Your Favorite Poems from fellow Lit-Netters

[Delta40]

Your mockery of others Hill knows no bounds

[hillwalker]

Only those who set themselves up to be mocked, as you well know.

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

Your mockery of others Hill knows no bounds

Personally I find mockery to be the last of Hill's intentions. He's one of the most attentive and constructive critics in this forum. As to WolfLarsen, I think it's anybody's guess what he's up to. My guess would be that he sees himself in the tradition of les poètes maudits, but theirs was as much an anti-bourgeois activity as it was a purely literary one. They felt they were the castaways of bourgeois society. But what they wrote nevertheless fit within the broad definition of poetry. I have trouble seeing that in WL's offerings.

[hillwalker]

Personally I find mockery to be the last of Hill's intentions. I have trouble seeing [poetry] in WL's offerings.

You and most of us on here - but he probably deserves his 15 minutes of fame, if only for being such a pain in the proverbial.

H

[Catamite]

how many people does it take
to paint a table?


one to apply
lush paint strokes

another to perform
itty-bitty touch ups

touch up where he said

everywhere I said

nice he said

and so we work
eyes closed

This is my favourite poem on here; it's got so much feeling compressed within a few lines.

[Delta40]

Only those who set themselves up to be mocked, as you well know.

H

This forum is for people to post their favourite poems by other Lit-Netters. Am I suddenly a stickler for respect?

I love reading your posts Hill and don't have a problem at all with your opinion of Wolfs work but not everyone shares your view as you well know.

I don't believe this particular forum should be used when it is so obvious that Wolf's poem along with your comments is not your favourite. As far as I'm concerned, it is not genuine, it is insulting and despite Wolf's writings, he is a fellow member and is entitled to the same respect that other members get.

If you continue to feel the need to mock him, then post your thoughts in his threads.

[Jack of Hearts]

Here's a poster this reader misses seeing on these boards (as if this thread needs another one of these). Here's a time and sense of community this reader misses seeing on these boards. Although it's a mystery why she insisted on calling bortleman 'bartleby.'

'Through The LitNet Glass, or, EveryAdventure in Wonderland' by everyadventure

Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
-Lewis Carroll

Urged by
vague
curiosity
I peer at LitNet
through the glowing screen
Of my MacBook
I lean closer—
too close!—
and fall

A wondrous
tumbling
head over
heels over
head
Words pass me by
I reach for them
metallic
messy
meows
But they are not solid matter
I fall
and
fall
and while away
the time
by penning a poem
in my head

I land with a
THUMP
in the
middle
of a forum
I search for an exit
at last spying
a tiny door
“This is absurd!”
I stamp
one slippered foot
“I am much
much
much
too large.”

A sharp, rude prod
against my backside
I whirl around
to face
Of all things
a Goose

“I beg your pardon!
Did you just poke me
with that horrid, hardened
beak?”

The Goose gazes at me
with one shiny eye
and gives a regal nod
Her beak opens
and out rolls
a vial
that stops at my feet

I pick it up
“Drink Me,”
I read.
The goose nods
encouragement as
I uncork
the bottle and

hesitate

before lifting her criticism to my lips
I drink
swallow
And am promptly
shrunk down to size
I’m relieved to find
I don’t go out altogether,
as a candle.

“Thank you!” I call
over my shoulder
as I scurry
through
the door
and emerge
in a lush garden

“Perhaps I
can find someone
to show me the way.”
I soon come upon
a most curious creature
languishing on a mushroom’s cap
ardently suckling
his hookah

“Hello!” I call.
He looks down
from his fungal throne
and envelops me
in an
exhalation

I try again
“Hello,”
I say,
“Who are you?”

He s t r e t c h e s
to his full height
“I
am
Jerrybaldy!
And w h o o o o
are you?”

Who indeed?
“I know who I was
when I got up this morning
but I think
I must have been
changed
several times since then.”

“You must be Missing,”
he surmises
“Recite!”
as though a poem
will bring me back
to myself

I begin
with Bronte
“My God! O let me call Thee mine!”
Jerrybaldy reddens with rage
“It is wrong
from beginning to end!”

He leans low
and shouts
“There is no God!”
His skin splits
and he is freed
of his casing
wings unfurl
and off he flies
leaving me
still
quite grounded

Curiouser and curiouser.

I walk on
and come across
a pigeon
all aflutter
“A Preposterous Affair!”
she splutters,
speaking
of eggs
and nests,
of earth
and spring
Then points
with an elegant
feathered wing

“A serpent!” she accuses
“No, no,” I protest
“A poet, not a serpent!”
But it’s useless

“I can see
you’re trying to
invent something!”
she cries
“And as we all know,
a poet never tries!”

I’ve had quite enough
and take my leave

It isn’t long before
I hear a meow
And look up at a
cat
perched on a bough

It looks good natured;
still,
it has VERY
l o n g claws
and a great many
teeth
and I feel it ought
to be treated
with respect

“Hillwalker,”
he purrs
in answer
to my unspoken question

“Hillwalker, please,
would you tell me
which way to go from here?”

“That depends
a good deal
on where you want
to get to.”

“I don’t much care---”

“This,” he purrs,
“Is a case
of the tail
wagging
the dog.”
And with that
he vanishes.

I’m feeling giddy
not nearly as grounded
as I was this morning
but there’s nothing to do
but keep going

At last I see
a table
decked for tea
“Finally, civilized people!”
I sit beside a young man
with a hat
that
perches precariously
upon his head.

He extends a
gloved
gentlemanly
hand.

“How do you do?” I ask politely.

“Lonely with cold sincere thoughts,”
he confesses.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply.
“But perhaps we should find
some more palatable
conversation?”

He clasps gloved hands
in delight
“Rumours of gossips!”

“Oh dear,” I say
“That wouldn’t be polite.”

“How about a riddle?” he asks
crumbs of bread and butter
falling from his mouth
“If we are sole judge on are merits
are merits of luxury?”

I ponder and ponder
but find no answer.
“I’m very sorry,
but I still have a
ways to go.”
He waves me
graciously
onward

I spot
two fingerposts
pointing
the same direction
One marked
“To Bartleby’s House,”
the other,
“To Grit’s House”

The path takes a turn
and there I see
two men
each with an arm
round
the other’s neck

“Could you tell me,
please,
which is the best
way for me?”

They grin
And say in unison
“The woods!
The woods!
All good stories
end in the woods!”

“But…
I don’t want to end,
I just want to leave!”

“Take a dog,”
advises Grit
“Or a cat,”
counsels Bartleby.

But I have neither
(where is Hillwalker
when I need him?)
and continue
alone

I finally emerge
in a grassy clearing
rimmed by a row
of tidy rose hedges

Jack of Hearts
is busily painting
white blooms
scarlet

“Who are those for?” I ask,
pointing to the
roses
He turns to me
sincerity seizes all his features
and the shiny coins of his eyes
gleam
“They’re for… uh…
my queen.”

“The queen!” I declare
“There is a queen?”

Jack paints with nervous vigor
“Of course there is a queen!”
As if on cue
I hear the blare
of trumpets
A procession!
Led by a minstrel
(or perhaps a prince?)
tooting his own horn
His notes scatter
in an apparently
aimless
way

And there!
The queen!
Naked, glorious,
resplendent girth!
“Halt!” she bellows,
spying me.
She points a blood-red
fingernail
“She has stolen my poem
and given it to another!
Off with her
head!”

"Wait! Wait!"
I exclaim

"Alright
right
right
I'll wait
wait
wait
but only because
you asked me to."

“Please,” I begin,
“I’d rather play
croquet?”

[Jack of Hearts]

'Serenade' by Hawkman

At night, having drawn my curtains
tight against a streetlight’s sodium glow,
I would lie in bed, and hear birdsong.

How loud it was, persistent as the blades
of orange light which inched through gaps
and painted bars upon the wall.

I used to think it was a nightingale
that etched my dreams, with notes like motes
in Brownian motion, caught by sunbeams.

But it was just a robin, gulled
by artificial day, whose music swam
through shade to penetrate my daze.

False nightingale, with your deceitful trills,
no longer do I hear your calls
while drifting to the arms of sleep.

Like the fox’s bark from starlit fields
and distant woods’ bass-fluted owls,
time muted you as walls could not.

[Jack of Hearts]

'Credo' by firefangled


This is the best I can do:
that day in the blackberries,
at my feet, the fat copperhead stretched out
motionless and shining,
under the green briars,
under the blue sky,
its scales like fallen leaves.

It was when I drew blood in the brambles
and it dropped on the snake
that I noticed him, noticed him
so still, and I thought of You,

hiding in the distant field,
in the grasses and pied Sycamore.
I heard You,
in the frail air,
circling like a hyphen
between heaven and earth.

This is how I believe,
between dim moonlight
and the ferocity of the sun.
You need not wake
to waken me,
but in the thorns,
I think I've felt your touch.

[Jack of Hearts]

'Jasmine Bursting in Air' by firefangled


In a vase on the piano,
flowers from the Spring or Summer,
fragrance blending with the octaves,
the metronome filling the room.
The window pane fails to divide the light,
but leaves its bars along the wall,
where my silhouette bends and plays
until evening comes for me.

Through the morning glass, Jasmine climbs
the trellis like a simple song
that reminds me of Gardenia.
The trees break sun and shade like keys,
to lie against the garden wall.
The Jasmine blossoms, delicate,
like notes written for the right hand,
flourish under fingers unseen.

The Hummingbirds play the pistils,
draw the sweet nectar from the chime,
and with their wings the drone of bass.
Scale presents itself in mystery—
how do we listen to the guns?
From the thunder comes brass lightning,
from that the quiet, where death sounds
in this garden’s lean symphony.

The flowers of the Fall are red.
For now, we listen intently;
Pianissimo blows the wind
across the strings of future songs—
of victory in the mangled streets;
in public halls the heroes praised.
Make your anthem from the Jasmine,
freedom knows how it came to be.

[Jack of Hearts]

how many people does it take
to paint a table?


one to apply
lush paint strokes

another to perform
itty-bitty touch ups

touch up where he said

everywhere I said

nice he said

and so we work
eyes closed

This is my favourite poem on here; it's got so much feeling compressed within a few lines.

This is an amazing poem by Queen Ja- erm, Haunted, from her thread 'A Short Collection of Trashy Poems' (although the thread's title is misleading on many levels).







J

[Jack of Hearts]

'The sun, that peppercorn' by PrinceMyskin

The sun, that peppercorn,
shines as if it were
the naked face of God.

Beneath it, we huddle
in the sanctuaries - Khartoum, Edinburgh, Mumbai
- we have sketched,
we here, others there.

Underneath that, the lesser peppercorns
scatter on their apparently
aimless way...

[Mutatis-Mutandis]

I must write more. One of my poems being posted here would help with my continuing need for validation.

[DieterM]

There are so many excellent poems, some of which have already been reposted here. In order to draw everyone's attention to the fabulous Contest Section, here are two or three (or more) of my favourites out of the Minimalist Poetry Contest.

Let's start with this one :

"Punctuation" by jajdude

He smoked his cigarettes like commas,
or sometimes like semi-colons;
Vague the meaning was.

[DieterM]

"Building" by YesNo

I built a castle in the sand.
The waves pushed it away.
The castles built up in my mind
Won't leave. They tend to stay.