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Poetry Flows From We


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#1 alice

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Posted 10 July 2009 - 10:24 AM

The trio is freshly cut.
The forum is free of rut.
Let's spread our word.
Let's elevate the herd.
Time to say "Now!" not "what? (you nut)."

#2 valley

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Posted 11 July 2009 - 03:44 PM

this song is a prayer for you
its a hope for something new
despite the old, you grew
and i realise now i see
that you'll be all you can be
its an earth moon love you share with me

#3 merbo

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Posted 11 July 2009 - 06:12 PM

^That's beautiful, vazza

DUBBYA LUVYA?

by Kev Carmody

??George W Bush, ol' Dubya
?He's a good ol'boy ol' Dubya


Smoke 'em out bring 'em to justice?
Crusade, axis of evil?
Not everybody luvs ya Dubya


Hollywood's and the media's reaction invades your brain
?Got George Bush actin' like a born again John Wayne
?Oscar nomination no odds who'll win
?Rather be in Paris Texas than in Palestine?
Not all the world luvs ya Dubya


Colonel Kurtz, now in Iraq and Afghanistan
?Finished his work in Vietnam?
Dubya's security its plane to see?
Forces millions and millions to hide and flee?
As aliens, asylum seekers and refugees?
You got the whole world down on bended knee?
Prayin' for an end to their insecurity


'Smoke 'em out, bring 'em to justice
?Crusade, Axis of Evil'.


He's a good ol' boy 'ol Dubya
?Not everybody luvs ya Dubya......not everybody luvs ya


Devout Muslim, Christian, Jew fightin' those wars for me and you?
Hard for us to go say thanks
?Dodgin' gunships, smart bombs and armoured tanks


Not all the world luvs ya Dubya

"Smoke 'em out, bring 'em to justice
?Crusade, that ol' Axis of Evil'


Not everybody luvs ya Dubya, not everybody luvs ya

We Gentile, Infidel, Heathen Ones
?Caught in the cross fire with worse to come
?Monotheism that comes from the Middle East
?Seem to be based on war......aint based on peace?
Torah, Koran, Bible if ya take a look?
Take their God's Word.....from that ol' Monotheistic Book
?Not everybody.....not everybody....not everybody....LUVS YA


(Repeat)

http://www.kevcarmod...tml#DubbyaLuvya

#4 alice

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Posted 12 July 2009 - 03:34 AM

this song is a prayer for you
its a hope for something new
despite the old, you grew
and i realise now i see
that you'll be all you can be
its an earth moon love you share with me



that is good, you write that valley?

#5 valley

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Posted 13 July 2009 - 05:34 PM

tis a song i wrote for a friend a long time ago, and though theres no friendship the words still ring true to me!

i'm not all smackitysmacksmack :( im a big softy at heart :D

#6 Simmo

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Posted 14 July 2009 - 04:13 AM

I saw an awesome band called The King Blues at a festival i was at last night. The set was so intense there was no way we were going to let the next band on without an encore first, and eventually the people in charge gave in. The frontman came out and performed a poem whilst the rest of the band recovered and I think you'd appreciate it. I know it still gives me goosebumps.

"5 Bottles of Shampoo"

He begins by describing standing behind a woman in the supermarket check out line and watching her place bread, milk and 5 different bottles of shampoo on the til. It then goes into this...


#7 alice

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Posted 15 July 2009 - 01:58 AM

thanks for that Simmo, that is wonderful, so nice to hear, Refreshing.
That's what we need, men & women got to stick together as humans and let go of all this shit that divides us and keeps us down. Beauty, really.

#8 alice

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Posted 15 July 2009 - 05:14 AM

I came across this last week and I quite liked some parts of it. It's a lot to do with everything and nothing, that kind of thing, and nothing at all.

The Scripture of Golden Eternity by Jack Kerouac
http://www.prahlad.o...en_eternity.htm

Here's a few bits

11

If we were not all the golden eternity we wouldnt be here. Because we are here we cant help being pure. To tell man to be pure on account of the punishing angel that punishes the bad and the rewarding angel that rewards the good would be like telling the water "Be Wet"-Never the less, all things depend on supreme reality, which is already established as the record of Karma earned-fate.

12

God is not outside us but is just us, the living and the dead, the never-lived and never-died. That we should learn it only now, is supreme reality, it was written a long time ago in the archives of universal mind, it is already done, there's no more to do.

13

This is the knowledge that sees the golden eternity in all things, which is us, you, me, and which is no longer us, you, me.

14

What name shall we give it which hath no name, the common eternal matter of the mind? If we were to call it essence, some might think it meant perfume, or gold, or honey. It is not even mind. It is not even discussible, groupable into words; it is not even endless, in fact it is not even mysterious or inscrutably inexplicable; it is what is; it is that; it is this. We could easily call the golden eternity "This." But "what's in a name?" asked Shakespeare. The golden eternity by another name would be as sweet. A Tathagata, a God, a Buddha by another name, an Allah, a Sri Krishna, a Coyote, a Brahma, a Mazda, a Messiah, an Amida, an Aremedeia, a Maitreya, a Palalakonuh, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 would be as sweet. The golden eternity is X, the golden eternity is A, the golden eternity is /\, the golden eternity is O, the golden eternity is [ ], the golden eternity is t-h-e-g-o-l-d-e-n-e-t-e-r- n-i-t-y. In the beginning was the word; before the beginning, in the beginningless infinite neverendingness, was the essence. Both the word "god" and the essence of the word, are emptiness. The form of emptiness which is emptiness having taken the form of form, is what you see and hear and feel right now, and what you taste and smell and think as you read this. Wait awhile, close your eyes, let your breathing stop three seconds or so, listen to the inside silence in the womb of the world, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, re-recognize the bliss you forgot, the emptiness and essence and ecstasy of ever having been and ever to be the golden eternity. This is the lesson you forgot.

15

The lesson was taught long ago in the other world systems that have naturally changed into the empty and awake, and are here now smiling in our smile and scowling in our scowl. It is only like the golden eternity pretending to be smiling and scowling to itself; like a ripple on the smooth ocean of knowing. The fate of humanity is to vanish into the golden eternity, return pouring into its hands which are not hands. The navel shall receive, invert, and take back what'd issued forth; the ring of flesh shall close; the personalities of long dead heroes are blank dirt.

16

The point is we're waiting, not how comfortable we are while waiting. Paleolithic man waited by caves for the realization of why he was there, and hunted; modern men wait in beautified homes and try to forget death and birth. We're waiting for the realization that this is the golden eternity.

17

It came on time.



#9 alice

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Posted 31 July 2009 - 02:10 PM

Here are a few poems I got off on today, figuratively speaking. They are both by Dan Albergotti.


Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life's ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.




The Mystery of the Great Blue Heron



The poet tries to make the heron a god,

but the heron does not care. The heron

wades along the shore, a dark body

absorbing light, patience stopping time.

The poet makes sounds like prayer,

but the heron is merely annoyed, stepping

into the air and pulling with broad wings.

The poet carefully records a sacred text,

but the heron has found a hidden pool

among the small trees and stands there

all day, staring coldly into the water,

far from the songs, from the blood,

from all the voices that beg for mercy.

#10 merbo

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Posted 31 July 2009 - 08:40 PM

The Torture Never Stops

by Frank Zappa, 29 October 1976,

Flies all green and buzzin',
?in this dungeon of despair.?
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes,
?and scratch their matted hair.
?A tiny light, from a window hole,
?a hundred yards away,?
is all they ever gets to know?
about the regular light in the day.

And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
?and weepin' greenish drops.?
In the room where the giant fire puffer works,
?and the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.

Slime and rot, rats and snot
,?and vomit on the floor.?
Fifty yoogly soldiers, man,
?holdin' spears by the iron door.?
Knives and spikes, and guns and the likes
?of every tool of pain.?
And a sinister midget, with a bucket and a mop,?
where the blood goes down the drain.
And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
?and weepin' greenish drops.
?In the room where the giant fire puffer works,?
and the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.?
The torture.. the torture..?
The torture never stops.

Flies all green and buzzin',
?in this dungeon of despair.
?An evil prince eats a steaming pig,
?in a chamber right near there.?
He eats the snouts and the trotters first.?
The loins and the groins is soon dispersed.
?His carvin' style is well rehearsed.
?He stands and shouts:

All men be cursed!
?All men be cursed!
?All men be cursed!?
All men be cursed!


And disagree??
Well, no one durst.

He's the best, of course, of all the worst.
?Some wrong been done, he done it first.

And it stinks so bad, his bones been chokin',
?and weepin' greenish drops.?
In the night of the iron sausage,
?where the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.?
The torture.. the torture..?.
The torture never stops.

Flies all green and buzzin',
?in this dungeon of despair.?
Who are all those people,
?that he's locked away down there?
?Are they crazy??
Are they sainted??
Are they zeroes,?
someone painted?

And it's never been explained,
?since first it was created.?
But a dungeon, like a sin,?
requires naught but lockin' in,
?of everything that's ever been.?
Look at her.?
Look at him.

That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
?That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.?
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
?That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.

#11 merbo

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Posted 01 August 2009 - 12:02 PM

from The Hunting of the Snark

by Lewis Carroll

Fit the Sixth

[b]THE BARRISTER

#12 Simmo

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Posted 02 August 2009 - 07:51 PM

Here's one that I hope will be a song, once I get my head around how I want it to sound.

"Is This Art?"

My friends are more depressed than you and yours could ever be
Existential competitions see who can be more free
When Blue becomes a language
And when Red consumes my heart
I just need you to tell me, is this art?

When you turn out all the lights and watch expressionism breed
Do you never feel as empty as the soul i need to feed?
When passion is an option
And it's left out from the start
Can you look me in the eyes and tell me this is art?

Well I wish that I could walk this land with my life on my back
Maybe sit atop a mountain or dive into the Black
As it is, my day-to-day is lived only in part
But now I'm ripping through this canvas, am I art?

#13 merbo

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Posted 03 August 2009 - 01:05 AM

( ::<(:))>:: Very cool Simmo, love it ::<(^_^)>::)

That which we call a rose

by Michael Dransfield

Black greyed into white a nightmare of bicycling
?over childhood roads harried peaceless?
tomorrow came a mirage packed in hypodermic
?the city we lived in then was not of your making
?it was built by sculptors in the narcotic rooms of Stanley
?

#14 merbo

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Posted 03 August 2009 - 02:30 AM

? Inside
by Sting

Inside the doors are sealed to love
Inside my heart is sleeping
Inside the fingers of my glove
Inside the bones of my right hand
Inside it's colder than the stars
Inside the dogs are weeping
Inside the circus of the wind
Inside the clocks are filled with sand
Inside she'll never hurt me
Inside the winter's creeping
Inside the compass of the night
Inside the folding of the land


Outside the stars are turning
Outside the world's still burning


Inside my head's a box of stars I never dared to open
Inside the wounded hide their scars, inside
this lonesome sparrow's fall
Inside the songs of our defeat, they sing of treaties broken
Inside this army's in retreat, we hide
beneath the thunder's call


Outside the rain keeps falling
Outside the drums are calling
Outside the flood won't wait
Outside they're hammering down the gate


Love is the child of an endless war
Love is an open wound still raw
Love is a shameless banner unfurled
Love's an explosion,
Love is the fire of the world
Love is a violent star
A tide of destruction
Love is an angry scar
A violation, a mutilation, capitulation, love is annihilation.


Inside the failures of the light, the
night is wrapped around me
Inside my eyes deny their sight, you'd
never find me in this place
Inside we're hidden from the moonlight,
we shift between the shadows
Inside the compass of the night,
inside the memory of your face


Outside the walls are shaking
Inside the dogs are waking
Outside the hurricane won't wait
Inside they're howling down the gate


Love is the child of an endless war
Love is an open wound still raw
Love is a shameless banner unfurled
Love's an explosion,
Love is the fire at the end of the world
Love is a violent star
A tide of destruction
Love is an angry scar
The pain of instruction
Love is a violation, a mutilation, capitulation,
Love is annihilation.


I climb this tower inside my head
A spiral stair above my bed
I dream the stairs don't ask me why,
I throw myself into the sky


Love me like a baby, love me like an only child
Love me like an ocean; love me like a mother mild
Love me like a father, love me like a prodigal son
Love me like a sister, love me like the world has just begun
Love me like a prodigy, love me like an idiot boy,
Love me like an innocent, love me like your favorite toy
Love me like a virgin, love me like a courtesan,
Love me like a sinner, love me like a dying man.


Annihilate me, infiltrate me, incinerate
me, accelerate me, mutilate me, inundate
me, violate me, implicate me, vindicate
me, devastate me


Love me like a parasite, love me like a dying sun
Love me like a criminal, love me like a man on the run


Radiate me, subjugate me, incubate me,
recreate me, demarcate me, educate me,
punctuate me, evaluate me, conjugate me,
impregnate me, designate me, humiliate
me, segregate me, opiate me, calibrate
me, replicate me


#15 Simmo

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Posted 04 August 2009 - 06:21 AM

Thanks Merbo =) Loving the Sting...

#16 alice

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Posted 06 August 2009 - 10:35 PM

Patriotism

by Ellie Schoenfeld

My country is this dirt
that gathers under my fingernails
when I am in the garden.
The quiet bacteria and fungi,
all the little insects and bugs
are my compatriots. They are
idealistic, always working together
for the common good.
I kneel on the earth
and pledge my allegiance
to all the dirt of the world,
to all of that soil which grows
flowers and food
for the just and unjust alike.
The soil does not care
what we think about or who we love.
It knows our true substance,
of what we are really made.
I stand my ground on this ground,
this ground which will
ultimately
recruit us all
to its side.

#17 Rachel

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Posted 07 August 2009 - 02:56 PM

Night falls
and keeps on
falling
Autumn leaves
bruise the sky
a yelllow shiver
ripping the smooth hour
with it's edgy
spine
Struggling to hold back
the dawn
open hearted lovers
cling to the sweet fruits
of last minute kisses
so eager
to lose themselves
in the honey thick gravity
of love so new
while beyond the Gates
leaves tear themselves
from the only limb they've known
to experience
the freedom
the uncertainty
of air.

- Jewel Kilcher

#18 merbo

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Posted 07 August 2009 - 08:31 PM

m Maid up

A maid ran a mile on the head of a pin
To find out where the light was getting in
That pin made a hole upon the ceiling
That made our maid recount this feeling.


[color=blue][i]"Bring some flour and luke warm water."

#19 merbo

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Posted 11 August 2009 - 06:16 AM

Antigonish

by William Hughes Mearns

[i]Yesterday, upon the stair,
?I met a man who wasn

#20 merbo

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Posted 11 August 2009 - 06:30 AM

WALT WHITMAN'S NIECE

by Woody Guthrie 1946


Last night or the night before that
I won't say which night
A seaman friend of mine
I'll not say which seaman
Walked up to a big old building
I won't say which building
And would not have walked up the stairs
Not to say which stairs
If there had not have been two girls
Leaving out the names of those two girls


I recall a door, a big long room
I'll not tell which room
I remember a deep blue rug
but I can't say which rug
A girl took down a book of poems
Not to say which book of poems
And as she read, I laid my head
And I can't tell which head
Down in her lap, and I can't mention which lap


My seaman buddy and girl moved off
After a couple of pages and there I was
All night long, laying and listening
And forgetting the poems.
And as wll as I could recall,
Or my seaman buddy could recollect,
My girl had told us that she was a niece
Of Walt Whitman, but not which niece,
And it takes a night and a girl
And a book of this kind
A long long time to find its way back


#21 merbo

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Posted 11 August 2009 - 07:01 AM

[url=http://www.woodyguthrie.org/curriculum/Mean%20Things%20Lesson%20Plan.pdf][color=#000000][i][u][b]MEAN THINGS HAPPENIN

#22 valley

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Posted 14 August 2009 - 02:44 PM

Though now a poem- it's a 1st draft un edited ive just completed for Uni- english and writing your own life!

i hope you enjoy it- look past the inevitable gramatical errors. Im very interested if you can feel my passion within it coming through as its a big part of my life. Read slow for best viewing!

And please let me know if it makes sense! its meant to shop and change- its how i write, but if it's too hard to follow let me know!

AUTOBIOGRAPHY ON WRITING A MEMOIR - And the subsequent impact it has left on my life.

It is true in a sense; that you only realize the true impact and profoundness of a time and place in retrospect. Only when you can link all the pieces of life

#23 Zephyr

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Posted 14 August 2009 - 05:25 PM

very reflective and passionate, I bet your grandpa's memoirs make for a fascinating life :P

#24 alice

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Posted 14 August 2009 - 10:49 PM

I think that's absolutely beautiful, valley.
And not only the content, but word choices, sentence construction- it flows well.
It's honest and interesting.

#25 valley

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Posted 15 August 2009 - 01:00 PM

I think that's absolutely beautiful, valley.
And not only the content, but word choices, sentence construction- it flows well.
It's honest and interesting.


thanks mate!


thats interesting you say it flows well- ive shown a few people and it flows differently for each person!

cheers for the kind words too zeph :)

#26 alice

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Posted 17 August 2009 - 09:35 PM

It's Ours
Charles Bukowski



there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing

that
gentle pure
space

it's worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all

ever.

#27 merbo

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Posted 19 August 2009 - 03:29 PM

Ah, White Man, have you any sacred sites

By Denis Kevans

?Ah, brother, I am searching for the sites sacred to you, Where you
walk in silent worship, and you whisper poems, too, Where you
tread, like me, in wonder, and your eyes are filled with tears, When
you see the tracks you've travelled down your fifty thousand years.


I am searching round Australia, I am searching, night and day, For
a site, to you so sacred, that you won't give it away For a bit of
coloured paper, say a Church you're knocking down, Or the Rocks,
your nation's birhtplace, by the Bridge, in Sydney Town.


Your cathedrals I have entered, I have seen the empty aisles,
Where a few knelt down in sorrow, where were all the children's
smiles? Big cathedrals, full of beauty, opal glass and gleaming
gold, And an old man, in an overcoat, who had crept in from the
cold.


Your schools, I drifted through them, heard the sound of swishing
canes, Heard the shouts of angry people crushing flowers in our
brains, Heard the bark up on the rostrum, where the powers had
their say, Wouldn't children's hearts be sacred, though they're
made, like mine, of clay?


Where's your wonder? Where's your worship? Where's your sense
of holy awe? When I see those little children, torn apart, by fear of
war? What is sacred to you, brother, what is sacred to your clan?
Are your totems rainbow-feathered? Is there dreaming in you, man?


Sacred! sacred ! sacred ! gee, you chuck that word about,
And when echoes answer sacred! sacred, louder still, you shout,
And the echoes come, in patterns, and then, louder, every one, Till
they meet, like waves together, and go bang! just like a gun.


Sacred hesitating now, a film is reeling through My brain, and
through my memory, of our sacred rendez-vous, Of our meeting, of
our parting, of my tears, as sweet as ice, Of my numb
incomprehension of a shattered paradise.


Sacred, O so sacred, was our sacred rendez-vous, And your
ferocious anger, when you found, we weren't like you, But if I
should make an act of faith, in a voice, both firm and clear, That
there's something sacred to me, you start drowning in your beer.


What is sacred to you, brother, what is sacred to your heart? Is
Australia just a quarry, for the bauxite belts to start? Where the
forests are forgotten, and the tinkling of the bell Of the bell-bird in
the mountains is just something more to sell?


Ah, brother, I am searching for the sites sacred to you, But the
rivers, clear as crystal, smell like sewer-fulls of spew, From the pipe
and pump polluters, and the nukes that fleck the foam, Would you
let a man, with dirty boots, go walking through your home?


Sacred means that, sacred, that's a place where spirits rise, With
the rainbow wings of sunset, on the edge of paradise, Sacred,
that's my father, that's my daughter, that's my son, Sacred!
where the dreaming whispers hope for everyone.


In the silence of the grottoes of Australia's sunny land, Stand
together with the Kooris, stand together, hand in hand, Open eyes
to endless beauty, and to spirits, far and near, For Australia is my
country, hey, it's sacred to me here.


Ah, brother, I am searching for the sites sacred to you, Where you
walk, in silent worship, and you whisper poems, too, Where you
tread, like me, in wonder, and your eyes are filled with tears, When
you see the tracks you've travelled down your fifty thousand years.


#28 alice

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Posted 20 August 2009 - 08:57 AM

I like that one.

and I liked the woody guthrie one, a page back, about poetry and seamen, was that it? ha ha

Edited by alice, 20 August 2009 - 08:58 AM.


#29 alice

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Posted 26 August 2009 - 07:31 AM

I got a book of haiku poems by Jack Kerouac from the library-
this is one of my faves

Take a cup of water
from the ocean
And there I am


this one I pretty much love too

Praying all the time
talking
To myself



#30 merbo

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Posted 04 September 2009 - 09:28 AM

. Palmyra

by jolie holland

[url]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eooHkRcnuAk&feature=related[/url]

Only a few old petals left,
On the rose that touched your hand.
My little heart is a graveyard,
It's a no man's land.
You could tell I didn't care.
You kept pushing till I did.
Woke up in a pit of despair on your bed,
And I wondered how I could do without you.


How absurd.
How absurd.
How absurd.


Put my lipstick back on.
Look myself in the eye.
I'm headed out in the cold, hard world
And I'm getting very good at saying my goodbyes.


My goodbyes.
My goodbyes.
My goodbyes.
My goodbyes.


Can you read the inscription?
It seems to once have said
"He better take me with him
When he goes I'm good as dead"


Put some roses on the stones.
Look your friends in the eye.
If nothing else we've got that old second line
And I'll dance at your funeral if you dance at mine.


You dance at mine.
You dance at mine.
You dance at mine.
You dance at mine.


They took it all and I don't care.
I already said my farewell.
Sweet Palmyra in that old Ninth Ward
Had to hit that long, hard road that passes straight through Hell.


Straight through Hell.
Straight through Hell.


I wish you well,
Sweet Palmyra.


I wish you well,
Sweet Palmyra.


I wish you well,
Sweet Palmyra.


Posted Image

#31 alice

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Posted 05 September 2009 - 01:28 PM

there was a cat named Phat
wuzza bag a chips and all dat.
he could rap up a storm
stayed out till the morn
then got bit by a bat.

rabies
no rhymes
just frothing
oh shat! gurgled the cat

#32 alice

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Posted 05 September 2009 - 02:40 PM

money equals free speech
well ain't that just a peach
war war war war
drama gore drama gore
oh the glorious heights (death) we reach.

http://www.truthout.org/090409A

#33 alice

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Posted 05 September 2009 - 02:57 PM

fir coming out of the monkeys head
gorillaz


Once upon a time at the foot of a great mountain,
there was a town where the people known as Happyfolk lived,
their very existence a mystery to the rest of the world,
obscured as it was by great clouds.
Here they played out their peaceful lives,
innocent of the litany of excess and violence that was growing in the world below.
To live in harmony with the spirit of the mountain called Monkey was enough.
Then one day Strangefolk arrived in the town.
They came in camouflage, hidden behind dark glasses, but no one noticed them: they only saw shadows.
You see, without the Truth of the Eyes, the Happyfolk were blind.

Falling out of aeroplanes and hiding out in holes
Waiting for the sunset to come, people going home
Jump back from behind them and shoot them in the head
Now everybody dancing the dance of the dead,
the dance of the dead,
the dance of the dead

In time, Strangefolk found their way into the high reaches of the mountain,
and it was there that they found the caves of unimaginable Sincerity and Beauty.
By chance, they stumbled upon the Place Where All Good Souls Come to Rest.
The Strangefolk, they coveted the jewels in these caves above all things,
and soon they began to mine the mountain, its rich seam fueling the chaos of their own world.
Meanwhile, down in the town, the Happyfolk slept restlessly,
their dreams invaded by shadowy figures digging away at their souls.
Every day, people would wake and stare at the mountain.
Why was it bringing darkness into their lives?
And as the Strangefolk mined deeper and deeper into the mountain,
holes began to appear, bringing with them a cold and bitter wind that chilled the very soul of them up.
For the first time, the Happyfolk felt fearful for they knew that soon the Monkey would soon stir from its deep sleep.
And then came a sound. Distant first, it grew into castrophany so immense it could be heard far away in space.
There were no screams. There was no time.
The mountain called Monkey had spoken.
There was only fire.
And then, nothing.

O little town in U.S.A, your time has come to see
There's nothing you believe you want
But where were you when it all came down on me?
Did you call me now?



#34 merbo

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Posted 18 September 2009 - 02:10 AM

(I Was Drunk At The) Pulpit

by Will Oldham


I was drunk at the pulpit, I knew it was wrong

And I left in mid-sermon tempted by a bar-house song
The pews creaked and shifted as they turned to watch me leave
And I pulled a little bottle from the pocket in my sleeve


The sunlight was stronger to my church-dark widened eyes
Than the light which had blinded me with Christ's own half-lies
Yes mid-sunday morning, my old playmates sat
Round a stumble stained table, Christopher spat
And he kicked out a chair and showed me to sit
Then they started back singing in that shit-smelling pit
They were grinning and dribbling with comforted heads
Their wives were in church or at home and in beds
Well I sucked down a cupful and God shone within
In a red earthen mask, and I saw where I'd been was a palace of sin.


Let them abstain on unbucking high horses
Poor wooden structures which merely eye courses
That these log heads run just to find some respite
In the whiskey-induced holy unending night
Yes I thought I saw new light, the black one which dimmed
The bleach garments with which mingled pee on stained rims
Oh the church songs they paled next to this fiery chorus
Composed from a living depth especially for us


There were arms linked in sympathy, gilded the glaring
Of these bloated companions, who hid 'neath their swearing
Some need for another, kin to brother lust,
Which coarse words and music, was faith and less trust
Yes I saw a dependence, an inherent weakness
Within walls which hid sunlight and hindered all frankness
That floor there supported what souls couldn't stand
On their own in their own eyes, to hint they are men
Who are slave to their vision but to that alone
Yes each of them cloistered fear of being alone
Wherever folks gather, to imply a rule,
They are each one a sinner, each one a fool
For if I drink my whiskey, and if I sing a song
I have no breast companion, a-trailing along
To imagine a sharing of burdens I earned
To steal from the embers i strove so to burn
God is one's corpus, and Jesus one's blood
The world is within you, without is of mud...


#35 alice

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Posted 18 September 2009 - 12:34 PM

Poetry
by Pablo Neruda





And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

#36 merbo

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Posted 19 September 2009 - 03:43 AM

No doubt about Naruda. He's fearless! Tiene pelotas! Writing a poem called poetry

I don't know if . . .

I could

Summon up the pluck
to even try that.

What rhymes with pluck?

Might try in a quiet place
under a tree somewhere,
Where dappled
Shadows dance.
With my hopeful head
In the lap of my lady.

But I'll have a crack
At one right off the bat.

Got to think up a line.
One that might shine.

Sometimes

I just don't want to
Disturb the poor things.
Or that's how I justify
My aching inaction.


So there they sit,
Somewhere.
Between the light
And the night.
And they whisper
All the while.

Perhaps that's not right.
They might be wailing
Screaming into the silence

Say my name.
Say my name.


You can see me.
Say my name.

And I do

But with eyes closed
Wishes multiplying
I think your names.
Thank you. Thank you.

I try to coax one out
My mind draws a name
On the back of my eyelids
So I can feel the shape,

But the pictures lie
On the other side.

I try to bend
The will towards
The wellspring
Of waking words
Spoken truth

Still

Brokenhearted
Under the strain
Of the wind and rain
The old mule
is lame

Say my name
Say my name

#37 alice

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Posted 22 September 2009 - 10:13 AM

I very much dig your pluck at Poetry, merbo.


check these apples out, pretty sweet I think.....


The Song of Wandering Aengus
W.B. Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.



#38 merbo

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Posted 27 September 2009 - 03:04 PM

Thanks alice.

[quote]
On the Propensity of the Human Species to Repeat Error
by Christina Pacosz

"And if they kill others for being who they are
or where they are
Is this a law of history
or simply, what must change?"

Edited by merbo, 27 September 2009 - 03:09 PM.


#39 alice

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Posted 27 September 2009 - 09:50 PM

I like that, thanks.

#40 alice

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Posted 29 September 2009 - 04:52 AM

Self-Portrait At 28 by David Berman

I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think "at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand"
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.


It is a certain hill
the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill"
and if the apocalypse turns out
to be a world-wide nervous breakdown
if our five billion minds collapse at once
well I'd call that a surprise ending
and this hill would still be beautiful
a place I wouldn't mind dying
alone or with you.


I am trying to get at something
and I want to talk very plainly to you
so that we are both comforted by the honesty.
You see there is a window by my desk
I stare out when I am stuck
though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write
and I don't know why I keep staring at it.


My childhood hasn't made good material either
mostly being a mulch of white minutes
with a few stand out moments,
popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer
a certain amount of pride at school
everytime they called it "our sun"
and playing football when the only play
was "go out long" are what stand out now.


If squeezed for more information
I can remember old clock radios
with flipping metal numbers
and an entree called Surf and Turf.


As a way of getting in touch with my origins
every night I set the alarm clock
for the time I was born so that waking up
becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like
when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn
the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it.


II two

I can't remember being born
and no one else can remember it either
even the doctor who I met years later
at a cocktail party.
It's one of the little disappointments
that makes you think about getting away
going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables
and taking a room on the square
with a landlady whose hands are scored
by disinfectant, telling the people you meet
that you are from Alaska, and listen
to what they have to say about Alaska
until you have learned much more about Alaska
than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables.


Sometimes I am buying a newspaper
in a strange city and think
"I am about to learn what it's like to live here."
Oftentimes there is a news item
about the complaints of homeowners
who live beside the airport
and I realize that I read an article
on this subject nearly once a year
and always receive the same image.



I am in bed late at night
in my house near the airport
listening to the jets fly overhead
a strange wife sleeping beside me.
In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation
of various cold medicine commercial sets
(there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand).


I know these recurring news articles are clues,
flaws in the design though I haven't figured out
how to string them together yet,
but I've begun to notice that the same people
are dying over and over again,
for instance Minnie Pearl
who died this year
for the fourth time in four years.


III three

Today is the first day of Lent
and once again I'm not really sure what it is.
How many more years will I let pass
before I take the trouble to ask someone?



It reminds of this morning
when you were getting ready for work.
I was sitting by the space heater
numbly watching you dress
and when you asked why I never wear a robe
I had so many good reasons
I didn't know where to begin.



If you were cool in high school
you didn't ask too many questions.
You could tell who'd been to last night's
big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn't have to ask
and that's what cool was:
the ability to deduct
to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness
means not asking when you don't know,
which is why kids grow ever more stupid.



A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises
to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness
of a teenager's promise. Not like I'm dying
for a letter from the class stoner
ten years on but...


Do you remember the way the girls
would call out "love you!"
conveniently leaving out the "I"
as if they didn't want to commit
to their own declarations.


I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept
and hope you won't get uncomfortable
if I should go into some deeper stuff here.


IV four

There are things I've given up on
like recording funny answering machine messages.
It's part of growing older
and the human race as a group
has matured along the same lines.
It seems our comedy dates the quickest.
If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes
I hope you won't be insulted
if I say you're trying too hard.
Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live
seem slow-witted and obvious now.


It's just that our advances are irrepressible.
Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands.
It makes people too self-conscious about the past,
though try explaining that to a kid.


I'm not saying it should be this way.

All this new technology
will eventually give us new feelings
that will never completely displace the old ones
leaving everyone feeling quite nervous
and split in two.


We will travel to Mars
even as folks on Earth
are still ripping open potato chip
bags with their teeth.


Why? I don't have the time or intelligence
to make all the connections
like my friend Gordon
(this is a true story)
who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts
and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree
until I brought it up.
He'd never broken the name down to its parts.
By then it was too late.
He had moved to Coral Gables.


V five

The hill out my window is still looking beautiful
suffused in a kind of gold national park light
and it seems to say,
I'm sorry the world could not possibly
use another poem about Orpheus
but I'm available if you're not working
on a self-portrait or anything.


I'm watching my dog have nightmares,
twitching and whining on the office floor
and I try to imagine what beast
has cornered him in the meadow
where his dreams are set.


I'm just letting the day be what it is:
a place for a large number of things
to gather and interact --
not even a place but an occasion
a reality for real things.


Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic
or religious with this piece:
"They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic
or religious," but these are valid topics
and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor
possibly dreaming of me
that part of me that would beat a dog
for no good reason
no reason that a dog could see.



I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don't disfigure it
and if it turns out that what I say is untrue
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one.


VI six

I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories,
many of them having blended with sentimental
telephone and margarine commercials
plainly ruined by Madison Avenue
though no one seems to call the advertising world
"Madison Avenue" anymore. Have they moved?
Let's get an update on this.


But first I have some business to take care of.

I walked out to the hill behind our house
which looks positively Alaskan today
and it would be easier to explain this
if I had a picture to show you
but I was with our young dog
and he was running through the tall grass
like running through the tall grass
is all of life together
until a bird calls or he finds a beer can
and that thing fills all the space in his head.


You see,
his mind can only hold one thought at a time
and when he finally hears me call his name
he looks up and cocks his head
and for a single moment
my voice is everything:


Self-portrait at 28.

Edited by alice, 29 September 2009 - 04:53 AM.


#41 alice

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Posted 04 October 2009 - 01:29 AM

Nightshift by Lewis Hyde

Billy, lost in the D.T.'s-- horseshoe crabs, cockroaches,
a Sellurian dream, things with legs on their legs,
whatever survives the things we can't survive.
An electrician saw snakes with plugs for heads.
The white guys see black guys behind them.

Four a.m. and Billy can't walk. Pees the bed. Argues with me.
He suddenly wants to go park his car.
"Where's my keys?"
I tell him he's sick.
"How do you know I'm sick!?"
It's all fragments of an argument gone bad,

whoever the enemy is has left, the forest is empty,
and this fellow is left defending a bucket of snakes, bugs,
his bifocals, "balloons," he says pointing
at the air with a hand that droops from the medication.
Lost 3 fingers in World War 2. The kids don't come home much.
The company won't let him drive the trolley now because of his
boozing,
put him down in the subway tubes making change--

"Warm in the winter,
cool in the summer,
I don't mind, " he says, minding.

Convinced he's well enough to get a half a pint
I give up and let him try. He falls in the doorway.
The nurse and I put him back in bed.
"You can have it," he says.
I tie him down with a sheet.
I change my tactics:
"How do you think all this makes me feel?" I ask.
"Everybody's different," he says.

#42 merbo

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Posted 11 October 2009 - 06:52 AM

I'm Explaining a Few Things

by Pablo Neruda

You are going to ask: and where are the lilacs?
and the poppy-petalled metaphysics?
and the rain repeatedly spattering
its words and drilling them full
of apertures and birds?
I'll tell you all the news.


I lived in a suburb,
a suburb of Madrid, with bells,
and clocks, and trees.


From there you could look out
over Castille's dry face:
a leather ocean.
My house was called
the house of flowers, because in every cranny
geraniums burst: it was
a good-looking house
with its dogs and children.
Remember, Raul?
Eh, Rafel? Federico, do you remember
from under the ground
my balconies on which
the light of June drowned flowers in your mouth?
Brother, my brother!
Everything
loud with big voices, the salt of merchandises,
pile-ups of palpitating bread,
the stalls of my suburb of Arguelles with its statue
like a drained inkwell in a swirl of hake:
oil flowed into spoons,
a deep baying
of feet and hands swelled in the streets,
metres, litres, the sharp
measure of life,
stacked-up fish,
the texture of roofs with a cold sun in which
the weather vane falters,
the fine, frenzied ivory of potatoes,
wave on wave of tomatoes rolling down the sea.


And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings --
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.


Jackals that the jackals would despise,
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate!


Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives!


Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain :
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers,
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes,
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.


And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land?


Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
The blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
In the streets!


#43 alice

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Posted 11 October 2009 - 08:48 AM

Tell of the sad derangement of the mind
for Harold Pinter

by Sebastian Barker

Tell of the sad derangement of the mind.
The wheat is being harvested. The sun
Shines on the bales, unclouded, unconfined.
Work as brisk as hard is being done.
Cider's drunk at night. Documents are signed.
The bedrooms warm. No licenses on fun.
Tell of the sad derangement of the mind.
Tell of the sorrow nations cannot mend

Tell of the sad derangement of the heart.
The wind is up and musical. The sky
Rolls over meadows, over cities, over cart
And Cadillac, the sanctum in the sty.
The blossom in the garden is not a thing apart.
Dinner's in the oven. Friends are dropping by.
Tell of the sad derangement of the heart.
Tell of the sorrow when nations have to part.

Tell of the sad derangement of the soul.
The wine is on the table.The talk is fine.
There's lamplight in the corner,the glowing coal,
Laughter form the kitchen,washing on the line .
Gourmets (fit to twist a knowing nostril) stroll
The happy halls. There's music. Pass the wine.
Tell of the sad derangement of the soul.
Tell of the sorrow when nations lose control.

Tell of the sad derangement of the man.
Sleep is in the doorway,and the night
closes behind it. The fondest lovers yawn,
fold themselves in beds both neighbourly and right.
A sanctuary of starlight protects them as they scan.
The inner world of dreams, before the morning light.
Tell of the sad derangement of the man.
Tell of the sorrow before the world began.

Edited by alice, 11 October 2009 - 08:50 AM.


#44 alice

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Posted 11 October 2009 - 10:40 PM

Let me leak and eke out all I have prescribed.
All that was, all that is- hush money- bribed.

Drip, drop- my mind reduces to it's essence.
Evaporating poison, obsolescence.

Curled up tight, like a flower in the night-
Till the tipping point, out into the Bright.

The world is exploding and the mind expands.
It is the time to know the shifting sands.

To stand on the shore and feel that we fly.
Opening up to truth and Love and sky.

#45 merbo

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Posted 14 October 2009 - 09:08 AM

Don't Want To Be Part of Your World

by David Byrne



?Little Girls go float upstream
?Some a' them never comin' back
?We are powerless to stop them?
As they vanish...from our sight...


Little Boys dig tunnels
?Into the ground they go
?Hundreds of them, disappear
?Little soldiers...on patrol


Don't want
?Don't want
?Don't want to be part of your world


Underneath the floorboards
?In between the walls
?Ev'rywhere is filled with children
?Say good-bye to Boys and Girls


"We promise to be better"?
Said the folks at home?"
But it really doesn't matter" ?
Said their daughters and their sons


Don't want?
Don't want?
Don't want to be part of your world


Free from greed and hunger
?Free from hate and war?
Thousands of them altogether?
We are here
?And there they are


Don't want
?Don't want
?Don't want to be part of your world


#46 alice

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Posted 18 October 2009 - 12:03 AM

Forlorn Four

Raw core
Lyrical lore
Touch no more
Lonely at the shore.


Enduring Eight
(previously titled CrazyEight)

TakeBait
KissFate
FeelGreat
BanishHate
FreshSlate
DoDebate
ComeCreate
DamnStraight


Steadfast Sixteen

Where ya been?
I been in between,
(Shacking up at a place called)
Living Clean.
Excepting caffeine
And gum, nicotine.
Ain't bein' mean.
Ain't bein' a queen.
Most is unseen (think iceberg).
Working at serene (think Jolie's immaculate calm, not to mention the fishes of the desperate sea).
Making soup, curried lentil bean.
Occasional thoughts, obscene.
Just keepin' on, a bit like a machine (but not quite).
Swoonin' in a world, aquamarine,
Peppered with metaphoric vaccine.
Saving up to get away, in a boat, pea green.
(When life is reduced to math)
Oooooh, it's so fresh and clean.

#47 ned kelly

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Posted 26 October 2009 - 09:00 AM

alice, luv the bukowski...heres an old one of charles..

Art- as the spirit wanes the form appears..
CB

#48 alice

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Posted 26 October 2009 - 10:00 PM

Thanks for that, I hadn't read that one before.
I mulled it over, what exactly he meant-
my vague mullings spurred me to google it, then I read various other blurbs and discussions of it which make more sense all things considered. But my interpretation could definitely be an alternate, another entendre. I was thinking more on a person level, not on a craft level.
But when I was looking about, I found this in one essay on bukowski, specifically referring to that quote and it made me smile-

Tellingly, it takes twice as many words to reveal the meaning of this simple prose.


I love that when one phrase (an essence of thought) makes you pause and think and twist and turn it all up in your brain.

#49 alice

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Posted 28 October 2009 - 09:34 PM

The Sea's Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart...
by Denise Levertov


Turn from that road's beguiling ease; return
to your hunger's turret. Enter, climb the stair
chill with disuse, where the croaking toad of time
regards from shimmering eyes your slow ascent
and the drip, drip, of darkness glimmers on the stone
to show you how your longing waits alone.
What alchemy shines from under that shut door,
spinning out gold from the hollow of the heart?

Enter the turret of your love, and lie
close in the arms of the sea; let in new suns
that beat and echo in the mind like sounds
risen from sunken cities lost to fear;
let in the light that answers your desire
awakening at midnight with the fire,
until its magic burns the wavering sea
and flames carress the windows of your tower


Seeing for a Moment
by Denise Levertov


I thought I was growing wings

#50 ned kelly

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Posted 01 November 2009 - 07:24 PM

Thanks for that, I hadn't read that one before.
I mulled it over, what exactly he meant-
my vague mullings spurred me to google it, then I read various other blurbs and discussions of it which make more sense all things considered. But my interpretation could definitely be an alternate, another entendre. I was thinking more on a person level, not on a craft level.
But when I was looking about, I found this in one essay on bukowski, specifically referring to that quote and it made me smile-
y to reveal the meaning of this simple prose.

I love that when one phrase (an essence of thought) makes you pause and think and twist and turn it all up in your brain.


Hey good thoughts alice, i think he just means ya gotta burn to shine...;-)

try this one of mine...using that bukowski line..

Ukto's dadaist manifesto

My art is not mine, other wise it would not be art
i am beautiful, i am a hemmoroid
i am the succubus and the abortion
I am the disease and the cure
which of these succeeds, only time will tell

can we trust time, that surly thief of moments
individuality is masturbation as denial of self
Dada is pregnant with redundancies
for which there is no cure that mocks
and no rock breathes for dada
the joy of a crippled goose

I boom the music and suck on a toilet duck
i want what i cannot leave and spurn what is to do
freedom is indulgance , pain a comfort
chaos is my guide, my lover and my saint

what inventions can limit our expression
what redemption can cleanse the stained
no turning back for the done moment
no burning black the colors of a limited life

so we dada boom boom, shake n rang the boozy bell
music is silence and laughter is a crime we
committ everyday, like breakfast, like defecation
there is no you thats is not an us
no we that is not an I and no me
that lives longer than the song of a single breath

the rebel sleeps and dreams, weep and gleams
the vaccum cleaner reems the dreams the rebel leaves
like footprints, like dog crap, like graffitti

only a giraffe can see above the cities
only a telescope can feel the distant skies in thought
only bondage can free you
only wounds can heal

to refute dada is to feed it dog food
to deny dada is to check its pulse
to kick dada is to hear it laugh
to kill the dada is to give it birth

no dada me, i am not me or you
i walk drunk as a dildo in springtime mud
a lurker of ideas and stealer of lies
truth and absurdity are sister in times

i stroke the dada to climax
i suckle the dada breast like electricity needs a plug
humpty dumpty succumbed to gravity
dada will succumb to dada, reluctanlty, willingly

with no denial but the word
with no redemption but the truth
with no freedom but pain
with no voice but the anus singing

the winking eye of god
the trumpet of sheep and wolves
we sing dada the television blinks
life flickers, not once, not twice, but three times again

for the concept of art is
as the form appears, the spirit wanes
the toungue bites and the eye hears
we see dada as light and life as darkness
from which no sound springs that is not dada

laughter reflects the mind
a drunk dada song
a life where nothing withers
a time without puppeteers string

john reeves 2007