.
Yet worthy still
To grace us more
Than life adored
Through lonely will.
Home of dancing melody:
You're what's moving me.
Delphinian Mermaid
Alone in her under-sea cave she waits
A gem, a moonstone, lies in her palm
Lighting the cave, shining in the waters
She sits gazing into it's light.
Many futures dancing before her eyes,
Happy, sad, all things are possible,
And in the light of a moonstone
They can be seen together.
She watches children dance, hair flying,
Parents laughing, weeping, fighting,
Kings and beggars battling fate
All these swirling in the stone's light.
She cannot alter them, though she tries
Her power is only to see
She cries in quiet frustration
But the stone cares not for her tears.
Committing herself to silence
She sits, staring at the future
Unable to live it herself
She will stay, incased in her grotto, immortal.
Time stands still, even the bubbles wait
Tides and currents are motionless
Awaiting her command, but she watches still
And around her life goes on.
btw, Human, I like yours, I feel that way too.
...nope.
V. The Epyllion of the Revelator and the Beloved
I was in the beginning, and I was with God,
but I was not God.
I was in the beginning, and I was with the Light in the beginning,
but I was not the Light.
I have borne witness of the Light.
How many times each dusty day and sleepless night
among the smell of tar, and brine and fish
I have borne witness! But not of me,
no, never of me, for I am not that Light.
I cannot complain.
I have received my wish.
I last forever.
I am a holy Tithonus--preacher and vagabond, never
a hero, sometimes a fool, often a nuisance.
I am a good thing come out of Nazareth,
led by the will not of the flesh, but sometimes not of God,
usually in between. I am not free from fear,
though I do not fear death.
I am a seer with his eyes wide closed,
a prophet cursed to believe his own
self-fulfilling prophecies, swooning in a trance
of holy ecstasy, then asking for a modest fee.
Food isn’t cheap, though love is free.
Black clouds gather to the east, blown
by the awful wind of rushing wings,
speaking of a storm yet to come,
a storm I have seen over and over
until it becomes almost a litany,
until I would fix my eyes shut with nails to escape the sight,
but I know that I would see
more with my eyes closed. Nothing remains hidden long.
Oh, I will not bore you with details,
nor terrify you with kingdoms to which you may belong.
I could, you know, for I have seen it all:
heads, whores, beasts, angels, tails,
backs, plagues and horsemen. It would mean nothing to you.
I have told you only what I know, and what is true.
The Light has not always been the same thing,
but I have always borne witness of it.
My light has perished, but the Light is everlasting.
Increase, decrease...increase, decrease...
What I have written, I have written. I must have rest.
Spero enim me futurum apud vos
et os ad os loqui, ut gaudium meum. . .sit.
Thou shalt see greater things than these.
Some dreams are more than dreams;
the solid ones find their way
into the days.
So he explains why he can’t leave her.
Last night he found her dead.
That’s how his vision found her.
I try to explain, this is a swift season.
The dreams - they also come quick
and the morning memory’s all that persists.
The wind is like flutes, and it blows a girl’s hair
uniquely.
But sometimes it chills your lungs
when you breathe it.
Is this a cold fall that’s begun?
I'm experimenting with writing poetry I think OSC will hate. I just can't be high-faluting enough, though.
Weep,
You broken, religious, stick men.
Cuckoo!
Cuckoo!
Push our eggs from our wombs
And sing, sing, WARBLE,
While the clock sickly sticks
Us out, tongue-like,
And we lick up your singing tears.
Until we drown.
Umm. . . yeah, definitely time to go home and get some sleep.
Here, by the way, is where poetry can safely sleep, or cavort, or brood.
Until the critics come and nibble, nibble, nibble.
Here's my latest:
Look Away, Lady
Listen listen
The bus drove by
and the squeal of its brakes matched the squeal
in my mind.
It wouldn’t have screeched that way if not for you
but don’t give it another thought.
The treasure shop has what you want.
Nothing here but monstrous me.
[This message has been edited by Destineer (edited November 19, 2002).]
Passing
Brittle bones
in sheets and skin
…and all I remember are cinnamon apples.
Autumn days
on porch swings
waiting for games
of dominoes to begin
…and all I remember are cinnamon apples.
Needlework
of tiny flowers
on greeting cards,
sewn expertly with
a worn metal thimble,
unworried by trembling limbs
…and all I remember are cinnamon apples.
Holiday feasts
spent sitting across
from her smiling face.
As plates are passed around
the table, no one thinks to ask
if she is content to sit and listen.
…and all I can taste are cinnamon apples.
Church pews
creak, the service ends
…and all I will remember are cinnamon apples.
I really like the poem. I tend to like poems that repeat a single line.
This is my favorite part:
quote:
As plates are passed around
the table, no one thinks to ask
if she is content to sit and listen.
Here's one I wrote about six weeks ago, after, well, a walk along the bayou. I also wrote it in sonnet form, but I think that this one, while very rough, is truer to my feelings at the time:
Bayou
I see the coming storm before we set out
(the sky so white above us, yet darkened grey to the south)
but I take your former role and remain silent.
You glide ahead of me on wheeled feet,
leaving me staring at your back.
Yes, that's how it is.
You circle, waiting for me to catch up,
but I know that eventually you'll forget to turn around,
you will leave me staring into a grey sky.
You point out the flowers in the grass beside us,
entranced by splashes of yellow, purple, blue in this grey world,
but my eyes just move to the white paper that litters the walkway,
the green-brown sludge on the cement by the water.
You skate on ahead. I watch you, wanting to shout
out everything that's been on my mind,
but I remain silent.
There are fish in the water.
They fight against the current,
struggle just to stay in one place.
Some don't swim hard enough, fall back
and drift silently in time with me.
I can't spare any pity for them,
too busy thinking of myself.
We head home, crossing paths with the man who lives
under the bridge with the "No Camping" sign.
"I hate crossing roads," you sigh
as the rain begins to fall.
I nod, and still remain silent.
[This message has been edited by Ophelia (edited November 23, 2002).]
I really like your poem Ophelia. it's got some really good imagery, and I love the way the imagery hints at what is going on between the speaker and the other skater. without you having to explicictly come out and say it (especially in the 3rd stanza). Excellent poem.
I like the way it contrasts the monstrosity of the scene with the 'lady's' apathy.
The last line is well executed.
Sarfa- I can relate. My mom's mother died while I was in Italy. . . we didn't know eachother very well.
For the poem-- why is the second stanza only 4 lines long? The two after it have six lines. . . and the first and last stanza are composed of three lines each. Was there a conscious decision to make the 2nd stanza the odd man out?
Othewise, there is a palatable rhythm in your poem, despite the 'free-verse'ness construction. I rather enjoyed it.
The last stanza is the punch. . . nice.
Ophelia-- I really like the sense of conflict and loneliness you portray in 'Bayou.'
quote:
. . .I know that eventually you'll forget to turn around,
you will leave me staring into a grey sky.
::shiver::
One complaint:
quote:
I can't spare any pity for them,
too busy thinking of myself.
These lines make your narrator seem more selfish than I think was your intention. . . But maybe I'm interpreting wrong.
I got a good sense of longing and need. I found 'Bayou' to be haunting. . . I liked it, in other words.
Bumble bee,
I love thee,
How your wings sparkle in the light,
Do you have fun,
Working day and night?
With the pattern on your back,
With the tune I always hear,
I will love the bumble bee forever.
Good bye, my friend,
We'll meet again,
I used to be so naive.
I never knew of troubles
That would make my heart heave.
Betrayed but thrice
I payed a mournful price.
So evil did indeed succeed.
I say goodbye
And in my eye
My heart will never let go...
I weep
A baby is born
I rejoice
A man kills
I Shutter
A boy aides a stranger
I am inspired
A woman is crippled
I ache
A young girl dances
I feel strong
An animal suffers
I feel heavy
A bird soars free
I feel light
Life is a seesaw
Life takes, life gives
Life is what life is, no more, no less
Life- Live it!
The perfect Vacation Is filled with peace
Don't know who it wouldn't please
Sunny skies and butterflies
Laughing hills and Twinkling eyes,
Golden memories And paradise,
What a Vacation to Remember!
Time ticks by As every minute
Brings yet another Faded moment,
Fun, yet wild, But no one gets hurt.
People gather,The friendship is strong,
All come relax, But for how long?
Take your time, You'll always be welcome here,
Do not worry, Learn to cheer,
Generations Reuniting,
No more cultures fighting,
Time stands still,So remember forever,
The great vacation we had together.
But now it is time,To get to work,So Come back soon,
Wave goodbye To all your friends As the World returns to Reality
From The Perfect Vacation
Sometimes I gaze at the sky
With its brilliant streaks of white
And I marvel at the birds
When they are in flight.
Sometimes I dare to dream
To venture out into the world
Loneliness isn't as bad as it seems
It's easy to behold.
Sometimes I take comfort
In nobody's presence but mine
I sit against my tree
The sun will always shine.
Sometimes I just think
About love, life, the world
And people say I am different
Does that make me bold?
Sometimes I want to cry
When I see people strike
Sometimes I want to hide
When pain is alive.
I often look and ponder
At what is just out of reach
And I see the violence
And I tell you, I beseech.
Sometimes I think am I
The only one who cries?
Sometimes I start to worry
What if someone dies?
Sometimes I just lay there
And let the world pass me by
And I think that sometime
Sometime I will die.
-Dawn I. Cambridge, 2002
As I look beyond the painted hills
And past the southern skies
I'm filled with a sudden wintry chill
That brings a yearning out from inside.
My gaze falls upon a silver lake
My reflection stares right back at me
The silence of the water is so disturbing
Who is it that I see?
A breeze blows by and her hair twirls
Freely into the night
Her skin gives off a golden glow
Under the pale moonlight.
I lift my gaze back to the skies
As a pack of geese fly by
And see a bit of the girl in them
And suddenly want to cry.
The stars shine brightly watching me
As if to give me a clue
But the uncertainty lies deep within
Wondering, was the reflection true?
I step into the quivering waters
And look down once again
The girl with wavering brown eyes is still there
Her reflection never ends.
Still as I look into the pool of mistiness I see
The reflection of love and emptiness
Is she truly me?
Pale reflections bounce off my memories
And once again
She stares me right back in the eye
As if to ask, is this the end?
I dive into the water
And when I wake up, I'm on shore
And I curse those mocking silver stars
All the way down to their core.
Then I start to tremble and cry
As I look into the sea
And do you know what I finally found?
. my reflection staring back at me.
By Dawn I. Cambridge
Look at them, then look at me Tell me, what is it that you see?
I close my eyes and disappear Into a land I wish were real
I open my eyes once again And wish for once I had a friend
I wonder if this is truly real Is this what we're meant to feel?
In the corner I stand alone Waiting, watching, because I don't need a home
I won't give in to what they say I live my life in only my way
I won't well up with tears and cry The way they do and want to die.
When at night I'm all alone I don't even cry or moan
In the darkest midnight hour I find I've acquired the highest power
I don't need love, I don't need hate I'll do what I want- it's my own fate
I don't need laughter, I don't need tears I've conquered all that's to be feared
I don't need anyone to keep me strong I know exactly where I belong
I'm a survivor, ruler of all I will keep soaring, what means to fall?
Then I get a glimpse of their joy And I wonder why it isn't me with that boy
I see girls laughing; flicking their hair And filled with jealousy, utter despair
But they are worthless human mortals I need to concentrate to open other portals
For what really does lie for me
Is going down with conformity; being truly free
'Cuz I'm a survivor, the only one Who does exactly what needs to be done. Sometimes I myself do not see That I am more imprisoned than I thought I'd be free..
A poem is a soul that breathes free
Like the angels watching me.
Poetry is the dewdrops over flowers at night
The dazzling white stars that illuminate light.
Poetry is life; it lives everywhere
In deserts, springs, fresh mountain air.
The fire within us
Glows brighter still
Because poems are the wings of free will.
Like friendship, it blossoms over time
It lives in spirit, bourne in the mind.
Death is the end
The last verse of a poem
But alas! Not to worry!
Ashes are reborn.
From the dying embers of a phoenix
A new chick is born
And into this world it goes,
Delivered at home.
- Dawn I. Cambridge, 2001
Dante... your poem was cool. And the funny ones crack me up! Keep at it, scott r! Dare to write!
[This message has been edited by JuniperDreams (edited November 26, 2002).]
. I posted on the "Original Poetry Continued" thread. Which died. Silly me.Scott--actually, I was feeling pretty selfish at that point (questioning my right to feel the way I felt and all that). But I'm not sure I want to keep the line. Thanks for pointing it out.
JD--if you want comments, you're going to have to post fewer poems at one time. There's just too much there for me to take in.
Hit ya guys hard, dint i? WEll, you know, theres like six pages more...
Here's what I posted. Some of you may have seen it before.
[This message has been edited by twinky (edited November 27, 2002).]
1)The stanza read better as six lines
2)The line length of 6 just fit better with the mood, that is, originally, I wanted the reader to notice the lengthening of stanzas as the speaker remembers more and more about the grandmother, sort of mimicing the natural progression of thought processes (a sort of snowball effect of memories), but the second to the last stanza has an abrubt change in mood (and is a little less detail oreiented), and so the 6 line stanza is there to show the limit of the snowballing process (that is, the speaker could only remember so much), a petering out, if you will.
wow, that was a rather longwinded explanation, hopefully it made some kind of sense
, and I feel kind of weird about it. I also spent very little time, and I know it's not one of my strengths...)
When childhood dies,
And our thrones grow thinner,
When the armrests close in,
And the floor meets our feet, -
Stealth enters our eyes,
As we sever our inner
Smile from our faces,
Preparing deceit.
When childhood dies,
And our walk rises taller,
When the ceiling drops near,
And the sky marks our height, -
Walls made of ice
Crowd our faith ever smaller.
The glittering pebble
Withdraws from our sight.
When childhood dies,
And the corpse is banished
To a tomb that we carved
From our innermost cell, -
Alive the child lies,
Forgotten, not vanished,
Silently whispering
To teach us the spell
Here's a short piece I wrote exactly a year ago. I don't particularly care for the second stanza. But I like going through my writing and seeing exactly where I was one, two...I guess I have from up to six years ago now. Anyway (now that I've written more than is in my poem), here it is:
The Dead
you left me waiting with your dead
who rise and rise and rise
refusing to remain buried
refusing to remain hidden
refusing to speak
and I
can’t escape from their silence
when they
look me in the soul
as though I am one of them
December 12, 2001
Here's a recent one:Like Flying
When she said yes, I had no idea
that gravity was about to flip into reverse
and hurl me out the window and into the sky
like a dollar bill on a prankster's string.
But it did.
She waved once, her mouth a startled "O,"
sparks dancing between our outstretched palms.
I found myself bobbing over the suburbs,
picking up speed. Traffic stopped.
A woman in a SUV pulled onto the curb,
and her oldest son stopped hitting his brother
long enough to press his nose flat against
the safety glass. He whined, "Mom, can
I be a flying man?" And with weariness
she felt something snaking out of her throat
to say, "Maybe when you're older."
A pigeon was pacing me for a while, giving me the evil eye --
"hey, buddy," he said, "ain't got no right" --
but the clouds were soft as candyfloss, so
I flipped
him the bird and kept on swooping.
As the air got thin and the sky got dark, storms
below me and stars twinkling all around, I
almost got to thinking about bare skin
and the vacuum of space.
But then it dawned on me,
as the sun peeked over the edge of the Earth:
Who am I to need air? Who am I, to float past the moon
fretting over minor details, sweating small stuff?
Let ice crust my astonished face, my eyes turn into mirrors.
Let Saturn tip its hat to me, and Pluto fetch my slippers.
Let my lungs swell full to bursting, my heart cook in its blood.
Andromeda waits to dance with me and stroke the face of God.
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited January 04, 2003).]
Very nice. Especially the image of "a dollar bill on a prankster's string," the line break in "I flipped / him the bird," and the whole bit about the SUV.
[This message has been edited by Deirdre (edited January 04, 2003).]
I love it! It makes me very happy.
I liked the last stanza..
(I've acquired the bad habit of writing poetry in a language I made up)
Also, what Deirdre said about the bird-flipping.
I liked yours too, Locke, though I didn't know how to pronounce it or what it meant. Can you give us pronounciation and a word by word literal translation along with a translation of the sense of the poem? I think I could appreciate it more that way.
What synapse snaps to,
Attentive, affectionate, bounding
Across my cranial reserves,
When my lips touch yours?
Familiar touch, softness and breath
And heat, like sweet racing
Between lips and souls.
Our lips, our souls,
Our racing synapses,
All so quick, we blur
Together.
At last.
There is poetry in my soul.
Sometimes he tries to crawl out,
but a boot to the face fixes that --
and he tries less often anyway,
nowadays.
I really don't know why I bother;
most nights, he sits there in his s**t
and pokes at and plays with his food,
making little tangles out of the dailies
and clippings and sitcom sauces. Sullenly.
And it's not like his droppings are
solid gold anymore, or his steaming vomit
worth plating up and passing around.
I'd complain, but it's not worth the trouble --
and who has the time now to cook anything?
So what's the point? Half the time,
he just paces back and forth, banging
his head into my ulcer and calling
for his lawyer. I haven't had the heart
to tell him.
Used to be good times, him and me.
I'd drop down scandals and smile,
and get similies back. We spent a whole day
hanging up paintings my first time in Paris
-- and even if he didn't really come through
for me that time, at least we had fun.
But he just doesn't understand. I've got
things to do. I'm married. Got a house.
I don't have time to take him to the park every afternoon. Computer job.
And it's not like he's housebroken.
A few mild shocks might help.
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited January 29, 2003).]
j/k, sort of.
In the days when the sweat-shined sun hung high,
Quiet as mice were we before the windows;
Palm to glass to palm is no less palmers' kiss.
But now beneath such cold and harsh fluorescent glare as this,
We tap electric nothings in our studios
PDA a false memory, and I
When I sleep, dream not of local skies
But cool air, mild days, green and orange meadows,
Sitting on the gates of apple orchards; this dream is
None of our lives, but a stolen season:
Waking to perpetual summer, I rub my eyes and wonder what the lesson is.
Copyright (c) 2003 Nicholas Liu Sheng
By the way, Tom, I loved your poem, but I think it could be strengthened by removing "...I/almost got to thinking about bare skin/and the vacuum of space./But...."
ae
ae
Prelude
Earth is an earthenware container,
containing this:
Thoughts
Who set these limits for me? Sight, sound, touch and all of sensation - why not something
real and immediate? Unfathomable passages is what they are, mazes leading into the mind
that cannot be followed back out.
Time: why is just this one segment of my life’s long serpent here for me?
I feel like I am on the verge of something.
Sensation. A membrane of skin streched across a four-dimensional manifold. The feeling
of time’s flow against it.
Not yet night... a gray sky. What a thing it is to stand beneath a gray sky!
These blood vessels move like mechanical parts - it’s not my will that moves them! I am automated flesh. I feel like a corpse in the making.
[This message has been edited by Destineer (edited February 21, 2003).]
[This message has been edited by Destineer (edited February 21, 2003).]
I.
smell the fire: this
is pitch-song. fastitocalon drowns
in a bowl of fire: his
own sweet smell betrays him.
II.
she is the sort born too late.
an earlier age would offer more
to rage against: cf. the burning of bras
cf. the raping of locks
and oh, oh the joys
of picketing the makers of whale-bone corsets.
III.
I eat the flesh and skin and eyes
of fish sadly unschooled
out of their bass natures.
I take inventory:
sockets, rami, branchial arches
muscle, cartilage, pectoral
fin
pelvic, dorsal, anal, caudal
fin fin fin fin fin fin
fin
flesh and skin and eyes.
IV.
fastitocalon passes
water passes fire passes
wind and notes and burns in schools:
you can hear it
but is it keening or siren-song? fastitocalon
drowns in fire.
V.
It is failing of school system! Come, we have
beautiful time. Collon is make crisp and bright,
for your benefit:
Harmony! Artistic! Providence!
Do try our Nippon.
VI.
But during the above speech the play fades, overtaken by dark and music.
FIN.
"of fish sadly unschooled/out of their bass natures"
[This message has been edited by TomDavidson (edited February 21, 2003).]
And hey, I don't blame you. I'm not sure I can forgive myself for that one.
ae
![[Smile]](smile.gif)
![[Frown]](frown.gif)
![[Cool]](cool.gif)
.
quote:Hey, I was young(er) then. Give me a break.
Ennui
Everything is quiet here
No breeze stirs the sluggish air
No sound greets my waiting ear
Unlife meets my unreal stare.
I close my eyes and cease to care.
Untitled
Unmourned lies he here
not one bothered
life of lack meant
lack of life
bothered one not.
Here he lies,
unmourned
untitled.
![[Razz]](tongue.gif)
![[Wink]](wink.gif)
![[Big Grin]](biggrin.gif)
Not quite sure what it means, but *bumps*.
I think the 2nd stanza is definately the strongest - the velvet scene and the great maw of aching space are fabulous images. Your first stanza has too much going on with the color. I find it best to describe color in a poem not by using the word, but by using an image that conveys that color. You know, red becomes pomegranate wine, green becomes unripe tomatoes, pink becomes umbilical cord. Whatever. Just adds another layer of depth. And depth can be surprisingly simple. When tackling something as undefinably huge as the universe as you do, it's sometimes more effective to contrast by zeroing in on really small details as your descriptions. Personally, I just think that the less vague a poem is, the more effective it is. .quote:I would give the following advice to any novice poet.
Tell me what you think of my last two. What should I work on most?
quote:
We purchase first electronic rights. Though we will consider reprints as long as they are accompanied by a declaration of this fact (including information on where the piece was previously published), we are much more interested in unpublished works.
Once accepted, we will publish your piece on our site for a period of three months (with one exception; please see the special note for details), after which we hope you will allow us to continue to display it in our archives.
We accept electronic submissions only. Submissions should be included in the body of an email (as plain text) as well as attached in the form of a .rtf file. Please send all pieces to submissions@metastatic-whatnot.com. Submissions otherwise received will be deleted unread.
For poetry, you are to submit a packet of 2-6 poems in a single email. This is to increase the likelihood of our finding a poem of yours that meets our needs for the issue being prepared. Your email header should follow the format "POETRY SUBMISSION: Title of poem (or the first poem in the packet)". The pay-rate is US $5 per poem, payable upon publication.
Simultaneous submissions are acceptable if declared as such, but we must emphasise the importance of notifying us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere. This cannot be stressed enough.
quote:Didn't Eliot himself address that last bit? Something about it being possible to apprehend a poem before actually understanding it?
These poets all used rhyme fairly often, wrote in intelligible English, and didn't produce images that were TOO hard (except possibly in Eliot's case -- but the beauty of his poesy is strong enough that you'll enjoy his poems even if you don't "get" them.)
But Christy and I have been talking. *laugh*
![[Eek!]](eek.gif)
quote:
looking for concrete advice
quote:The flow and imagery is really going here until we hit the ;. It's not the stop that doesn't work (because this is a turning point) but rather I think that it's the monosyllabic words and the internal rhyme of 'caught sight.'
But as they sat there steaming, sunlight flashed and lit her hair
In rivulets of cinnamon; she caught sight of his stare,
And smiled wryly back at him, amusement in her eyes,
Inviting him to lift her to her feet with a small sigh
![[Wall Bash]](graemlins/wallbash.gif)
but now i know, and I'll let my other thread die.quote:Nice. This evokes Salt Lake City for me, but in a broader sense, the base of the poem feels very "Mormon." Is this what you intended?
The hopeful all of me
Licks salt.
)
<smacks her lips on it>
![[Wave]](graemlins/wave.gif)
] ![[Roll Eyes]](rolleyes.gif)
quote:This line -- I found when I read it, I always said "awoke" instead of "woke" and I seemed to like the "awoke" better, but either way is good.
The light of a new star woke.
![[Cry]](graemlins/cry.gif)
j/k
j/k
But the best ones are still the real ones. But who ARE these people, the ones who are marrying? *grin*
I live here at Hatrack, in cyberspace.
The other one is going to be hard to get into crowds. You guys may just have to take our word for it that he exists. <goofy grin> I expect you'll approve of him highly as well.
quote:Why do people keep thinking this? The correlation between the two is almost non-existent. I think two people from chat post on the hug thread.
No. That's like saying people should try reading the hug thread.
)
![[Kiss]](graemlins/kiss.gif)
quote:Aaaaah--men.
What poetry needs are new poets speaking in the vernacular. Not screaming in the vernacular -- the Def Poetry stuff on HBO is merely sad. We need poets with power to use the language and poetic forms to say things that need saying to people who are hungry to hear them -- and to hear them said with beauty and cleverness and skill.
![[Blushing]](graemlins/blushing.gif)
<@<@<@<@<@quote:I decided not to send it by way of reply to the list. In fact, I didn't share it with anyone and only hesitantly post it here. I admit it is pretty bitter and that there are several valid religious rebuttals to its central idea, but it is representative of the way I feel when people get preachy on me and act like life would be so much simpler if I'd just surrender to Jesus.
I've never known a god to be
Much interested in equality
Or children starving in distant lands
Or mothers beaten by father's hands
Or general suffering of any sort.
They sit on thrones, hold heavenly court,
And watch us mortals down on Earth,
Living and dying and giving birth
And wondering why the pains and tears
Cried up to heaven fall on deaf ears.
quote:
Freddy Likes
Freddy likes his glasses clean
A single smudge, a tiny scratch
He wipes the screen;
He likes them clean.
Freddy likes his glasses clean
He likes to see through sparkling glass
“Nothing in the way,â€
He likes to say.
But Freddy your glasses
are filthy with grime.
Freddy all you’ve ever seen
(even with your glasses clean)
Is white and black and you and them,
Like a flashback (setback).
And you don’t want them to be-
Or you to see-
Freddy there’s debris
on your glasses.
.![[Evil Laugh]](graemlins/evillaugh.gif)
![[Party]](graemlins/party.gif)
quote:Discussions of the Trojan War are so often about the beauty of Helen and the cleverness of the Horse ruse (or gullibility of the Trojans, if you prefer). Your poem really brings to light the suffering of innocents caught in the middle, and I think that is very important, today as much as in ancient times.
White-armed Helen appears to be laughing, but Hector’s new widow
Hates not Zeus’s fair daughter; Andromache knows in her heart’s core
Wars are not fought for the noble excuses, the specious incentives
Men claim angrily spur them. The truth is the Argives have come for
Glory and gold and the raping of women, their only true gods Death,
Eros and War. To the last of these three now Andromache bows down:
![[No No]](graemlins/nono.gif)
quote:is just so comical I had to point it out.
I'm a pretty avid reader of poetry, myself. I think you'll find that most good poets are.
.
![[Dont Know]](graemlins/dontknow.gif)
quote:That makes me feel terrible. Should we not critique here? I don't want to discourage anyone from posting. On the other hand, I'd rather get a critique, myself, than no response at all.
Originally posted by Lyrhawn:
I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.
::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::
quote:It varies from person to person, obviously, but I wholeheartedly agree with Karl here, especially since what I've seen of his critiques is very to-the-point without being rude or indulging in PC "compliment sandwich" crap.
Originally posted by KarlEd:
quote:That makes me feel terrible. Should we not critique here? I don't want to discourage anyone from posting. On the other hand, I'd rather get a critique, myself, than no response at all.
Originally posted by Lyrhawn:
I'd have considered posting something in here until I saw KarlEd's critique of T_Smith's poem.
::goes to hide in the corner with the other poetry impaired folk::
quote:I liked most of your poem, Pel, but this line actually made me laugh out loud.
My mind drifted towards you,
Allen Ginsberg, as it is wont to do,
quote:There are quite a few poems-to-poems, though.
Your poems are love poems, mainly to other poems.
quote:
Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré.
quote:
Breakfast
He poured the coffee
Into the cup
He put the milk
Into the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
Into the coffee with milk
With a small spoon
He churned
He drank the coffee
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He emptied the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without any word to me
He lighted
One cigarette
He made circles
With the smoke
He shook off the ash
Into the ashtray
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
He got up
He put on
A hat on his head
He put on
A raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Into the rain
Without any word to me
Without any look at me
And I buried
My face in my hands
And I cried
quote:Here's to the Te of today:
Originally posted by Avatar300:
Here the tao of now:
Lose yourself in the present,
Not in yet-to-comes
Nor in might-have-beens.
Treasure this time now, for all
Moments are fleeting.
I gave that to Chris on our first Valentine's day together.