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Author Topic: the poems thread  (Read 257574 times)

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Rob

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #450 on: May 10, 2008, 12:25:26 PM »

DAYAMN!

Damn you of the pencil preferation.

How do you know such things.

...and I almost stopped reading...almost.
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Everybody dies
Frustrated and sad
And that is beautiful

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #451 on: May 10, 2008, 03:12:40 PM »


You know, Rob, I asked that same question way back when.  Since then, I have often had tea with her in the parlor where she would most generously share her insights into poetry in general and, specifically, her poetry.  Still, I find myself asking the same question.  When I read something like this, like you, I can only say DAYAMN!
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Musings

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #452 on: May 11, 2008, 07:04:31 AM »

I third the DAYUM DIGGITY DOG, preferpencil.

These were written in my head on the plane.  I had a better ending on the second one, but promptly forgot.  Suggestions are appreciated.

Poems Written on an Airplane

This High

When my great great great great grandchildren
ask me about airplanes,
I will tell them about metal birds
that glided in midair,
buses that did the impossible
and lifted to above where clouds met blue
floated beneath us like magic carpets,
disappearing, reappearing.

I will tell them about the gaps
between clouds, like windows,
where beneath, the world beckoned,
the earth was only water, land, river, mountain—
human existence reduced
to a few specks.

“I was this high off the Earth,”
I will tell them, lifting my wrinkled, spotted arms
as far as they could go,
trying to measure the distance
between sky and earth
with arthritic bones.

“This high,” they will murmur,
reaching with tiny hands to match my own,
then pressing their noses to windows
that open into craters,
looking out upon the closeby stars,
imagining the worlds never seen.


The Descent
-   based on heard  landing conversation

As we descend,
butter smooth,
the two people
behind me begin talking.

The older woman’s first son is a newscaster,
has he heard of him?
Yes.  His daughter is in 7th grade,
sitting in the next row, honors.
They are proud of their children,
they finish, exchanging stories of success
middle school to middle age,
as Florida comes into focus.

We hit the pavement, and the earth
beneath us doesn’t give,
our bodies jolting in seats.
Where did you come from, she asks.
A funeral, he replies, of a friend.  Where
are you going? he asks.
Back home to my husband,
she replies, he only remembers
me these days.
When I’m not there,
he searches the hallways,
calling out for his sweetheart.

As the plane brakes,
the world outside moves fast,
reduced to a flash of light,
then slows until everything is clear,
the descent bringing us here
to this stilled moment.
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caddy

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #453 on: May 11, 2008, 07:18:01 AM »

poemy poemy foamy poemy fart,
click clack type type - so smart.
i'm so with it, sweetie.
you get my simile?

Ginsberg stole it from me,
these rhymes so perfect in my head,
until i read them,
and need validation.

true poemers don't rhyme,
we double time.

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Musings

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #454 on: May 11, 2008, 08:59:11 AM »

Nice.
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caddy

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #455 on: May 11, 2008, 07:55:30 PM »

d00d, t0ta1y.
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preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #456 on: May 12, 2008, 08:20:38 AM »

ehhh. this will suck. when i receive such praise i get embarrassed and then immediately know the next one will just suck. so there! haha. I assure you, the next one will be love angst-ish and more .mmm. whatever.



Banal & Awkward Formalities
__________________________

I took notes when my father
started pulling at his hair
while the sounds of crashing
Tupperware on top of the
Three keys:
spoon, fork, and dinner knife
were as dulled or mitigating
or crusty over the mistaken
foul ball hitting chalk dust,
or as frightening as revealing
burps and slobbery saxophones.
the oblivious young man was
 high on skipping classes about
 getting
High
and this son who didn’t take his hat
off at the dinner table,
he’d been told more than once
and more than once was more
than one too many by then.

In reproach to the request:
Why is there such a rule, even, man?

Chastisement  begins with
hearing loss by the attendants,
so all of us waited for percussion.

Instead:

“pass the fucking sugar, man, if
 you‘d rather we discuss  lack of
 manners some other time.”

Dad’s tone barreled down the kitchen
corners and even  made the dog
freeze and shut its drooling lips--
like a freezer pop promptly
leaving purple for noodle soup.

After gawking and desiring a little
dose of seemliness myself,
not to mention the way the youngest
mouth can turn equal parts
Mercury or ether…and

after a pause that left my stoned
brother exiting the scenery,
I quietly said over the beginning
of smiles on the sides of my sister’s
Eyes…

“can someone please pass the iced tea,
 dude, and after that, can I get some
 gravy, man.”

I had hit the lucky length of timing,
And one giggle turned into bellows
down the table
 into laughter’s nest,
As I hid my face just in case…
Just in case I had bombed.

-------------------------------------------                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       
Linguists are not immune to this.
it’s just their job to
wander the paths of speech
and note which words will bloom,
like lady bugs taking over
Garden parties,  or samples stolen
as “hearty” meals from microwaves,
the maids will eat these at home
but shine the forgotten appliance.

but the best to speculate about
are
Which can be put on the time scales.
and which ones
will last it out, man.
see things through, chief.
or give it one last go, chap

Now “journalists” stop finding news
or burning their calluses without
opinions from any type of accuracy
sought in check-book-balances,

It is getting late to kid ourselves
about the meaning of liberty.
manners, traditions and language
raise their butts up for the sprints,
fully aware that this means more
to the common man
than the equation for the speed
of light.

But knowledge has its own sneaks.
The words sound for juiced air,
And the manners ask to work on the farms,
And traditions ask for the world in customs.
These three runners have everything to lose,
And in increments they Do.

yesterday I saw a calligraphy set,
overpriced and bowing at the bottom
of the kits presented  in every bookstore.
there’s little doubt that if purchased
on a whim, and made into the art
it says it Is…
there won’t be enough ink to keep

the apprentice rolling backwards into
the lap of antiquity,
pretty as it should be and as worthless
as the coned lighthouses dotting maps.

Two teens cut in line before me
pretending fake giggling about
some other endearing topic,
perhaps involving the lack of manners
it takes to cover up 3 hickies,

or maybe they were entirely too excited
about the necessity of lavishing
Baby’s first books along with some sort
of report
saying Mozart can make your infant
more intelligent.

cutting in line, the loss of tradition,
and the gain of one rude hat on the table.
Wanting to write with the loops of ink,
The dropped custom-- a momentary reflex
Against the habits of  writing Here.
The sound that didn’t come out of the
Mouth to make mention of the trespass

What ugly new lessons I am dropping--
And seeing dropped, absurdly, in front
of me.

------------------------------------------------
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #457 on: May 12, 2008, 10:50:57 AM »

ehhh. this will suck. when i receive such praise i get embarrassed and then immediately know the next one will just suck. so there! haha. I assure you, the next one will be love angst-ish and more .mmm. whatever.



Damnit, you goofnut!  You promised us some love angst-ish poetry and all you give us is some stuff about a family eating dinner, hats and bad manners, and just when you started to finally get somewhere with the teenagers and the hickies, you have to bring in Mozart to break the mood.  Oh, you meant the next next one.  Never mind.   :buck2:

But, leaving your broken promise aside, I'll grade this on its own merits (A+ - see me after class) and say that I am really enjoying the new style, with more narrative and cohesiveness, and much better attention to the endings.  Tighter might be a word I would use.  And, if I get my way (which would not be a good thing), I'll soon have you throwing out 95% of the words, like I do.   ;)   :violent1:
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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #458 on: May 14, 2008, 10:44:49 PM »

The World Was Spread Before Me


The world was spread
before me
in sunlight, lakes
and sand.
I saw these things
with child's eyes -
dark things shooed
by mother's hand.

At night I screamed
from fishes' bites
then ran 'cross
bat-winged floors.
I lay down next
to mother in small
and quiet breaths
lest father wake
and force her hand
to comfort me in
blackest night
beyond the closing
door.

The attic where the
devil lived, its
door next to my bed
I fought the fear
with beating heart
and gently rocked
my head.

In lighted dreams
I climbed the stairs
his face he never showed
workers toiled at
desks and stacks where
lights of evil glowed.

But now I sleep on
surgeon's slabs with
saws and drills to
blind me
snipers wait in
occipital rooms where
even dreams can't
find me.



edit:  it escaped my notice last night - - No. 500!
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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #459 on: May 15, 2008, 10:38:16 PM »

Someone New Hits Town

oh - 
to see her
is to take
a fall
her words
too soft
to make them
all

(no i didn't
hear them all)

pulled her
close and
touched her
breast
i want, i
said - i need
the rest

she's caught
between a
come and
go
her need
is taut
she wants it
slow

i'll be on
top
she'll stay
below
(i'm blind
and closed
and cannot
know)

her words -
again -
i thought
for show...

"don't press
me i'll
undress me -
yes, darling
soon i vow"
but now it's
no, not
ready now.

tomorrow?
well, you
never know -
and, dear,
believe
i'm not
that coy.

i left
the bed
to try
again
yet did my
ears deceive?
for then
she said

"oh baby, oh,
but you're naive
you sweetest
thing - so
wanting in
my girly spring -

dear, i
can no longer
toy - i wish
your wish
but i'm
a boy".
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Cheddars Cousin

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #460 on: May 16, 2008, 09:54:03 AM »

We can not fuck
You boy in drag
we can not fuck
I'm no fag hag

I will not fuck you
in the bed
I will not even
give you head

I will not fuck you
here or there
I will not fuck you
anywhere.


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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #461 on: May 16, 2008, 06:12:22 PM »

Banal & Awkward Formalities
__________________________

I took notes when my father
started pulling at his hair
while the sounds of crashing
Tupperware on top of the
Three keys:
spoon, fork, and dinner knife
were as dulled or mitigating
or crusty over the mistaken
foul ball hitting chalk dust,
or as frightening as revealing
burps and slobbery saxophones.
the oblivious young man was
 high on skipping classes about
 getting
High
and this son who didn’t take his hat
off at the dinner table,
he’d been told more than once
and more than once was more
than one too many by then.

In reproach to the request:
Why is there such a rule, even, man?

Chastisement  begins with
hearing loss by the attendants,
so all of us waited for percussion.

Instead:

“pass the fucking sugar, man, if
 you‘d rather we discuss  lack of
 manners some other time.”

Dad’s tone barreled down the kitchen
corners and even  made the dog
freeze and shut its drooling lips--
like a freezer pop promptly
leaving purple for noodle soup.

After gawking and desiring a little
dose of seemliness myself,
not to mention the way the youngest
mouth can turn equal parts
Mercury or ether…and

after a pause that left my stoned
brother exiting the scenery,
I quietly said over the beginning
of smiles on the sides of my sister’s
Eyes…

“can someone please pass the iced tea,
 dude, and after that, can I get some
 gravy, man.”

I had hit the lucky length of timing,
And one giggle turned into bellows
down the table
 into laughter’s nest,
As I hid my face just in case…
Just in case I had bombed.


This is awesome. This is the sort of structure that I can really feel in poetry. i owe Musings a reading of one of her poems. I think I might read this one, too, when I break out the camera.
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The Great Ma Chao

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #462 on: May 17, 2008, 04:12:06 AM »

Do you want
To suck
My penis
With a German accent
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preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #463 on: May 17, 2008, 06:47:20 AM »

I would be honored, Wyatt. And thank you strange blonde. And cheddars, you sounded like a filthy Silverstein kiddie book. :icon_queen: :icon_king:

And Ma Chao. If you're on your way back, SALUTE!

i don't give it in german. (unless they pay...a lot, dude)

what do they speak in Uganda?

ps. Strange Blonde. I refuse to address your real name. I have a strange belief that you are Devery in disguise. Call me crazy, but the poetry is similar. Keep the name if you'd like, but you'll still be addressed as the strange blonde. (i swear i'll be in contact soon, they are working on the coma-kinks
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The Great Ma Chao

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #464 on: May 17, 2008, 07:04:49 AM »

I throw bones!

Even the sky has a ceiling, ask me tomorrow if today's how I'm feeling, wrapped up inside with a communist pride, while free-trade is wheelin' and dealin'. Punk like a prostitute, the pendelum's swingin', killin' a bird with every shot at the ceilin', horizons as wide as lines of heroes and villians, smokin' in a mirror from a spark of the friction. Blow me apart in roughly ten second's time, like a bomb whistlin' Dixie while it blots out the sky, capture the essence of death cuttin' in line, and mail it to the pussies who choose death in their prime. Searchin' through a catalogue, the past and the present, it's hard to blame the future for bein' so hesitant, hard to say goodbye to mistakes that we bet against, hard to find forgiveness when this life is the evidence.

But if I ever get the chance to give relief I'll relive, tell myself not to let me go to my head, tell you all, my lovers, that our love isn't dead, it just slipped into a coma in the back my head.

p.s. I totally agree with Wyatt.
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Just follow her next time you see her head into the bathroom, and corner her. Women love that shit.
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