Holy smoke! Now I'm tempted to see if I can write one inspired by yours!Quote:
Originally Posted by qimissung
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Holy smoke! Now I'm tempted to see if I can write one inspired by yours!Quote:
Originally Posted by qimissung
To stop the dream now so soon and for what,
because we have forgotten how to dance
in quarter time? This is not us sleeping:
the lobster traps are empty, the past hides
in our breathing, a cough to right the dream
that floats in water like the wrinkled moon.
Look into the mirror of the sea, it peels
where the nets drag, the lobsters are dancing
backwards, in a quadrille, while dead champagne
gathers in the tide pools with fallen stars.
The mirror is a world that’s still a world,
though you turned your back and now it is changed.
There is a girl who is no more a girl,
cinnamon and wave, poor Alice, she stays
inside the games and puzzles, backwards talk
cellar the in rats the though and, she knows,
she mourns for what small things can make us glad.
You must step through the past, into the clear
reflection of the dance of hearts. Don’t think,
dance in this new world, as if you are dreaming.
by firefangled
I love the images created herein, the world reflected again and again, our perception of it changing with the blink of an eye and the small things that make us glad.
This one, by Delta40:
Brian the Conkerer
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bits of string to the wood
where the conkers be
There you might find
Ye old chestnut tree
A small foot in the crook
lifts a boyish body high
Yucky grimy knees
scraped on every side
So go forth young Brian
wrap your hand around
the fattest horse chestnuts
to ever be found
Pluck from its bough
choicest of the wise
stow within your breast
Find you the biggest prize!
Oh Conkerer see others
scrabble at your feet
shake, shake the tree!
let them grab the prickly treats!
leap back down to the earth
and colour autumn best
with the ancient song of herald
throughout the golden forest
'Oddly oddly onker!
Brian has done thee proud
I have my first conker!
begone you beggarly crowd'
Effortlessly brilliant.Quote:
I Have a Butter Knife, and I Know How
To Use It*
All around this place bags abound –
white ones from the supermarket
and the dollar store, colored and clear
sleeves that the newspaper came in.
These bags are not toys! They're plastic,
and lethal. What’s to prevent me
from wrapping one over my head?
We've got a cabinet shelf full
of over-the-counter medicines,
little bottles with child-proof safety
caps, and capsules behind shrink-
wrapped bubbles you can't open
without a blow-torch in full flame.
But I wouldn't hesitate
to down the lot of ‘em. Maybe
I'll do fifteen Tylenols and die
of boredom waiting for
something to happen.
And there’s that oven that brags
that it’s “self-cleaning” but hasn't
lifted a finger since we've been here.
Still, I'm this far away from turning
the knob and putting my head in.
On the electric coil I'll broil
my nose to spite my face. A first
degree burn is worth the third
degree you'll get from the Authorities.
You hear me? I'm not kidding around,
not just whistling “Dixie” here, not that
I ever learned the song all the way through
or ever got the hang of whistling. I mean
it, though! You'd better watch your
step, Mister. I'm just saying.
*With sincere apologies to Dorothy “Resumé ” Parker
I would have added this one, Blnk vrz, if you hadn't.
Has anyone heard about the scandal with the Oxford professorship of poetry. It seems that Derek Walcott was going to get the honor, but then another poet named Ruth Padel ( a descendant of Darwin), another candidate, started sending derogatory emails to try and smear Walcott. Seems Walcott had in his past a couple of sexual harrassment claims against him that were never prosecuted. Padel admitted sending the emails, so has taken her name out of contention and Walcott is completely uninterested now.
I didn't know poets could be so cutthroat. I guess we have to wait and see who will finally accept the post. I like the way the Philadephia Inquirer's writer, John Timpane, finished his column. " Stay tuned. Seldom has the poetic world known such suspense, or tasted such bile."
This raises the eternally interesting question of how and whether we should separate the artist from his or her art. Whilst I am far from wishing to defend Walcott in the face of the sexual harassment charges, in this I feel more distaste for Ms Padel in using that to disqualify a competitor.Quote:
Originally Posted by Lynne50
But wouldn't your post be more appropriate - and more likely to get the attention it deserves if it were in the General Literature Forum, as a new thread?
now that is the most non-poetic news I've ever heard, at least in those environs.
Quote:
Originally Posted by quasimodo1
And yet, my dear Q.,
whom do we suppose write poems?
Is it only the saints
among us, in which case
how thin the anthologies might be!
Is it the men and women
of serene temperament
and hearts as broad
as some long, leisurely unwinding
line of verse?
Remember Baudelaire and his
toi hypocrite lecteur,
mon semblable, mon frere!
to PrinceMyshkin: Now you know I love a dark poem as much as anybody; my remark is aimed at the lack of savoir faire in the "glorious" limelight, and hammering my Carribbean genious with such cheap shots. No, you're right...I'm not suprised. At least I/we are not degrading Joyce today...that's progress.
Anyone who takes a shot at the ol' man, you send him or her to see me.Quote:
Originally Posted by quasimodo1
A Distance of Sixty-one Light-years
Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Aunt Shecky
I don't think your mother would be disappointed. She would probably take much delight in reading your good poems.
Thanks Prince Myshkin for posting this.
No kidding. It's letter-perfect, in tone and word.
“Death and Oreos”
No good can I see in the world
Death and despair
Rape and murder
Sickness and famine
(Oreos on sale this week)
Three soldiers killed in a car bomb
Oreos sound good, come to think of it.
This poem by mutatis-mutandi really spoke out to me because it shows how easy it is to forget the horrible things in the world
Yes, this one's incredible.Quote:
Originally Posted by kevinthediltz quoting Sophia
Unbelievable. . .. . .
Quote:
Originally posted by quimissung
King Kong in Chains
The wide sky leapt above me like a salmon
finding its way upstream
The wind gently touched my face
with the delicate and deft fingers of a blind man
I knew the seasons and how they changed,
a sure knowledge I wore with my skin
And I knew not hunger, nor hungered
for more than I had, until I lost it
My string of pearls, unknotted, fell,
and rolled this way and that
Across the polished wooden floor
And even though I could hear them
And scrabbled on hand and knees
To find them, my search was fruitless
And I sat as daylight faded from my eyes
And my fingers grew useless,
My body no longer fit the space I lived in
And what I felt did not match what those around me felt
I became useless and hung from the side of a building
Far above them
And they were no more to me than ants crawling over and around
One another in an ambiance of unthinking industry
I hung there until my arms grew rubbery and unfeeling
And I grew desperate to cling to this brick and mortar,
Fighting to keep the fragile connection
Until my days were spent in an agony of wondering how long I could hold on
I dreamt that I held in the palm of my hand
a small delicate and fluttering thing
breathing all the life I could not find and looking
at me steadily
suddenly I could not breathe for looking
at the thing of iridescent beauty that lay in the hollow of its neck
my eyes absorbed its beauty
I could see, then, a shard of light among the darkened clouds
And even as I looked and wondered at it, I could not help but think
That if this small pulsing fluttering creature were to fall from my so great paw,
Would I go after it?
Or would I stay, smitten by the sky?
Qimissung
(for Pendragon)
There's too many to choose from, so I'll just choose one of the most effective of his "snapshots" ;)
Quote:
Originally posted by PrinceMyshkin
Birds in adjacent cages
pondering
each other's dreams
Here I sit with baited breath
as your cracked dry lips part
to fess your secrets in death
pour forth from wither'd heart
that which you held from me in life
Now your voice husks weak
And my hand shall smother
Any words you speak
Shallow yet mysterious mother
padlocked woman, closed lipped wife
_____
Delta40
Agreed! Qimissung is always exceptional, andQuote:
Originally Posted by DanielBenoit
I overlooked your citation of this (one of my own favourites among my "Snapshots"). Thank youQuote:
There's too many to choose from, so I'll just choose one of the most effective of his "snapshots" ;)
Here's a recent one that somehow has escaped many comments:
Quote:
Originally Posted by DanBierce
The house at midnight hums with consonants.
Particularly the air-handler’s lay
soothes me as seasons pass the windows―
summer slowly and winter’s frozen tracks―
I bless the steadiness of ems and ars.
Falls are less unruffled, they tic-toc on
gables, like some anachronistic clock,
a quick knocking in counterpoint, as oaks
forgo acorns in incessant metronomic drops,
and blown leaves brush against the windowpanes.
When in April comes the hour between the days,
a lull with lilacs from the dead ground grows
and through the open windows lets the ghosts in,
a redolence in all the rooms, almost seen
in moonlight―hyacinth, peony and rose.
© Copyright 2010
Firefangled
Yeah, FF's masterpiece definitely deserves to be mentioned here.
Ashes To Ashes (Pompeii/Hiroshima)
ASHES TO ASHES
I [Pompeii]
Raddled with wine I stagger home, each step less sure;
the vibrant sound of Vulcanalia expands
and echoes off the tilting walls and heaving floor.
Outside the House of Fauns the brothel-keeper stands
watching mottled moon flame red across the sea;
the wrath of Jove a haemorrhage upon our lands.
My sight adrift, seeks flight, in panic, for Capri;
that sacred haven on blue Sorrento bay,
while dusk invades in ranks of cloud from Napoli.
The cateyes in the cobbles barely light the way;
oil lamps sputter, wind chimes frenzied in the breeze.
I touch the phallus set in stone and stoop to pray.
The stir of crickets threshing in the olive trees
too strident. I draw the drapes. In looming dark,
a broth of coiling fireglow flares across the frieze.
The rattle of the dog chains stilled; no howl, no bark;
in my corner, bowels voided, crouching low;
outside the world grows calloused, Pluto makes his mark.
My prayers snuffed out, remorse abandoned long ago,
my body lies oblivious, enshrouded;
eyes drowned in blossom, endless flakes of endless snow.
II [Hiroshima]
Monday August 6
1945 a d
8:15 a.m.
A bright new week
white blouse washed and pressed for school
birdsong on the breeze
Roll call and sirens
stifled thunder cracks the walls
we all rush outside
A death rose blooms high
hushed shadows then blaring heat
then hollowed silence
The world fills with white
blizzards of cherry blossom
drifting still drifting
My sandals melting
oleanders reaching out
withered and blooming
My hair band slips off
a white smile fringed with cropped hair
my scalp still attached
Kyoko burnt black
I search for her red barrette
then her eyes open
In class we drew cranes
white birds like folded paper
now wingless and scorched
My frayed handkerchief
holds two embroidered goldfish
red braids coiled in white
I can't believe I have never noticed this thread! I miss reading Silas ThorneQuote:
Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
Ditto. I don't recall if I've commented on this particular poem before but it's a marvel of forceful economy. Bravo!
Bangkok
I have loved her,
cleaved from the rice fields and now sprawling endlessly,
a muddy river flowing through her belly,
now tinged with red.
I have been held by her well into the morning,
dreamed of nothing else but her decaying breath,
and the flower markets bustling through the night
on the verge of closing.
I have spent endless hours wandering the alleys,
discovering her exotic secrets,
and I have felt inside her a tangible suffering,
the wasting lives, and the coming violence.
But this is a land of free people
who will not listen to dictation.
And if she must paint herself once more
then let her color be red
just as a single staff colored the Nile.
A single crimson bead now rests on my fingertip
as dusk refracts towering silhouettes against a fiery horizon,
and a ruby net trolls through the Andamon sea.
She is no stranger to storm.
When lightning cracks her sky, it shatters the towers,
the monsoons tumble and rise in the streets,
and the city trembles, alive.
In such a place, one must not acknowledge fear
or tears to regret the lives that could be,
once lost, lost forever, but the vibrancy of a golden dream
dances with bats along the canal tunnels.
Awash against her flooded riverbanks, what little hope can we have
when backs are bent and bodies graying in the streets?
Only that quiet red light lifting over the city at dawn, the fleeting knowledge
that we have tried and lived our lives as they should be.
And when finally that day should come
let her sit and dictate my color to me
and she must know from where comes the crimson bead on my finger,
and see how I have crushed it against my cheek.
Very good choices, Prince!
I never learned to ask,
"How are things in your grandmother's village?"
in any foreign tongue.
I can say,
"Show me your hands, or I will kill you."
in several languages.
But, somehow, it is not the same.
I CANNOT HATE
The spear of dawn serrates the sleeping hillside
smearing lurid spills of light across its darkened pelt;
this haze like steaming perspiration,
undercurrents deep beneath its sleek and heaving flanks
throw ripples through the rock,
a stamp-mark on the coal dust,
horns caged in by twisted towers
framed by ragged beams of daybreak.
My father sprang intact from these cold rocks
and now lies fossilised in those same strata that gave birth to him,
embedded in the darkest tomb a man could choose,
no breathing space in there,
his corpse impressed from toil then crushed by time.
I cannot hate these hills outside my window
any more than I can hate the waxing sun,
although its light brings suffering to each new day.
To hate those hard, black mountains,
curse that glinting devil with its drooling maw,
its sharded teeth and gloating grin,
is to deny my father dignity;
his choice to scrape and claw his living
from those cherished rocks.
I cannot hate these hills outside my window
any more than I can hate his stubborn pride,
his split black nails and gritty tide mark,
blisters blue from blast not friction,
heaps of rusted slag piled high with cold despair,
the waste, the tainted streams,
the gravity of air.
A continent away
another mountain, barren, treeless,
scarred by craters
pestilent with jagged bones and rotting flesh and bright red clay;
an alien landscape scalded white with heat and hatred.
That hot white sun a galaxy away,
a sun that scorches every breath
and burns each shadow into glaring light
and etches tear-stains in the bitter salt;
its touch as sharp as any gutting blade.
I cannot hate the villages;
he wrote and told me all about them, see;
the stench of burning dung and garbage,
peasant farmers smoking flimsy roll-ups,
playing dominoes ‘til sunset,
watching football on their satellite tvs.
They did not choose to lose their fields to battle,
had no wish to watch a war outside their door.
Their hills are just as innocent as ours;
they had no choice but watch him suffer,
writhe with muted fury
as their valleys carried back and forth the echo of explosion,
shredding pity in a screech of helpless desolation.
I cannot even hate this war that made me proud to be a mother;
why demean the boy’s ambition,
fighting for another’s freedom that was never his to sanction?
Torn to dust beneath an alien desert sun:
the tainted scent of war deodorised
then helicoptered here from Helmand.
brought back home inside a flag-decked coffin;
surely better that
than held to ransom in a coal mine,
ever out of reach but never out of sight.
Along Comes Charlie by Jerrybaldy
I once knew a girl, called Dill
who loved to slap strangers on the face.
That was her thing,
she would slap them, then giggle like a little girl.
She wasn't pretty, though I think she once was.
Slapping was after all, a dangerous past time.
Her face was a mass of scars
Old yellow ones and angry new red ones.
But I loved her.
I loved to stamp on strangers feet.
That was my thing.
She called me stampy.
I never called her slapper.
We were a perfect match.
On the street, or in the mall, we approached strangers,
Dill slapped them and while they gasped,
I trampled their toes.
We lived together during these happy days.
But we took a few hidings.
We were never intimate.
If I ever tried, Dill would slap my face
and I would crush her little painted piggies.
But I loved her.
Then along came Charlie.
We found him kicking butts in the park.
We became a three piece.
Charlie's kick up the bum,
became our finale.
I think I lost out as the middle man.
Dill would keep her piggies out of my reach
But was forever bent over for Charlie,
winking over her shoulder,
that he should give her a kick.
I dont see either of them anymore.
But I have met Mary.
She loves to pull wigs from bald men's heads.
That's her thing.
Sometimes we have to search all day.
But, oh, the payoff.
My thoughts to this one, too!Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
There have been some superb poems on this site, but "I Cannot Hate" is, to my mind, one of the very best if not THE best!
Dark Love by Jerrybaldy
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Our shared tattoos,
sank our love beneath the skin.
We scabbed and scratched together,
rainbow hemorrhages,
spewing over white linen sheets.
We pierced each other,
with matching holes,
and chained our holes together.
We cut each other,
and kissed,
with the lips of our wounds.
We swam in sheets
of blood and love.
Penetrating the wounds,
with wet fingers.
Sinking in pain.
Drowning in despair,
to be combined.
Message 191 came out looking as if it were mine but of course it's by Hillwalker.Quote:
Originally Posted by Delta40
BUNKING DOUBLE GYM
Imprisoned in this cubicle
the smell of wee and cigarettes
‘Advanced Techniques’ and toilet duck
that weeping cistern on the wall
My eyes clamped shut
I contemplate each heartbeat
running through us both like wiring
palpitating as you scent the sea perhaps
a flood of brine
my insides out
A tiny jellyfish of red
reeled in to land
and laid to rest in my adidas bag
with all my other junk
my tic-tacs and my chap-stick
my pencil case and tamagotchi
Dad tried to drown some kittens once
a home-brew fermentation tub
the brick inside the sack
I held my breath then held it under
‘til the gargling bubbles rose no more
And now that squawking bell for double gym
it sets my teeth on edge
I hang around the changing rooms with Emo May
who had verrucas
waiting for another suicidal day to end
I dump it in that rubbish skip
outside ‘Miss Selfridge’
stepping into ‘Mothercare’
to say one prayer before I leave
Then in my bedroom late at night
my teddy-bear hot-water bottle clamped between my thighs
I draw an entry in my diary
a special picture for today
the 5th of May
a tiny doodle of an alien
I think best our friend Hillwalker best because is deal with taboo subject and special when come to poetry.
By Skia.
Ya gotta be skitz bruv!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Walkin thru da halls,
I lol at all these pussy's
all da divvs wid dere notebooks,
dere bags n shizz.
I scoff at dem,
askin if dey wan beef,
dey fink dey is funny
when dey reply,
nah I wan chicken,
ha, dey were chicken
when dey ran off,
afta a giv em a chase,
innit.
Ah,
dere's ma boi's
chillaxin wid the homies,
sparkin up a beefa,
a hope dey gotta roach,
an some spray so da prof's dunna smell it,
but,
Ya gotta be skitz bruv!
he betta not be chattin wid ma gyal,
oderwise,
dey aint gonna see dem xbox again!
Great Time of London
I
Hobbes' Leviathan
Determines for us all
Life in the state of nature is
Solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.
Cromwell agrees;
His spiked head rots
Atop Westminster Hall.
The future death mask
Of simple, unwitting souls.
II
Death docks in the
Foggy Thames.
Church bells toll
To a gruesome arrival.
Blood engorged fleas
Trade the backs of rats
For Mankind as host
To yersinia pestis.
Apothecaries cry alarms
Penny for a healing charm!
Sprays of rosemary
Hide their sickly cheeks.
Appearances of patchy black skin.
A child’s compulsive vomiting.
Misguidance slays cats and dogs
On corpse infested streets
Countless unknown poor
Rot at the deserted palace door
As Charles II seeks sanctuary
Under an Oxford Weeping Tree.
Labour mills grind to a halt
Tools idle, without trade.
Handfuls of posies to noses
But they all just fall down
III
In answer to the cry,
Bring out your dead,
The fearful living few
Pile corpses on a barrow.
God’s plague pit at Aldgate
Digests another cartful
Of Bleak Black Death.
As scavenging birds circle.
While Newton solves the puzzle
To the theory of gravitation
Somewhere in Pudding Lane
A smouldering oven flames…
This is still one of my favorites, from the great poet Firefangled, called 'Still Life'. I only wish I knew his name so I could get in contact with him or buy magazines or books with his recent poems, since he is gone from Litnet. This poem almost brings tears to my eyes whenever I read it:
Still Life
'I remember saying my last structured prayer,
you dead with the amazing flower sprays,
sunlight through the stained glass, brush strokes
across the white lilies like a canvas of Klee’s.
Man’s time dissolves in ashes, I repeated,
as the sun and clouds conspired to create
the red pulse over the cross of carnations
and through the veins of the marble floor.
No one planned the wild buttercups in that field.
I brought no bouquets, nor did I kneel, but lay
down in your golden days and painted you,
in my mind, relieved of all your hidden colors.'
Firefangled, posted on Lit-net in February 2009
Woodland’s Gift
By Robin Koykka
October 22, 2010
He carried tools into the forest
Where majestic pines now stand
And prayed in thanks for what he’ll take
Those mighty giants grand
On the floor of woodland moist
As he looked up to their heights
He felt the years those might boughs
Protected through the nights
Many fowl of heavens rest
They found shelter in her arms
Wind, and rain lashed upon them all
Below protected from the harm
With his aim and mighty swing
His axe sinks into the grains
It’s tears and flesh away they fly
His steel the forest tames
No other noise is now heard
The birds are quiet the deer are still
As timber falls down to the earth
Directed by mans will
Work begins to shape the tower
That lies upon the woodland floor
It’s limbs are gone it’s bark removed
For what is there in store
Little ones lost their home
They wonder where it’s gone
It slowly vanished on the wagon
Where it was set upon
Into the shop it is placed
Where hands now shape its form
And silken garments dress it up
As if to keep it warm
The grains now polished fine
Brass handles are put in place
And decorations are all around
A pillow in its place
Another prayer now is heard
As tears fall on the wooden burl
And placed inside for safe keeping
A lid closes on a little girl
They carry her into the forest
Where majestic pines now stand
And give thanks for the protection there
Among mighty giants grand
On the floor of woodland moist
He again looks to the heights
And thinks of when they’ll meet again
While she’s protected through the nights
This recent notable posting by Hillwalker belongs in this thread because it is a finely-crafted example of showing rather than telling:
OFF-SHIFT
Off shift this late at night
I drag the empty shadows in behind me
silent key then slip the bolt
my hibernating she-bear purring
touch her face to check
she’s there
her lair a mound of crocheted blankets
I take a vodka for my strength
and one for Lena
one for Babu and the saints
then pick up Mishka from her basket
feel her flexing claws like pinpricks
seize her scruff
and sense her heart like claustrophobia
thumping
deep enough to set the tumblers rattling
on the drainer
I pull the blinds
and marvel for a moment at the April snowstorm
melting into flecks and fireballs
sense the sliding weight of stolen sky
tilt closer
masking all perspective
clouding skeletons of sycamores across the Prospekt
feel the acid deep inside me
kick against the womb
I crawl between the sheets
slide clumsy hands around her swollen belly
press my thighs against her sleeping heat
embrace the tidal furnace
longing for the maelstrom
hidden deep within her molten core
a clenching clutch to choke this dread
and hold at bay the coming day
H