Thoughts outside a cafe.

[Silas Thorne]

Maybe this is a little immature, and maybe it isn't poetry at all but prose, but still, I needed to write it:


The sun, savage on my eyes, reflects the heat. Burning away my peace...

There were once crops there, in that land.
But now the people, scounging for food, fading away with sickness and hunger
have long since bled the land dry.
For you have bled the people dry.
You and your fat hyenas laugh,
while babies, eyes bulging in swollen faces
stare at the sky in shallow graves.

Your two hands crush the land. Their grip will not loosen.
Can you not see the peoples' blood, seeping through the cracks of your white house?
Can you not see the price of your kingship?

The bread basket is broken.
The bread basket is broken.

I've made your coffin for you,
and I hope you sleep in it soon.

[qimissung]

I like it...a powerful statement. Is it about any place in particular? Is it about the white man's need to conquer?

[Silas Thorne]

Just need to say one thing: the 'bread basket' is Zimbabwe

[qimissung]

Ah. Thank you.

[jon1jt]

I don't know how to say it really, I just wish you hadn't gotten so in a knot about it, what comes out as almost a straight statement of opposition. So much we waste in anger, and still there's so much here to like, so much beauty in this landscape of heartwrench and despair, in its own way unique and singsongy. Many interesting lines, I need to read it again. I wonder, if we stripped anger from the angry poem would it be angry still? Oh, and I love the Zimbabwe thing.

[Silas Thorne]

I don't know how to say it really, I just wish you hadn't gotten so in a knot about it, what comes out as almost a straight statement of opposition. So much we waste in anger, and still there's so much here to like, so much beauty in this landscape of heartwrench and despair, in its own way unique and singsongy. Many interesting lines, I need to read it again. I wonder, if we stripped anger from the angry poem would it be angry still? Oh, and I love the Zimbabwe thing.

Ah, but it is opposition. Maybe the poetry disappeared though and it turned into rhetoric. In that case, I should have put it into the prose forum.

I don't want to take away the anger. Read the last two lines again.

[jon1jt]

Ah, but it is opposition. Maybe the poetry disappeared though and it turned into rhetoric. In that case, I should have put it into the prose forum.

I don't want to take away the anger. Read the last two lines again.

Yes, there's definitely anger there, and it scares me some. Besides, Aristotle said it is not whether we should or shouldn't be angry, but toward what end we use the anger.

Poetry never disappears, sometimes it just turns into a swatch of mist that I see lingering mornings in the street.

[Silas Thorne]

I like the idea that poetry never disappears. Maybe many more of my thoughts are looking for poems to live themselves through...

[jon1jt]

I like the idea that poetry never disappears...

This may be the only thing that puts us at ease about our own mortality. Poetry and cotton candy, definitely.



There were once crops there, in that land.
But now the people, scounging for food, fading away with sickness and...

For me, this is where the poem picks up a rhythm, the start of some rhapsody stretched across...? Only you know. Makes me want to shout, go go!