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thank you all for your wonderfull comments. USERANNIE: i never thought of it that way but then again i am not a female so i would not be able to portray something like that effectively. SAM: i rarely get spurs of the moments. somebody has to suggest i write about something before i can do what i did there. I suggest taking uncle orsons andvice and go with your first impulse when you write something. Fiune tune it later but just trust your guts. you night find that your work will be easier and more satisfying. Everybody: here is another of my favorites probably my most favorite because it can be vague in its meaning. After ya read it tell me what relly happened in the end i like getting peoples opinion on this one. I had a clear purpose in mind and i like to know if i conveyed it properly.
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.
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Yebor, I loved it. Sounds like he was finally bested.
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!
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Samuel, I've been trying to write something like Worship Service for a long time. I like it a lot. Now that I've read yours, maybe mine will finally take birth. Posts: 5509 | Registered: May 1999
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Yebor, your pen pal may well be right. You could probably make a description of paint drying interesting. I’ll email you what I got out of “The Day It Was Hot At Dusk” and let the others figure it out for themselves. Besides I may be all wrong and that would be embarrassing. We can post it later if you want. I’ll just say this here: I like it. It tells a whole story.
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?
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I have never had anyhting published but in something that a sophmore honors class put together. In fact they left out the last most important line when they published it for the school. For some reason they rejected the day it was hot at dusk and aceepted that one when i feel that it was a weaker poem. I just dont know how to get my stuff published. If anybody has any suggestions please feel free to let me know. I would like to see my work in print and share it with more people.
Posts: 22 | Registered: Oct 1999
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Well, ducky, here is “MOTHER'S OLD BUTTON JAR” and here is the story behind it. I don’t normally think of an old five gallon honey can as a jar. I took a little poetic license there. At any rate, my mother did have this can about three quarters full of old buttons, and I loved to play with them. Oh, I had other toys, but you know how kids are. You buy them a toy and they play with the box.
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.
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Samuel, you were correct about the punctuation. Sorry, I did edit it. I love your 'Button Jar'. I have the same response to a jar of buttons. I have a collection, so does my mother and both of my sisters! To me a jar of buttons is art for the sense of touch.
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.
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Anne Kate, you finished it! It's wonderful! I love it already.
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.
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my friend is into the beastie boys, and this is what he came up with the other day... i know its not origianl since it is from him, but for a spur of the moment thing he can really flow with rhymes! so here goes:
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!
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Anne Kate, thank you for writing and posting “Ode.” It is really nice work. Also I want to thank you for mentioning Thomas Hardy back on Nov. 23th in the “Books: . . .” etc thread. I’d never heard of him before so it was fun to discover a new (for me) poet that I like. “Smooth” is one of the words that comes to mind when I read his poetry. It would be really nice to hear some of his works read by the late Vincent Price or someone of like voice. I wonder if any such recordings exist?
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.
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My high school AP english teacher used to hammer on the point that poetry was a medium of communication. It allows intelligent beings to reach out and touch one another's souls. Poetry creates connections between people.
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.
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well met in this gathering of avenues and oysters the scream of steel in stone dark glass unshaping winds casting them upon these valleys well come to this birthing age its name still strange upon our lips its rage as yet unborn and on its back a scattering of shadow but for now the fires left unbanked will dance a babble will rise from the throng the flies will hum in symphony the dogs hungry and wild will howl their song oh! what a personal event this singularity contained in a million and eight million more that we— the thirst of oceans the hunger of universes the first breath of babies —should meet I, a passing thought and you a memory of leaves
Posts: 62 | Registered: Dec 1999
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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.
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).]
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Scott, I guess that is how I see the world now. Either that or it's how I'm feeling right now. Truth to tell, I'm not exactly sure what my poem is all about. All I know is that I spent hours working on it and posted it anyway despite the fact that I thought it wasn't finished. You're right when you said you sense chaos. I sense it too. I will be posting my comments within the week. That is, after I've finished reading everything here.
Posts: 62 | Registered: Dec 1999
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I have not looked at this thread in a while, I must say I was overwhelmed at the fantastic poetry here since Christmas or so!
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.
"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.
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Out of sorrow Out of stone Out of the old place some call Home Out of shadow Out of sky Out of my own coiled fear I fly Out of water Out of shame Out of the tired thing called my name Out of age Out of reach Out of the cracked bent autumn speech Out of pockets Out of time Out of breath and into rhyme
Posts: 62 | Registered: Dec 1999
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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.
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I've just been leaning back reading all of the poetry here and I must say you all do very well. I have enjoyed all of them.
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.
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!
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LR- Hmm. I don't mind too much, to tell the truth. As long as you send me the glowing praises for my work your colleagues will inevitably offer.
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
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Good grief, Lord Ragged! Including me with the other three is high praise indeed. When you use that kind of flattery, what choice does a guy have but to say – “YES!” Besides you DID use the magic word.
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.
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Yes, and also be sure to put a link back here to Hatrack, so in case anyone on the list is curious they can come and find us. Posts: 5509 | Registered: May 1999
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I was meandering through the Internet when I fell into this Web site. I am impressed by the caliber of Poetry shared here (for free, wow, I would even pay for this, and I’m somewhat of a spendthrift). There are so many great gems here. “Thousand Screams” took me two readings to start to figure out. “Cedar Chest” was great. Samuel Bush, I had a “button jar” as well. Thanks for sharing it yet again. The following is based on a wooden puzzle I had as a child.
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.
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welcome carma! and i liked your poem so thank you for that too. i kept puzzling over it, seeing and hearing the puzzle clicking and snapping and unraveling in my head, making knots in my brain--but aren't brains knotty in the first place? piman, what exactly is a sestina? i'm not too familiar with poetry forms. i know the haiku and i think i seem to remember something about iambic pentameters and stuff like that. but sestina I know nothing about. Aka and Scott have been using rhymes and meters, something which I know is extremely difficult to do, which shows how much these two have honed their craft. I also want to thank everyone who have allowed me to post their poems on one of the mailing lists I belong to. You are such great people. I'll cross-post the comments later.
Posts: 62 | Registered: Dec 1999
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Carma, send your check to . . . never mind -- just kidding. Hey, I think I had that puzzle too when I was a kid. Glad to have you with us.
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).]
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Wow, the formating sure got messed up on that one. The first and last verses were supposed to be in italics. How do you get italics on these posts?
Posts: 631 | Registered: Oct 1999
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Sam- That was hilarious! I've got to admit, every once in a while when I come home, I'm so tired I can't do anything but veg in front of Guiding Light. You're right, it's sheer drivel.
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.
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Ha ha! I love it Sam. I don't know why, but to me parodies are the funniest form of writing. That's why I love Weird Al and Mad Magazine - I guess it's just the fact that it takes something familiar and twists it that makes it funny.
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....
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My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun...
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).]
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I remembered the name of another one I like... "The Forward Violet Thus Did I Chide", but I can't remember what it's about or why I liked it. Hmmm... sounds like time for a trip to the library.
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).]
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aka, yours poems are beautiful. Thank you for sharing them.
"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.
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Sarfa - I really liked that. It made me think a lot about poetry.
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
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“Just shut your yap, you early bird! You should catch worms. Or ain’t you heard? So fly away and let me sleep. It’s my day off today, you creep!”
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Thanks for the compliment annie. I wrote this poem when contemplating the death of a childhhod friend who was struck by a drunk driver. WARNING this is not a happy poem.
"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.
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