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Thread: Your Favorite Poems from fellow Lit-Netters

  1. #331
    The Ghost of Laszlo Jamf islandclimber's Avatar
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    Miyako, I must say, I am honoured to find my piece here. Thank you.

    I have not visited this part of the site before; it's certainly humbling to peruse the fantastic poetry that has been placed here.

  2. #332
    The Ghost of Laszlo Jamf islandclimber's Avatar
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    A couple of my own favourites from when I was on this site long ago.

    Quote Originally Posted by firefangled View Post


    Deliverance In Blue
    -For Carol (17 Miles of rain)

    I say,
    blue drips from your wet skin
    like John Coltrane’s
    last
    late
    night set...

    you frown like I must be one too
    many empty glasses.

    When it showers I wonder
    why grass is not blue or teal, like green
    held some power, or made a deal
    in another life
    to be the king and queen
    of color,
    or demanded equal time…

    with what, you say?

    with the seven seas,
    everyone thinks are blue...
    and you walk away,
    that frown again

    come back...

    the black
    sea,
    what about that?


    now you’re playing...
    people think
    it’s blue
    too.

    and waterfalls?...

    white?


    like your eyes, I say,
    now we’re getting
    somewhere...
    stand
    back
    from the falls,

    now what?

    mist, you say, must
    we do this… and why?


    just for fun,
    what color is the mist?

    Clear as a tear...
    it’s all a trick,
    water and light play…


    (as if that explained
    anything)

    see the sky,
    blue
    sky,
    all water or what?

    a tidal wave crosses your face,
    white eyes skyward,
    you walk away,

    catch me later in a word breeze...

    in a Key West dive

    seduce
    me

    to a room,

    Coltrane’s
    raining on the slick
    night air where

    the blue-neon-last-round-call,
    in flats
    and sharps
    catches us
    making blue
    notes at a
    window’s

    moonlit silver
    grass
    whispers


  3. #333
    The Ghost of Laszlo Jamf islandclimber's Avatar
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    And this piece by PrinceMyshkin, it is a shame to no longer see his frequently sublime contributions to this section of the site...

    Quote Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin View Post


    The day they invented my mind
    the committee almost came to blows.
    Clouds like overblown cannon-balls
    boomed against the skies.
    Pieces of weather fell everywhere.

    Some of the committee proposed,
    as a compromise,
    to issue me one of those new,
    one-size-fits-all, chromium-wired
    minds with floating interstices.

    The weather continued to rage.
    I waited.

    Sometimes I feel
    I’m waiting still.

    Jerry Newman (C) July 12/ 09

  4. #334
    The Ghost of Laszlo Jamf islandclimber's Avatar
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    This poem, the use of language, is just beautiful.

    Quote Originally Posted by symphony View Post
    A rainless window. And I,
    indifferent, parsed the night,
    absently twined the wind at ease
    between my fingers tracing
    the city silhouettes. Contoured
    a new night in this newfound
    canvas.


    Wings
    of dormant birds are beating low.
    The mind is slow.
    The speed of this hand
    perpetual in its want to wipe off
    the sacrilege of far-off neon-lights--
    surly outlanders of the night.


    With the wind the voice
    of a waif whose night it is
    comes in a slow, broken song.
    I know the child, I know
    the passerby who cut him off.
    I know the city’s skyline divides
    the night,
    this night I don’t know, can’t remember.


    It must rain tonight.
    For me to write it must.
    Wash this window off its obscenities,
    off the cities and off their lights
    of filths, and flashes, and flames.


    Where is the love in this?
    Where are the Persian poets
    of love? One can only wake up
    in muslin mornings and feel Hafez gaze
    at a similar silken air,
    twining the same wind
    in knowing fingers.
    And mornings become
    of memories of tombstones…
    you, who is cast away
    from man and sanctioned company
    you, who here must assay
    Love: this be your sanctuary.


    And it must rain this dawn.
    For me to live it must.
    The city must hang
    in the camera obscura,
    the moon a mere fresco
    in a moonspurned room.


    - Symphony

  5. #335
    All are at the crossroads qimissung's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by miyako73 View Post
    I wonder why no one puts this one in here. So I'll do it. I think it deserves to be in here.


    Nostalgia for Post-modern Recession on the News


    Tuesday
    certainly closes with the sadness
    only found in laminate floors,
    in unfinished townhouses
    in unfinished neighborhoods,
    in this city’s recently vast yet
    unfinished suburbs.

    and love hangs from another cherry tree
    in Fred and Laura's backyard,
    hangs from the neck until another
    murder suicide is complete,
    as the half-finished house is
    repossessed
    and two children resort
    to convex mirrors
    and semi-legal drugs
    and inauthenticity
    to sort things out

    clocks fail, spin backwards,
    and drenched in diazepam,
    we –the generation of lost perspectives-
    cross out rather
    unpoetic lines
    that mean little more than the
    bones and shadows of tomorrow’s
    headlines at this
    point.

    disembodied shoes march by,
    -my feverish memories of a sidewalk-
    suggestive of
    a forest without trees,
    a charity without a cause,
    a **** without an orgasm,
    even if her skin is reminiscent
    of a bottle filled
    with several credit card receipts,
    even if she's somewhat claustrophobic
    (forget fluoxetine)
    after I paint her in a dark shade
    of taupe
    and leave her to fellate the second-hand hours
    exquisitely.

    what are we?
    misplaced heroes; humiliation;
    the executioners of what’s
    still cliché?

    not life, not death,
    but you and I and
    so many failed histories
    sprawled across a fake granite counter top,
    ****ing the sorrow out of the first half
    of the hour seven,
    Wednesday morning.
    Now this is poetry.
    "The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its' own reason for existing." ~ Albert Einstein
    "Remember, no matter where you go, there you are." Buckaroo Bonzai
    "Some people say I done alright for a girl." Melanie Safka

  6. #336
    feathers firefangled's Avatar
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    From Personal Poetry by Delta.

    Dirty Laundry


    Washboard lies
    wakeful nights
    all that scrubbing
    like a fat irish woman
    whose thick arms have
    crushed child after child
    against her breast.
    Would that her pudgy hands
    plunge into such soapy untruths,
    the bubbles resting on her brow
    under a morning sun and
    a long lost song
    till she finally wrings out
    the mighty cups
    where they swing so free
    to drip dry on the family tree
    and future stains kneel
    beneath them
    their mouths wide open.

  7. #337
    Registered User Delta40's Avatar
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    Thanks so much FF but I'm fighting to keep the cup for this poem...
    Before sunlight can shine through a window, the blinds must be raised - American Proverb

  8. #338
    It wasn't me Jerrybaldy's Avatar
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    This used to be regularly used as people felt the need to put an exceptional piece of work here. It's lack of use since January is a sad indicator of the demise of this forum.

    For those who believe,
    no explanation is necessary.
    For those who do not,
    none will suffice.

  9. #339
    Registered User
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    Wax and wane? Come and go? The forum certainly misses hillwalker anchoring it down.





    J

  10. #340
    Inexplicably Undiscovered
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    Quote Originally Posted by Jerrybaldy View Post
    This used to be regularly used as people felt the need to put an exceptional piece of work here. It's lack of use since January is a sad indicator of the demise of this forum.
    That must be some mote in your eye that you can't see the gems beaming right back atcha, such as this one.

    It's definitely yours fooly's "favorite poem from a LitNutter."

  11. #341
    Still, on a chalk plateau Bar22do's Avatar
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    speaking of gems...

    dying with brio...

    image.jpg

  12. #342
    Registered User Delta40's Avatar
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    I definitely second Bar but I'm glowing inside Auntie!
    Before sunlight can shine through a window, the blinds must be raised - American Proverb

  13. #343
    Inexplicably Undiscovered
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    Sometimes, there is nothing more to say:

    Quote Originally Posted by Jerrybaldy View Post
    The pier.

    Pink sugar spun to floss
    sending a warm sweet scent
    curling between amusement machines
    of cherries and bells
    and tunes that play
    in the smokey chattering heat
    of the pier at night.

    Beneath, rusted columns
    sink to black water.

    Fat spits from a burger on a hot plate,
    outside, by the wide mouthed clown
    collecting wooden balls
    for winners of a fluffy
    personified carrot.

    A boy looks over the rail
    wondering how deep.

    A man in a cap blows smoke
    from both nostrils
    through a moustache that once was dark
    and had led Mary to call him Valentino.
    He pushes his glasses back up his nose
    and aims his smoke at the moon.

    The boy sees the moon dance
    from wave to wave.

    Gypsy Lea is waiting behind a red velvet curtain.
    A woman with a polystyrene cup of tea,
    cooling beneath a washing line
    of coloured bulbs,
    wonders whether to dare go in.

    "Legs eleven"
    the bingo caller shouts in static.
    Old moustache man whistles
    into a westerly wind.

    The woman with the polystyrene cup
    blows steam toward a couple holding hands,
    who are wishing romantically upon the moon
    that dances from dark wave to dark wave
    for the boy leaning on the rail.

    The couple orbit each other
    In a mock waltz.

    They will return in twenty years
    to where they met.
    Moustache man will be dead,
    Mary still remembers her Valentino.
    The clown still laughing
    it's belly full of wooden balls.
    Gypsy Lea foretold her own end.
    The lady who never went in,
    walks on the prom,
    with alzheimer's and
    a tall grey stranger.


    Pink candy, sweet, still fills the air.

    The boy is a man
    and as the tune of three bells
    fills the pier
    and the painted bulbs
    sway in a westerly wind,
    he stares
    transfixed still,
    by the cold black lure of the sea.

  14. #344
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    Untitled by qimissung

    I was imprisoned
    By the knave
    His wild heart
    Wrapped in tapestry and furs
    Enslaved me
    Though I wore a poker face
    He always knew, he always knew
    What I was thinking
    My heart on my sleeve
    His for the plucking
    Grief, lusterless and white
    Lies on my brow
    And small children
    Will not walk in my shadow
    Oh jack, but still your face
    Your face upon my eyelids in the dark

  15. #345
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    Untitled by qimissung

    I was imprisoned
    By the knave
    His wild heart
    Wrapped in tapestry and furs
    Enslaved me
    Though I wore a poker face
    He always knew, he always knew
    What I was thinking
    My heart on my sleeve
    His for the plucking
    Grief, lusterless and white
    Lies on my brow
    And small children
    Will not walk in my shadow
    Oh jack, but still your face
    Your face upon my eyelids in the dark

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