English Club Chatter

Not another poetry thread. Oh well.

. . . Emotions to Describe Her Words

She can open a flower with her words, or so she says
and I profess some difficulty in calling her a liar
though I know her words to be false and clever
the way she modifies her descriptors or juxtaposes suppositions
when she can’t find the right . . .
And you think she will be some driving force
behind your meteoric rise or so she says
and I more-or-less see the strings there
even if you are yet your own puppeteer
nary a muscle twitches that is not politic
that does not await the turn of a thumb
and upon that response
set your tail to wag or to hind legs betwixt
what of when she has drained your vast reservoir
where then will she look for the right . . .
And what of when the writer needs the experience
when she can’t find the right . . .
inside her
inside you

Italian Wine by nic

boot liquor
let me drink from Your cup

until i can't stand
and my only choice

is to crawl back Home
to the place in which

i feel most comfort
able within the

shelter of those secrets
You hide from

everyone, and we believe
the way You are is

the way You always act
up around the

men who fall to
Your wiles and lose their

lives
livers
lovers
loves

then die because man's wine is simply

boot liquor
not the wine of mankinds

redeemer, a ghoul
who gives our

masters power, men
who want our souls

men, those things
that don't care what they do

as long as they come
to get theirs

a man does not serve
to serve another

man, Woman won't stand
up and take him

She gives him to men's evils
when She would

be wiser to keep him
inside Her
heart

where he can do
no harm to the

Mother Earth
and stop serving the

fictional god
called Father, name

of a man not
worth serving,

not
worth saving,

man,
a joke,
an Earth blemish

(Dedicated to a certain girl)
“The construction worker or the girl”

Is it my body that your eyes trace?
fascinated with the way my neckline drops,
the way I carry what is in my hands,
when i walk by do you notice me
---when I leave at the end of the day...
am i this fantasy?

(if I could I would stop and say something of worth, but my mouth pops open at the sight of your strut, haven’t got anything but the timing I see, the timing when you are suddenly looking at me.)

Interrogative

Are my thoughts enough
To penetrate you deeply
Or do you need more?

(yeah, haikus are easy)

Maybe this is my problem
but I write my poems as though in a dressing room
pulling the curtain tight
peeking through the cracks for assurance
that none can see my new words
but still sensing a vulnerability
and then trying things on quickly
quietly evaluating in the mirror
to see if they are fitting words to represent
and as I compose this poem
in this little dressing room
I have to ask
does this poem make my butt look big?

Jesi, luv what you did with my construction worker.

"Saints on the Sink"
1-7-05

Saints on the sink ledge
Where everyone can see
That Catholic part of me
Burnt into my hand
A round St. Elizabeth
Stooping to kiss the feet
Standing next to the impossible
Of living in peace with different religions
But not everyone is a St. Martin
And the signs can't be signed always
And my saints on the sink topple around
but never have I let them hit the ground.

1-25-05
“untitled”

I don’t know if I have any business here
--among the likes of Audre, Cherrie, Nellie, and hattie

(because I don’t have that blood on my hands, and she says I should take my pictures with me, gives me a sinister look, no business here crossing the line…)

All I have
these woman singing to me.
and I don’t want to give so easily
tell hattie I hear billies voice,
---scratching around, fighting the fight

(We all got a conscience,
a dream to sing out,
we all have to stand
so I am not the only one that can hear hattie say:

I aint nothing but…

1-25-05
her,

invoke the spirit of billie
conjured up like hattie gosset
--cuz we ain’t nothing but women

competition
stuck in a constant battle
with our insides and outsides

who will listen to us?
we have to ask
who will see us?
(the tree always gets shook, even if you don’t like the peaches)

hattie says billie lives.
who will listen to her?
take the bridge off her back?

You ever have that dream?

Not the one that makes you happy
Or the one that makes you sweat
Not the one that wakes you up
Screaming and soaking wet

the one you forget
the one you forgot

Until it happens in your life and there's no way you can stop

It gives you deja vu cause you dreamt
It like a memory you hadn't had yet

you dream about your childhood and what you did yesterday
but does it mean a thing when you dream about next saturday?

will we dream out our entire lives completely out of order?
only when we are awake do dreams lose their disorder

but if you control your dreams can you control your life?
change it on a whim and avoid possible strife?

or are your dreams just proof that your life is just a prison?
destiny has got you flowing with the season.

Yet more poetry
Another thread for us
Who can't stop writing

Evolving Thesis (11-28-05)

I don’t believe I can really help it
Branded myself religiously romantic
Not sure how it was acquired
Feels as if something more inherent
Was present
As I proceed to undress you with the semantics
And lay rose petals down
Upon our plane of higher understanding
Decide to take time to describe the settings with the pen
Music’s low; the lights dim; the candle’s burning
In which commences the confluence of multiple adjectives
Our words and the candles’ scents
As we reach our zenith of our linguistic synthesis
Upon the moments in between kisses
Where in those instances…
We finish each other’s sentences
Introducing paragraphs and concluding stanzas
As I apply careful strokes of penmanship
Upon the body; in the heart of our argument
Just to observe you parting your lips…only to utter a silence
Which could be as effective as the ellipsis
Another break in the line; we turn the page
as we proceed to revise
I could tell by the way you look me in the eyes
The residue of our free writing has become more apparent
The ideas, lists, broken thoughts; subjects and predicates
And we never seem to end where we begin
The idealistic dreams and romance
Never seem to go according to the plans
Because we’d rather marvel at the resemblances
Of our evolving thesis…

Graffiti (10-30-05)

As I shake my ink pen
Or my spray can
Our art is the theme music
That’s intruding
By my graffiti
My ideas and visions
are protruding
From your walls
Both in and outside
Like my tagger’s view
Everything and everyone qualifies
Is potential canvas
When I walk
What I see, think, and feel
It all relates to what I say
I have an eye for the art
I frequently see landscapes
And the language I speak
is manifested in various shapes
This color’s running low
It needs another shake
Late at night is when I often operate
Which explains my insomnia
Who would’ve imagined
This barren wall
Will be transformed upon the dawn
And if you charge me – I’ll continue to steal expression
I will hijack and hold hostage oppression
In exchange for understanding
Because if you bought the building, the train
Or have permission
Its not a painting if you didn’t buy the canvas
But you cut down the tree
Back in the days
We were the property
You held the monopoly
We were desecrated by scars from whips properly
Psychologically
They said we were like sheep – without capacity to think
Only fit to follow and never lead
We weren’t allow to read
So we stole our literacy
And in a similar vein
My questioning, my graffiti
Is the documentary
It’s unafraid
That we are using to usurp our autonomy
And the white house is the next
Because it was built upon the broke backs of blacks
We will paint vivid murals
Of freedom and interdependence
Because there hasn’t been a president
That has done our building justice
Me and my spray can will set this precedent
No one or nothing is safe
Because any individual
and every institution can get it
tagged…
by the graffiti artist

Whitewashed (1-26-06)

They say the victors wrote the history
And their wives wrote the novels
In a sense one could say
they represented a notion of equality
Because both were fiction
Idealized whitewashed reality
Somewhere in between the city on the hill
and our manifest destiny
And yet our marginalized presence alone
Stirred controversy; insecurities
Sparks from the friction
Sparked our ignition
And we did not care
if they did not care to listen
even till the end
of what they deem the endtimes
of their self-fulfilling prophecies
literally born into the paradigms of white supremacy;
and embroiled in a movement
from the womb to the tomb
while some actually have a choice to be hated
whereas many of us were condemned
upon the moment where we're given the miracle of life
and even if God blew breath into our cheeks
it remains difficult to remain meek
like martin luther kings
because when the mainstream condemns abortion
yet in their same breath believe in capital punishment
and a “just” war
everyone’s equal, but we just stop short of homophobia?
moral, color, or class-remember the black codes?
—choose one or a combination
could one recall when the last war where we fought against a “Christian” nation?
but I don’t recall signing the bill of rights for America's right to fight for exploitation
and its fascination of actively acting out the book of revelations
would it be the same if those who populated the jail cells; the death rows
and those who are branded combatants
were whitewashed a little more?

Renegades 1-26-06

Even when our legs are broken
We find the strength to stand
Even when it isn’t as popular
Instead of partaking primarily in the labeling and condemning
We seek the higher road of understanding
Societies hate radicals
Crucified Jesus; shot Gandhi, King, and Malcolm
Because they were the only ones who took the risks
Every word uttered, every word written
Even in every action—we take that chance
Even in the face of hate
From the status quo
Even from some family; the greater community
Many think—but they really couldn’t handle
We have the strength to love
And to employ guerilla warfare
Only renegades
Engage and question
The current state of property over human rights—
With pens, markers, brushes, and spray-paint
To uncover and expose the capitalist misperception
Even in the times of rampant consumption
Planned obsolescence and abundance
We find it within our hearts
To share and sacrifice
To write for freedom and art
And we have the heart to take on the establishment
In the hopes of rebuilding the edifice
Then maybe we will retreat to a more traditional canvas

Peace Corps (Missionaries?) 1-26-06

We go to save whom?
In the earlier centuries
It were the heathens
Who already had strength in numbers
Pioneered the sciences, art; education
And had riches—prosperous countries
All a sudden turned colonies
Now they’re civilized
Raped, pillaged, and gutted
Who now believe they have to turn on their brethren
In order to compete
For their natural resources
From gold to human
Taken on middle passages
Upon their diasporic destinies
Now we go back to those same counties
To help ‘them’
Not really knowing we’re carrying the same double-edged blade
Of the disguised psychological superiority
Dualistic effects abroad and within America
The automatically implied assumption
Those internal communities can’t be restored by our own
Yet that thought futile without the possibility of future interest
Nothing to profit from our ghettos
So, go abroad and uplift those into our mold
Because even those know
That buying into the ways of the west
Might be a more profitable resource
than actually purchasing or stealing their diamonds, gold, and oil
American progress;
Some really compassionate, thoughtful, and altruistic
And some actually just self righteous
the dual-edged sword of the peace corps

1-26-05
I can take it all,
Slap it down on my 'weak'

barbie face
got no culture
got no past
just plastic legs and a tight ass

you think that smile will get you by
roll your eyes at what i plan to do

slap me down
provoke me
i can take it all
take what you say
i hear it even if your afraid

weak little girl words
with no promise but a betty crocker existance
martha stewart smile
little white girl
little white world.

Looking at the Front Door
(A Tribute to Main Source)
1-26-06

Someone to hold my secrets? Not say anything?
Frankly, that’s something I really don’t need
Have nothing to hide
And what does that matter from people who prove
You couldn’t trust?
And I remember once when mom pulled me aside
And said that it doesn’t matter sometimes
Because when it comes down to it
People could switch on a dime
Attribute it to self-preservation
Alright, but save the reservations
Because I also represent other systems to survive
But I couldn’t take a risk—yet I crossed a bridge
Wouldn’t that have been something messed up to say
But it’s kind hard to when I’ve already embroidered my A
And there’s nothing that can be done to reverse the ripple effect
Of those who felt similar because of the shared sense of struggle
That runs prominent to those who are close enough to be considered family
Where we often found ourselves looking at the front door
Waiting for somebody to walk in
Coming from a place where some of us come from a place where we couldn’t afford
To carry doubt for long—we had to carry groceries
That was enough of a burden
Therefore whatever we had to say—we couldn’t be afraid
to lay our cards on the table
In order to keep our minds sharp and relatively empty
And in the same motion the sea may have part
But we knew our fundamental understanding never broke apart
But if it did—we couldn’t guarantee
Or make ourselves feel better by serving empty promises
And when we chose to surround ourselves with those we thought were
Better than us—but if we had lowered expectations we’d be self righteous?
And the only step I could suggest is that you trust me—to keep it moving
The uncanny ability to keep pursuing
In fact, I don’t know if anyone’s ever regained the full trust
Like a lot of people knowing that food stamps were often the currency
And a few lost breaths from homelessness
There’s nothing to hide—just refused to be a charity case
That’s why some of us would rather stay away.

12-03-05
one step closer
 
I know what it’s like that’s why I am in avoidance. You seem like someone safe, that’s why I am looking your way. Because you are afraid of the very same things I am, and if this is true that surely your arms are a little more cautious when moving across to me, surely your hands would be carefully placed, and I am wondering if you know our resemblance.
 
Could you find that we are too much alike, or far from the same…
 
And that’s why I levitate towards you so much, because there is a safety in your movements, and I don’t have to worry about you forgetting about your hesitations, because you seem to want to stay half-way in between.
 
It seems as if that is the only place I can stand currently, an arms distance away, and I am reveling in our connections…noticing your reflections…
 
But one thing that I am still nervous about is that I am finding the right words, might give me away…and I would loose my own again…to be one step closer.

11-28-05
 
And inside I am doing what I did before, ignoring every moment and pretending it didn’t happen because I know I will be upset and I know you are the one that is going to leave me, because I have never been left….
 
(and we are both so good at turning our backs, we are both so good at looking away, and it is not out of spite, or out of cruelty to others, but an internal conditioning---that we both cannot correct.)
 
Its always me that is the one that is unsure, it is always me that is the one that contemplates what is really there. It is always me, wondering away for a new set of eyes…and they stand there not knowing what hit them, they stand there wondering why I have gone…and there is a side of me that goes on without a second thought…of the trail I leave behind, and the spaces I cause…
 
And when I look at you, up and around ---I see your trail, I see your wondering, (I see me or at least a part that I have kept hidden from anyone that doesnt care to know) , and I know I am in trouble now, when I can see the other side, and I know I am turning around---when I can’t seem to hide....
 
And you are showing up everywhere I look, I can’t shake you. You’re in my poetry and your sitting in front of me…reading, or talking, or walking in a door. And you’ve got this way about you that I can’t look away--- and you probably don’t notice, because you don’t really know why I am here. And you don’t really know what you see, and you don’t really know……..
 
(because I am sitting in front of you squirming around, and I am sitting in front of you writing poetry--upon your palm, and I am sitting in front of you smiling and laughing, yeah, its me, with my front on…trying to look away)

Behind Closed Doors
1-27-06

Oh honey
What are you watching?
On CNN? Turn it back to FOX
Aw, it’s just another n*gga talkin’
Always complainin’
Talkin’ about this racism
What else do they want?
They can vote, eat in the same restaurants
What’s he talkin’ about?
They have sports—
Sh*t, them n*ggers is even marrying our women
Why they got black history?
Where’s our white history month?
White entertainment television?
And I’m sorry, but when they moved into our neighborhood
Our property cost went down
And all of a sudden we have to lock our doors
Shoot we should’ve done what our neighbors did
And moved out—either to the country or the suburbs
If I could I would move farther
And when I walk by—I look to the floor
If I can’t cross the road
What are they doing? Always hanging out
Loitering
Wearing their hoodies—how are they driving nice cars?
Must be a drug dealer
Listening to their loud rap music
Err, that’s not even music
Spraypaint, that’s supposed to be artistic? There’s no way
That our sons and daughters
Should be going to public inner city schools
Walking among youngsters, cussin’, fighting,
Sagging their pants—acting like that’s cool

Now I’m glad you changed it back to O’Reilly
He’s for the people—
Yeah, Bill you’re right they just perpetuate their own plight
I told you that’s why I tuned into fox
Because why seek to understand them
But little did they know
That same n*gga talking on CNN
Would be on Fox News
There’s no stopping
Because every time they see the youth
Wearing their hoodies, timberland boots
Sagging their pants, fighting, cussing
Little did their family knew
That I sometimes engaged in the same
And look how he turned out
Gathering airtime for the movement
Now, who’s playing the fool?

Hardcore Living

As flames rage behind me, I escape,
Through the dark tunnel of cold blue metal,
Into the open air, free from all constraints,
But unable to stop my forward momentum.

Victim to time and inertia.

Until, I'm head to head with meat,
I deform as bone breaks beneath my speed,
I'm covered in blood, but silent,
I'm in the mind, interrrupting thoughts.

Victim to flesh and weakness.

Bone once more, in my face, shattering,
I exist back into freedom, but I've lost,
Too much of my momentum has left me,
I'll stop soon, but at least I made a difference.

Well I feel compelled to say that I'm glad I'm not judging the Florence B. Allen contest for poetry this year. I wish I'd have gotten started with things like this when I was younger. I might actually know how to write a poem by now. Kudos.

Awkward Goodbye
Sarah Stevens

Lovesick enough
in the front seat
Going in not out
Swallowing trust
And maybes
Don’t worry
It’s not a consummation
Just an awkward goodbye
To all the times
We played hide and go seek
With our world-weary hearts
(more so yours than mine—
little working class princess,
there’s nothing that plastic
and time can’t buy)
And rationalizing
a fear of heights
Too tired to climb
Oh, but the weather
Another excuse to cry
Turn the radio off
Give the impression
Of Jesus-ness—
Forgiving and forgetting
And taking our time…
Until we come to
Those tactful phrases
The Neosporine of conversation
And the warmth of remembering

three am
Sarah Stevens

only the sound of thoughts
not all the brittle
silicone dreams
radio lies bleeding
proverbial index finger
pounding out
an alternative life
anything besides my
nonfiction steering wheel
brain pages full of maybes
WRONG WAY down
a one-way highway
and didn’t cry
finally a big girl
wanted this nonentity
death the perfect metaphor
unexpected backwards signs
flashing in my headlights unlike
the flash and glare
of the police strobe
disco-ing patriotic
repelling my commie heart
not till later did I hurt for
the feel and texture
of well worn paper
what else would I have done
fried french toast in a
non-stick skillet
went to bed
had another tomorrow

1 am, 2 am, 3am, 4 am.....

My dreams are evolving without my consent
They won't allow me a chance to dissent
I've become so aware when I'm asleep
That I wake myself up if faced by the Creep

I find myself
Locked immobile
There are no restraints upon me

Terror

I cannot move
Speak or blink
But fighting that thing that holds me

A voice from a figure shrouded in darkness
Not good or evil, but a faceless witness
He looks at me, and asks, "Are you okay?"
But no response can I give to my dismay

Forcing myself
To cry out
I wake to my scream, "I need HELP!!"

Cold sweat

It will repeat
All night through
Waking myself from each nightmare

Each hour of the night it returns, that nightmare
I'm scared of sleeping, I know I'll be aware
My body feels as restricted by sleeping
As in my dreams, incapable of weeping

Once for a fleeting moment I had inspiration, it has since gone!

How can I bring it back?

What that stands alone caused it to leave?

If it returns what will I do with it or to it?

Carpe Diem.

I am trying to unearth this poem I wrote about a girl I knew once. Let me keep searching for it...well maybe I will post it!!

Inevitability

Child with adult dreams
Woman with a child's dreams
A thief in the night
Stealing trust from me
By my permission
You should know
I've destroyed child dreams
With my ambitions
And manipulations
A whore-souled man
Can't escape thoughts
Of copulation, the terrible past
Mocking from the mirror
I view that monster
Imagine peeling the face skin away
Exposing sin to be judged by others
Grinning skull in the mirror
Wrapped in meat flesh
Lacks aesthetic appeal
Those who dare to assume knowledge
Are not like me, not naked
Fingers water soaked, shriveled
Scars for all to see
Shrunken flesh freezing in the night air
Sleep disorders, waking masturbations
Unable to connect to the beasts
Identical beasts circling, closing in
Bags of meat wrapped around chew bones
"Who would dare to know me?"
"What could you possibly want from me?"
Now it's your turn, eighteen to go
Countdown to armageddon
A beutiful scene of apocalyptic dream
Fragile beauty breaks
Everything breaks
Eventually

If Love Were True

If love existed
I'd offer it
Compassion
Friendship
Substitutes
Travel with me
A companion
One to share
Experience with
No plans, just moments
Riding a wave
People of interest
Random meetings
Co-rythmic
Bodies, minds
Echoing motions
Through life
New echoes
Remembrances
Of nothings
A copy with
No template
Simulacrum
A new me
Everyday
Could any other
Be reborn
Every morning
With me?

My Black History (Part 2, The Middle Passage)
1-29-06

It’s a shame
Some refuse to understand
How some natives on distant lands
Kids playing in villages
Breathing in the sun
Wise men and women praying to their God
And yeah there were some
The captives—prisoners of war
Not even African kings and conquerors
Could envision
An unsuspecting, seemingly opening up
Of an evil dimension
Slavery and further colonialism
Taken through the middle passages
Chained to one another
Chanting young warriors
Children separated from their mothers
Deliberately destroying lineages
That’s why we call every black man ‘my brother’
Because even warring factions
Had to endure
Laying linked together under the auspices of
Another color supremacy
The filth—the spit; vomit; death and decay; the shit
In order to line someone else’s pockets—capitalism—period.
Some would rather be eaten by sharks; jump from the ship
And hopefully their spirits would reawaken in Africa
Rather than being taken to a “New World”
And those who remain believe in Sankofa
And would eventually hear
Hark! Listen to the Herald Angels sing
In the land of the free, home of the slave
But for over three centuries they had to be brave
And await till 1929 to give glory
to a newborn Martin Luther King
Yet till then, the whites
had to prove they were below human
To ease their own guilt
Seemingly without ethics and a conscience
Which seemed impossible to be coming out of human vessels
Who dared to call themselves Christian
From birth; the cradle and to the grave
But little did they know—that one day
Their children would be the ones
Who would have to pay;
Because they will have to be the ones to listen
And bear witness
To the mistakes of their parents and ancestors
And the shameful history of a wanna-be great nation.

http://www.civilwarhome.com/lostcause.htm -- info on where the subtitle came from if interested to check out...

My Black History (The Lost Cause) 1-29-06

For almost two centuries
Many a revolutionary
Had lost their lives
While many could celebrate
Blacks weren’t even allow to have family
And those don’t believe the effects of slavery could reverberate
A race of men were akin women
A race of women were considered something worse
Therefore the struggle for freedom and manhood
Existed upon conception—nine months before birth
The black mother and her seemingly painstaking curse
Had to make a choice—that would be called murder today
Upon this earth
To have or not have that baby
What’s worse?
Born in order to live a sub-human life in slavery
Therefore she often took a risk
Because she could bear a Frederick Douglass one day
And to the white man he was an extra set of hands
And her childrearing power was all that she was worth
The black woman
Was often spat upon
By some southern belles
It wouldn’t be fair to say all because I know some were a peach
And meant well, yet the overall disposition
often compromised their potential for agency
In order to compete with the “sexualized’ black female
Therefore latch on to the idea of racism and chivalry
Both created by the patriarch
Easiest way to thwart early feminism
‘protect’ the one and divide the two
hegemony
Create a ‘dainty’ white womanhood
“Make sure that there is a way they should be treated by us-
black men are a threat—can compromise their morals
remember, our women; they’re so weak-willed
but even in all that—this is our world—she has her place
and to her, that’s to be understood”
Establish another hierarchy
Give her something to take pride in
Then she won’t feel guilty for pressuring her husband for selling
The woman slave and the owner’s children
Now we’re womanists because even some feminists
Stand by him to defend
‘our way of life’ on the plantation
Till the day we die
Some still ride with those thoughts
The stars and bars
Pride in their heritage?
Or ‘The south will rise again’
on their pick-up trucks and their cars

Freedom

An older man in a Fiat
Parks by the hill
And waits for the spring

He wants the gate to open
So he can sit on top
And enjoy nature's beauty

He tells me about the draft
The slaughtered Vietnamese
"We had no business there"

There's a crack in his voice
When he talks about the people
That "we" killed, I know he means himself

Do I see him as the wise old guru
That sits on the mountain top?
No, I see a man, hurt, trying to free himself

He tells me, "War is terrible.
It's a bad thing." I agree.
It's true that some soldiers

Won't EVER make it home
But not all of us die for that to be true.
Some call him crazy, some see more than he is.

I see a man. The same man I've seen before.
He's a man, hurt. Looking for freedom
In a society that claims to spread it.

In the end, we are all scarred, flawed, hurt...
....looking for freedom.

I hear them whispering at night
Familiar voices
I know them/have known them
They aren't threatening
But they know my name
I don't know all they say
But I hear my name
My thoughts disorganize
Disorder
As my focus turns
To those whispers
Some meaning/truth
In their knowledge
I need to hear their message
The future/the past
Reality in dream
Dreaming in reality
Meaningless meaning
Mouthless voices
Shut them out
Shut them up
Listen

Shaking Hands With The Devil

He meant only to warn
Of his wicked past
Trust makes him fearful
His laughter isn't meant to be mocking
Just a circle of defense
He's never been comfortable with new friends
Especially those who wish to know him personally
I only know this because he's wary of me
And I'm the one who's known him forever

All F'ed Up With Lack Of Growth

My I write a lot of garbage
About my meaningless baggage
I fail with form and language
I have no useful message
Just an excuse for me to vent
Or commune with poems sent
Sometimes miswrite what I meant
Sometimes express social dissent
But hey, even though I suck
At least I haven't snuck
Gratuitous use of fuck
Into the poems I stuck
Right in front of all of your faces
Selfish reflections in public places
And eternal wastes of spaces
My delusions are the basis
Of the subject that's in stasis
My art's not growing in most cases
So maybe I'll go on hiatus

don't go on hiatus, nic!

I'm kind of enjoying playing the provocateur, so here's a poetry challenge. Can you write a poem in the style of someone else? You could choose Shakespeare or Poe or Plath, but you've seen enough poems from each other that you might go that route too. Anyone up for it?

this will be tricky since we all value are individualism so darn much

Prejudice?

What should my heritage mean to me?
The wasps stinger is still a part of me.
Those stings have left an infection
Not soon to disappear
Oppression is the legacy left for me
Patriarchal society does not suit me
And I'm not fit to speak
On behalf of the sufferers in the world
I offer apologies to the cultures
Destroyed by my people
My people, as though I owned them
Or should be responsible
For the terrors they've inflicted.
Identity is hard to find
And I've never had to be conscious
Of being a man, or being white.
Humanity may be the only dream left
That's worth latching onto
Integration
What a grandiose dream.
One last apology I offer
If my words are meaningless
Or somehow not enough
Or even worse
Somehow
Prejudiced.

And the Penguin never choking, still is toking, still is toking,
On the pipe of smoking refer, just inside my bedroom door.
And his eyes have all the seeming of the green that is steaming.
All the puffing on the bong,leads to thoughts and no more.
And the cloud from out that bong that might be hit once more,
When the Penguin-hitthefloor

Just some humorous Poe effort to generate some interest!!! in Poetry

I'm a new poster and I can't vouch for everyone (well, maybe Sarah), but Nic evem though you're works aren't always perfect and sometimes lacking and often a little too raw, please do NOT stay on hiatus.

identity

masochism
humility
submission
the flesh is weak
the mind is weak
aknowledge your teachers
in academia or reality
sober yourself
to the tragedy of humanity
be hard on yourself
be hard on others
be hard in your heart
grow
love
progress
progress
with a long o
read again
you'll get it someday
challenge yourself
challenge your teachers
challenge your heart
you can only learn through pain
bamboo sticks in form
break your wrists
practice your kung fu
kung fu is the skill of your talents
not kung fu in the western idea
of a martial art
martial law
any martial
kung fu is the skill you have
my kung fu is writing
my kung fu is humanistic
my kung fu is painful
my pain is life
my life is pain
my pain is learning
my learning is education
my eduacation is social
society is flawed
flaws are perfection
perfection is illusion
illusion is dream
dream is aspiration
aspiration will better you
to better yourself you must learn
to learn you must die
to die you must hurt
hurt is pain
enjoy the pain
live the pain
love the pain
masochist
die a little
be reborn
with the dreams
the dream is imagined
imagine all the people living life in peace
john lennon
jesus
ghandi
abe lincoln
bobby kennedy
mlk jr.
the dreamers
love one another
try to get along
or get martyred (assassinated)
for preaching love and peace
carlin showed me that
that vulgar comedic man
man
man
man the flaw of earth
that thing that covers natures glory
of bacteria and worms
with his phallic concrete structures
of buildings and suburban life
sub-urban? less than urban?
less than social, less than human?
an occupied mind is numb
to the pain of life
illusioned with the clothes
the cars
the property
we're given
what can you truly own?
do I own this computer?
or is it simply chemicals
and compounds we've constructed
I own it because I did things
I didn't want to do
someone gave me ink and paper
and I traded it for
plastic and silicone
that lets me express art
creativity
the tragedy of humanity
I can create an idea that
might speak to inner feelings
but I can also create
ways to hate and ways to kill
suicide
myself
homicide
someone else
genocide
all the people
let the beasts
fend for themselves
and while you're focused on your constructs
of imagination
when I die I'll spend eternity
in my final conscious thought
knowing I tried my best to form a positive
result
the result will be my heaven
my paradise my "soul"
will an eternal dream
better than your hell

Nobody ran with my Poe lead -in!!!

Disappointed Nic!!

Hey "I am not myself," do you know John Clare's poem, "I am"? Clare was a remarkable poet, sometimes called a "peasant poet," entirely self-educated, and troubled by mental illness. This poem was written in an asylum. I'm not implying all poets are mad, but your alias suggests you're interested in identity (and who isn't!), and Clare obviously was too.

I am--yet what I am, none cares or knows;
My friends foresake me like a memory lost;--
I am the self-consumer of my woes;--
They rise and vanish in oblivion's host,
Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes:--
And yet I am, and live--like vapours tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,--
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
Even the dearest that I love best
Are strange--nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for places where man hath never trod,
A place where woman never smiled or wept,
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below--above, the sky.

"Because of you"

Powerless to stay stationary,
Keep you as my crutch
Because of your carpentry
I am numb another’s touch,

Purging all the blame
Caged in this form
Screaming to liberate
From this element

Sometimes all I can hear is the shouting
And my words are all drowning
Let you hold me at the rear
Can’t seem to knock down your barrier

(because when I do what I want I trap myself, and I am caught in this composition---an odd position, where I can’t seem to fight where I am at, feminist gives me what I want, but nothing can give me you---and I am wandering lost, but I understand why you do what you do, and I understand you love me to…)

Just trapped in agitation
Here in revelation
Forced me paint a tainted tragedy
Can’t help what you are daddy

i guess i know how to kill a posting, just let me start ryhming..... ;P

jesi

Oh come on, Jesi. We all know the poetry thread has slowed down because my poetry isn'y popping up everyday any more.
I sympathize though, the loss of a poetical genius must be tough.

Hey everyone, I'm the most humble person I know, and I never brag about it!

Rose Tattoo
Sarah Stevens

Beautiful watching
that peek-a-boo rose tattoo
thorns exaggerating
pale exposure of skin
vicarious life
swirling with apathy
quasi-graceful
under strobe lights
disjunctive hippy music
two-small tank top covers
nothing—certainly not
white exposed bra straps
like angel wings
emerging from this ashtray
of small, still existences
evaporating in the night

ooops! I meant too-small tank top.

Looking Outside (2-4-06)

Perpetual warfare fought for peace
I know I may be a
But that’s worse than a walking contradiction
Yes the lord says
Change comes from the heart
Yet while people on the outside
Are fighting, starving, and dying
Women and daughters go raped
Children losing their lives—everyday
But some want to act like I’m lying
Keep on walking as if everything is okay
Because they say—they are alright
But looking to those who may question
As if attitudes were gonna miraculously change
If that was the case
No one would’ve made a case for MLK
Another person of the holy word—prophet some even claim
Who at the time of the boycotts
He even wanted to abstain
But knew he had to answer the call
Not worry about necessarily labeling those
Who may be against him
Because no matter what others thought about
His faith—he still loved
Never dismissed them
Truly lived to love the person, yet hated the sin
From some of the southern and northern white Americans
To the administration of the federal government
For engaging in perpetual warfare for peace
In search of riches
And nowadays it doesn’t seem to matter
Whether you’re Muslim, Jew, or any kind of Christian
Because if the people would really listen
Every one is embroiled in a war of ideas, truths, and absolutes
Or whatever one wants to call it
And those who wear suits,
Some people from the clergy, or royalty are the ones who really profit
From any sorts of wealth—because of the success
they believe that they are blessed
the last I checked who ever had the most money
usually could afford to have the best health
Hmm…I think it smells like the protestant work-ethic
But when those who may not wear their faiths and morals on their sleeves
Like their round labels—scream or proclaim it
Then they should really seek to change themselves
First—as if change is a one-time occurrence
and those who fight for change haven’t thought of it
or else—life is lived in perpetual sin
a revolutionary who should start with himself
that’s something that’s real easy for someone else to say
but radicals, feminists, womanists,
revolutionaries, conservatives and liberals
are all far from perfect—and this ones content
yet refuses to wallow and become stagnant
That’s life—significance—change over time
Not within one word, one poem, or one line
Maybe all of us—even I—should take our own advice
Before we point to those outside…
Whether one wants to admit it or not
Because even King could not disregard
The fact that there were other human beings
who may have disagreed
and he learned from St. Thomas Aquinas and notably Gandhi—
whom actually believed despite the separations
Between the Untouchables, Muslims, Hindus, and Christians
In India he believed he could reach a sense of harmony
And would it be fair to say that he died in vain?
Because he refused to emphasize
who and which faith was right or wrong?
Through his prayer—he just saw what was really going on
Exploitation and oppression
Under the guise of all sort of ideas—
Class, moral, race, religious, and politics
even the personal—but if you say your praises—
then that couldn’t immoral
because they were the crusades…
But in life—most choose to search for a truth
And through those passageways
Change can occur inside and out—simultaneously
But not necessarily through a vacuum
Because if none of atrocities
Initiated under the names of religion, civil, and human rights
Patriotism, democracy and “terrorism”
In a world where there are many sides that are incongruent
If that was not the actual reality
Then in the words of the lord
Then how would we know
If we were going astray—casted from Eden
Then how would he show?
The importance of changing on the inside
If every occurrence, thought, action, was actually positive
And didn’t need any explanation
On the inside looking on the outside?

*correction* line before "but if you say your praises"
that couldn't BE immoral

Nic: OH HUMBLE one.

(and thats about all i have to say on that matter)

Sara: like your rose tatoo. she was quite graceful in her hippie rythm. always admire your word chioce.

another comment I have to make is that when writing my poetry in these boxes, it inhibits me, I like using italics and bold...everything in parenthesis is also in italics here. *sigh* alright.

2-4-06
Theyellowpoet 
"Palm Poetry" or "Palm Poet"
 
And we started with our poetry, the lines connecting and intersecting, playing across my palms with short looks, couldnt get enough of what they might mean to me, had this hope that there could be something more, I'd be writing--and for the first time someone was watching, examination of all my words tripping out across the page--and from the very beginning when I started to unpeel you, and pick you up and put you together piece by piece-- I knew I had to be careful with my handy work--make sure you didn't fall into this piece of art, let the words come and that is all, dont turn around and look over your shoulder--but before I know it I am turning slowly, matching the metaphors, completing the looks, because God gave me this gift, to know when the down are down and to know how to save someone when they are about to drown, I always happen to be at the right place when someone is having a wrong time, never mind what it did to us--pushing us closer in our poetry, and soon you became my favorite kind---because you made me forget and you became the gift to me, in a relative reality.
 
But there came a day, when your arms couldnt quite reach, to take my numb, and the world went cold, and the poetry stopped, playing across my palms---I still cant get enough, but the words where have they gone, and images of him came creeping back,-- (screaming shouting stupid in my face, hatred lies, and then Im curled up on the floor, hide from the hands coming at me, only way to keep them out--dont shout back, dont fight it, hes taking all your sunshine--taking all your safe, taking the home inside) Hes crawling around, calling me out, and a strong hold on me chokes my neck back, cant even seem to fight for air, stationary I cant be,(And he comes back throwing out evil words, flying at my face, I am such a disgrace, cant be better, fight or flight, stupid girl little in her stupid little girl world--she needs to know her place,---outside looking in, hes flying at her, things are flying around, bruised on the inside, ice it down, hide in your room , hear the screams, why doesnt she leave, wont get stuck in that, fight, fight, fight.) Because of the various ways that poems have been to me, weakness, tainted yellow tragedy: seizes me
 
(Yellow: run away from anything that comes in your space--and keep emotion  in just in case, they want to turn on you in the end, battle inside, stop writing for anyone but yourself, close those palms girl, he will grab them up you weak little thing, you cant be pinned keep that wall there, and ---numb, dont cry--because if he can push you that far... dont smile, dont smell the way he sets so perfectly for you. Capture that and go, because nothing stays the same, and in the end you will be to blame, because you didn't reach high enough, and you didnt speak loud enough, carry that burden, around in circles---because they are all here to get a piece of you, to take you away, and keep you down, doesnt matter what they say, promise, or do, one day they will turn on you.)
 
You are my favorite kind of poetry, keeping me in my honesty, finish with the poem--say you wish you could have told him. Little misunderstood all the time, but then who is to understand a constant broken, scattered across the floor, in steady revelations, and sometimes relative situations, trying to fight it all away, smile everyday, let Jesus make the way. Even with the chemistry I am afraid of walking around all this damaged glass--broken by my numb tenacity to never surrender, wedged here with my precedent, because he took my forever.  

Legacy
Sarah Stevens

Ask any Appalachian refugee
How she got her education
She won’t say
The Affirmative Action
Her daddy voted against
Because he ain’t shoveling coal
So somebody else’s kid
Can go to school
He never did
Pick axe as big as him
Off to the mine at thirteen
Hungry little brothers and sisters
Feel asleep, lungs heavy
Dreaming the American Dream
Married some back hill beauty queen
Love not so much a country song
As they figured
Not having accounted for
Illiteracy, poverty, and one baby
After another
Gets so bad,
He says, “Not another mouth to feed.”
But doesn’t let his frustration
Affect the way he loves them
Or her
Insurance policy enacted
Upon his death at forty-three
Coughed up a last bit of coal dust
And went to be with Jesus
Eternally unaware
That his baby girls
Were at universities
Learning about his life
Like some kinda
Nameless artifact
Surviving on student loans,
Spaghetti O’s, and
The Civil Rights Legacy.

American Nightmares

Born free to speak out
Against anything I want
Yet not free enough

To be allowed to
Take any action against
Non-representers

Who claim they have my
Best interests in mind when they
Seize another land

I'm left here right here
U.S. of America
Live the dream of dreams

I'm living the dream
Asleep enough to believe it
To in debt to wake

Gotta get that car
Gotta get the high pay job
For the wife and kids

Dug into these trenches
Of the war of living
In this country

Oh, so beautiful
'Til it was buried under
Malls, offices, and homes

Malls and one great big
Festering neon distraction
Crushing our mother

While we chase money
The new gods, Wal-Mart and Bush
Devour our children

With advertising
And military duty
Promise and promise

Possessions for you
A stable economy
More shit you don't need

And all of it bought
With money you do not have
You gotta keep up

Keep up with the Jones
The superbowl MVP
Gets an escalade

A man in Iraq
Gets a new prosthetic leg
Or if he lacks luck

He comes home: safe, sound
And gets to live the poor life
And waits to go back

Asleep and dreaming
Building debt and buying more
Living the nightmare

-Credit to the band "tool" for the line about one great big festering neon distraction.-

To Your ‘Sugar Poems’

Poetaster canonization
Internal masturbation
She makes you feel like an Ode
Floating, flying, no
Fucking substance that I need to hear
I want to drink a lot of beer
Poetaster canonization
Internal masturbations
Stop writing
Your sugar poetry
With no realizations
Of your damn poetaster fornications

A ‘Sweat’

Pray like the Pope
Apostolic hope
Baptized at birth
That your creed is right
What of El Mundo Zurdo?

A call to be your own
Own your own
Sacrificial liberation
Of your blessed internal culturalization

Grow up misconcept--
To forced transcendence.

What happens to my hands’
So perfectly placed upon your brow
—Crackling like blistered kisses,
Can’t seem to hold on
Squirming in reminisce,
Curled around your delicate rough
But you lied to me,
Dried up wrinkled time,
Two fingers held up in a peace sign.

I find it amusing
On how many of you think you know me
Say my name in vain
Call yourselves open-minded
Only till I walk to your door to find it closed
Silently shut or slammed in my face
To some I’m welcomed
But to the new Pope I’m an unwelcomed guest
Yet, I had to consult the history
Both mother nature and father time
Who once told me
That even she has her laws—but they could all be changed
By a single stroke of a comet or a distant flying star
Father time also spoke on a familiar subject
As I passed a great civilization, I watched…
As the ancient Greeks and Romans had their gods
But would soon to be superceded
Now we conceive of their truths as mythology

There may be some who also view me as absolute
No. you too, speak of me in vain
Because the meaning of my name in itself
Is akin to those you may argue
You too; cannot mask faith in the meaning of the word
With one that is not directly correlated—called truth.
Because I even believe that anyone can have faith
Yet, I am not the type to deceive those
Into thinking that they are the only ones
Who believe what is to be true
And to cancel those, dismiss, or look down upon
Other human beings who do
A narrow mindedness is coming to save who?

However, to say I don’t stand with conviction
You too, have wholly underestimated me
I laugh at those who say that I don’t
Or must
Never budge or consider the context
stand in the different place
And take upon the same position
I don’t claim to be perfect
Or know what is exactly right
Every single moment in time
We’ve been fighting each other over that for millennia
Won’t ever come to a consensus
But I wont be the one to say that anyone’s holy war is wrong
Though; to say that they are all just as divisive
Yes, I will be the one

And there may be some who
Want to doubt, dismiss, or disregard
Which to me is fine.
I’ve never considered it a sin to have an open mind
Or label someone wrong, or say may the lord help you
Because I too pray—to whom?
Wouldn’t you like to know—so why are you telling me?
Because I profess my faith by living—
There’s no need to wear it on my sleeve
Because these words; lined in such a way into art
Or if you don’t disagree
not even, or bad, poetry
Is just an interpretation of the same world; a similar text
As you live in—however….
remember that another civilization will come next
and all of our beliefs, faiths, religions could one day
come the way of the Native Americans, Mayans, Africans, and the Greeks
why?
Because I’ll be the first to tell you that the world changes
Every single century, decade and every single day
Whether you like it or not
Therefore strive to hold on to your absolutes
as strong; and as long as you can
Because that bottle, grail, or chalice that’s in your grasp
Is full to the brim with me
Man, woman, and, or child
don’t you ever call me Mr. Miss, Mrs, or God.
He, she, or it.
Don’t misunderstand me with “anything goes”
That already has a name
Anarchy
Just remember me
Simply as
Relativity
A one word argument in itself
That can undermine every single line he wrote
That came before me.

feminist culture
Sarah Stevens

some shit about
equality sticky
sweet poetry
docile dreams—
makes your pretty lips
say fuck
not so different
(or any worse)
than the secret lies
that happen when we
try to comprehend
the twisted beauty
of men—what are they
to bitches like us?
got a new catch phrase?
a label for me
I've already said
slut face barbie doll
loved every woman
must be a lesbian
quivering threat to
sexism—and you
is the respect mutual?
two elusive egg yokes
I’m the white slime
you're the yellow yoke
just a poke—
and we’re the same
stir us into the mix
we’ll change
consistency/ texture/
fucked up assumptions
but intelligence
has nothing to do
with naiveté
and you can
understand choice
without giving yours away

2-8-06
Act of Contrition

She’s on her alter of confession:
Just another ‘sweat’ about creeds
Got a dual consciousness
But you cross out the signs

Step into the box
Tell father your sin
Made up your own Act of Contrition:
The difference of faith and religion
Jesus and your culturalization

2-9-06
Unspoken Bravery

creeps in, cut me in the corner, writing my constant poetry, verbal percussion: crashing, stripping, throwing in my face, hide from the threats-- someone always creeping up on my own: put up words, to fight them off, but nothing cuts deeper when: You act like know what i went through, feel empathetic, sorry and then misconstrue, what my poetry says: stuck in repressive-self-preservation, when it is more like constant agitation.

i am broken apart

when i wish for everything to harmonize.

it's hard not to be yo_rself when everyone knows yo_

i co_ld think of a million v_lgar ways
to tell yo_ how yo_ make me feel
when i realize that yo_ j_st want
to be important,

when i realize that yo_ don't care
what i feel or what i want
yo_ j_st want to be inside some kind
of imaginary circle

well, g_ess what, i'll not resort
the v_lgarities that spring to mind
the lang_age my twin wo_ld _se
if he were brave

brave eno_gh to say to yo_r face
what i'm thinking,
instead i've decided
to censor yo_ from my heart

nice, 'not myself'...i like the word play.

Interpretation
Sarah Stevens

never crucified
Mary licked
up the blood
before it dried
holy menstruation
lactating breasts
cramped uterus
makes sense
son of god
stabbed inside
spear of destiny—?
sheets smudged
breasts duct taped
penis really just
hermaphroditic clit
slept with all
twelve of them
common fishermen
bribed like nazis
unnecessarily
talkin about people
who believe
the virgin birth
got this idea
that bitches lay
on their backs
in the dirt
“jesus ain’t come
from no slut”
his earthly
man-ifestation
basically a whore
birthing a baby girl
a sow in a pigpen
squeezing out
the last runt
take all her
thirty-three years
to prove she’s
man enough
by the time
she slit her wrists
(girly suicide—
although the spikes
were dull
thorns poking
gently prodding
delicate flesh aside)
the story wrote itself
unaided by god breath
or the complexity
of truth

When the surgeon replaces
that piece of my defective heart
with some animal tissue contrapment
will it be some part of my heart that I will miss
a tiny valve that feels something like compassion
or holds memories of the few that could touch it
or will it be some slimy little pig for pig exchange
from the part they have said doesn't even exist

Jim, that was beautiful in a very obsurd way. It gave me a dirty thrill to read the relativity with which you view compassion and humanity.

I have nothing like your blackness
or your femaleness
or your misunderstoodness
or your yellowness
or your darkness
or your lost in Americaness
or any other good enough reason to rail
but I still see the cold gray mechanism
with every blinking moment
of my whitemaleness
and I know a storm will take me
one day
when I can no longer light an entire room
with just the wattage from my flickering wit

Well I don't know what obsurd means, but I'm all about the dirty thrill.

And once again, your poetry makes me want to wash my hands, though I'm not certain if I ought to mean that metaphorically or, seriously, just scrub the prints off my fingers and the lifelines, etc. right off my palms.

Jim, I also have to go wash my hands...jesi ;)

2-9-06
"First Communion"
 
Identifiable pretty little white Catholic dress
Little girl hands pressed in a steeple
She's getting married today with her class of 32
Veil stretched over her eyes
Place the chalice to her lips
Tender little Irish blessings
Candles and crosses
Rosary holding pressed fingers
In an cathedral pointed toward the sky
Does she know what her fair dress means?
Sacraments and Holy Hymns
Proper blonde curls burst from the pew
Asks her grandma if Jesus only saves this way?
Grandma does the stations, tells her saints stories
Gives her a rosary--sacred ardent rose aroma
Culture or belief she's forever penitent
Falling down on her knees in her habitual lent
 
2-9-06
Affirmation
 
Broken rosary GIFT lying on the ground
Blood red beads dripping all around
Smells like dying roses most days
Ceaselessly Ash-Wednesday
Abominated burnt temple  
 
Try to pick up the prayer cards
Laminated martyred saints
Just looking at my Catholic taint
Not so safely do I cross
Affirm my own

2-9-06
'nothing but melt away sweetness'

not so safely do i cross back over to your looks,
i see the sweet sugar you try to pour over my lips,
nothing but melt away sweetness.

those pretty little words--all lined up for me,
but i got you all wrapped up in mine,
empowering my way, by remembering what you say.

finding my break-away hands,
around my finger filtrations,
and the real muscle I have over your brown eyes.

never let myself fall for something non-existent,
sugar-water-kitten eyes fighting against,
my foundation of yellow-resistance.

2-9-06
“(Charmed) safe in parentheses”

(Almost caved in and called that charming voice, sound of adventure over the phone—coming down around, crashing into my substance—wanted to know if you would smile and soak in up—playful little nothings that one day could amount to something's, something of worth to say, something of worth to hold and poke—take apart and put back together—it is when I wanted to call that charming voice when I went crashing down, fall into something, safe in parenthesis.)

Words poetry prose
All for the little times
Our pretty little insignificant rhymes

2-9-06

The question of my full surrender
To your hands coming across
Reaching for my waste
Poking at my yellow taint
Constant tragedy that I can’t give away

(And you come back to
Drum your fingers on my
Existence, such patience
With my resistance)

How could I ever fall?
For that soft-brown-tendril
Coming at my face
Finding my place

(Stand safe in my parentheses,
Away from your thesis)

"to jim--response to blurp."

white male wit
never a dim-wit (catchy huh?)
glow in the dark ilumination
male abomination (just that it ryhmed)
jim writes of pig intestines.
i wish he would be my valintine.

(lots of poetry and prose
the yellow poet)

Tell me what you see,
What is truth and what are lies?
Are you everything you claim to be?
Does all or any of it show?
You know who the devil is,
You don’t know who you are,
The devil is the only one you know
But know who others are,
You see right through mask of another
But never realize what’s under your cover
You justify your movements to yourself
It’s amazing how good seems to hide itself.

I'm back now,
My search was unfulfilled
But here I am,
Ready to get in your face
I'm sick of me, I'm sick of you
I guess I'm just sick
Sick in the head
Ready to say
"fuck it all"
Hey look, the F-bomb
Are we all happy now?
I ain't
I ain't nuthin'
But a shock value poet
And sometimes I makes stuff up
My wordology is as f'ed
As me, my poetry sometimes seems
To be a worthless escape to me
Yet others say nice things
Is it that my poetry is good
Or I'm a friendly face?

Modesty

I hear my praises in a quiet rumble
That's ok, I'll remain humble
It's really hard to be this modest
Especially while I'm brutally honest
It's not easy to be this cool
Leading you, the simple fool
It's not easy to have this much style
Without me how's your life worthwhile?
I know, I know, you wanna be me
But you're not able to bear my humility

Thanks for the poetry reading, it was a very polite experience. Next time, I think I'll let Hannibal read for me.

I'm curious about poetry. I've only studied what was required for the survey courses or what was included in other courses. I once had to write a paper about a poem, and it was one of the most difficult endeavors I faced in school. Truth be told, I think I like the poem a little less, having spent so much time with it and trying too hard to understand it.

Does poetry need to be a multilayered cunundrum in order to be considered great in the long run?
Does great poetry need to be an idea in its most densely packed form? What is the definition of poetry? Not prose? Is there something else that's not poetry and not prose? Or are there just universally undefineable tiers of poetic merit?

Who is Philip Larkin? Not me, that's for sure. Should I strive for that, or just keep doing what I'm doing, which is basically writing when there is somewhere to put it, like the blog or the IC?

I'm really not all that humble, nor do I necessarily believe my stuff is awful, but then I really only put it in places where it is within its comfort zone. But again, is it poetry?

Poetry does not always have to multiple layers or be densely packed or fulfill any other requirements. Sometimes it's just silly and fun, and still ends up great (Shel Silverstein, Tim Burton, and maybe even Trish). I try my best not to analyze the things I love too much, because sometimes I see something that I can't un-see. I'd rather just let some things be, and look at them for face value.

Or something,

Certainly not everyone has to be Philip Larkin; otherwise, what would be interesting about the original? Same goes for other poets. Poetry, for me, is one of those things that's fiendishly hard to define in any way that doesn't immediately blow up in your face. I guess the best answer to what poetry is is what poets have done. At the same time, it's hard not to blur the boundaries between what we value in poetry and what we feel poetry "is" or "ought to be." For most people this hardly matters. For teachers it does, because inevitably some student will ask what poetry is, and you feel sheepish not having much of an answer. It also matters for poets, who (like everyone else) like to be able to describe what they do. And it matters in a practical sense, because in order to get your poems published you have to rely on someone in power (i.e., publishers, journal editors) being able to recognize your poem as a poem -- and a good one at that.

Some personal favorite definitions/descriptions: W.H. Auden (no mean poet) wrote that a poem was like a verbal contraption, and that the job of the reader was to figure out how each particular contraption worked; the most influential teacher I ever had in poetry (a woman named Eleanor Cook in Toronto) said that a good poem was something to which you could apply pressure and get something back (like grapes? fusion? who knows). My own rough definition is that poetry is language at its densest, its most compact, complex, and meaningful. This doesn't mean poetry has to be difficult -- in the sense of impenetrable -- but it ought to mean that there's more there than you'd expect to find in any comparable chunk of language in prose or common speech. Robert Frost wrote poems that are generally pretty accessible, but that doesn't mean they're easy. They're packed with meaning, and full of allusion to the Bible and other poets.

And form comes in here too. In the best poems, form isn't something arbitrary but something inextricably connected to the content. There ought to be a REASON a poem is a sonnet, or a string of short stanzas, or in couplets, or in so-called "free" verse. There ought to be some kind of reason for rhymes, and assonance, and puns, and line breaks, and EVERYTHING. The poems that work that way are the ones I keep coming back to, because every time I come back, I find something new.

My thoughts, for what they're worth.