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Poetry Flows From We


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#101 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 18 July 2010 - 07:29 AM

REMEMBER IT WRONG

David Hernandez

Everyone’s memory is subjective. If in three weeks we
were both interviewed about what went on here
tonight, we would both probably have very, very
different stories.
—James Frey on
Larry King Live

My front four teeth are gone, I have a hole in my
cheek, my nose is broken and my eyes are swollen
nearly shut.
—James Frey
, from A Million Little Pieces

But I was there, 12C, window seat, and there
was no blood anywhere except the blue kind
making blue roots under the skin of our wrists.
From what I recall his teeth were all present,
ivory and symmetrical, one pristine incisor
flushed against the next like marble tiles.
Teeth other teeth aspire to be. I saw no hole
in his cheek but a razor nick or new pimple,
some red blip on his otherwise unblemished face.
Boyish. Babyish, even. The only holes
were the two he breathed from and the one
called a mouth that demanded another pillow,
headphones, club soda, more ice.
His nose was intact, straight as the tailfin
dividing the sky behind us. There was turbulence,
the plane a dragonfly in a windstorm.
My cup of Cabernet sloshed, my napkin bled,
a bag rumbled in the overheard bin like a fist
pounding inside a coffin. I was calm, I fly
all the time, but the man in question
was quivering and paler than a hardboiled egg.
Eyes swollen open, eyes skittering and green.
Or brown or blue. Memory is a murky thing,
always changing its mind. Interview me again
in three weeks and maybe I’ll remember
his wounds, the way my grandmother
gradually put down the knife after she spread
butter on her napkin. Slowly the disease worked,
slowly erasing slowly what her brain slowly
recorded over the slowly decades. Memory
is a mysterious thing, shadow of a ghost,
nebulous as the clouds we pierced on our descent,
Chicago revealing itself in my little window
like dust blown from a photo of someone
it takes you a moment to recognize.

Edited by slippngftfromsteps@random, 18 July 2010 - 07:29 AM.


#102 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 24 September 2010 - 01:04 PM

STORM NEWS

Jun de la Rosa

vi.

A cyclone smashed into Madagascar,
hit the island a second time
three days later; a ferry sinking.

The news brings to us cyclones,
while beach stories are told
among sisters, during storms.

v.

Hurricane slammed the Florida coast.
Chasing it required large amounts of food,
and a megaphone.

If a woman dives into a river
and no one is there to see it,
the body, hands first,
still makes a cutting sound.

iv.

A storm swept out to sea,
beyond Northern Japan—
later lowered to tropical storm,
downgraded to tropical depression.

What a wonder how water
can take so many forms:
a lady turning into a bride,
then a nagging housewife.

iii.

Indonesian plane skidded off the runway
under heavy rains, split into two,
came to rest near a cemetery:
100 yards of prayers.

Water nears,
from Madagascar to Indonesia.
The pond in the garden waits,
expecting an angry mother.

ii.

26 people swept away
by raging floodwaters in Nueva Ecija;
villages buried in a sea of mud.

And water has found us—
with windows closed,
we only know storm
by the sound it makes
against the roof, a swinging door.

i.

Death toll rose
with the super typhoon named after a man.

Later, water will be poured into mugs—
boiling, black, without sugar:
small servings of the storm,
silently brewing.

#103 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 24 September 2010 - 01:09 PM

THE RED MODEL II
René Magritte, oil on canvas

José Edmundo Ocampo Reyes

On the calculous clay, two pennies
stare down a lone dime,

while a matchstick pretends to ignore
the cigarette it once kissed. Someday

the oak wall on which I lean
will warp and shed, splinter

by splinter, long since forgotten
by those who erected it. What is

the point of news, when in the end
all we are left with are scraps

that no one can decode?
I sigh, longing for streams

of stock tickers, Monday-morning trains.
O to escape the tyranny of inaction!

To unlace and take off my feet,
and run to the office bareshoe!

#104 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 11 October 2010 - 04:01 PM

Stephen Kessler

HOMEBOY NOMAD
for Pierre Joris

Sometimes I feel
like a motherless
tongue, an untongue-
tied motherfucker un-
able to lick the but-
ton of my love mere-
ly monolingually but
must multiply my
moves to include all
the landscapes my
restless lips have tra-
versed in the course of
roaming so many worlds
I can’t recall, record,
remember, recount or re-
collect them all, a
long blur in my back-
ground which obscures
my ever questionable
origins because after
all where was I any-
way when speech first
struck me like a lash
across my voracious,
my insatiable mouth, my
mind, my maw that
sucks in everything
in sight only to trans-
late it later into un-
speakably conceptual
yet loud sounds, like air-
craft landing on far-
flung runways or air
conditioners humming
in the depths of hotels
where multilingual
scholars & miscellaneous
scoundrels rendezvous
in momentarily shared
weltanschauungs to sip
martinis and hope
to seduce each other
while exchanging recipes
for revelation, as if
the sudden sight of
ancient schoolmates
were not enough to set
poems homelessly in
motion in pursuit of
what was missed in the
interim, attempting to
trace that unmistakable
outline of aged profiles
whose uncommon ambitions
have branched like
the lines on old maps,
rivers & roads that
changed as they flowed
& unrolled into worlds
their respective travelers
scarcely foresaw when
they set out but now,
in turned-back time,
have ripened &
dropped like sweet
fruit into the mouths
of eloquent orphans
who savor every last
syllable

#105 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 12 October 2010 - 02:49 AM

Angela Narciso Torres

POSTCARDS FROM BOHOL

1/

Emerald mounds rise from the deep,
their white shoulders shedding turquoise
waters. When we scoop the wet sand
fine putty sluices through our fingers.
Our heels sink inches with every step,
leaving blurred footprints where small
crabs fine-pencil disappearing tracks.

2/

By dusk the tide has receded a hundred feet,
revealing the ribbed sea bed, ghost-pale
in the gathering dark. Scores of starfish
dot the rippled sand, white limbs etched
in gray, splayed under the night sky—
a universe in reverse. Ian, shirt flapping,
lifts a sun starfish, purple knobs radiating
on luminous limbs. We huddle around him,
our cheeks flushed with twilight.

3/

Driving through the country with windows
down, we count nipa huts, their thin walls
woven from palm, dark and light fronds
alternating, a diamond pattern framed in bamboo.
Air infused with green—kamogong, acacia, tanguile.
Dogs bark, a rooster tied to a gatepost scratches
and pecks, cocks its head. Children in faded blue
uniforms wave shyly, their feet coated in red dust.

4/

Rain falls in fits and starts. A drizzle
filters the air like gauze, taming the warm breeze.
Wind brings muffled cries of faraway children,
the hum of cicadas, drums from a fiesta
enfolded in the wash of waves. Across
the verandah, two gardeners in yellow shirts
are sharing a meal of fish and rice.

5/

The waves tell of beauty that comes unbidden,
approaching as a lover walks through a door,
each time familiar yet heart-stopping.
Hermit crabs scuttle sideways on the sand,
their paths crossing and uncrossing, shells
of lavender and coiled pearl plucked
from caves of night. The sea has the calm sadness
of what cannot stay: a waxing gibbous moon,
our sons, bent over a pool of silver fish,
their cheekbones limned with watery light
thin shoulders barely touching.

#106 Aidyn

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Posted 13 December 2010 - 08:59 PM

Well nice poetry guys...!! I like all above poetries. . .
Here is the one from my side... :)


Poetry Flows Like Blood

Poetry runs like blood through my veins
the words in my heart is my magic I bring.
I open my mouth to let my spirit sing
from a simple poem i have made a change.

A sharing of lives journeys are brought forth
emotions of my heart provide the source.
Trusting in myself I begin to read
my story unfolds and I bring forth the seed.

Sometimes soft, sometimes coarse is my voice
I give my gift of poetry so that you may rejoice.
You pass no judgment, no ratings or grades
you simply listen to what my soul must say.

Around the board we wait with bated breath
as magic is shared from one hear to the next.
A joining of hearts, just as of hands
sharing a moment as one, be it woman or man.

Never shall I fear ridicule nor scorn
for with my poetry many friendships have formed.
What a world this would be if all could hear
this love of verse that we all hold so dear.

No more war would rage, no more blood would be shed
if only they listened with hearts not their heads.
I am blessed to be a part of this wonder of words
knowing that here for awhile I will truly be heard.

by (Debbie Wagoner 11/3/09)

Edited by Aidyn, 13 December 2010 - 09:00 PM.


#107 merbo

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Posted 20 April 2011 - 04:38 PM



Out in the streets, they call it murder

Verse 1:

Welcome to jamrock
Camp where di thugs encamp at
Two pound o' weed in a van back
It inna ya handbag
Ya knapsack it inna ya backpack
The smell a give ya girlfriend contact
Some boy nah notice
Dem only come around like tourist
On the beach wit' a few club sodas
Bedtime stories
And pose like they name Chuck Norris
And don't know da real hardcore cuz sandals a now back to
Di thugs dem weh do what they got do
And won't think twice to shot you
Don't make them spot you
Unless you carry guns a lot too
Up 'ere tuff ting come at you
When Trenchtown man stop laugh and block off traffic
Den de wheel an' pop off and dem start cop it
When deep in file long and duppy drop it
Police come in a jeep and dem can't stop it
Some say dem a playboy or Playboy rabbit
Funnyman a get drop like a bad habit
So nah bodda pose off if yuh don't have it
Rastafari stands alone


Chorus:

Welcome to jamrock
Welcome to jamrock
Out in the streets, they call it murder


Verse 2:

Welcome to jamtown
Poor people a dead at random
Political violence cyan done
Pure ghost and phantom
Di youth dem get blind by stardom
Now di King of Kings a call
Ol' man to pickney
So wave unnu hand if you with me
To see the sufferation sick me
Dem suit no fit me
To win election dem trick we
And dem don't do nutting at all
Come on let's face it
A ghetto education's basic
And most of di youth dem waste it
And when dem waste it
Dat's when dem take de guns replace it
And dem don't stand a chance at all
And dat's why a nuff likkle youth have up some fat 'matic
With di extra magazine inna dem back pocket
And a flee to night time inna some black jacket
All who nah lock glocks seh dem a lock rocket
Den will full you up a current like a short circuit
Dem a run a court block which part the cops block it
And from noon 'til a mornin' no stop clock it
If dem run outta rounds a brought back ratchet


Chorus:

Welcome to jamrock (Southside Northside)
Welcome to jamrock (Eastcoast Westcoast)
Welcome to jamrock (Cornwall, Middlesex n surrey yo)
Welcome to jamrock
Out in the streets they call it murder


Jamaica Jamaica
Jamaica Jamaica, now
Jamaica Jamaica, yo
Jamaica Jamaica


Welcome to jamrock
Welcome to jamrock

Edited by merbo, 15 July 2011 - 08:21 PM.


#108 merbo

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Posted 29 May 2011 - 03:34 AM




WE ALMOST LOST DETROIT

GSH

It stands out on a highway
like a Creature from another time.
It inspires the babies' questions,
"What's that?"
For their mothers as they ride.

But no one stopped to think
about the babies
or how they would survive,
and we almost lost Detroit this time.

How would we ever get over losing our minds?

Just thirty miles from Detroit
stands a giant power station.
It ticks each night as the city sleeps,
seconds from annihilation.

But no one stopped to think about the people
or how they would survive,
and we almost lost Detroit this time.

How would we ever get over over losing our minds

The sheriff of Monroe county had,
sure enough, disasters on his mind,
and what would karen Silkwood say
if she was still alive?

That when it comes to people's safety
money wins out every time.
and we almost lost Detroit ?this time.

How would we ever get over losing our minds?

You see, we almost lost Detroit that time.
And how would we ever get over...
Cause odds are,
we gonna lose somewhere,
one time.

And how would we ever get over losing our minds?

Didn't they, didn't they decide?
Almost lost Detroit ?that time.
Damn near totally destroyed, one time.

Didn't all of the world know?
Say, didn't you know?

Didn't all of the world know?

Say, didn't you know?

We almost lost detroit

Edited by merbo, 15 July 2011 - 08:19 PM.


#109 merbo

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Posted 04 June 2011 - 12:22 AM

[/url]

What happened here?
The butterfly has lost its wings
The air's too thick to breathe
And there's something in the drinking water

The sun comes up
The sun comes up and you're alone
Your sense of purpose come undone
The traffic tails back to the maze on 101

And the news from the sky
Is looking better for today
In every single way
But not for you

World Citizen

World Citizen

It's not safe
All the yellow birds are sleeping
Cos the air's not fit for breathing
It's not safe
Why can't we be
Without beginning, without end?
Why can't we be?

World Citizen

World Citizen

And if I stop
And talk with you awhile
I'm overwhelmed by the scale
Of everything you feel
The lonely inner state emergency

I want to feel
Until my heart can take no more
And there's nothing in this world I wouldn't give

I want to break
The indifference of the days
I want a conscience that will keep me wide awake

I won't be disappointed
I won't be disappointed
I won't be.

I saw a face
It was a face I didn't know
Her sadness told me everything about my own

Can't let it be
When least expected there she is
Gone the time and space that separates us

And I'm not safe
I think I need a second skin
No I'm not safe

World Citizen

World Citizen

I want to travel by night
Across the steppes and over seas
I want to understand the cost
Of everything thats lost
I want to pronounce all their names correctly

World Citizen

World Citizen

I won't be disappointed
I won't be.

She doesn't laugh
We've gone from comedy to commerce
And she doesn't feel the ground she walks upon

I turn away
And I'm not sleeping well at night
And while I know this isn't right
What can you do?

I won't be disappointed
I won't be disappointed
I won't be.

Edited by merbo, 15 July 2011 - 08:11 PM.


#110 merbo

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Posted 14 June 2011 - 02:52 PM

Spam

Spam spam
I love spam
Spam is good
Spam is glam
Spam for dinner
Spam for tea
Spam for you
Spam for me.

Spam delight
Through the night
Wham spam bam spam
Thank you spam ma'am.

Spam is special
Spam is neat
Spam it sweeps me
Off my meat
Spam for mood
Spam so rude
Spam zu linke
Spam platitude

But most of these
And others too
All spam sham
Ain't nothing new?

Spam I slam
O, spam my spam
Spam 'n' pickles
Spam 'n' jam
Spam with dressing
Spam in a clam
Spam Kilpatrick
Viet Spam
Spam for the masses
Für meine Herren meine Damm
Sneaky we are PR spam
Mod shod odd bod big wad spam

O, that mimsy
flim-flam spam
Spam Sam I am,
For I slam spam
Fat cat combat
Wombat spam
Battering bam bam
Buk-in-hamm spam
Heady ready steady spam…

Frankly my dear
I don't give a spam.


Edited by merbo, 15 July 2011 - 08:10 PM.


#111 merbo

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Posted 15 July 2011 - 08:29 PM

Barbie Doll
by Marge Piercy

This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.

She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.

She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.

In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.







#112 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 25 August 2011 - 10:42 AM

Thanks for sharing, merbo. Those last seven lines are still resonating...


Several shorts I've written in the past, well, while...


Peace of poetry. Inspired by beauty

Here we sit, immersed in it:
Silence and remembrance,
Synchronicity and enlightenment,
Coexistence and cognizance,
Unity yet uniqueness

Distance disappears.... evanescent
Waves of energy wash over everyone
A spontaneous flooding of the senses
Everything radiates; creates
Shades and shadows, shifting shapes
Serene scenes, spectacular swells

Delicate strands of interlaced pathways
Parting and pairing, piecing and plaiting
A woven web of whispered words and wide wide worlds
Sentient souls and swift moving streams

Can you feel it? An absence of certainty.
Everything. Nothing. Unending

Sweet sweet surrendering...



guitar lover

(this one would have been perfect for one of my (ex)boyfriends if things hadn't ended on such a bad note (no pun intended... ok, well maybe a little!)

Contact of skin upon string
Vibration, reverberation, sound and stimulation,
A rhythm of his creation

A trance of a tune one can almost touch, taste

His fingers flit upon the frets
Delicious fingering
Notes, chords ~ lingering
Hard and heavy, soft and slow
The rise and fall, feel the flow

His music moves, melds and mends
Heavy breathing, bodies bend

in Anticipation
. Of climactic elation

Listen, listen, listen
As mind and body, heart and soul
Work together as One, Whole
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A memory of a melody
Magical. Mystical. Mine (Thine)

Our souls they sing and the songs are ours to share....

Edited by slippngftfromsteps@random, 25 August 2011 - 11:06 AM.


#113 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 25 August 2011 - 11:04 AM

Been unplugged, out of touch, and off grid for awhile. My thoughts and me, completely free. Just how I like it!


untitled little blurbs

The night unfolds soft and strange
Voices on the wind, shadows in the fog
Uncontrollable thoughts, desires
Dreams adrift and spirits intertwined
Sleep is yet so far
....away....

Thundercloud cautiously creeps across the morning sky
Came out form undercover, and it's there that he shall hover
To greet the day, for she draws nigh

the foggy mist of whitishgray meets the warmearthy field of yellowed green,
hovering and holding the blades of grass ~ bathed in the dew of just before;
peaceful mo(u)rning


and another

The air hangs heavy, holding humidity hostage
Sundried grass a green n yellowed checkerboard of thirsting thieves
King me please
While rainclouds skim and skip on the edge of town, a dodgeball game of epic proportaions
A jumprope hopscotch sneeze of a breeze barely blowing
While the sun plays lasertag with every Jack and Jill....



listening to the uni-verse, cognizant of its core-us

It is what it is not...
... and not quite what it yet could be

it's all so sideways, spectacularly strange
in that wonderful kind of whimsical


and another

Unlabeled and limitless, infinite
Uncollected, unconnected, loose-leaf and blown
Listener, question her, the answer's indefiinite
She's wonderer, wanderer, destination unknown


and yet another...

Mind is moored to a particular point at present
onewaythoughtwisecircular streets without exit

...A maze of mindfulness or a ponderer's prison???
...........A woven web or a visioneer's vision..........
]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
__________Both. _ .Neither. _ .Either_____________
]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
Tired of waiting to face those who enslaved her
She's finding the strength to be her own savior


One more

As sunlight makes it way through leafy trees, casting shadows on the ground
The world slowly awakens. My eyes have opened and in my hands, a sign of spring
My lips slightly part, gently, softly now ~ I take a breath and then
Send forth a stream of air;
And watch as each single dandelion seed comes to life, whirling and dancing upon the wind
Destination unknown, flowing free

Aren't we all?


Lastly

Sometimes it's the most simplistic idea
--- somehow segues into chaotic complexity
show me a smile, I'll spin ya a story
Give me a frown, get a gripping catastrophe
Mind o'mine, Oh my
Why must you always accentuate?
Hey. Hey. Time to attentuate
--- be still
Be silent
---- the secret is simplicity
Shhhh shhh shh

Edited by slippngftfromsteps@random, 25 August 2011 - 11:08 AM.


#114 Lacrymosa

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Posted 30 August 2011 - 04:17 PM

Wow cool!! A poetry thread :D

this is one of my latest...hope you like it

Prayer to the goddess

Young woman
I see your bright light
shining hopeful in your eyes
and I grieve......

I grieve for the way
that light will be dimmed by
many influences
until it becomes a memory...

I know you believe in peace and hope
that our world will be one
of peace and love
a world of hope and joy.....

but I see what this world and pain
has done to me
and many of my kith
and I weep......

for your hopeful heart,
for your spark of peace,
for your belief of love,
I weep...I weep...I weep......

And I pray that the world
will see that love,
that hope, that belief,

and learn to love........


#115 alice

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Posted 13 September 2011 - 09:49 PM

Great poems everyone, it pleases me to see this thread still kicking. I always did enjoy it.

Here's a couple I wrote somewhere in the last year.


sand dunes etched, towering castles,
rising overhead.
down in the gorged gully,
the gullet of a hungry ghost,
there is space to stretch your legs
and pace,
the view narrows as your eyes
arise, your neck arches.
the wind swirls by,
grains of sand cascade down,
billow and settle,
the demarcation of civilization
softens its lines, rounds it edges.

up above,
the sky, the sun are eclipsed
by a moving tapestry of rich woven colors,
threads of silver and gold
run through soft camel, burnt eggplant, sienna,
the modulated hum of voices, songs, baby cries,
spices waft and inflect,
a stringed instrument plays.
as the caravan reaches its tumult,
the sand releases its tenuous grip,
glittering down through glinting sun.
the gullet gets smaller,
the air gets closer,
one world ends and one begins.






Dogged fate

leads a woman of coincidence

by her chain of consequence.

Through corridors papered with illusion,

skipping past delicate flower blossoms

embossed with a velvety stem and the softest of thorns,

trudging past a criss crossed pattern of cringe and curmudgeon,

mindless meandering through a numbing narcoleptic view

of cityscapes, errands, technology, and bore,

interspersed with soul fueling seascapes, towering trees, wonders of nature,

hot sun, cold nights, and the inferno of man's ritual drama.



Progress,

forward she moves, past the contrived scenes,

so it seems.

Until moments of stumble,

of cornerstone crisis when feet do falter,

strength wanes thin

calling up god names and essence,

what does wax within?

The paper rips,

the perfect storm,

she can see tides in motion since before

she was born, before dirt, before stars.

Her name falls away, her face blurs,

a forgotten being awakened

without nouns or darkness.

Reconciliation of this,

relearning this,

will take all her days.

Circle round,

all her ways.

Edited by alice, 13 September 2011 - 09:49 PM.

  • slippngftfromsteps@random likes this

#116 alice

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Posted 13 September 2011 - 10:15 PM

One more, this one I am rather fond of, well as the others too. It comes from a memory of a time which in retrospect was not as glowing as I may have thought, in fact was slow-growing destruction. But yet, it's nice when you can look back on life, all events as opportunities for growth, snapshots of person and change.


gig gulls


Circling the moment,
concentric,
feigned aloofness gives rise
to motivated intoxication,
condensing to an impoverished need.
Swooping with animation,
exaggerated gestures of life lived full.
Squawking chords to this refrain:
no moment is this moment
as I live and love now,
me, me, me, fill me.

Until depletion,
then no moment is this low and hollow
bones propagate flight.
Scavenging.
Nesting carnivores.

#117 alice

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Posted 15 September 2011 - 09:36 PM

The first poem below, I wrote when I was struggling to feel happy. Maybe you know about those days where you aren't entirely at sea and you know enough to know you should be grateful and keeping in the light; but it just doesn't seem to all add up. Today I might say, there's no score to be kept, any score is an illusion. But in the moment, the experience and feelings are true. It's a struggle for certain, perhaps more a process than a score. Just like how it is said life is a journey, not a destination- maybe it's easier some days to want a final score, rather than understanding the game never ends and numbers have nothing to do with it. And maybe we humans have a propensity to want to find things to be hopeful about (or not) and in that pursuit, we rig the game every chance we get.
And the second poem just is what it is.





score



withering autumn leaves,
sage green, limned an aged yellow,
gilded in the waning sun.

take a deeper breath,
lift your eyes up to this.
feel the love that needs
no human, Nature's kiss.

sun is gone,
same way the earth is round.
I only know to see the leaves darken
with night, a tired brown.
feel yourself wither,
brittle, curling in.

all day keeping score.

little moments chalked up.
on one side, hopeful, worthwhile,
beautiful pieces to this puzzle.
yes, I felt it. I did.
a vague, but peaceful glow.

on the other side, only marks
for the darkness I can't keep at bay.
the time it oozes between the fingers
of my outstretched palms the time it
snakes about my limbs the time it kisses
my eyelids as I look for sleep the time
it makes me cry.

all day keeping score.






hike



weaving
up the mountain path
scrunching dry leaves
snapping twigs
compressing the moist wedge
of decomposition beneath each foot fall
with a squelch
releasing the breath of dead ferns
supplanting
the collective air with
images of trilobite fossils
and animal hunger
the earth holds time
we hold history

#118 alice

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Posted 25 September 2011 - 11:43 AM

These were a couple poems I wrote maybe a year ago. They were my attempt at luc-bat poems. It is a vietnamese form of poetry which translates to 6-8, related to the alternating number of syllables in the lines. It has a snazzy rhyme scheme too, some internal rhyming.


The road of yellow bricks
awaits with many tricks and traps.

Find the sun, time will lapse.
Clocks won't help you, nor maps, or glue.

A journey through and through,
Don't matter who you knew or paid.

Hold love dear, as your spade.
All else will be decayed to birth

And you will see the worth
and hope that this dear earth inflicts.




repose is erratic
bats fly in the attic all night.

a mule sliver of light forces day
nocturnal thoughts lose sway and sleep.

they descend deep, with a creep,
stuck between cracks, can't leap to see
a world that breathes, the sea, the trees.

somewhere within, the keys
to mute the static.

Edited by alice, 25 September 2011 - 11:46 AM.


#119 alice

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Posted 27 October 2011 - 06:22 AM

These poems are all by Tomas Transtromer. He just won the nobel prize for literature.

http://www.cbc.ca/ne...literature.html

I enjoyed reading some of his work, much much more seems to be squirrelled away in books.



April and Silence

Spring lies deserted.

The velvet-dark ditch

crawls by my side without reflections.

All that shines

are yellow flowers.

I’m carried in my shadow

like a violin in its black case.

The only thing I want to say

gleams out of reach

like the silver

in a pawnshop.



After a Death
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.

One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.

It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.


THE COUPLE
They turn the light off, and its white globe glows
an instant and then dissolves, like a tablet
in a glass of darkness. Then a rising.
The hotel walls shoot up into heaven’s darkness.
Their movements have grown softer, and they sleep,
but their most secret thoughts begin to meet
like two colors that meet and run together
on the wet paper in a schoolboy’s painting.
It is dark and silent. The city however has come nearer
tonight. With its windows turned off. Houses have come.
They stand packed and waiting very near,
a mob of people with blank faces.


Allegro

I play Haydn after a black day
and feel a simple warmth in my hands.
The keys are willing. Soft hammers strike.
The resonance green, lively and calm.
The music says freedom exists
and someone doesn't pay the emperor tax.
I push down my hands in my Haydnpockets
and imitate a person looking on the world calmly.
I hoist the Haydnflag - it signifies:
"We don't give in. But want peace.'

The music is a glass-house on the slope
where the stones fly, the stones roll.
And the stones roll right through
but each pane stays whole.

The Half-Finished Heaven

Despondency breaks off its course.
Anguish breaks off its course.
The vulture breaks off its flight.
The eager light streams out,
even the ghosts take a draught.
And our paintings see daylight,
our red beasts of the ice-age studios.
Everything begins to look around.
We walk in the sun in hundreds.
Each man is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone.
The endless ground under us.
The water is shining among the trees.
The lake is a window into the earth.

#120 P-Man

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Posted 27 October 2011 - 10:02 AM

I wrote this poem on October 15th, the 1yr anniversary of my grandfather's passing:

365 Days Later

A year ago today you went from us,
And like anything else, you did so without a fuss.

Your loss still rings so very true,
At times I feel a little blue.

I remember your smile and your chuckle,
Sometimes I thought you might break your belt buckle.

I remember your wisdom and advice,
It never came at any price.

You fought for your country with great courage,
It’s only right for us to respect you and pay homage.

As a young man and old you travelled abroad,
This is something we can all applaud.

In the Beach there is now a Maple tree to mark your place,
A perfect spot to watch children run and chase.

You don’t have to fret,
Grandpa, I will never forget.

#121 merbo

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Posted 01 November 2011 - 02:51 PM

THE ACTOR'S PROLOGUE

by Witter Bynner

Once more the mimicry begins
With its compounded heritage -
Of hopes, of fears, of sorrows and sins.
Once more a little stage
Pretends to hold symmetrical a play,
Pointed by art, or rounded, or made square,
While all the time not here on the stage but

there

Within you proceeds the authentic play.
And each of you, a player,
Day after day,
Performs behind a curtaining breast
Some part which we make partly manifest.

We too, are living stranger plays than these
And wearing, or off-stripping in some inner

room,

Life's mask of mimicries;
But in this role of scapegoat we assume,
Besides our own, your solace, your sins,
Your worst, your best.

And therefore, whether we appear to jest
Or to be solemn, we request
That you let first your eyes and ears and then

your hands attest

Our humanness - if we speak true
Some accent of that deeper play containing you.

#122 merbo

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Posted 02 November 2011 - 05:48 PM

THE LONG DEATH

by Marge Piercy

Radiation is like oppression
the average daily kind of subliminal toothache
you get almost used to, the stench
of chlorine in the water, of smog in the wind.

We comprehend the disasters of the moment,
the nursing home fire, the river in flood
pouring over the sandbag levee, the airplane
crash with fragments of burnt bodies
scattered among the hunks of twisted metal,
the grenade in the marketplace; the sinking ship.

But how to grasp a thing that does not
kill you today or tomorrow
but slowly from the inside in twenty years.
How to feel that a corporate or governmental
choice means we bear twisted genes and our
grandchildren will be stillborn if our
children are very lucky.

Slow death can not be photographed for the six
o'clock news. It's all statistical,
the gross national product or the prime
lending rate. Yet if our eyes saw
in the right spectrum, how it would shine,
lurid as magenta neon.

If we could smell radiation like seeping
gas, if we could sense it as heat, if we
could hear it as a low ominous roar
of the earth shifting, then we would not sit
and be poisoned while industry spokesmen
talk of acceptable millirems and .02
cancer per population thousand.

We acquiesce at murder so long as it is slow,
murder from asbestos dust, from tobacco,
from lead in the water, from sulphur in the air,
and fourteen years later statistics are printed
on the rise in leukemia among children.
We never see their faces. They never stand,
those poisoned children together in a courtyard,
and are gunned down by men in three-piece suits.

The shipyard workers who built nuclear
submarines, the soldiers who were marched
into the Nevada desert to be tested by the
H-bomb, the people who work in power plants,
they die quietly years after in hospital
ward and not on the evening news.

The soft spring rain floats down and the air
is perfumed with pine and earth. Seedlings
drink it in, robins sop it in puddles,
you run in it and feel clean and strong,
the spring rain blowing from the irradiated
cloud over the power plant.

Radiation is oppression, the daily average
kind, the kind you're almost used to
and live with as the years abrade you,
high blood pressure, ulcers, cramps, migraine,
a hacking cough; you take it inside
and it becomes pain and you say, not
They are killing me, but I am sick now.

#123 merbo

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Posted 02 November 2011 - 08:10 PM

The Fisherman’s Son

by Judith Beveridge

Perhaps it was when he first felt his shoulders
roll an oar, or when he pulled the thick boots on.
Perhaps it was when he saw the curved thin rod
of the moon angle into his father’s face and hook
his mouth into an ugly grin; or perhaps when
the sun rerouted his eyes to the necks of wading
birds along the shore as the first pink tones

of dusk uncurled along the ferns. It could have
been the way his father’s knife eased out the eyes
of so many fish like spoonfuls of compote that gave
him thoughts black as the inky emulsions of squid,
a sleep no fishing boat could ease, nor star pickle
with its comforting pin. Perhaps he learned nothing
from his father’s face except how whiskey

trawled sleep from his eyes and left him pursued
by pain and thunder and a show of lightning’s
yellow flares. Perhaps when he felt the rod
pull his arms through a reel’s band of static,
when he heard his father’s voice in the headache
scudding low across his forehead, the reel
with an insect’s drum-head pitch his heart into

summer’s mounting heat; the slow drip of days
revved up by outboards then dispelled by a drill
of mosquitoes, or weather finding tenor in its squalls.
Among stars and fish, those notes from the waste
hours he gutted, from the river’s sweep of years,
who could know how many knives he heard
audition for his nerves, or what beat his heart

took, or how many rounds of an ingoing lake
before the wind rushed into the uncaulked
cracks and left him face-down, deep-drummed,
gear-slipped, deaf to his inner repertoire, blind
now to the river’s weather-beaten stare.
Perhaps from a tangle of yellow air, or when
he heard the wind bale out of a speeding sky,

or a firetail add its flute to the rankling handle
of a windlass, a lyrebird weigh its call in
with an anchor’s unrolling links, some twisting
erratic pull of tackle as the mosquitoes buzzed;
when he heard his father’s voice in each dizzy
injected dose…. All day such talk went on
as the men brought in their hauls, gutting fish

to the noise of pelicans, those bills clacking
like clapperboards, the ease of routine. Here
among the brace of tides, as wind skips along
ropes left lank and loose and dangling now
among the sloops, no one fully knowing why
a boy would desire to die….The avocets walking
the shore with their hesitant, hair-splitting steps.

#124 merbo

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Posted 02 November 2011 - 08:54 PM

NB: It's near impossible to format all the pomey bits, indents etc., the way it should appear. I gave up! - here's a link to the prettier one, if you're up for it.

Capricorn

by Judith Beveridge


Through the end of an old Coke bottle he tracks
the flight of a petrel, until it is tattered by
sea-wind and another blurred mintage of the sun.
Along the pier, he hears the men with their
reels, with their currency of damp sand. His rod
quivers – weighted not with fish, but with

the names of storms: Harmattan, Vendavales
turbid winds running the vanguard of
dangerous straits. He kicks at a pile of fishscales:
galleon ballast, a hoard of ducats spilled
from an old Dutch dogger. The men will soon
chase him off, this raucous hero plundering

brigs. But now the bottle is a horn into which
he pours so much breath, and the air has
a tone borrowed from a blowhole, from wind
singing through a bridge's rusting struts.
A crab sifts sandgrains for its hole; its claw,
an old sea-brigand's hook, is paying out

doubloons and threats. Ah, but you know – if
you were to take this child's hand, if you
were to keep his gaze in yours and wait for
each circulation of his breath; if you were
to watch the pirated scenes of daydreams
play out through a windfall of glass – then

you'd see the copper-coloured sun. You'd walk
this beach a long time with your thoughts
trading in weather and wind, the petrels keeping
pace with the rackish lines of dreams
sailing in with the clinker-built storms. The past
and the present would not be depressions

facing each other, nor would there be grains
of sand abrading your fate... On the shore,
a gull, dead from the night's storm. With his rod,
the boy flings it up, the glove of a dueller
he's just Zorroed with his sword... No, the world
would not be a wave repeating its collapse,
but whatever mintage of story a boy can find
among fishscales, sand, and the common
issuance of wind; a boy who knows nothing
of the linkages between storms; nor of
the men, yet, who log weather's quick decay
onto gauges of abuse; who knows nothing
about paying for that old voyage toward death.

#125 merbo

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Posted 15 November 2011 - 02:42 PM

Two Word Poem.

The toad sat on a red stool
it was a toadstool.
The rain tied a bow
in the cloud's hair
it was a rainbow.
Which witch put sand
in my sandwich?
I stood upon the bridge
then I understood.
I sat on the ledge and
thought about what I know.
It was knowledge.














THE SEA

the mist smudges out
Kapiti Island
the hills curve and rise
like loaves of bread
the sun sprinkles glitter
on the sea
the wind is writing
what it knows
in lines along the water














AUTUMN 2

the leaves are bleeding
before they fall
to the ground
they make no sound












The Frost


Silver Jack Frost and glistening Jill Snow go up the hill.

The colour is lost the trees are still.










The above poems are by Laura Ranger

#126 merbo

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Posted 21 November 2011 - 11:12 PM

BURNT NORTON
(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')

T.S. Eliot



I
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.



II
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.



III
Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.



IV
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?

Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.



V
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.


Posted Image Quartet No. 2: East Coker
Posted Image Quartet No. 3: The Dry Salvages
Posted Image Quartet No. 4: Little Gidding
Posted Image Notes
Posted Image Front page


#127 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 03 February 2012 - 12:40 PM

Centuries sole searching
as sentient souls searching
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...A constant reminder of our innate humanity,
inescapable and irreplaceable meanings of mortality

(Invincibility only exists in parallel and peripheral places, imaginary fictional manifestations of spaces)

Pain is part of the human(e)xperience...

(An awakening to Life
progression of Truth, Transformation
as one makes the journey through individual Expiration...)

#128 alice

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Posted 16 February 2012 - 10:36 PM

nice poem Slip, nice to see you here

#129 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 05 April 2012 - 05:03 PM

Hey there, alice ~ it's good to be here



relational reciprocity (romanticism)
the un-complication of complications

Simple pleasures
(*applicable, substitution of personal preference)

Warmth, a captivating creation, the product of proximity;
two bodies intertwined, a union of
entangled appendages, legs woven together whilst lying lengthwise
Foreheads and noses, intersections and connections
the unification of hands, pressure of thumb upon palm
Small spaces and indentations in that "oh-so-right" size
for fingers to flirt with; such as, that secretive space
just^above^the collar bone where *masculine neck unites muscular shoulder, or that sole space at the small of a feminine* back,
meant for man*s hands to meet and gently massage.
Lingering of hands, penetrating lips, varying points of pressure;
fingertip patterns teasingly traced upon skin
of torso and neck, earlobes, wrists, thighs
The softest of whispers, lips slightly parted, the swelling of sighs
Head upon chest, those muted, muffled pulsations
the sounds of existence, rhythmic vibrations...
... of vibrant reality
Swift inhalations....even slower exhalations; hot breath
upon cool, bare {naked} skin
and the light in one's eyes and passion of one's soul
in combination with another...

(I wrote this a short while ago... Relationships, particularly the subtleties and simplicities of such complexity, have been on my mind as of late. I wonder what that means, if anything....)


#130 slippngftfromsteps@random

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Posted 12 April 2012 - 04:50 PM

‎(on that day among many...)

the sun slowly set
...we watched light leave the sky...
as the wind waxed and waned
faintly whispering its way
through long labored leaves.
and oh, oh those leaves - green and gold -
how they sighed softly in repose...

do you remember?

._______________ready.
.________set._________
._go.________________

aimlessly running and frantically reaching
'round trees, broken branches
^uphill^ and <down>
determined to free ourselves
.----------------------- from old selves
barefoot.and.breathing.two beings.believing

and after...
existence -> exhilarated -> exhausted
collapsed at the foot of old moss-covered tree
our backs cool with dirt, eyes raised to the sky
the scent of the earth.the moon and the stars
.....................the quiet. the calm.......................
your hand in mine...

a Woman, a Man
two Souls intertwined

(...on that day among many)

Edited by slippngftfromsteps@random, 12 April 2012 - 04:53 PM.