Printable View
Thanks for your words, cacian, and welcome back! Enjoyed your poem, with it´s "cacianic" rhythm.
re: barnacles- A bit puzzled about them. From the pictures I saw they seem to be a sort of adherent crost, I´ve seen before. I didn´t know this things moved and bit. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thoracica.
Ejoyed "An Old Man Named Arnaud".
The egg
There was an egg
with a head
and two leg's
It took a gigantic leap
and was dead.
re: barnacles - me either.
lol :)
eggs - almost a nonsense tanka
I so love my eggs
coddled or over easy
they greet me withal
with a stunning double yolk
staring at me as if making a joke
7/28/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
"The Egg and the Chicken (A philosophical tale by Clarice Lispector)
In the morning the egg is lying on the kitchen table.
I see the egg at a single glance. I immediately perceive that I cannot be simply seeing an egg. Seeing an egg is always in the present: No sooner do I see the egg than I have seen on egg, the same egg which has existed for three thousand years. The very instant an egg is seen, it becomes the memory of an egg. The only person to see an egg is someone who has seen it before. Like a man who, in order to understand the present, must have had a past. Upon seeing the egg, it is already too late: an egg seen is an egg lost. A vision that passes Iike a sudden flash of lightning. To see the egg is the promise of being able to see the egg again one day. A brief glance which cannot be divided. Does thought intervene? No, there is no thought: there is only the egg. Vision is the essential faculty and, once used, I shall cast it aside. I shall remain without the egg. The egg has no itself. Individually, it does not exist.
It is impossible actually to see the egg. The egg is supravisable just as there are supersonic sounds the ear can no longer hear. No one is capable of seeing the egg. Can the dog see the egg? Only machines can see the egg. Thee windlass sees the egg. In ancient times an egg settled on my shoulder. Nor can anyone feel love for the egg. My love for the egg is suprasensitive and I have no way of knowing that I feel this love. One is unaware of loving the egg. In ancient times I was the depository of the egg and I walked on tiptoe in order not to disturb the egg’s silence. When I died, they carefully removed the egg inside me: it was still alive. Just as we ignore the world because it is obvious, so we fail to see the egg because it, too, is so obvious. Does the egg no longer exist? It exists at this moment. Egg, you are perfect. You are white. To you I dedicate this beginning. To you I dedicate this first moment.
To the egg, I dedicate the Chinese nation.
The egg is something in suspense. It has never settled. When it comes to rest, it is not the egg that has come to test. A surface has formed beneath the egg. I vaguely glance at the egg in the kitchen in order not to break it. I take the greatest care not to understand it. It cannot be understood and I know that if I were to understand the egg, it could only be in error. To understand is proof of error. Never to think about the egg is one way of having seen it. Could it be that I know about me egg? Of course I know about it. Like this: I exist, therefore I know. What I do not know about the egg is what really matters. What I do not know about the egg gives me the egg itself. The Moon is inhabited by eggs . . .
The egg is an exteriorization: to have a shell is an act of giving. The egg exposes the kitchen. It transforms the table into a slanting plane. The egg exposes everything. Anyone who fathoms the egg, who can penetrate the egg’s surface, is seeking something else: that person is suffering from hunger.
The egg is the chicken’s soul. The awkward chicken. The stable egg. The startled chicken. The placid egg. Like a missile suspended in mid-air: for the egg is an egg in space. An egg against a blue background. Egg, I love you. I love you like something that does not even know it loves another thing. Ido not touch it. It is the aura of my fingers that sees the egg. I do not touch it. But to devote myself to the vision of the egg would be to renounce my earthly existence which I Continue to need, both yolk and white. Can the egg see me? Is it trying to fathom me? No, the egg only sees me. And it is immune to that painful understanding. The egg has never struggled to be an egg. The egg is a gift. It is invisible to the naked eye. From egg to egg, one reaches God Who is invisible to the naked eye. Perhaps the egg was once a triangle which turned so much in space that it ended up being oval. Is the egg basically a sealed jar? Perhaps the first jar to be modeled by the Etruscans? No. The egg originated from Macedonia. There it was designed, the fruit of the most deliberate spontaneity. On the sands of Macedonia mathematician traced it out with a rod in one hand. And then erased it with his bare foot.
An egg needs careful handling. That is why the chicken is the egg’s disguise. The chicken exists so that the egg may traverse the ages. This is what a mother is for. The egg lives like a fugitive because it is always ahead of its time: it is more than contemporary: it belongs to the future. Meanwhile the egg will always be revolutionary. It lives inside the chicken so that no I~ri’~,;may call it white. The egg is really white but must not he called white. Not because this would harm the egg which is immune from danger, but those people who state the obvious by describing the egg as white renege on life. To call something white which is white can destroy humanity. Truth is always in danger of destroying humanity. A man was once accused of being what he was and referred to as That Man. They were not lying: he was man. But we have not recovered since. This is the universal law so that we may go on living. One may say “a pretty face” but anyone who says “face” will die for having exhausted the subject.
In time the egg became the egg of a chicken. It is not. But once adopted, the surname is used. One should say “the egg of the chicken.” If people simply say “egg,” the topic is exhausted and the world goes back to being naked. An egg is the most naked thing in existence. Regarding the egg, there is always the danger that we may discover what could be termed beauty, in other words, its utter veracity. The egg’s veracity has no semblance of truth. If its beauty were to be discovered, people might try to make it rectangular. The egg is in no danger, it would not become rectangular, (Our guarantee is that it cannot and that is the egg’s great strength: its supremacy stems from the greatness of being incapable, which spreads like reluctance.) But as I was saying, the egg would not become rectangular and anyone struggling to make it rectangular would be in danger of losing his own life. And so the egg puts us at risk. Our advantage is that the egg is invisible to the vast majority of people. And as for the initiated, the initiated conceal the egg as in a freemasonry.
As for the chicken’s body, the chicken’s body is the clearest attempt to prove that the egg does not exist. Because one look at the chicken is enough to see that the egg could not possibly exist.
And what about the chicken?
The egg is the chicken’s great sacrifice. The egg is the cross the chicken bears in life. The egg is the chicken’s unattainable dream. The chicken loves the egg. She does not know that the egg truly exists. Were she to know she has an egg inside her, would she be saved? Were she to know she has an egg inside her, would she lose her function as a chicken? To be a chicken is the chicken’s only chance of surviving mentally. Survival means salvation. For it would appear that the act of living does not exist. Living ends in death. While the chicken goes on surviving. And to survive is to keep up the struggle against moral existence. This is what it means to be a chicken. The chicken always looks ill at ease.
The chicken must not know she is carrying an egg. Otherwise she might be saved as a chicken-although there is no guarantee-but at the same time she would lose her -egg in a premature birth to rid herself of that exalted ideal. Therefore she does not know. The chicken only exists on behalf of the egg. She had a mission to fulfill which she enjoyed. And this was the chicken’s undoing. Enjoyment has nothing to do with birth, to enjoy being alive is painful.
As for what came first, it was the egg that discovered the chicken would make the perfect disguise. The chicken was not even summoned. The chicken is directly chosen. She exists as in dreams. She has no sense of reality. She gets nervous because people are always interrupting her daydreams. The chicken is one great slumber. She suffers from some strange maIaise. Her strange malaise is the egg. She cannot explain: “I know the fault lies with me.” She calls her life a mistake. “I no longer know what I feel,” etc.
What ducks all day long inside the chicken is etc. etc. etc. The chicken has considerable resources of inner life. If truth be told, inner life is all she possesses. Our vision of her inner life is what we refer to as chicken. The chicken’s inner life consists of behaving as if she understood. The slightest threat of danger and she screeches her head off. All this simply to ensure that the egg does not break inside her. The egg which breaks inside the chicken has the appearance of blood.
The chicken watches the horizon.
The chicken watches the horizon. As if she were watching an egg slowly advance from the distant horizon. Apart from being a means of transport for the egg, the chicken is stupid, idle and short-sighted. How can the chicken understand herself when she is everything the egg is not? The egg is still that same egg which originated in Macedonia. But the chicken is always a recent tragedy. She is continuously being designed anew. Yet no more apt form has been found for the chicken. As my neighbor answers the telephone, he absentmindedly sketches a chicken with his pencil. But nothing can be done for the chicken: it is in her nature to be of no use to herself. And since her destiny is more important than the chicken herself and her destiny is the egg, her private life is of no interest to us.
The chicken neither recognizes the egg when it is still inside her nor when it has been laid. When the chicken sees the egg, she thinks she is confronting the impossible. And suddenly I see the egg in the kitchen and all I see there is food. I do not recognize it. My heart is beating fast. Something is changing inside me. I can no longer see the egg clearly. Apart from each individual egg, apart from the egg one eats, the egg no longer exists for me. I can no longer bring myself to believe in an egg. I find it more and more difficult to believe, I am weak and dying. Farewell. I have been looking at an egg for so long that it has hypnotized me and sent me asleep.
The chicken had no desire to sacrifice her life. She who had chosen to be “happy.” She who had failed to perceive that if she were to spend her life designing the egg inside herself like an illuminated manuscript, she would be doing all that could be expected of her. She remained true to herself. She who thought her feathers were to cover her precious skin, unaware that those feathers were only intended to lighten her burden while she carried the egg, because the chickens deep suffering might put the egg at risk. She who thought satisfaction was a gift rather than a ploy to keep her totally distracted until the egg had been formed. She who did not know that “I” is only one of the words people jot down on paper when answering the telephone, a mere attempt to find some more convenient form. She who thought that I means to possess a selfness. The chickens in greatest danger of harming the egg are those who pursue a relentless I. Their I is so persistent that they cannot pronounce the word egg. But who knows, perhaps this is precisely what the egg needs. Because if they were not so distracted and were to pay closer attention to the great life forming inside them, they might disturb the egg.
I began discussing the chicken, yet for some time now I have said nothing about the chicken. I am still talking about the egg. Only to realize that I do not understand the egg. All I understand is a broken egg: broken in the frying pan. And this is how I indirectly pledge myself to the egg’s existence. My sacrifice is to reduce myself to my inner self. I have concealed my destiny with my joys and sorrows. Like those in the convent who sweep floors and wash linen, serving without the glory of any higher office, my task is to live my joys and sorrows. It is essential that I should possess the modesty of living. In the kitchen I take one more egg and break its shell and form. And from this very moment the egg no longer exists. It is most important that I should be kept occupied and distracted. I am essentially one of those who renege. I belong to the freemasonry of those who, once having seen the egg, reject it as a form of protection. Anxious to avoid destruction, we destroy ourselves. Agents in disguise and assigned to discreet inquiries, we occasionally recognize each other. A certain manner of looking, a certain way of shaking hands, help us to recognize each other, and we call this love. Then there is no further need for disguise. Though one does not speak, one does not hear either; though one may be telling the truth, there is no further need for pretense. Love prospers, especially between a man and woman, when one is allowed to share a little more. Few people desire true love because love shakes our confidence in everything else. And few can bear to lose all their other illusions. There are some who opt for love in the belief that love will enrich their personal lives. On the contrary: love is poverty, in the end. Love is to possess nothing. Love is also the deception of what one believed to be love. And it is not a prize likely to make one conceited. Love is not a prize. It is a state conceded only to those who would otherwise contaminate the egg with their private sorrow. This does not make an honorable exception of love. It is conceded precisely to those unworthy agents who would spoil everything unless they were allowed some vague intuition.
All the agents enjoy many advantages in order to ensure the egg is formed. There is no cause for envy, because even the worst of the conditions imposed on some agents happen to be the ideal conditions for the egg. As for the satisfaction of the agents, they receive that, too, without conceit. They quietly savor any satisfaction. This is the sacrifice we make so that the egg may be formed. We have been endowed with a nature which has a considerable capacity for satisfaction, which helps to make satisfaction less painful. There are instances of agents who commit suicide: they discover that the handful of instructions at their disposal are insufficient and sense a lack of support. There was the case of the agent who publicly revealed his identity because he could not bear not to be understood, just as he found it intolerable not to be respected by others. He died after being run over as he was leaving a restaurant. There was another agent who did not even need to be eliminated: he slowly burned himself up in disgust, a disgust which overwhelmed him when he discovered that me few instructions he had been given explained nothing. Another agent was also eliminated because he thought “the truth should be spoken courageously,” and he set about searching for that truth. People say he died in the name of truth, but in fact he simply obscured truth, he was so ingenuous. His seeming courage was mere folly and his desire for loyalty was naive. He had failed to understand that loyalty is not something pure, that to be loyal is to be disloyal to all the rest. These extreme cases of death are not provoked by cruelty. There is a job to be done which one might term cosmic, and unfortunately individual cases cannot be taken into consideration. For those who succumb and become individuals, there are instructions, there is charity, there is an understanding which does not discriminate between motives-our human life, in short.
The eggs sizzle in the frying pan and, lost in a dream, I prepare breakfast. Without any sense of reality; I call the children who jump out of bed, draw up their chairs and start eating and the work of the day which has just dawned begins, with shouting and laughter and food, the white and the yolk, happiness amidst squabbles, the day is our salt and we are the salt of the day, life is quite tolerable, life occupies and distracts, life provokes laughter.
It makes me smile in my mystery. The mystery of my being which is simply a means, and not an end, has given me the most dangerous freedom of all. I am not stupid and I use it to my advantage. I even do considerable harm to others. I take advantage of the phony job they have given me to conceal my identity and–turn it into my real occupation. I have even misused the money they pay me on a daily basis to make life easier while the egg is being formed. Having changed the money on the black market, I have misused it and only recently bought shares in a brewery which has made me a rich woman. I still refer to all this as the essential modesty of living. -They have also allowed me time so that the egg may form inside me at its leisure but I have frittered away my time in illicit pleasures and sorrows, completely forgetting about the egg. That is my simplicity as a human agent.
Or is this precisely what they wanted to happen so that the egg may be formed? Is this freedom a coercion? For I am now beginning to see that every error on my part has been exploited. My grievance is that in their eyes I count for nothing, I am simply useful. With the money they pay me I have started drinking.
No one knows how you feel inside when you are hired to pretend you ate a traitor and you end up believing in your own betrayal. A job which consists of forgetting day after day. Being expected to feign dishonor. My mirror no longer reflects a face which can even be called my own. Either I am an agent or this is truly betrayal. But I sleep the sleep of the just in the knowledge that my futile existence does not impede the march of infinite rime. On the contrary: it would appear that I am expected to be utterly futile, that I should even sleep the sleep of the just. They want me occupied and distracted, by whatever means. For with my wandering thoughts and solemn foolishness I might impede what is happening inside me. Strictly speaking, I myself have only served to impede. The notion that my destiny exceeds me suggests that I might be an agent. At least, they might have allowed me to perceive as much, for I am one of those people who do a job badly unless I am allowed some insight. They made me forget what I had been allowed to perceive, but I still have this vague notion that my destiny exceeds me and that I am the instrument of their work.
In any case, I could only be the instrument because the work could never be mine. I have already tried to establish myself in my own right without success; my hand has never stopped trembling to this day. Had I insisted a Iittle more, I should have lost my health for good. Since then, after that abortive experience, I have tried to reason as follows: I have already received a great deal and they have made me every possible concession. And the agents, fat better than me, have also worked only for what they did not know. And with the same meager instructions and, like me, they were modest civil servants or otherwise. I have already received a great deal. Sometimes overcome with emotion at being so privileged yet without showing any gratitude! My heart beating with emotion, yet without understanding anything! My heart beating confidently, yet leaving me baffled.
But what about the egg? This is precisely one of their little ruses. As I was talking about the egg, I forgot about the egg. “Keep on talking. Keep on talking,” they told me. And the egg remains completely protected by all those words. “Keep on talking” is one of their guiding rules. I feel so weary.
Out of devotion to the egg I forgot about it. Forgetfulness born out of necessity. Forgetfulness born out of self-interest. For the egg is an evasion. Confronted by my possessive veneration, the egg could withdraw never to return and I should die of sorrow. But suppose the egg were to be forgotten and I were to make the sacrifice of getting on with my life and forgetting about it. Suppose the egg proved to be impossible. Then perhaps-free, delicate, without any message whatsoever for me-the egg would move through space once more and come up to the window I have always left open. And perhaps with the first light of day the egg might descend into our apartment and move serenely into the kitchen. As I illuminate it with my pallor."
https://literaturebr.wordpress.com/t...d-the-chicken/
PS-The original titel in Portuguese is: "The Egg and the Hen" a title I should have maintained because there are differences that affect the meaning.
Lol! Enjoyed the Egg Poem
The art of flying
I wish I could fly
Over landscapes high
And near the sky.
But if I could fly
so high
exploring the sky
That would be a flight
so sly!
hey Danik I really enjoyed your take on this poem.
It is just the right amount of words and just subtly brilliant to read! :)
Wow ! Incredible story... did some wikipedia -
Enjoyed The art of flying :)Quote:
In 1975 she was invited to the First World Congress of Sorcery in Bogotá, an event which garnered wide press coverage and increased her notoriety. At the conference, her story "The Egg and the Hen", first published in The Foreign Legion, was read in English.
"The Egg and the Hen" is mysterious and does indeed have a bit of occultism. It is a difficult and profound story. That is why I think the audience, very mixed, would have been happier if I had pulled a rabbit out of my hat. Or fallen into a trance. Listen, I never did anything like that in my life. My inspiration does not come from the supernatural, but from unconscious elaboration, which comes to the surface as a kind of revelation. Moreover, I don't write in order to gratify anybody else.[29]
dreams - tanka
sometimes in my dreams
as infrequent as that seems
lucid skies appear
below verdant landscapes blur
I startle the birds 'round me
7/29/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Thanks cacian and tailor. On rereading the poem I found It had a distinct "cacianic" take about it.
Enjoyed "dreams", its very visual
A scene by Kusturica
A war
A wedding?
A love bed
Flying
Flying
Over the
Fields of Bosnia!
A compact of life and war!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KHnL12Q0r4 ( A visual poem)
:) Enjoyed your interpretation of the video... part of a greater work. Reminded me of: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_Is_Beautiful
As we approach the horrors of war I hope to have the optimism portrayed.
Hoping this is nonsense:
"absolutely nothing!"
war is inevit-
able; population BOOM
to assuage conceit
and global idiocy -
where are my iodine pills ?
https://www.google.com/search?q=lds+...client=gws-wiz
7/30/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
much enjoyed STATELY! :)
upon a
wish floats
a mist
in all directions
it may tricks
but to a point
it flaunts
it is a breeze
to let it crease
till dawn freeze.
Enjoyed :) especially "upon a / wish floats / a mist"
Teacher
There once was a man who loathed to teach.
Who said, "It's time to enter the breach !"
His timing though was wonky,
As he brayed like a donkey,
You see children affected his speech.
7/31/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Enjoyed your poem cacian! Tailor, aren´t you a bit hard on the poor teacher?
:) cacian and Tailor! Keeping the theme
The vanishing
There once was a poor teacher
He never got richer.
His life wsn´t easy
Cos he was a bit crazy
And his pupils,
oh, so lazy!
One secret day
he went away,
after his luck.
Rumor has it, that he was seen in Alexandria
:hurray: Answer with quote working!Quote:
Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
Saw Life is Beautiful and loved it. Benigni had a very radioactive theme at hand. Today I think that for the hard current times, the film is maybe too optimistic. Still one wishes that that story might have been real.
About the Google link on atomic war:
I didn´t know if to laugh or to cry. I think our post war generation had and still has the illusion of escaping of having to follow those careful instructions. Looked what could be found about the theme in Portuguese: rather obviously some translations of US material.
Yeah, I still remember nightmares past resulting from "duck and cover" drills in 1960- and "living" in the Cold War Era Part-1; a time when neighbors built their own fallout shelters.
In Memorial: tailor
There once was a man named tailor
Who had calculated the local fallout scalar
While hoping not to be at ground zero,
Wishing he was a superhero,
Hoping he hadn't misplaced his inhaler.
(He did)
Fun at Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/apps/d...hl=en_US&gl=US
8/1/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
my tinfoil hat/madness: acrostic
my tinfoil hat is worn with great pride
and by its precepts it is my guide
domicile partner "you're insane!" cried
notwithstanding I lost my bride
eclectic in my preparations I attempted, I tried
secretly preparing a shelter in which to abide
somehow to survive a nuke or alien invasion (hide!)
8/1/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Empathize with the poem but didn´t install nukeblast :devil::auto:Quote:
Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
We say that God is Brazilian!
Q: Where are you shelters in case of war?
A: What do we need shelters for?
Q: Well, to hide in case of a nuclear conflagration.
A: A nuclear what?
Q(paciently): Conflagration! I mean if someone throws a bomb and everything goes BOOM!
A: (pensively):I see what you mean. There are no shelters. We don´t need them.
Q:Why?
A: Because such disagreeable things as BOOM don´t happen here. Only in foreign countries.
Q: But wouldn´t it be better to prevent any damage?
A: Oh, preventing damage is so boring. If really anything goes BOOM, mind I´m not saying it is going to happen for it is not, we will order the urgent building of shelters two days after with a dead line till the end of the year that can of course be extended as often as necessary. But where are you?
Q has vanished.
PS-The text is invented, the atitude not.
Lol.:sad::auto:Quote:
Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
A necessary acrostic
Some red on the
horizon hereabouts.
Endless attacks to Ukraine
leaving little hope.
Tried population. Trials. Tiredness
Empty talks taking time
Regrets without relief
despite feelings
love has meanings
it is up to
anything
that seeks
the one special
dealing
to rearrange the appealing
it ain't easy
till is breezy
gone with the wind
is leading!
Braziliant !Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
Well done :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
Enjoyed :)Quote:
Originally Posted by cacian
A Lame Limerick
There once were men who stole grapes
Fascinated by their spherical shapes
The grapes were rather juicy
And the men danced the Watusi
Laughing as they made their escapes
8/3/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
interesting piece tailor although the word Watusi is not familiar . :)Quote:
Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
in time
comes the rhyme
whatever lay words
sense may not
stand rehearsed when
feelings are made
worst
best let
sound take
first
and next with a pleasure
is a musical leisure
and everything rearrange
better.
Thank you :) Early '60's dance primarily in the USA... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OcQQi9vbZZEQuote:
Originally Posted by cacian
also wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watusi_(dance)
Loved this :) "In time / comes the rhyme"Quote:
Originally Posted by cacian
an anonymous man named frederick
frederick was a man who like to gamble
he rather liked sardines with his scramble
though it fret with his digestion
"where is the WC ?" he would oft question
then with gangnam style he would gambol
8/10/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Loved this"In time/comes the rhyme" Lol!"Frederick!
A poem with rhyme
Once upon a time
There lived a rosy swine
Near a pine.
She whelped: nine
In their time
They all debuted on line
And were all doing fine.
But Mr Heim
Shouted nein, nein, nein
Totally nonsense :)
Revolution #Nein
One have she ambitious thought,
Born well the souls confine?
would have been young should
content to manage what Nine,
that the empire government;
But of mighty to spacious can
8/12/2022
A mashup of S6: L 1-4 from "To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew..." by John Dryden... https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poe...anne-killigrew
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Lol! A mashup indeed!
Just a small word
Definitive
Strong
Relentless
Explicit
Powerful
No
Nein
Não
Non
Niet (don´t know how to write this one).
It´s the universal denial .
But what would we do without its strength?
Another mashup:
Her Leaf's Grief
Her leaf's grief,
So leaf.
hold. So early gold,
Her green day. so a goes is
to an Eden hue can hour.
Then sank to subsides
Nothing to down only gold dawn flower;
But stay. Nature's leaf first to hardest
8/13/2022
A mashup of Nothing Gold Can Stay - Robert Frost... https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/po...y-robert-frost
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Enjoyed poem and creative mashup
Mashup of the mashup
Grief and Gold
Early grief leaves
like early leaves.
Old gold
does hold,
Eternal Flower
of Nature.
Enjoyed ! :)
an anonymous man named torrance
torrance was a man who liked strolling.
he found it to be so consoling.
he kept dog biscuits in his pockets,
so when dogs drew close by like rockets -
he just couldn't say no to the growling.
8/13/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Forgot to comment on this poem... enjoyed :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Danik 2016
maybe nyet?: https://www.thoughtco.com/no-in-russian-4691134
Trying to incorporate the power of "no" in my life.
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Simply loved the Het Link ;).
I hope still to develop this poem.
I think, to find the right measure of "no" in one´s life is an art . I often am to hard, other times to complying. But the dog poem is cute! It´s so difficult saying "no" to an animal!
An nonsensical poem
XXX wanted to write a nonsensical poem
She thought of multiple wants:
no food
no roof
no dears
no job
no money
no identity
no No.
Then shoe thought of the word sense
sense of survival
sense of being
sense of identity
sense of belonging
sense of...
But whenever she tried
to put both words together
they wouldn´t match
and flew apart.
Intriguing :)
True story - I was promised some blackberries and was told they'd be found in a communal refrigerator, but by the time I was able to retrieve them they had disappeared - so they were both there and not there until I opened said refrigerator I guess? It was an innocent gaff by another families' youth that caused the expectant blackberries disappearance... More promised for pick up at FHE (this time in person, lol).
schrödinger's blackberries - tanka
blackberries promised
prolly so black and juicy
sweet expectations
their rife globular bunches
were they both there and not there ?
8/15/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Got my blackberries :)
an anonymous man named tailor
there once was a man on the divide
who took his blackberries home with pride
they exceeded his expectations
so he put aside his lamentations
now ponders how long his fingers will remain dyed
8/16/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Oved this blackberry story in two poems. Love blackberries, but know them only as jelly.
to be turned into jelly
The blackberry
There once was a blackberry
That swore revolution
'Cos she didn´t want
to be turned into jelly.
Said the wise strawberry:
If you really want fame
You'll have to fill peoples bellies
As fruit, desserts, cakes or jellies.
lol... Love it :)
Word Can Poem from 8/18/2022 (lack/casualty/sail/sloven/clerk)
Lowering the Boom
‘twas a casualty of slovenliness
upon the sailboat christened “Governess”
a lackadaisical tragedy - "a bloody mess"
said the insurance clerk from Inverness
… you see the boom got lowered and swung wide
and knocked everyone overboard and quite senseless
8/18/2022
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor
Googled "lowering the boom" and found scolding harshly or punishing someone. The lyric I is scolding harshly who permitted the tragedy to happen. The accident might also be a punishment, but it doesn´t say what for.
The universe's punishment for carelessness ? It's all nonsenses to me :) I had about 10 minutes to come up with "something" with the words pulled from our Word Can and the poem wrote itself, idiom notwithstanding... with Parker's help, of course :)
Ta ! (short for tarradiddle),
tailor