posted
Wow, I love to see this kind of traffic on this thread... especially Tom Davidson poetry. All right!
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?
posted
DougJ, DougJ, do not despair! Your potry is fresh, like a breath of spring air. I love it, I do, and I do not lie Cross my heart and hope to die.
Posts: 278 | Registered: Feb 2002
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Here are two love poems, refugees from a genre in which I very rarely dabble:
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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.”
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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.
posted
Since it faded rapidly into obscurity in its own thread, I'll put it here to do the same : ------------------------------------------
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.
posted
A good friend of mine once wrote this to me. I've long since forgotten what I did to deserve it, but it still makes me laugh.
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.
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.
posted
I sure did. It is a very clever poem and one that stuck in my mind when I first read it all those months ago. I'm glad I got a chance to compliment Tom on it.
Posts: 1068 | Registered: Aug 2000
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posted
What I like best about Tom's poem/rock lyric:
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!
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).]
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Bump. Too many hyper-politikal topics. Had to put this back on top to keep the board zen.
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. . .
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A Gift was mine The Gift of Words They flowed from my fingers Drawing bright pictures In the minds of those who read The Words I spun on the page.
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.
posted
My wife's stepfather passed away a couple of months ago. At the time I was asked to write a Eulogy. It was my only experience playing Speaker for the Dead. This poem was written as I tried to tackle that job.
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
posted
You ask if I'm alright? Well, yes and no. In brooding Pascal moods I might agree the heart has reasons reason cannot 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.
posted
*grin* Dante I love that form... can't remember what it's called but Elizabeth Jennings does it well. I like the poem itself too, especially the way the thought progresses and the refrain (which is one of my favourite quotations anyway)
Posts: 1550 | Registered: Jun 1999
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posted
Thanks, amira! It's the first and only villanelle I've ever written, so your kind words mean a lot.
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.
posted
Here's something I wrote to help along a novice poster on another poetry thread in a time long, long ago:
"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.
posted
And since I'm trying to catch up, here's another. You sort of have to be quite familiar with the works of John Milton to appreciate it, though...
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.
posted
One more and I'm done. 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.
posted
I toast your coming nuptials with ardent strength of cup and pen, and as a Wendy’s denizen, I eat my food and write my thoughts: the root-beer hope in Biggie shots, my french-fry love a Puritan. The air is thick with virilence, (society’s big-breasted lie) and hypo-hypno techno dance that binds my legs like rubber pants. Amidst these men I am no man, who cannot serve his love a meal, and so my fervor seems unreal, my eloquence a charlatan. Live love untold lives not so long as frosties frozen at a glance. Oh, combo-meals! Lost innocence! consumed by greed, and so I grieve. You both are in a better place. For hungry pride seeks eateries-- But sated love is out of space.
Posts: 1068 | Registered: Aug 2000
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posted
This is my first poem in over a year, probably the longest drought I've had. As always, your critism is welcomed with open arms.
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.
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.
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