English Club Chatter

I think about a poem the way I do a paper, it's gotta have a thesis and that thesis hasta evolve.

forget what i just said i thought...here's a new one without a silly thesis.

amazing grace

hilarious joke
they do what I
want ’em to
“spare the rod...”
gotta pass along
the fear gene
an she
my little
help mate
washing machine
bends over
to my spiritual
leadershit
divine purpose
her reasoning
for loving me
“a good wife,
more precious...”
an I got a book
to back me up
“thou shalt not
fill in the blank—”
without getting
on your knees
an I got a way
to measure so-
called intellect
that don’t
include think
just calculate
the distance
between here
an hell
(not that far away)
an two thousand
years from now
we’ll still be livin
like he’s comin
a thief in the night
the blink of an eye
“if you are neither
hot nor cold...”
spit me out

2-14-06
To My Valentine Unknown

coffee colored love
sugar stirring words
creamy thoughtful nothing

colored love sugar
stirring words creamy
thoughtful nothing coffee

love sugar stirring
words creamy thoughtful
nothing coffee colored

2-11-06

you couldn’t make me feel worse than I already do
words burning flesh scorning man
hide behind this premise that I deserve
And I shall sit here and wonder if you were ever really here
And what could ever be ‘the right way’
someone always gets crushed
slowly ease it in and melt away
fuck it all and tear away
broken trust, so walk without
And I have these moments in my head:
(so afraid to leave,
everything that I believe,
drive you into a corner,
like you do to me,
laughter tearing me apart
flying hands and empty vain giggles
hate her lied to me lip gloss whore
walk next to the brown-eyed-harlot
run from your stomping feet
hurt-me-now incomprehensible ways
never really new all my parts
delusional wit, charisma’s dead.)
You probably smoldered my words
whip me down ‘oh humble one’
preach everything the way you choose
Risen out of the water
walking next to her now
And I have these moments in my head:
(tears welling up why give them to you,
all my fault, couldn’t satisfy the story
push back the salty-water
I could drown in your demise
hold up my scathed chin, trembling
have lost you completely
silly women that won’t let anyone defeat me)
You could walk next to me
with those touch-me brown eyes
in between the kisses
can’t escape, every moment, every minute
and she says she loves you
jezebel got her eyes born
hands creeping up grabbing your arms
digging in flesh mixing,
(Fucking laughter tearing me apart
couldn’t make me feel worse than I already am,
couldn’t you be satisfied with my retreat)
No: you walk away
without a proper goodbye

St. Valentine’s Day

1929, Al Capone took,
A Florida vacation,
Sent out McGurn,
To get some retribution,

“Machine Gun” McGurn made a plan,
To trick His bosses’ foe,
“Bugs” Moran, was offered bootleg Whiskey,
Off his men would go,

Six of Moran’s men went in first,
With one eye-doctor,
North side of the Windy City,
Lincoln Park, in a carport,

A stolen cop car,
Pulls up to the place,
“Bugs” leaves his men,
And to the wall they face,

Three guys, plus two dressed as cops
Sent by “Machine Gun”
Mow down the seven, left by “Bugs”
With a tommy gun.

I can't decide whether I want a definiton of poetry in order to justify that what I do from time to time is poetry or whether I want a definition of poetry to let me know that my exercises need more or less of something to become poetry.

It's not so much that I require some sort of validation of my skills or lack thereof, but rather maybe some guidelines so that I might move past what I instinctually write when I find a venue and feel like posting if it's insufficient. I don't want to spend a lot of time reworking or rewording what pops out of my head, but if it's not decent poetry, then maybe I should.

My process works like this: I'm going to write a poem now.

How did Shakespeare go out?
As mute as Iago with nothing more to say
his words orbiting the world
and dropping like rain into each listening man's soul?
Or as angry as Lear
railing against the thunderous claps
mad for life and atonement
glimpsing through cracks in the sky another world?
or astride a rampart
between no more
and an eternity of Shakesperean internal thought
wondering about Acts as the final curtain falls

This could go on and on, I suppose, but instinctually I stop here and don't change a word.

I think maybe poetry is like mental/verbal gymnastics, though not necessarily the pommel horse.

And I'm not sure about the rings either.

Sorry about the confusion, I think I'll just go watch Lord of the Pommel Horses.

(Hey, guys, this is my valentine poem--it's got some serious spelling errors and not as thought out as most, but ah well, emotion overcame me.)

valentine
sarah stevens

sour cherry
love syrup
double endondra
rubber band
exchange
you’ve got
some pretty legs
hardly
a little girl
snap me
i’m wild
about your lips
moving
on their own
and against mine
half a box of
chocolates later
laughed so hard
almost puked
an i can’t quit
still thinking
i’ve got
a quivering
thigh or two
for you
head bumped
teeth knocked
thank you
best day on a
necklace of days
uber cliché
can't get
enough of you

little poet
sarah stevens

write something
besides narcissism
it's a pen
what’s reflected
isn’t the lack
of authenticity
your every day
freckled facade
(there’s lines
between lines
between lines)
and it’s not
a story
i’ve read before
yet i can easily
surmise the cliché
you are—
got the stupidity
to call me whore
(tell me again
that feminist
creed you adore)
i’m not afraid
to love
and you have
a cosmetic bag
of excuses
sexual activity
a synonym
for insecurity
think individuality
something you
can brain storm
but i can still see
your yellow beneath
the cracked exterior
of your egg shell
and it’s a fissure
created by banging
your head
against a relativity
you’re just
beginning to
comprehend
and i don’t have
to explain anything
except the love i feel
for your struggle
there’s something
worthy about hurting
it’s like
the visible disillusion
of that choir girl
naiveté
the poet unfolding
the writer beginning
welcome to the world
baby girl

Tick, Tick, Boom
2-14-06

It’s said if a person wanted to stop time
They’d have to cease to be alive
But my short hand’s holding the pen
As I proceed to write in an language counter-clock wise
words resemble time when writing in long hand
won’t be stopped
and I don’t perform miracles
like catching an atomic bomb when being dropped
with some limbs short of nuclear arms
but yes, from beneath the mushroom cloud
I rose from the water
there’s no need to swim
because I dried myself off
brushed off the salt
and proceeded to walk
shaking my head and thinking
that it’s messed up
the fact that stevie wonder
a blind man
has see more than whom?
More than many people and farther than…
As if I stood
On the shoulders of giants
looking through binoculars
Bronze, silver, platinum, or gold
Which is the rule?
That we abide by?
Yeah, treating those as they treat you
I respected the retreat and even a sense of defeat
But the words remain indefatigable
But it was the manner
in that awkward; suffocating silence
That was as dense as the fog
Where the charisma actually ceased to breathe
Whether or not one would really want to believe
And maybe someone may be able to resuscitate
The people
As if I got into my vehicle
Drove across an ice patch tomorrow morning
Got hit by a truck
And died
Granted, I’d never want to go
But at least I’d be able to live with my demise
So what if my goal is to effect change
At least I can say that I have the heart to live my dreams
Stare the lord in the eyes, unashamed, shrug my shoulders
And say, “eh, I may have failed, but at least I tried”
Which to me, maybe
Is worth more than all of the rules weighted in gilded gold
Because most of those sayings have really been misused
The bronze, silver, platinum, golden, or gilded rules?
Because as soon as someone is held accountable
The situation can somehow be rationalized
Justified and now all of the sudden
The agent initiating the situation
Has now become victimized
Same rationale used in affirmative action cases
reverse discrimination
claimed by many white guys
And that’s why
The struggle won’t ever cease to be
And therefore if you want to stop me
Break both of my hands
Erase the numbers from the clock
As if the powers that be
could erase me from the pages of history
yet their efforts will always be futile
because if we make enough noise
it’ll take lifetimes
and as long as there continue to be human beings
who are likeminded
then we’ll multiply
and keep walking because the sound of our marching
sounds like a time-bomb ticking
therefore, some should take cover
because you won’t ever be able to erase time.

Poem,

unfinished thoughts right now,
first part was mostly about what just happened,
used him—to release something I couldn’t
but she was just a fiction counter---made up
from my wicked imagination,

and the next---
when I say: And I have these moments in my head:
I think about the past, labyrinth of emotion…
(when I think about how he let me down,
how he left me to drown,
how he kissed her,
kept it in
away from me,
but I was the sin,
and I am even
talking of religious persecution)
that’s where the real fiction comes in—
sub-conscience resistance filtered in
you and you

but I wasn’t here to cut
to judge,
to hate.

I took something then ran—
and should have kept all to myself

Hurts: that you would think—
--that I would—
well there it is.

nothing wicked
sarah stevens

nothing wicked this way
comes like my raised scarlet letter
set tingling by your yellow words
an insecurity that still burns
i'll let you touch its raised newness
the permanent ink stink stagnate in me
three winters of latex lullabies later
response of my i-thought-i-was-in-love hormones
synapse brain firecrackers dense fog descends
and finally fourth of july goodbye
(enough about the simplicity of loving men)
there's a newfound kinda glory in saying fuck
and meaning it--in all its hard literal integrity
saying one last broken hymen mantra and moving on
or holding on to a different choice
in spite of the hurt--that happens no matter what
because i've got words all over me
and even if it's difficult to read you
the language barrier non-existent
your palm out, head down, writing the chest pain,
heart attack of literary circumstance
and it’s funny that it took a misinterpretation
to finally see the beautiful complexity in you

So, according to another strand in here, there ought to be a reason for everything in a poem. Is it possible that this can be reasoned out by the reader rather than reasoned in by the composer? If one has a talented subconscious, can that lead to reason enough? This point is where I sort of lose my identification with poet. I read a poem the other night, and someone said "it's a shape poem." I hadn't noticed, but the reason aspect fit because the shape actually matched the words and sentiment of the poem. Happy accident.

what does that even mean?

previous comment posted accidentally...oops

Ode to __________

apocalypse of mind
fuck the muse on your own time
misperception of perception stuck in your head
every exit off Route 22 is a dead end
follow reduction like chasing your tale
hold hands with Euthyphro while chasing your whale

the "what does that even mean?" comment was meant for Sarah's first post, but I didn't realize that the posts went to the end...oops. Anyways, I was hoping for some clarification on the first comment -- for discussion somewhere else maybe?

On Jim's question about the "reason" of the author versus that of the reader, I'd say it floats somewhere in between (or back and forth). As I recall we had a blog debate a while back involving authorial intention, and of course from the perspective of much modern/postmodern theory, this is a no-no (you can't know such an intention, you can't trust it, it's uncertain anyway, the author is dead, etc.). Still, a poem is written by someone and that person presumably wrote it for some reason and made certain choices for certain reasons. We try to figure these out, not because the "intention" interests us in itself, but because by doing this we figure out what makes the poem tick, making it more meaningful. That said, it's quite possible we discover things (meanings?) in the poem that author may not have consciously intended, and this seems fine -- at least if they do make the poem more meaningful for us. The author may have created things subconsciously, or they may just have happened -- we can't really know. All we can do is read, and read, and read, and try to understand a poem as deeply and completely as we can. That's my feeling anyway. I may be a dinosaur, but I do still feel a connection with the writer, which seems appropriate, given that language is communication. But to fixate obsessively on what the author intended seems beside the point -- which for me is discovering the full range of meaning in the poem. Does this make sense?

I have come to find that in my own writings multiple layers of meaning seem to manifest themselves out of my original intentions. It's kind of like sitting down to watch the sunset but instead noticing faces in the clouds, or deer in the field, or birds flying by. I tend to write a poem with a certain intention and just kind of watch other things develop out of that.

....or something.

This pom is entitled..
"Sorry, John Lennon always gets me depressed"

deer don't care that i can write poems
but they might give a fuck when we level their homes
fish are indifferent that we have gas stations
but when oils spills from our boats they get asphyxiation
your need to cross the ocean isn't a concern to the bird
though it may be surprised when a jet flies through their herd
plants aren't worried that you need a building to keep your shit in
though they could make use of the soil under buildings and those vitamins
the best thing you could to benefit life on this earth
is end yours

harmony
sarah stevens

a tiny, three syllabled thing
and i was once a bird with wings
and you had blue green tail fins
once upon a time
primordial ooze
a big bang connected me to you
now environmental disruption
upsets your balancing act
and the effects of our evolution
will go on and on no matter if...
but it's all a kind of death wish
this living and infecting or
or the contagious decay
of our embalmed hearts
maybe if our existence
didn't have a price tag
(places to be, money to make)
jet plane herd of bird attacks
chemicals in our water supply
pluck my wings, rip your fins
it's a suicide for us
a genocide for them

(i only meant to have one 'or' just couldn't decide where to put it:)

Who'da thunk
Alla junk
That I spew
Means sum'n'2'u

Playing w/ construct & constraint
Who is to say what I can and can't taint?

Non-flammable and in-flammable
Are quite the same
Non-sense and in-sense
Aromatic word game

Is five senses our full extent?
Sixth sense, common sense
Of stuff and non-sense
I can see what you're saying
I can hear what you're doing
I can feel where you're going
Don't leave a bad taste in my mouth

N-E-way, thasall from the me
i make sup meown roolsa wad
anglich chood bee

watercolor sunshine
sarah stevens

coincidental hurt
a-kind-of-i'm-sorry
trust not really
sidewalk cracks
never quit liking
the laughter in you
and there are worse
might as well
all be whores
the little white viel
coverups for injustice
feminist rage manifesting
in both of us--
overt misunderstandings
i.e. fucked up assumptions
and the cliche I tryed to nail
to your fortified yellow wall
might as well be me
trying to pin-point reality
(an utter immposiblity)
and all my talk
about relativity
can't compensate
for the scrape I caused
chalk festering in the sore
water color sunshine
illuminating yellow hair--
no matter what the words say
can't capture
(it's impossible)
to hold someone else's truth

Aaron Beveridge! Now we are complete. And I'm sick of poetry too, especially trying to ferret meaning and happy accidents out my subconscious, which used to be interesting, but now just runs on like a sentence, particularly this one.

And I don't think I ever even dropped an f-bomb.

Oh, hey, i thought of what poetry might be: poetry is possibly the culmination/overflow of all the weird things thinking does to our brains...or the manifestation of life's injustices onto paper...or just glorified word play...

Yes, it's diffferent things to different people at diferent times. Cathartic blood letting to some. An exercise of sorts to others. A showcase. An organization. A suitcase. A pressed leaf or pinned insect. A badge (stinking or otherwise)(you all went there, admit it). Something to do. A puzzle. A puzzlement. A Mount Everest.

To hark back to Hannibal, and nic, and jim, on authorial intention as a pomo no-no, and to point in a slightly different, visual direction - Meaning always exceeds intention. In film, for example, D.W. Griffith argued that Birth of a Nation wasn't racist (despite the fact that it was an adaptation of a play called The Clansman!) and Leni Riefenstahl also denied that Triumph of the Will, in which she depiction Hitler as the German Messiah, was anything more than a documentary. But today we certainly derive different, and much more vicious, meaning from Griffith's characterization of African Americans and Riefenstahl's glorification of the Third Reich.
Theirs were visual arguments that we now see (any many then saw) as bankrupt. But they were also very powerful propaganda at the time. It's worth remembering that "entertainment," "documentary," and other visual forms often make hugely influential cultural arguments that exceed authorial intention, that have multiple political, social, and contextual meanings that go well beyond the writer/filmmaker's design.
If I were to put on my feminist hat, I would also comment on the ways in which meaning exceeds intention visually when it comes to the way women dress and speak, whether women want it to or not. But perhaps that's for another discussion....

My Birthday

Birth?
That is when a new child comes to Earth,
Mine is hidden inside this verse,
I'd say it but find it first.

(yes it really is hidden in there, can you find it?)

Does this pertain to most women? I'm not sure what 'meaning' and 'intention' refer to in regards to speaking and fashion choices. Most of us deal with meaning and intention in the way we speak. As far as how women dress and their intentions, I can't help but think this is possibly bordering on stereotyping, both in the meaning derived from others and also in the discussion of women whose alledged intentions are somehow lesser than the meanings they appear to be creating or portraying. It seems to me that any intention about anything is bound to be outstripped by as much meaning as there are people receiving the fruits of the intentions. So, then, I have to adjust my thinking to understand that you would comment on the ways in which meaning exceeds intention visually when it comes to the ways women dress and speak.
Now, here's one of the places where I sort of get lost: I understand that there is a visual aspect to the ways people speak, but I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around that concept contextually.
Obviously, there are about a bazillion things that come into play in any discussion of the ways meaning exceeds intention visually in the ways women dress or do their hair or shape their bodies or pierce themselves or decorate their offices and homes, etc.

Zach, are you talking about the year also?

Sorry Zach, I had to give up. There seems to be any number of dates it could be, but I base that on anagramming.

Zach.,....dont ask me how...but January is the month right..?

2-17-06
theyellowpoet
“Here Again II”

looking at my misconception,
birth of a lives-in-the-past-poet.
Sometimes write to induce response,
or be a response, recompense, look at the expense, expanse.
to much to keep to rip out your heart
with a new poetic thesis,
Your flowers (were) still framed.
And I know our goodbye is really mine
And I haven’t been trying to hide.
but twist of words has me looking back
I missed the way it used to be
when you would have just asked me
“what happened today, made you paint so indecently?”
you noticed an old poem, written so splendidly
fluid line: “how do we keep each other without ever really holding on”
And can’t explain, that’s why I’m here in my poetry, questioning:
the cage bird songs
her ripped yellow wallpaper,
and why, everyone sees an invisible man,
and why I am here again…

it's only the year, 1987 (syllable count) first line has 1, the second has 9, third has 8, and the last line has 7 hence 1987.

I was so counting sylla's it was my secound guess. but i was also playing on the words new baby--which is the symbol for new year...so i thought....oh phie. why did you give it away ... i so wanted to guess. lol.

I started with words, but then figured probably you were born after '67!

In reference to Jim's point about potential stereotyping resulting from assumptions made regarding a woman's manner of dress and speech, I just wanted to say that I think that is where woman have a clear advantage. We can dress in a conventionally feminine way, or wear what mean wear. Our skirts can be shorter than hell and nobody can say a thing about it or touch us. We can show skin--it's a quasi-freedom...Men are caged in one manner of dress which looks virtually identical on all of them--ironically they will be buried in the same kind of silly three piece ensemble. And as for assumptions made about women--in short skirts, man-like power suits, blue jeans, etc.--there is not one all-inclusive conclusion to be drawn (exactly what Jim was saying, I think).

The mouth that belongs to thousands of words,
has nothing to say.
Too mucn pain

I'm not sure that no one can say anything to women about their shorter than hell skirts. Certainly, in a professional arena, something is likely to be said, but not before a lot has been said about the skirts to everyone but the woman. Having something said to one and being touched are only two entities in the spectrum of possible consequences stemming from wardrobe choices.
And people can touch you. It's likely to be illegal, but it's not all that unlikely of an occurance. Yes, no one asks to be raped or molested, or harrassed, but this is where meaning and intention get dangerous. If one is dressing in a manner that is possibly provocative to a greater number of individuals, doesn't one necessarily need to be more aware of who is in the immediate vicinity at all times? As far as the advantages, there also seems to be a bit of limited thinking on the parts of many women. Some women seem to want to show off their asttributes and attitudes, but seem to only want to be viewed by certain people or types of people. The problem is that they don't send out limited invitations, but tend to take the bouncer at the door approach. I've felt both invited and uninvited a zillion times, but it doesn't stop me from enjoying the view without feeling the least bit dirty or perverted. But I've seen the way women react to people they deem less desirable or less worthy, and it's not at all nice. That is only power if someone is made less powerful.
Men may have less choices in the work/school/function environments, but maybe that's as it should be. Outside those environments, men can walk around with their shirts off and Speedos and not get arrested.

Who condones Speedos? I sure don't:). But I, of course, agree that there is a certain amount of danger in dressing to entice. Still, there is something (I can’t put my finger on it) about expressing your individuality via fashion. I’ll give that there are other outlets for individuality, but my point is (and was) that this outlet is really only available to women. I mean, sure, men can try, but they’re really just putting on a slight variation of what every other man is wearing. And as for swim attire, well, women have that as well.

I know all about the dangers of dressing to entice... whenever I wear my butt-less chaps people will NOT leave me alone! Geez!

sexy

As far as I can hope, no one condones Speedos. As far as individuality and fashion goes, even women are limited by what is deemed acceptable in society: skirts, dresses, pants. But more than that, whether we as individuals buy into it or not, each individual choice has meaning attached to it, or, at the very least, questions about intentions. These meanings seemingly stem from an identification with those who have come before us or those we associate with certain modes of dress. Much of our world seems to revolve around fear or making ourselves feel better by deeming others as lesser or too different. It doesn't take much, and almost any excuse will suffice.
With men, that slight variation on the standards can make as big a statement as the more varying differences in women's choices. Each variation, no matter how subtle, carries a codifying message to those in tune with such matters. The expression "clothes make the man" seems as relevant today as when it was first written.

I agree with you Jim, and I'm not sure this can ever change. It seems quite natural that we judge people partly on appearance, especially in a first encounter. As we get to know someone, other factors kick in, and we recognize that the guy in the too-small speedo is really quite nice, despite his fashion sense. But we still include the speedo in our total picture (nice guy, but . . .). And don't we all use clothing to communicate? I notice most of you have characteristic styles of dress, clothing that (a) make you feel comfortable, and (b) convey to others your own sense of who you are. The same works for "us" (faculty) -- more evidence that we too are human! Jim Buckley, Cynthia Callahan, Barb McGovern, and I all have different styles of dress. Speaking for myself, and guessing about my colleagues, I think we wear clothes we're each comfortable with and that we feel conveys something about who we are as scholars/teachers. It's not a simple message that's conveyed, of course. I tend to wear a jacket and dress shirt, while Jim and Norman tend to wear more casual clothes, but this doesn't mean (I think) that as teachers I am more formal than they are -- though maybe they and you would disagree! Our styles probably also have to do with our long experience in and out of school, the kinds of university environments we have in mind, and much else. But this too is complex. I actually like the fact that we have a mix of styles among us. If we all wore the same outfits (either formal or casual), I wouldn't like it as much. Though this too probably connects to my experience -- I grew up in uniform jackets and ties, as a schoolboy and choirboy.

Anyway, I think the expression "the clothes make the man" is something like a natural law -- inescapable. Even if you disagree with it and resist the idea that clothing communicates something about who you are, you will communicate nevertheless. So the question becomes, are you in control of what you are communicating or are you communicating a message you aren't aware of?

HH

2-18-06
"Annunciation"

She is immersed in water
But she can't drink away her thirst
Infanticide Madonna with her roses
Floating baby sepulcher
Baptized in the bathroom sink
Assault the Jesus in her life
Swollen-belly born into revelation

2-18-06
"Etiquette Ceremony"

Hands holding sentimental Sacraments
Of our friendships aniontment
Veil on the threshold of being lifted
Tendrils of hair falling out of place
Past wondering about intentions
Hands reach out to me in mass
Devoted to liberating sweet-taste
See the ignition we consume
Consencrated now with fornication

1-8-06
'untitled'

Yeah, i got one foot planted on a root
because when i look at the son i see truth
and why should i defend that plant
when you claim to be all humility
didnt say anything against what you believe
just got a nasty in my face naivette
make a mockery of something that is mine
then tell me to open my mind
to a world that laughs at my reason and experiance
as if it were some form of ignorance
because i have some sort of contentment i am not suppose to---
who said that made me closed
can't you read my seething poetry
dripping with constant contridictions
forever in deliberation
never said i was right to you
just said what i had
made a joke out of my relitivity
but i am not afraid to believe.

sometimes, especially women I think do not see the dual 'expression' that they might wear--for example showing a little bit of thigh in a short skirt could be beckoning to the oppisite sex to the oppisite sex, but to her it could just be a new way of visual expression--or a new cute skirt that she like like wanted to like wear... we can never real know a person by what they wear--and yet it is true we acctually do try to 'disassemble' what others wear to see who they 'realy' are. You just have to be careful for that girl in the short skirt--or that hairy man in the speedo-- they could indeed mean something different from our 'relitivity'

omgosh i spelled really wrong...*blush*

2-21-06
theyellowpoet

“Station 5”

Didn’t really want to be
Standing here with you
With all that unrest
On your back
Carry that angst around
Until they nail you down
Will you call out my name?
Ask me to help you now
Take your burden
See your truth
I want to be your Simon

on writing poetry
sarah stevens

easier than easy
to hang off the word choice
swing from birch to birch
another poet's synthesis
lick up what's left
taste buds numb
salty monosyllables
bitter lust
(and there's not a thing
to say that hasn't
been said before)
but the feelings
novel pinpricks
butt-fucking rush
continuous vomiting
binged on their words
and i've got plath
crawling around in my
uterus--the equivalent
of nine months,
poetic development
but you're nibbling my ear
and i don't want it to stop

I hadn't noticed that you like like spelled 'really' incorrectly (twice). Or opposite or actually for that matter. I guess it's just a matter of relativity. Omgosh!

I used to stand and look inside
This world I could not grasp
Like a giant window holding back;
A prison made of glass
I’d see the pretty people
Doing pretty things
They never once saw me
I had no hope of belonging
“Dear God” I cried “Why cant I get in?
“Why am I on the outside, always looking in?”
My face pressed against the window
My hands pounding the glass
“Tell me the secret! Where is the door?”
The pretty ones never heard, only laughed
They came together to dance
Then part and find new partners
Their beautiful dance, their grace and poise
Painful to behold, if you could never enter
I writhed alone, cried alone
“Where dear Lord, is my friend?”
“Who will be companion?”
Then once or twice, one would come so near
I thought they would touch the glass
And break the window and see me
They would smile, my heart beat fast
But just when I thought they’d grab my hand
They turned their back to me
They danced and spun, to music I couldn’t hear
They each knew where to go, when to turn
The rhythm lead them, they’d never fall
They’d never misstep, never needed to yearn
“How my Lord do they know?”
“How can they hear this music?”
“But not hear me, And I can’t hear their song?”
But then one day as I looked through the glass
As I incessantly did
I must have stumbled on the right question to ask
Because this time His answer I heard
“Turn around child”
A soft powerful voice said
Wiping a tear, tearing myself from the window
I did
And there all around me was a soft twilight night
A purple sky jeweled with stars
A moon so brilliant, it gave my world light
I saw a great mountain kissing a melodic shore
I heard new music, deeper than ever before
“Take a step now child”
I finally did, with my back to the window
My feet felt soft earth
Peace flooded my sorrow
I turned back to the window
Looking with new eyes
And what I saw now
I could barely recognize
It was not a window
But a huge glass cage
With a door opened widely
On its left face
The dancers, I saw now
Knew not what they did
Hypnotically, robotically
They did the same as the person next to them
Their laughter and smiles were not heartfelt
But on cue
As if there was a puppeteer
Who directed them what to do
They could not hear me, I realized
Because they heard nothing at all
They could not see the way out
Because they saw nothing at all
They did not feel, they knew no joy
They didn’t know anything at all
I turned my back on the waste
Wondered why I never noticed before
Then looked at the true beauty
And forgot what the tears had been for
I took a small step, and then another
Soon I was dancing and singing and laughing
I felt the wind caress my skin
I smelled the night of summer rain
I said “Thank you God for never letting me in.”

A warrior woman and her love stalked
The enemy in the night
A bond of love, cause, and new life
She looked at him and adored
He looked at her
He placed on her finger a ring
Carved into it were words
“I’ll always care for you”
A sack of gold fell from a tree
He looked at her
He took up the sack and ran
Bewildered, she felt
Filthy hands grab her tight
She fought and lost
Lost her soul
Lost her child
They left her to die
She wished she could die
But the flesh healed
The warrior woman returned
Home just in time
To fight another battle
She fought hard
She wasn’t sure why
She cut down a path
A walkway of death
Face to face now
With her love, her betrayal
She swung her sword
She fought and won
She pulled out the sword
Cleaned off the blood
She put a ring on his body
Carved into it were words
“I’ll always care for you”

Racing thoughts Pacing the floor
Spinning wheels going nowhere
Dog on a leash running in circles
And You are the center of it all
You are the stake in the ground
In my heart In my head In my every thought
Im prancing for you and Im primping for you
Im laughing and crying, dying inside for you
I run away and your words like a rope
Snap my neck back fast
You Lies You Manipulation You Indifference
Pacing thoughts Racing the floor
Need to get out of here
Can’t live out of here
Smothering Suffocating You
Bleeding Ripping absence of You
Big plans for tomorrow You weave through ‘em all
Need to love Need love What is love
What is Lust What is Need What is Greed
What is Objective What is Obsession
Damn, back to You

i liked the warrior woman poem. very interestingm do we have a new writer in our midst? or someone that finally decided to post.

oh and gym eye treye 2 not spel werds rong but eye alwais du. like yah. jesi

Thanks yellow poet. Just an old writer in a new venture I suppose... Does anyone else feel like their private parts are exposed when people read their stuff? Well, that's my problem... Trying out this um, hedonism thingy...

Hopeless romantic?
What I would give to be hopeless;
Not to feel the pull of what it might have been like,
What we could have created,
Or what could have created us.
Not to close my eyes and see your face,
Feel your touch on my cheek,
Or your heart beating against mine.
Not to rest my head on a pillow that is filled
With your scent, how you smelled
When you pulled me into you.
Not to relive all that we did,
All that we planned to do,
Or all that was us.
And to never look into the future
And imagine it without you after
Already placing you there in my thoughts.
Hopeless? How much easier that would be…

2-22-06
“Cowgirl-love”

Standing up against the wall
Finding power in her draw
Reaches for her .22
Female trailing shifty chaps
No safety in her holster
Snapping back western stories
Trapped tough leather skin heart
Take out men liberation
Robbed feminist, Jesse James pride
Straddling Texas County

Prose and Khans

Who.
Are you.
To tell me what a poem is.
There's.
Something in that prose.
Some.
Thing.

Your.
Authority in english.
Doesn't.
Make you an artist.
Just an.
Emperor.
Just a.

KHAN!!!!!

I am overwhelmed,
I stumble through darkened halls,
I fall to my knees,
And crawl before the altar,

I feel your power in my gut,
I find all I've done wrong,
Come spilling out of me,
I should have fasted,

If I'd fasted or not made a mistake,
I know I'd not be before the altar this way,
Pouring out my error,
To the alabaster alter.

(the clothes make...)
sarah stevens

i've got a brief skirt
with a corporate logo
on the ass--bought it
for a dollar on e-bay
under keyword
drug paraphernalia
wear it with flip-flops
makes you think crack
knee high boots
cocaine parade
and it must be weed
since i got my tennis
shoes on today
snort me, inhale me
smuggle me around
in your love-coated
vagina--and if the
stereotype fits...
but you got dog hair
on burberry tweed
driving a volvo like
you're going somewhere
exhaust backfiring
don't wanna get stuck
[in traffic] with me

Ode to Christopher Walken

Dance around the weapon of choice mister trivial psychic
Watch your tone
Stab a man in the face with a soldering iron to send him to
The dead zone

Miss Nomer couldn't do it for me,
She wasn't what she seemed,
Miss Understand couldn't talk to me,
She always said everything wrong,
Miss Take couldn't treat me right,
She was chosen wrong,
Miss Shapen was far too thin,
She was angular and bony,
Miss Informed couldn't tell the truth,
She wasn't too be trusted,
Miss Leading couldn't take me the right way,
She wanted me to follow,
I tried all my life and found,
There was no Miss for me.

Black Symphony (2-22-06)

We write for survival
Some write for leisure
Our person political
To most is not practical
To us—it’s our history
Present and future culture
Braided in love and struggle
Equality and duty to one another
We walk by, and, “what’s up?”
You walk—cross the street
We strut; when we walking, we look up
Because I want you to visualize
A portrait of a people
Who went from asking
To just not giving a fuck
So when you look me in my eyes
That’s what you’ll see
When I open my mouth
To lift all of our voices and sing
Words sound like music to your ears
The black symphony

darnit...the third line's supposed to be
'our personal political'

darnit...the third line's supposed to be
'our personal political'

darnit...the third line's supposed to be
'our personal political'

2-19-06
'country song'
 
Heard a song that reminded me of you
Started to sing along holy-hymn of us
We were together again in harmony
Hit the refrain and stopped so suddenly
Because your not here to sing with me
I heard your voice whispering the lines
Watching me sing along to our favorite song
Solomon wouldn't know it better
Watched you start to shake
From the sunshine on my face
Just sitting in your truck, again
The song escalating between us
Never-could-this-end moment
Like a sudden nightmare
The way I could keep you so close wrecked
You're fading into my memory
Another country song for the days we had
Hits me so hard when I don't want to consider
And the harmonica comes playfully my way
I see all the "I love you" you used to say
What could have been, that could have been us,
The old getting better on our porch swing forever
The melody I try to sing, tried to bring you back to me
Words and reminiscence sweeping over us together
Admitting our bitter-sweet-country song reverie

2-18-06
"My Forte Charm"
 
Cover those coffee-eyes with intent
Stripping down all your words
Sugar-looks to catch your face
Total escape to paradise
Sun spilling out on our velvety-sheets
You move away, but I beg you to stay
Keep in the affection
No reason for decaffeination   
Stop and watch the moments like these
Hands to submit to an anecdote of charm

Nic, are you calling me a Mongol (or am I reading "Prose and Khans" too personally?)? And if I do have to be a Khan, I'd rather be Kublai than Ghengis. I don't really feel like an Emperor though -- maybe an Emperor of Ice Cream (or maybe not -- I do like ice cream though)?

"Emperor of Ice Cream" -- Wallace Stevens

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

I wasn't calling anyone a mongol. I just really challenge the idea that anyway can say what is or isn't poetry (or prose or pete or whatever you want to call it). No whether it's good or not is personal judgement. Beauty in the eye and all that rot. My personal attacks are more heavily covered than that. That poem was just meant to be fun. Hope you enjoyed it after you stopped thinking of yourself as a mongol.

nic's 1 1/2 god.

thats a little "g" with a period.

nice star trek reference.

OK, Nic. I feel better.

But seriously, isn't there a difference between saying that no one should be able to dictate what another person thinks about poetry in general or poem X, and saying that ALL such thinking is wrongheaded? I agree that evaluating poems has a limited value and shouldn't be put ahead of reading, writing, enjoying, and interpreting them. But isn't it impossible not to evaluate somewhere along the line? Even in the ongoing poetry blog discussion, many of us have said at one point or another that we really love this poet or poem, or that so and so is a "great" writer (though such greatness may be hard to pin down). Isn't that natural? I think Derek Walcott is a brilliant poet, an excellent writer, someone I enjoy reading and who stimulates me. That doesn't mean I think everyone has to write like Walcott, and it doesn't mean that I don't value other poets (Cummings, Keats, Milton, Whitman, Bishop) who write completely differently. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't think Walcott is a better/greater/more rewarding poet than Joyce Kilmer ("I think that I shall never see/ A thing as lovely as a tree"). Furthermore, even though I hope I make my own decisions about what I like and dislike, value and don't, in literature (though sometimes, like everyone, I fail here), I am also influenced by what others write about poetry and poets, if what they write is persuasive. I had a professor in Toronto who taught me modern poetry, and later biblical allusion in poetry from Milton to Geoffrey Hill. She deeply influenced my thinking about poetry and my experience about poems.

Now I'm not saying I'm going to be that sort of person for anyone (though it's certainly a hope), but shouldn't students have some sense that this is possible with some teacher or some class or even some fellow-students? "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" makes sense, but does that mean that it's all purely relative? I think Shakespeare and Milton are mind-blowing. You don't have to take my word for it, but I think I can go some ways toward persuading you. Poetry seems different in this respect from a ham sandwich. If you hate ham or bread, there's not a lot I can say to make you change your mind. On the other hand, if you say you hate Shakespeare, there's lots I can say. After I've said it, you may still hate Shakespeare, but you might have a different perspective on him, or appreciate different things about him. Heck, you might even like him. And that's not because I have power or authority (or it oughtn't to be), but because I've studied Shakespeare a long time, thought about his writing a great deal, and (hopefully) can point to some of the wonderful workings of his plays and poems. And theoretically, of course, the process should work the other way too. If I dislike a poem you do, you might be able to turn me on to it by showing me what I've missed.

Jim, thanks for noticing the inherent silliness of the poem. I really just thought that the term "prose and khans" was a silly little word play and tried to think of how best I could write about that and make it seem like I meant something. The periods at the end of each little phrase are also meant to indicate the way it would sound if it was William Shatner saying/reading/writing it. Sorry to everyone who thought I meant it as something super meaningful. I was just having fun. Please reread it like William Shatner if you want the full effect.

"There's.
Something on the wing.
Some.
Thing."
--Jim Carrey from Ace Ventura imitating William Shatner from The Twilight Zone

Jesi, stop stealing my name!! :)

HH, I hate Shakespeare. Seriously. (maybe, I should take a class with you about him) But thanks for the discourse on meaning and stuff. I really do dislike the idea that poetry must be this or that, and I think (hope?) that I've shown I can do just about anything with poetry to varying degrees of success. I may talk alot in person about my inherent greatness, but I'm really just fishing for compliments. I'm pretty self conscious about my writing. I try not to let people's criticisms get to me, but I've had my share of them. Other people's poetry is often better than mine, even when they are very much on the same topic or in the same style over and over. I wish my poetry could have some overarching theme that would give it some consistency. I'm not well-versed in many different poets, but it seems many of them use a common theme to tie them all together. Even though it may sometimes get tedious to read the same thing over and over in others' poetry, there is a certain art to being able to do that and still produce "good" poetry almost every time. I feel very hit and miss (the exact opposite of what I said at the end of my last poem), and I sincerely appreciate honest criticism when I do miss.

Anyway, poetry is what it is. Sometimes it's awful (Joyce Kilmer), sometime's it's great (Tim Burton). I just might have maybe heard at one possible point or another about my own or someone else's work that it wasn't really poetry, and that could have hypothetically affected my mood for good or bad. Well, enough vagueness for now.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I could stick a knife there just as easily"

absurdity of existence
extanct in lucidity
lucy did it willingly
wooly sweater pi lilly
philly cheesesteak sauce
saw us faking spasm
spacial toad causes
caustic crammiing studies
stuffed up nasal cavities
caviar and aldi's chili
chilling my bones
buns in the oven
opening the winter
winners never quite
quitters never wind
wine and cherry soda
sew dumb buttons on a
honorable outfit
outwitting leaders
liters of plasma
plays mama in the kitchen
skitchin on my board
bored of routine
rooting for the underdog
wonder doug can write
right now in america
erik estrada headless doll
heed less dull days
dazing me with boxing gloves
bucking love off your back
you're backwards monkey
man key to the inner mind
in her mime actions
mac shuns to the pc
pisces can't gemini
jammed in eye a wooden plank
plinko on the price is right
splices write a comma
commala in king's tower
ink to hour pixelated
nic's elated to express
next caress to last duress
laughs at dress on walden
walled in back and forth
fourth wall broken down
broke at dawn after shack
laughter check at the door
attic dour showing off
shooing off rhyme or reason
more ease on through
threw pointless phrases
phases out my voice
i've oysters in those ears
o' seers of the cursor
curse or blessing
blazing a trail to nowhere
know hare in my hat
my hat my hat my hat my hat

On second thought, let's not go to camelot, 'tis a silly place.

81st post!!!!

WOO-HOOO!!!!

Hates Shakespeare. That's so weird.

one of my favorites that i can force upon you all (insert evil laugh) oh I mean that I hope you all enjoy...

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.
Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.
Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,.
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To to waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you
can understand.
Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For be comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
from a world more full of weeping than you
can understand.
-WB Yeats

Hey silliest one. I love Yeats. Great choice!

i am not "stealing" your name--i am "borrowing" it

thanks a lot jesi, now i have no idea who i really who i am

nic
i mean jesi,
no wait....

I do apologize if you feel "stupider" after having read this but it amuses me, hope you see the humor. Its good to laugh at things that really p--- you off, I think. I dont know, ask me in five minutes and tell you something different wholeheartedly.

The Stupids
I get so very tired
Of what The Stupids say
They tell me what I'm supposed to know
From their ignorant point of view
Their opinion is a fact
Their whim is necessity
Well, I'd like to take this moment
To say quite loudly
F--- That
I know what am doing, thank you
I am actually well informed
I confess I don't know everything
But I know that you are selfish
And to you I'm just a pawn
So tell me please once more to jump
Just to give me the perfect chance
To jump how high you want me to
Then land upon you head
Now, I really don't want to hurt anyone
My perceptions of your failings
I try to keep inside
But if you tell me to be another thing
(I know 8 millionsy isn't enough for you
You want 8 millionsy plus two)
Then I'm really going to have to
Tell you where to go
And how to get there
And why
Which may take a long time.

On Being a Woman

When shelter and protection are needed and sought
And merely exploitation transpires
When every intention is noble
But all blame is received
When nurturing and assiduousness is offered
And violence and neglect is returned
When purest beauty is embodied
And it is ravaged until only ugliness remains
When faith leads all action
But unknown evil ensues
When symphonies of radiance and bliss
Become discordant bellows of anguish and loathing
When standards once voiced and adhered to
Become a rare whisper of doubt
When all that was majestic has departed
And this death does not bring renewal
Then the girl has become a woman

Hey, silly, right? liked your "On Being a Woman".

Nic Keeps Killing The Serious Threads
(or Nic Is Late And Adds Nothing Of Substance)

I'm the threadkiller,
In a serious thread
Whenever I post,
The thread ends up dead,
Maybe I don't
provide nothing new,
Not that I expect
To hear anything from you,
I try to add something
To the conversation
But maybe I'm too late
With my contribution.

Nic, I don't think it's you. I suspect everybody is just hunkered down doing term work. You haven't weighed in on the popular culture thread, for instance, but it hasn't gone anywhere for several days. Test it out!

Funny you mention that pop culture thread, I just finished my post to that, and I was telling Trish the other day that I did spend quite some time (more than the 45 minutes I put into it today) typing one this weekend at my cousin's house when his computer decided to boot me offline, lose all I'd typed and not let me refresh the blog. I wanted to break that evil machine!! Especially since I know what I wrote the first time was soooo much better than what I wrote today.

Anyway, that laast poem (like most of what I say in poem) isn't meant to have any real seriousness to it. I just happened to notice a trend and commented on it. Trust me, if no one responds to what I write, I just delude myself into thinking that I've said something so profound that nothing else can be said.

Me is verry smrt.

I think delusion is healthy. Though it's showing a bit of a paunch since its move to the suburbs.

"Salvation Soil"

hands so worked
cracked with the sun
dirt of the years
just a farmer soul
nothing more to give
after plowing his fields
holds so tight
to that distant ache
traveling back to
a memory of her vioce
still wakes at dawn
sits on his porch
lives the day in
rocking chair sunsets
tells himself stories
his hands clinging
to all that Jesus made
salvation giving soil
calling him home

Pour Man

He goes to church on sunday,
For the choir women he preys,
They let him in at the gate,
While they sing, the organ he plays,

He's in the jazz bar on friday,
Listening for the sax and violins,
Meeting with neighborly ladies,
Who appreciate music like him,

In the basement bar on saturday,
He's paying all his penance,
Serving cosmopolitans,
That all are in his prescence.

Nic and Jesi, nice poems, though rather different! Jesi, have you been reading Grapes of Wrath? And Nic, your suggestive music reminds me of the sexually frustrated clerk in Chaucer's Miller's Tale, who has to wait to have his way with the fair Alison, so he retires to his room with his psaltery and "playeth faste" on his instrument. Hmmm.

The Nightly Grind

All those marvlous cotton candy swirl worlds
inside his aching coffee filter brain
dripping elixers to ward off thoughts of decaying
molars gnashing in the night
sweats filled with dancing bodies
writhing in sheets of rain drenched lightning
loads within those often opposing blood rise
morning dews and news and coffee days
and confuzzled thoughts of her

Hamlin, Acctually "Salvation Soil" has nothing to do with the Grapes. But this secound "promised land" seeped in something of a muse....

"Hung-Up"

Not answering his phone
Just sitting at home
Prideful man
At one time
Wanted her back
Now all he does is forget
Makes her feel guilty
She can't talk to him
Constant confirmation
That all men put off
Reconciliation
And he knows
He still loves her
Even though he can't anymore
He has given up on her
Leaving his friendship

2-28-06
"Promised Land"

The little man
Fighting for
Promised Land
Inner-city war
Farmer with a gun
Going towards the fruit
Pappa won't sell the farm
Painted wall
With art

Constant struggle
In the field
Where is Jesus?
Only one set of footprints
the farmer
His lost land, his lost land…

Put down your apple
and your other blood red metaphorical fruit
molt your serpentine tales of sorrow
Let me stroke your hair
and watch your beautiful breathing
while you slip into a lovely tomorrow

Longest... thread... ever...

Plus 1.

A RAP....

I find myself in a life of crime, kept alive spittin my rhymes.
I struggle only rubbin pennies, chicks come and go I hit many.
One night she got front row, and after the gig, I hit that ho.
Big booty, big tits, got it all, nine months by I got the call.
Little girl, lil man I didn't care, wanted that bitch outta my hair.

Refrain:

This is how it is when you in the money,
every girl shakin it,makes me go insane,
kick her, shoot her , punch her, I feel funny,
I got a mintue to live, she got a bullet for my brain.
What to do? What to do, I don't know,
this is the life chasin hoes.

ADD A VERSE... IF YA FEEL IT!!

Panic

Anxiety Disorders

Heart
pounds fast,
as it races,
sweat begins to pour,
a paranoid feeling takes over.
It is uncontrollable but drugs work,
do they really cure what ails us?
Maybe they only cure what ails our minds!
Zoloft, xanax, prozac, ativan, paxil, effexor, candy,
what if we end up hooked?
Cure worse than the cause.
Find a better cure.
There is one.
Find it.
Believe.

The Fall.....Original Sin.

thoughts on Paradise Lost

Was Adam perplexed with a desire to do more,
than pruning, vining, and naming animals alas?

A Divine image in a dream assigned this chore.
What way to enjoy and for his time to pass?

Spend his days with animals of the field,
and no other being like him to share this land.

Speaking with his maker his desire revealed.
Adam wanted a woman that complimented the man.

That God placed on Earth alone and in charge,
of all the creatures, birds, trees, and streams,

originally a task that appeared very large,
but Adam did as he was told by a visionary dream.

Granted a companion by his glorious Maker above,
Adam was suppose to teach Eve as he had begun.

Adam was overcome though by passion and love,
so all of the teachings really never got done.

Eve was not aware of all that she should have,
so she questioned and continued a quest to know,

To eat from this tree, then no one could save,
them from the wrath of God to be imposed on them slow.

Who to blame in this temptuous game of sort,
should Eve be the blame or Adam for love true?

Or do we see the evil as Satan in his sport,
tempting and seducing Eve into all she would do?

Perhaps all are to blame in some funny way,
Adam for loving Eve, and wanting her every day.

Satan is to blame for bringing evil to Eden,
and offering the fruit to Eve, forcing her sin.

Eve was so vain she trusted only her own site,
and was the attraction that Adam could not fight.

Oddly enough an all knowing God played too,
he was aware of what all three would do.

Where do we place the Blame of this Fall,
when some can be placed on one or all?

Blame Eve, or Adam, or place all on the devil,
when we really think, in consideration we revel,

about where we point the finger of shame,
there were four players in an uneven game!!

Poets of Old

Ten weeks of Milton,was that too much,
or eleven weeks of Poe,ravens and such?
Is there more to read and to learn of,
some poems of seas, death, and of love?
Why just read poetic works that we must,
read for a grade and not in poetry lust?

Much can be learned from authors of old,
how tales of lust and love were once told.
A lot about passion and beauty is seen,
or the love for a woman, man or a queen.
Taking the time to indulge in these text,
like endless time travel, where to next?

Where ever they take you enjoy the verse,
and remember the poet that went there first.

by Todd19

The Great Red Dragon(Small Revision)

....................to William Blake's painting!!

Born of death and of putrid smell,
out of the gates of a fiery hell.
Creature of havoc, torture, and pain,
return to the depths where you reign.
Breath of fire, a skin of rough scale,
beast of many and oft told tale.
Tales of destruction follow your path,
Fear is power and fuel for your wrath.
Color of burnt red, eyes of the dead,
Defeat of you is to sever your head.
You have come for a lady of the sea,
She lives, roams and exists to be free.
You have the power and tools in vain,
To encapture and subdue her in pain.
A creature as powerful as you are,
A beast of the night flying with stars.
Seeking a beauty to possess and harm,
a creature from Satan, with similar charm.
Fight as we must, fight as we can,
Beast from hell, much stronger than man.
Severing your head to end all of this power,
Fly lower and near the great standing tower.
That's where we wait with swords of gold,
your fate is sealed, our glory behold.
Evil must end and magically somehow,
To you fiery beast, your end is now.
Taken your place in legend and myth,
beheaded by whom and what sword with?
That does not matter as far as who,
satan's bird of evil feels death too.
Pass great red dragon your power is dead,
it lays by a pile of bones from your head.
Beautiful lady from the sea is safe,
Demons, dragons and evil face fate.
A fate that even the great keeper of the lake,
Felt when God cast him down from a beautiful place.
Live with devils and die as they must,
Born from a lake of fire and of dust.
Seek not to rise hell phoenix I dare,
Once again by sword, you'll fall from the air!!

by Todd19

Terror....And A World Power

Sensless acts of evil intention,
fueled by political opposition.

Innocent people lost at the hand,
of martyrs carrying out the plan.

What religion condones sacrifice,
without including a moral price?

One that is founded in true belief,
or one that relies on real deceit?

Bomb, blast, blow up all in the way,
to show the world, terror will stay.

We can't stop it but continue to try,
to make progress in the worlds eye.

Is it worth all of the lives we spare,
to sacrifice our troops is just unfair.

To be a world power it is our place,
to police the world and make it safe.

But terror will never end in our time,
and look what we gain by being so kind.

Who likes the bully who pushes around,
a world that is full of terrorist clowns.

Send the terrorists to Harlem or Watts,
and teach them to mess with these spots.

What have we learned by policing the earth,
but hating America comes along with birth,

and no matter what as a nation we do,
that born, bred hatred will always be true.

Our boys bleed red, blue and white,
leading them to die is nobody's right!!

by Todd19

I Smell Something!!

..An Ode To Gas

Should I tell some body or just let it pass?
If it slips, I have no one to tell,
This is the problem with just having gas!!
I toot, I toot, I toot, oh well.
Who did it, who let it, but who owns it?
A question not to sit and dwell.
Whoever did it might have to just sh..it!!
Run away from the odorous smell,
Leave it for a friend, or someone you know,
Bottle the scent, for sure to sell,
But whatever you do tell someone just so,
When the SMELL reaches them...off they go!!!
If you smell it first, the old saying goes,
Hard not smell, it's right under your nose.
Let us hear it, we for sure can not see,
An odor so silent, and deadly to be.

by Todd19

Just threw out a bunch of my stuff, everybody else has!!!!!!!!!

Sorry if I offended anybody with the rap...

AMD I DO LIVE IN A TRAILER WITH MY MOM..IM OUTTY,
TELL THESE PEOPLE SOMETHING THEY DON'T KNOW ABOUT ME!

2-28-06
"Watercolor-Picture"

Little drop of sunshine
Seeping in my skin
Photograph caught
Sweeter than I see
Brown little tendrils
Yellow dripping me
Wrinkling the sheets
Press my arms into
Water-color picture

This is for Todd I believe. I respect your, um, artistic license or whatever but seriously. I am not opposed to your "work," being nothing great myself but rather what was in it. Well, not being much of a "rapper", I don't know if I sufficiently filled these lines with enough anger and disgust but I tried... By your other stuff, I think you're talented and all; no disrespect or anything; although I'm not sure you thought much about respecting anyone yourself, but I digress...

Maybe next time I’ll think, using my head not my dick
Maybe try not to make new life I will ruin, along with mine, don’t know what I’m doin’
Maybe when I get pissed ‘bout the life I’ve led, I wont take it out in this girl's head
‘Cause one of these days she might, get pissed too, havin’ more reason to fight
Get up off the floor where I kicked her down, put a gun to my head and shoot me down

And this girl could be my mother; my kid might never know
How to break the cycle of violence and shame
And we’ll all keep hurting each other, never as a people grow
Maybe I’ll think with my head now, stop passing the blame
Take responsibility for my actions and be a man
Get my pride from something real, not from what I got in my hand

This is something that sort of goes along with the Ash Wed. poems. It's by Matisyahu, a Jewish man who sings reggae. Whoa, whoa, whoa. A Jew's words representing a Catholic "holiday" in a "non-traditional" musical style. Could it be that maybe this is evidence that some sort of unity is possible? Could people possibly believe in the same God, or at least have the same core values, but live it in a different way? They couldn't possibly all be right could they?

You're a warrior fighting for your soul
Taken from the world above and brought down to a world below
You're the son of his majesty
Remember how it used to be
In the light of day it's easy to see
Now it's nighttime
You had to leave
Separated from the king
Now the water's rushing and you keep trying to swim against the stream
And it seems, like your not moving the many water's gushing you gasp for air
Almost drowning ears ringing, once upon a time we were singing
One day the trees will stand and clap hands
Stream of thought getting caught in the klipa, this place is just a shell, external
Egos swell, that one'll burn ya, we fell a long way down, that eternal frown'll get you
You look vexed it's the dregs, the yetzer hara's lurking
Trying to make you forget we got a job to do
You're a priest and a prince and you can't be moved
You're a warrior, Fighting for your soul
Taken from a world above, and brought down to a world below
Re-united, re-united return the princess to the king,
Re-united, re-united, she's been taken for so long
Re-united, re-united and then she'll be filled with joy
Re-united, re-united like the days of her youth
Descended to the pit
What's this feeling can't get rid of it
Soul sick
Can't seem to shake it
When one retires at night weeping, joy will come in the morning
You made my mountain stand strong
Like an ancient memory
Remember how it used to be
Close your eyes and breath in
That's the scent of freedom
Ringing across the sea
Land of milk and honey
One day will wake up from this dream and we'll stop sleeping,
Oh, then we'll see clearly

Without Water… 3-3-06

Without water…
God bless he? Muhammad intolerant?
And Jesus loved everybody?
Too bad when you sense
it comes from between the lips
parted and condescending
Forty days and forty nights
They were listening
I’m listening to prayers spoken in tongues
At the age of nine
and wondering whether or not
They’re pretending
But I’m not impatiently waiting for a black messiah
Because he and/or she probably resemble molecules
Incomprehensible
Which are always moving
The difference of parting the red sea
And the currents complacency
And walking through
Is that you want to be a part of a winning team
Competing for an eternal championship ring
Lift the veil and now wed thee
Merchandise, trademark, copyright, and sell truth
When every human being takes part in life
Manufacture pictures of brown haired, blue eyed
white jesus and make movies
And I thought if one really knew his image,
then they’d die?
Not constrained—we want movement
Coalition; a broader convolution
Representing the reality of all of the holy tribes
When they were all casted from
And made to communicate with whom?
And now, condemning, killing, and judging,
We’ll act as if we’re listening to you—but internally
Hard-headed and we’re not really budging
We should blow them up—but we’re loving
The sound of ourselves; sound the trumpets
who is that coming?
A thousand and one footsteps
In the desert heat
Sounds like marching
But the footprints—it can’t be
There’s only one set
Who is who carrying?
Only takes one to form a line
to take one step
from each person behind
from one to nine hundred and ninety-nine
had everyone fooled
because they were marching in unison
and in single file…

"Luke's Suday Harvest"

Farmer with a withered hand
Went into the corn fields,
Plucked that unsullied corn
Consumed it on a Holy day
He was cast from thier company
Hands so swollen from the fight
And reaching out for that yellow
Hands restored in his prayer
He rose up and stood
For what he believed
Middle of that field seemed so alone
But the sun beaming down
That farm, his land, all that promise
Because he's been told all his life
Blessed be the farmer
He's reaping all the madness
The accusations against him

*Sunday

DISCLAIMER: If you are opposed to graphic content, you shouldn’t read this poem or the explanation that follows because there’s nudity.

-------------------------------------------------

That emotionless look is on my face one again
The one that speaks of my lack of personality
That thousand yard stare from seeing the world
Hope is not what I’ve learned of humanity

I’m screaming internally for all (wo)mankind
There’s anguish painted on the face in my mind

I stand here everyday reaching out my hand
Waiting for someone to grab hold tightly
Not to save you or pull me up from a fall
But to stand on the same ground daily and nightly

I may be soulless emotionless and lacking in feeling
That doesn’t make a solo journey any more appealing

I’ve lost the capacity to have eyes full of tears
Yet my sleep is filled with crying for the world
For war torn countries and oppressed children
Haunting memories for which I’ve drank ‘til I hurled

-------------------------------------------------

If you know me (or even just think you do), this poem might make sense. If not, (or maybe just as an addition) I don’t want anyone to thing I’m flaunting the ego I pretend to have most of the time, but like all (most?) of my poems there are several levels or layers you could read into this. I think my strength in writing may actually be my ability to articulate myself in explanation more than my ability to express myself in poem. Also, while most of my poetry may be silly or sick or bleak or disgusting or just plain meaningless, I felt like being “naked” tonight. Because of this desire to expose my most private self tonight, I feel the need to actually explain what I mean this time rather than leave it up to the reader. I may have a very dear friend or two who reads this and thinks it might be fun to make fun of me for the sensitivity that occasionally shines through in my writings (I know it’s happened before), but just this once, just take it for what it is. And what it is is an admission of actually being human. That is, human in the sense of an aware and caring animal/beast/species. I see the world through a very dark lens and most of the time I find very little meaning in our existence. I see us as nothing more than a species who seek escape and entertainment to help us forget the tragedies of our existence while simultaneously seeking personal gain and pleasure. Additionally, as much as I love expressing myself through creativity, I think the mere fact that we are a creative species capable of art, music, stories, poems, films, etc. is the same thing that allows us to create genocide, pedophilia, crimes of passion, discriminations, and other negative scars in our history. And maybe I’ve been influenced by too many pessimistic authors and philosophers, but I think our creativity is our greatest tragedy. Now, it’s probably too late to make the point now, but I really don’t believe that I am above any of the human conditions I’m trying to express. I really don’t think I’m better than anyone for thinking that my point of view is somehow more truthful than anyone else’s. And I really don’t want anyone to pity me or have sympathy for me or think of me any differently for the depression or loneliness that might be (and I stress might be) present in my poem (though I WILL NOT [notice I used will not in caps for emphasis rather than the contraction won’t] admit it). I don’t pretend to have seen or know everything about the world, but I have had many varied experiences in my life, and there is nothing left for me to feel innocent about. I feel a great deal of angst and sorrow (yea, yeah, wah wah me) everyday about the state of the world. What I’m trying to express in this poem is a simultaneous despair about humanity today and a strong desire to at least feel a connection to another silly, hairless monkey on this planet without the stigma that we must somehow mean something abstract or unexplainably important (or whatever meaning of “love” you want to apply) to one another. We live in an intensely terrifying time where some religious peoples believe the apocalypse is right around the corner, where we have a government that tells us what to believe and what values we should have and who can devote their life to who, where countries (not necessarily just us [U.S.]) wage wars and build up weapons caches with the intention of building up economical or social power in the world, where depraved humans prey upon and harm others for their own immediate and superficial pleasures, and where those of us with the desire to make changes feel forced into pursuing only a small number of issues that mean something to us individually rather than considering what those issues might mean to the future of humanity. Another great travesty of human existence is our tendency to differentiate “kinds of love.” Instead of just accepting each other as active participants in humanity and companions on a sinking ship, we want to place special importance on individuals in our lives. And, while it is true that the individuals we have shared the most experiences with in our lives will hurt us the most when they depart us, it should not be true that everyone who has touched our lives is not deserving of an equal amount of love. Contradictory to that idea, I do have the same desire as anyone else to have a single traveling companion with me who shares my beliefs, humor, and ideas (to whatever extent that is possible) in my life. So, maybe I missed the whole point of explaining this poem. Maybe my ideas are unrealistic or too idealistic or ungraspable or just plain ignorant, but hey, at least I’m trying. And maybe this post doesn’t belong in the poetry thread, but then again we don’t exactly have a post for random essays about whatever philosophical/religious/political/thought provoking ideas come to mind. Not that I think it wouldn’t be messy to try and share everyone’s random rants about everything, but at this point in my rant that doesn’t matter, because I’m not even sure I have a point anymore.

Aaaaaand just to leave you with a little humor, here is a site with politically correct terms of which my favorite is:

Alive: Temporarily metabolically abled.

http://www.jokesaround.com/j/397.html

Outrospection. Why keep them guessing at your motives? The world is full of eyes. Sometimes they are belly buttons--innies or outies-- once connected to all the mental nourishment (wonder)necessary, now looking at the lookers who are looking at and seeing godknowswhat. Big old world, not so round from this vantage, but still huge. Order in the court. Sensory channel clerks cross-filing in a meaningless meaningful menial methodology. Sigmund signifiers full of the mother of all in(tro)spection, may cause paranoia or fatigue or outrage or ennui or a genial giddiness. Ifignoranceisblissletmeshowyouthepathofunhappy. Writing in the walls brickbybrick pinpricked puppy hate--the glow of hot embers suffocating but too close and your burning bridgework melts like popping Spanish flies on the patio.Ogrish beastie stinkers clouds of lust and a mighty hi ho the dairy cow replacement bottles tinkling and the sound of a truck door and mother's milkman glimpsing fleshinrobe cliches of a modernity all in the seems like ages ago. gotta go.

throw back poems:

turtle soup 8-3-99

without a note of hesitation—
you in your turtle shell universe
the jagged curve of brownish
algae fortress, not as healthy
as you could be
starved for whatever it is you eat—
I plucked you kicking and squirming
carried your incarcerated body
to this death box of summer heat
hidden behind discarded tin can waste
intoxicated on the exhaust of our foreign life
so trivial in contrast to your constant evolution
a week from now my father will find you
your decay mingling with lettuce scraps
I will laugh to remember your frantic life struggle
he will say you should have been put to better use
he makes an excellent turtle soup

Sixteen 4-30-00

Just this second I turned sixteen
(I know because my mother said
I tore out of her at eight fifteen exactly)
and I already forget my list
of what to do and who to love when I got here
no use trying to find the torn bit of notebook paper
smudged with orangish foundation and runny ink pen
the actual list itself filling in the margins
of my inattentive algebra notes
and influenced by her dark hair and hard eyes
“this is cool”/ “you’re weird” child babble
trying to amuse the boy to my left
by calling our math teacher a transvestite
that moment a million light years away from
the actual nothingness of finally being sixteen

So I really liked nic’s ‘rant’ as he called it explaining himself/poetry. I respect him for “undressing’ himself, and showing us, a part of himself. So in revelation of that I would like to try to explain three poems that I have previously posted. Mostly citing things that I used to get there. Although, most of the fun I have in writing poetry is letting others take their own interpretation—I like when I write something that can be taken in different ways (well most of the time, eh)

:::LONGEST POST IN THE WORLD RIGHT HERE:::

2-21-06
theyellowpoet

“Station 5”

Didn’t really want to be
Standing here with you
With all that unrest
On your back
Carry that angst around
Until they nail you down
Will you call out my name?
Ask me to help you now
Take your burden
See your truth
I want to be your Simon

( I took some inspiration from my religious background on this poem—(Catholicism for those of you that haven’t picked that up). Simon is the man that must be convinced to help Jesus carry the cross, adding to that it is also station 5 in the ‘stations of the cross’---- very simple poem, not to much else going on here. Just a statement)

"Salvation Soil"

hands so worked
cracked with the sun
dirt of the years
just a farmer soul
nothing more to give
after plowing his fields
holds so tight
to that distant ache
traveling back to
a memory of her voice
still wakes at dawn
sits on his porch
lives the day in
rocking chair sunsets
tells himself stories
his hands clinging
to all that Jesus made
salvation giving soil
calling him home

(Okay, I am a country girl, raised on corncrib climbing, tractor loving, mud-trucking values.—and no I am not ashamed ;) I love especially talking about the farmer and his connection to his job, his love for the way things grow---I have one man in particular in mind when I write, who loved his farming job so much he has just now retired at 80 something –with a prosthetic leg, --he had to quite because his leg kept on falling off when he climbed up on the international to plow (sounds funny and its okay to laugh--he does to but its also the saddest thing) …so now he sits on his porch probably gazing out across the fields in a longing way..... I am just truly fascinated by the connection of the soil and the farmer—in comparison if you still can’t see this think about a writers connection to their work---it is themselves, a part, something that they grew)

2-28-06
"Promised Land"

The little man
Fighting for
Promised Land
Inner-city war
Farmer with a gun
Going towards the fruit
Pappa won't sell the farm
Painted wall
With art

Constant struggle
In the field
Where is Jesus?
Only one set of footprints
the farmer
His lost land, his lost land…

(this poem,CONFUSED me) as aforementioned was partially inspired by the Grapes of wrath and my love for farmers… I am connecting the farmers getting kicked off their land to the Inner-city wars today… a fight for land, the ‘little man ‘ represents both the city and the country man. the promised land ---America. The inner city war is about the war in the city and the war within someone ---like a farmer with a gun (grapes of wrath) should we take that fruit given? there is such a fight, a war—inside this poem comparing a statement of not selling your farm as a statement and graffiti as a statement. (This whole poem is really confusing to me also I am trying to take it in so many directions) I break this section in have because I want to refer to both together now—in the first section they are separate comparisons—but still not connected in the second – the field can mean the field of war, or simply a field that a farmer would stand in. And I ask where Jesus is.. Because both are walking through the field, and only see one set of footprints. ( I also want to play with the poem ‘footprints’ –its pretty known “ when you saw only one set of footprints, that is where I carried you) Although in the end the farmer looses his land, there is no retribution, no closing… his lost land, his lost land… (Grapes of wrath being forced away ) Mostly this poem is about a constant struggle city and country comparison, and how it ends so horribly. Certainly my love for the farmer’s connection to the land peeks through also. ) Right I am sure that analysis helped like nada…. )

"Luke's Sunday Harvest"

Farmer with a withered hand
Went into the corn fields,
Plucked that unsullied corn
Consumed it on a Holy day
He was cast from their company
Hands so swollen from the fight
And reaching out for that yellow
Hands restored in his prayer
He rose up and stood
For what he believed
Middle of that field seemed so alone
But the sun beaming down
That farm, his land, all that promise
Because he's been told all his life
Blessed be the farmer
He's reaping all the madness
The accusations against him

(Refer to Luke Chapter 6 and my enamored attitude of the farmer, I’ll leave the rest to you….)

for the long post you can thank nic, its all his inspiration you know.

jesi

us explaining our work means very little in the long run...sure, it's interesting to learn what a poet tries to do, but that doesn't matter half as much as what the poet did/does...it's intention verses interpretation...simple symantics (oxymoron, I know).

case in point:

Pedophile
sarah stevens

dipped chocolate—off your skin I run (com’mer,
I ain’t done, we’re gunna have us some real fun)
you got big boy parts except I can feel
your little boy heart beating between
our slick wet lack of friction
and I roll it between my fingers
like a dirty bug
jealous because I don’t got one
a little joke instead, quick natural reflex
laughter just as good as the sour morning breath,
frantic, dramatic, yet anti-climatic I-love-you
would rather cherish your child-innocence
snap the waistband of mama-laundered boxers
lie in the heat of our candy coated play date
(my, what big teeth you have) and bask
in the left over, barely pulsating residue
of that once-upon-a-time little boy heart

synopsis: I am playing with sexual purity vs. sexual expression in a deviant manner--relating child molestation to the sexual give and take of an adult relationship and likening love to a fairy tale...I conclude with a loss of innocence that mirrors my own jaded feelings on the topic...(see, wasn't it better before I clarified--when it was just what was there for the individual reader opposed to my limiting intentions regarding the words?)

yes. much. thank you. si. mucho. gracias.

Actually Sarah, I'm glad to have the writer interpretation for your last one. Somehow it makes me feel a little safer around you.

One Nightstand

beside my bed
alarm on my
one nightstand
the love story
i read yesterday
sitting on my
one nightstand
i always give
my watch and
wallet to my
one nightstand
in the morning
i get them back
and i get my
change from my
one nightstand
there are gouges
scarring the
surface stained
by years of
negligent
abuse by me
to my
one nightstand

I dont see anything wrong with letting the poet intertpret thier own work who better to do such a thing, not only does it help the readers understand it helps the poet evolve and understand what they are doing in the first place.

plus we know that certain poets would concentrate on certain systems of poetry. Not always do we all pay attention to ryhme or sometimes shape, or some other scheme in the play of things and suddenly its accidentally there---its intersting to see if the poets intent that you see is what they see. ...what do you think sara??

3-8-06
“Little Man, of Surprising Contrasts”

Sometimes I joke little man, about your sardonic taint paint, splashing it around and covering the town with your looks, want to play on your words like a kid in the park—hiding behind the bushes waiting for the right moment to pop out and scare the old lady feeding the pigeons.

You are something else my friend. Like all the others I decide to keep around you keep the individually, tinkle with humanity, and have a harsh discourse of society…

But little man, you are certainly larger than you think, all up in our face with your poetry, some sort of truth be told—of you. Naked in the prose, undressing what you allow yourself to---and you watch so closely some don’t even notice, you write of them. Some don’t see layers—perhaps sometimes loosely constructed on purpose—you write of you…of them…

And this isn’t something to dismantle you, to take you apart, to say I completely understand the inner workings of your mind—no perhaps it is just to say what I see, what I love, in some sort of atypical way, ---that look of malicious content spreading across your face, and the way the old lady, not only drops her purse but becomes so frustrated with you that she throws her bread in contempt….

And yet, I adore you still. Especially in these moments we have popping out comments with no reason, our friendship growing so wonderfully in front of me, witty moments in our friendship condition, just what I see—when I look at you looking at me.(and I ask—what: what are you thinking?)

Thats a tough act thingy to follow...

Fleeting emotions so strong must be immortalized
Pathetic little life leave something to live on
Solitary confinement surrounded by like prisoners
Broken men meant to have wings
Queen of Air and Darkness leads a life of mediocrity
Sing into rasp no one hears a sound
Write to share thought details overwhelm
Draw a picture of a piece the piece is now the whole
Make love to join souls the flesh is just a f---
Give a man a dime tell everyone it was a twenty
Love thy neighbor as thy self simple I hate me
Attach to some inconstant hide away when it leaves
Feet planted on solid ground separated by concrete
Look on innocence kill what you don’t understand
One nation under God survival of the fittest
Symbolize religion show the wealth it took
United in a human race destroy and finish first
Forgive us our transgressions Father for we know what we do
To know will bring many stripes ignorance but a few

It's interesting how many times we return to the issues surrounding authorial intention. I've learned not to wholly buy in to what an author consciously says about cause and effect as pertains to any particular piece of work or the meaning intended. What I recognize in myself when I read a poem by Nic or by others seems more important to me than what Nic recognizes in himself in writing the poem. Honestly, I don't care that much what Nic or Sarah or others are thinking when they express something inside them. I do, however, like to consider external factors that have led them to feel something worth writing about. Mostly, I do this in the context of myself and my own reactions to the world around me. I realize this a limiting lens as well, but I when I sense something like paranoia, I don't necessarily want a poet to tell me it's really something different.

Well, now that we've all decided that we don't like it when I explain myself. I did say that I just felt like explaining myself that one time. But if I want to add an explanation as a part of the overall piece of literature I create then I don't particularly care what thereader thinks about it. So Nyah!

:P

I didn't get the impression that no one liked it when you explained yourself nor your poetry. Possibly only two people addressed that they didn't find it a particularly necessary endeavor for people to explain or to feel the desire to want to explain their poetry.
The impression I sometimes get about some poets is that they seem to have audience faith issues. Many of us look for and find multiple layers of meaning in the works of others without being encouraged to look for them.
I applaud those of you who are willing and able to expose yourself and, to some extent, to even play with yourself and others with your words. I've never felt particularly comfortable doing so myself, but I've seen plenty of my own thoughts and feelings being played out in other's poems in these blogs.
It is tricky business being around those who are most likely to read one's poems, but that goes with the territory. I think we don't do a lot of in-depth criticism in here because maybe we don't know how people might take it or maybe because we don't necessarily want to listen to someone explain what they mean. Also, I don't think anyone has really asked for a critique. But then no one has really asked for an explanation either.