5354. RyckNelson - Feb. 18, 1999 - 9:08 PM PT
have
time
when
time
goes
home
then
into
play
5355. rondiaherlihy - Feb. 20, 1999 - 6:50 PM PT
2000
The Republican Congress has control of the floor.
They spin, they lie to the public as only they can.
The big elections will come and Republicans will go.
Then we will know there is a God and he is a Democrat.
5356. RyckNelson - Feb. 21, 1999 - 3:32 PM PT
One Whacky Sunday Afternoon:
Slowly wisps along the sunlit air
silk thread lithely flails
prisms ribboned rainbow aglow
rhythm and flowing glittered light.
Watching birds becomes a plight
stock locked with massive lens
showing gentle danger safely arrest
flights of fancy with a future.
Johnny Rotton would have loved to see
Happy Mondays kick it at the Factory
Birth, School, Work, Death
Prewodjy means prodigy.
Turns to the mind to relax
where no tax man frolics
we've no need for the print
future is past, already been.
Steal these lines no part my own
sticky fingers, mindfull of spite
where the hell is my sprite?
dash away, dash away, dash away all.
King of my love all the girls say jelly roll
Diry Boots, you've got dirty boots, yeah!
Time to rock is on, dirty boots are on.
5357. Seamus - Feb. 22, 1999 - 5:45 AM PT
Did *I* kill the poetry thread?
5358. JamesWright - Feb. 22, 1999 - 5:56 AM PT
No, I did. As always.
5359. Seamus - Feb. 22, 1999 - 12:34 PM PT
Then a dead thread will surely forgive me for a re-posting. It's simply that this morning feels like this again.
Raising Children
Between the titans of rugosa
I whisper you the secret as we walk,
and no one else knows it.
No, we sit over here on the porch steps,
Where I hand you the news
as I hand you your coffee--
We prepare our coffees and our day,
As you sit one leg sun, other, shadow--
And talk of that to be done,
And there is this remainder. I remember
This ellipsis--this evanescent secret
which comes on me again just--
how digging each hole for each rose
and watching what we plant come on
through the loam we loose with our fingers,
how pulling every pennywort and thistle,
the smell of coffee, sun choosing sides,
the sure turn of morning in your eyes,
and the quiet of dawn delivering itself--
all are what this day--I must remember this one day--
is meant for, what we are meant for,
and what will remain the day's single secret.
5360. RyckNelson - Feb. 23, 1999 - 5:18 AM PT
Thanks Seamus.
James, Ha!
menngek tua dahun (suddenly completely silent)pg.153
menhip tua dahun manuk anan madang lalau akui
(the bird's wings were only heard as it flew by)pg.152
menget pa'en apui alo' (our fire is always burning)pg151
you come keep me company.
the last phrase i couldn't find in my Southwell Kayan-English Dictionary.
vowels and consonants are pronounced close to that of Bahasa Malaysia.
5361. Blaise - Feb. 23, 1999 - 8:33 AM PT
Just dropping in for a quick minute to get the good word out, come check out my poetry magazine! When you click the poet's name, be sure to click the name above the poem. Check out my Welcome to the Premier Intro and my Note on the Editor, I plug Slate and Salon. It will be listed in over 800 search engines in about a month.
www.ForPoetry.com
FOR POETRY
5362. NuPlanetOne - Feb. 24, 1999 - 8:15 AM PT
\
/
\
Re/ Dead Thread?
/
\
I'd say its moving along at its usual pace.
/
Seamus/ ‘Raising Children' has perfect tempo. Just a lovely morning and marvelous pace. Very nice.
/
And greetings to all. Blaise, I can see you have been quite busy. I visited ‘ForPoetry' and enjoyed my stay. I have it bookmarked and will return often. Somehow you had appeared in my mind's eye as a brunette, funny, the images we form. In any case, it's the words. Nice site and I am glad you will stress content over credentials because where the latter is license to be heard the former is merely license.
\
\
The Death of Numbers
What is the correct description
Of life? Beyond the algebraic
Depiction or wave-like encryption
Where numbers persist in an archaic
Puzzle of time.
What is the correct word
To translate it? How will we know
When at last, when we have heard
Have seen, have felt or can slow
It all down?
What form might it take?
So that anyone could comprehend.
What difference could it make?
Unless it is obvious and does not depend
On faith.
And should we find this ultimate key
And postulate a theory final and true
Could knowing its workings ultimately be
The beginning of knowledge and the end of 2
(x)+y=z.
5363. Seamus - Feb. 24, 1999 - 12:33 PM PT
Thanks, Nu. I appreciate that.
I like "Numbers" but can't figure out the rime scheme of the last stanza.
I'm going to try out a new one here...
5364. Seamus - Feb. 24, 1999 - 12:34 PM PT
Coppered pebbles
Fountains of foreign graces
Euterpe paints--she spins out
eddies of whispers and shadows
which worry currents in you
and borders you've had to raise.
She quickens something sad
but beyond fathom in you
as at the edge of waking
when you almost remember why
your shoulder muscles speak
when you watch late mallards pull
hard from ice waters to flight
and thickening bark complains
while greying lindens sleep
and uncadenced breezes pass
cinnamon hints to you
from further than possible--from
recesses too full of before,
to know them would break you. So,
she confuses you at your will,
clears ice, and serpentine ripples of
coppered pebbles flow from
the darkest caress of her mouth
to a green-gold blaze in your sun.
5365. RyckNelson - Feb. 25, 1999 - 4:33 AM PT
something beautiful, this way comes...
"uncadenced breezes pass
cinnamon hints to you
recesses too full of before"
wonderful, just wonderful
5366. resonance - Feb. 25, 1999 - 5:48 PM PT
lorelei
the spring's still in the ice
hidden under stones and in the heart of trees
green-haired and fine-veined
she sleeps, not knowing that she's waiting to wake,
drifting in a sea of dream.
Noiseless,
her cold sister stalks between the trees
raven eyed, she whiles
as snow falls thin upon the sea
and air sharpens itself on our flesh,
feeding,
her silent call
her icy kiss
(oh yes) will rob your bones of marrow, love
if you linger in her parlor, walls rimed with
the instant of life left, the 'oh'
as her white fingers trace your cheek
and you become part of her law
not without love,
for she is the lorelei
and she is in us all
the living trick's to feel the love
in her touch, and leave
before she bites,
to restore our purity.
The law bound into
beginning is impermanence,
and the law of impermanence
is ever to begin
where she waits upon the other side,
half of our unmade whole.
come, sweet living lover
let's slip beneath these sleeping branches
and feel her fingers
as they drive the cycle of our need
you and I,
we.
The beauty of the natural world
is that it takes our breath away.
The moment where the lorelei closes
her eyes in the rushing bloom of green
and we dance by firelight
we'll remember, pressed close
upon our own flesh, the way she held our hands
for a moment, and smiled, knowing.
5367. Seamus - Feb. 26, 1999 - 5:31 AM PT
thank you, Ryck--I appreciate that
5368. john6thomas - Feb. 26, 1999 - 9:29 AM PT
I just discovered this thread and I wanted to encourage you all not to let it die. I'm a long way off from posting myself, but you should know at least that you have one more reader.
5369. Seamus - Feb. 26, 1999 - 1:59 PM PT
john6thomas,
we'd love to have you post away--there is no minimum time requisite or any such--we are a gentle, supportive group here--I have been vastly educated (although it wouldn't show)
5370. AzureNW - Feb. 26, 1999 - 2:00 PM PT
Another Lorelei I discovered seeking meanings in resonance's beautiful and haunting poem:
Lorelei, by Sylvia Plath, 1958
5371. JamesWright - Feb. 26, 1999 - 7:59 PM PT
Seamus:
Hello there. I like your new one, but it seems like you've still got the curtains up. How's that for eleven at night? Way past my bedtime, and loopy loopy loopy.
5372. RyckNelson - Feb. 27, 1999 - 5:34 AM PT
Azure,
great link! have you painted any N.W. poems? i would enjoy the imagery of the N.W. if you have or if you've other favorites like that Plath copy and paste them if you'ld like. it's so near spring time poetry writing and that should bring an avalanche of posts i presume.
john6thomas,
i agree with seamus, post away. if you're using the fray's limited offer don't waste any time at all. spontaneity has been the rule of my work here. i'll tell you if i couldn't get my poems out using the keyboard i believe that my personal experience with poetry would be delegated to just reading and a small personal journal. here i'm free to explore, experience, watch and learn.
my modest friend seamus if willing could again post a myriad of work to astound you. also everyone is very welcome that i've seen.
James,
i've been tantalized. when will you give another poem?
5373. RyckNelson - Feb. 27, 1999 - 5:35 AM PT
Azure,
great link! have you painted any N.W. poems? i would enjoy the imagery of the N.W. if you have or if you've other favorites like that Plath copy and paste them if you'ld like. it's so near spring time poetry writing and that should bring an avalanche of posts i presume.
john6thomas,
i agree with seamus, post away. if you're using the fray's limited offer don't waste any time at all. spontaneity has been the rule of my work here. i'll tell you if i couldn't get my poems out using the keyboard i believe that my personal experience with poetry would be delegated to just reading and a small personal journal. here i'm free to explore, experience, watch and learn.
my modest friend seamus if willing could again post a myriad of work to astound you. also everyone is very welcome that i've seen.
James,
i've been tantalized. when will you give another poem?
5374. RyckNelson - Feb. 27, 1999 - 5:44 AM PT
BLAISE!!!
BLAISE!!!
BLAISE!!!
I'm fascinated! oh, oh, something new this way comes. FOR POETRY!
5375. PamIAm - Feb. 27, 1999 - 4:16 PM PT
Thought y'all might be interested in this item: ( a reasonable voice heard from)
Comdemnation of ideas more offensive than poetry
Months after the flurry of letters to this publication about the alleged celebration of obscenity at the Third Tuesday Writers Coffeehouse, I finally got to attend one ast week. I have to work a lot of Tuesday nights and I'd waited in hopes that they'd toned things down in the interim - I get offended easily.
The letters began following a promotional story that ran in October about the monthly event. Some
checking it out were less than impressed. One called it a "devil's den" peopled by those making a mockery of God. Another accused writers of thinking immorally.
The Readers Write furor came up at the coffeehouse. "This poem's called 'Hoarfrost,' " one writer said. "That's H-o-a-r. I don't want to get in trouble in Readers Write." A joke, of course, but the humor lay in the recent castigation of others who shared their work in the same forum.
There was no such obscenity Tuesday. Sure, one man's work was a little ... I'll use the word
"colorful." Another was a third-grader at Sutton Elementary, cracking the room up with the tale of how he got his stuffed gorilla.
Michael Rohrer, the author of "Hoarfrost," offered beautiful poetry and insightful comments.
KWC professor and published poet David Francis read work that was irreverent and full of passion. I had to duck out before the poetry slam, but I plan to return for another one. The point of this isn't free advertising but to note that ideas, just ideas, can't harm anyone. Sure, they can inspire bad ends, but they never need be followed there. I'm guessing a family that stayed home that night watching "The PJs" witnessed much more offensive material, delivered with less subtlety, grace and love of language.
If some want to warn others against attending events like Third Tuesday, they have every right to. If
5376. PamIAm - Feb. 27, 1999 - 4:18 PM PT
(continued)
If some choose not to attend with their children for fear of hearing work they deem risque, they can do that, too. But to decry the event for fear of contact with different ideas of what constitute art and community is truly offensive. "The poet offers discord," Salman Rushdie wrote, and he should know. A little discord never hurt anybody.
Source: The Owensboro Messenger-Inquirer, Feb. 21, 1999 (a local daily Kentucky newspaper) I copied the column here instead of linking it because the site requires registration.
5377. PamIAm - Feb. 27, 1999 - 4:21 PM PT
Sorry, I failed to include the columnist's name -
Ellen Sadenwasser.
5378. RyckNelson - Feb. 28, 1999 - 11:39 AM PT
Bridge
introducing the anomaly
clearing the way for family
jet-set glory over land
notwithstanding
ragged crown ridge flys by below
rugged land down to the LA bay
swift as flight over oceans
meaning if only there's a potion
winged wonder shoots to land
spewing contents orderly flow
seeing a sea and palm up close
not a loon upon the lake
a cormorant takes its place
cicada create a maelstrom in your ear
jostling toward the destination
up river demands the express boat
behold the rivers edge life
raw logs stacked to the skies
landing in camp the lorry will take you
longhouse bound to create a flurry
approach the beams bow a little
stature may get you a blow to the brow
walk the length greet and smile
smelling cloves and cinnamon
river flows like that at home
eating the fish wont make you glow
wonderous food the forest provides
cultivated hills from time we don't know
great trees grace the land over centuries
humbling the grave marker that may yet stand
time must be made to join them again
greetings and land to encounter once more
5379. RyckNelson - Feb. 28, 1999 - 11:40 AM PT
Bridge
introducing the anomaly
clearing the way for family
jet-set glory over land
notwithstanding
ragged crown ridge flys by below
rugged land down to the LA bay
swift as flight over oceans
meaning if only there's a potion
winged wonder shoots to land
spewing contents orderly flow
seeing a sea and palm up close
not a loon upon the lake
a cormorant takes its place
cicada create a maelstrom in your ear
jostling toward the destination
up river demands the express boat
behold the rivers edge life
raw logs stacked to the skies
landing in camp the lorry will take you
longhouse bound to create a flurry
approach the beams bow a little
stature may get you a blow to the brow
walk the length greet and smile
smelling cloves and cinnamon
river flows like that at home
eating the fish wont make you glow
wonderous food the forest provides
cultivated hills from time we don't know
great trees grace the land over centuries
humbling the grave marker that may yet stand
time must be made to join them again
greetings and land to encounter once more
5380. RyckNelson - Feb. 28, 1999 - 11:41 AM PT
damn server, constantly disconnects. i'm always double posting. i can't stand it. i'm gonna switch again. sheesh, a third!
5381. JamesWright - Feb. 28, 1999 - 3:52 PM PT
Awhile ago I asked about Henri Cole, and nobody responded. So, I went out and bought his latest book, THE VISIBLE MAN. Here are two I like. Whether or not anybody in Kentucky would like them, I don't really know.
PEONIES
Ample creamy heads beaten down vulgarly,
as if by some deeply sado-masochistic impulse,
like the desire to subdue, which is normal and active,
and the desire for suffering, which is not;
papery white featherings stapled to long stalks,
sopped with rain and thrown about violently,
as Paul was from his horse by the voice of Christ,
and those he judged & condemned were, leaving the earth;
and, deeper in, tight little buds that seem to blush
from the pleasure they take in being submissive,
because absolute humility in the face of cruelty
is the Passive's way of becoming himself;
the groan of it all, like a penetrated body---
those of us who hear it know the feeling.
5382. JamesWright - Feb. 28, 1999 - 3:58 PM PT
HORSES by Henri Cole
Setting out on my bicycle alone,
I came upon the horses
drenched in bright sunshine,
yard after yard of blue-black ironed silk,
drawn before stopped traffic.
With white stars on their foreheads
and white bracelets on their legs,
each blood horse wore nothing
but a fine noseband
and a shroud of steam.
I felt lazy and vicious watching them,
with my large joints and big head,
stricken by thoughts of my brothers.
If only the barbarous horsemen
could lead *us* down the path, unestranged.
It smashed in me like water galloped through.
Flinching there on my haunches,
with wide nostrils,
nipping the air as if it were green grass,
how I yearned for my neck to be brushed!
5383. Seamus - March 1, 1999 - 2:13 PM PT
James,
hello there, yourself. I'd love to have more out of you concerning the "curtains"--please, do discuss. It needs your help--it begs your help--it...oh, whatever. anyway, please!
Comments from anyone, please.
btw, I like the Henri Cole--many thanks for posting them.
5384. NuPlanetOne - March 1, 1999 - 6:42 PM PT
\
/
\
Re/…
/
\
Seamus, I am intrigued by ‘Coppered pebbles.' It seems there is more than what is at the surface. Though it works nicely at the surface as well. And I agree with Ryck that ‘uncadenced breezes pass cinnamon hints to you' is large poetically. Very nice.
/
And it seems resonance only dropped in to drop ‘lorelei.' Did anyone else notice that it was quite nice. It is hard to believe, res, that you are just a young buck. Anyhow, ciao.
/
\
AJA
Remember, it was Steely Dan
Aja. And some prophetic
Bullshit you were obsessed with
You had figured out some deep
Problem in moralistic philosophy
Your eyes were bugged out.
I owned you that night
I was included in your miracle
Your soul at piece
Thank God! I didn't believe it
Because lying there naked,
You were like a shrine.
It was the first time
I realized that a woman
Was also like a man
That her intellect,
Could sweep her away
And every each thing about
Could be only at the edge,
Ignored.
I got away from you quick
Now that I'm older
And recall that wanton embrace,
I wonder if being alone
Is inevitable.
5385. Seamus - March 2, 1999 - 2:01 PM PT
Nu,
AJA is one of my favourites of yours, yet. That takes me for quite ride.
It also seems quite different from others that I have seen of yours. Is this a false impression?
5386. NuPlanetOne - March 2, 1999 - 7:17 PM PT
\
/
\
Re/ Seamus
/
\
Ya know, I was thinking the same thing myself. I tend to be totally structured and rhymed. That poem literally fell out that way. It was really like having an intense conversation. The girl who lives in the poem, I am sad to say, died very young not long after we went our separate ways. So many times I have found myself imagining I had more to tell her. Just all ‘what if.' Anyway, between ‘lorelei' and ‘Coppered pebbles' I found myself quite pensive. Excellent inspiration, those two.
5387. resonance - March 2, 1999 - 9:31 PM PT
Thank you,
/
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/
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/
\
Nu. Let me add that I find AJA very interesting, sparse as I am with poetical praise. You have done well in the book of Mark.
5388. shaka1 - March 4, 1999 - 5:54 AM PT
For $25, you too can buy Monica's biography and read this poem:
I crouch in a corner
All my myself.
Fighting against FEAR, ENVY, DEPRESSION and REJECTION.
I struggle.
--Monica Lewinsky, 1998
5389. JamesWright - March 5, 1999 - 6:51 PM PT
Seamus:
What I meant about the curtain is that the Pebbles poem is like someone whispering a mist. If you whispered, "I will kill you," or if you shouted the mist, either way would come across. But by the time I get to those last two stanzas, which should be the crux of the matter, I feel more like a person standing on shore and forever waiting for the boat, which I sense the outline of within the fog, to reach the shore. Of course I haven't been specific, because I really don't know what kind of a boat it is. In your Titans Of Rugosa poem, and in your Zulus overpowering the boy poem, there is no doubt what the boat is. It is a positive galleon. With the pebbles I feel confused, lost, adrift. The corsair is clear enough, until those last two stanzas, but I feel like the underlying ocean is still lying under. It could be a blood sea, or a sea of pudding, or salad oil, or heavy motor grease. But then there's that fog again. Can you tell it's getting close to my bedtime?
5390. uzmakk - March 6, 1999 - 9:01 AM PT
A Semi-Mythical Partially Pretended Poem for Pelle
Shall I tell you of Uzmakk's Dream
Written small on the wall where Uzmak lives?
Shall I tell you of the Boreal corner of Uzmak's quarter acre,
Of the gnarled, wise-looking tangle of complexity
That is Corylus avellana contorta?
I removed the arching roses, cultivated by man for thousands of years,
From the steep but brief slope that puts the tree several feet above the road,
Above the traffic, above the passers-by.
How now does one keep the earth from falling down the slope?
Perhaps retaining wall composed of epoxy and cement replicas
Of the Great,Western, Castle, and other such Walls
With daffodils planted in the wells behind.
At the top of the rise, at the bottom of the tree, amid the tangled branches,
I shall place a free-standing, 9 inch round doorway with a fine brass doorknob,
Which I shall open and close at my fancy.
Shall I also tell you also of the 23 public acres
In front of the little cottage where I live with my wife and two sons?
There is politics behind and in front of it
So, though there is a story, I cannot presently walk that path with you.
But there are many others, Pelle. Shall I continue?
5391. uzmakk - March 6, 1999 - 11:32 AM PT
Erratum:
"Perhaps a retaining wall."
Sorry about the lousy puncuation and the constraints of the medium.
5392. NuPlanetOne - March 7, 1999 - 4:45 PM PT
\
/
\
Vitorio
How many funerals today,
How many processions?
How could it be, my brother
That yours would be different?
Did you really imagine
That the Earth would stand still
It did. And I waited and watched
Because it seemed odd, until
The tears came.
Oh then, then, it all burst around me
The whole life play, mommy
And all the pain and hope crowded
You out. You were sucked up the alter.
Oh yes, devoured as in the Eucharist.
I became that tiny boy in St. Anthony's
I rang the bell. And they came.
All of them. I was in Church!
Hundreds of them. Each with a story
Each touched, genuinely bewildered
Loitering, waiting for an encore
Hoping for one last chuckle, a bow.
When the Earth began to spin again
And the new hole in my heart
Ceased it throb. I took one last
Walk through your house, alone
As the curtain fell.
5393. NuPlanetOne - March 7, 1999 - 4:50 PM PT
/
\
oops. alter=altar.
5394. JudyMcDonough - March 10, 1999 - 9:27 AM PT
Re: Gerald Stern's poem on Larry Levis
Be sure and read this lovely tribute to Stern's friend. Coincidentally, poetrynow reviews Levis' Elegy this month.
http://www.poetrynow.org
Judy Smith McDonough, editor, poetrynow
5395. pellenilsson - March 10, 1999 - 11:55 AM PT
uzmakk
I am touched and honoured by the dedication.
I see the poem as operating on two levels. On the first, easily accessible, it is a somewhat surrealistic, slightly absurd, not unfunny account of a man's struggle with his garden.
On the more profound, symbolic level we see the timeless struggle of mankind, and, perhaps the gods. Ancient things are rooted out; new previously unknown, unfamiliar structures are put in. Yet stability has to be maintained. The retaining wall is a powerful symbol.
I have created a special directory on my hard disk for your poem.
5396. uzmakk - March 10, 1999 - 12:16 PM PT
Thank you, Pelle.
5397. Blaise - March 11, 1999 - 2:56 PM PT
Greetings poets,
ForPoetry.com has been updated with new poets, including Barry Spacks, whose poem appeared in Slate a few weeks ago, Fred Moramarco (Editor of Poetry International), John Gallaher, David Graham and much more. Be sure to click the authors' names above their poems for biographical notes. Check it out!
FOR POETRY
5398. jerryel - March 12, 1999 - 3:42 PM PT
On Reading "Monica's Story"
Monica's not a bimbo;
Monica's not a fool;
Monica's not a whore--
Though she ia a political tool.
She stood up to the Grand Inquisitor
With courage and youth;
Whatever faults she had,
She overcame with truth.
Honesty is her operative word--
Politicians, press, and prosecutors cannot stand.
Loquacious, bubbly Monica--
Your wish is our command.
By Jerryel
5399. RyckNelson - March 12, 1999 - 6:24 PM PT
You mind me now, just hold that thought
Pose in the daisy field and I'll take your picture,
with the river in the background it'll make a nice scene.
hold that thought
Do you remember pumping water from the well?
It was near a wall of the back porch.
Do you remember the wood pile looming roof high?
It sat near the wood shed out back.
hold that thought
Rickety old squeeky steps rise with the stove pipe.
Silkweed stalks grew near the river.
Roots ran deep in the gardens tilled soil.
When the piano and slide bar guitar captured attention,
we sing among the lilac blooms potted on the sill.
Oh, the bread would smell good fresh from the oven.
hold that thought
Holding to memories soft pleasure.
A requiem of land now held fallow.
The stone markers convey little.
No icon can memorialize that life.
What would the epitaph read?
5400. rondiaherlihy - March 12, 1999 - 9:28 PM PT
Western Sunsets
Across the mountain I see a huge fireball.
How beautiful this massive ball of orange.
I watched it slowly sink out of my sight.
Unequaled beauty has now left the mountain.
5401. NuPlanetOne - March 13, 1999 - 5:29 PM PT
\
/
\
Re/ Ryck
/
\
Nice images Ryck. I like that one.
/
/
/
I'm Just Fine
Maybe there's something going on
Maybe it's me. Maybe the world
Is spinning quietly in space,
I don't care.
Because I am spinning quietly
In place. And I'm fine with that.
What exactly could be the difference
Between a perceived reality
And one that is actually real?
I don't know.
So I'm not going to think about it,
Or feel. And I'm fine with that.
What harm could it possibly do
If I'm wrong, would it alter the universe?
Would it change someone's mind?
I doubt it.
Life can end so quickly. Can just be
So unkind. And I'm fine with that.
But there are things that trouble me
There are times when I lie awake
When I wonder and search my soul
I get over it.
It can be said that I lack conviction,
A goal. And I'm fine with that.
So I just let the whole thing spin
I'm working quietly to figure it out
Aren't my observations valid and true?
I think so.
I mean, what else can one expect
Or do? Hey, I'm fine with that.
5402. RyckNelson - March 13, 1999 - 5:58 PM PT
NuPlanetOne, Thank you.
I've been exploring old memories. I've noticed your retropective prose.
This Stevens poem caught my attention with it's curious mood. Whatever temperment it leans toward I don't feel tempted to comment.
The Ultimate Poem Is Abstract
by Wallace Stevens
This day writhes with what? The lecturer
On This Beautiful World Of Ours composes himself
And hems the planet rose and haws it ripe,
And red, and right. The particular question--here
The particular answer to the particular question
Is not in point--the question is in point.
If the day writhes, it is not with revelations.
One goes on asking questions. That, then, is one
Of the categories. So said, this placid space
Is changed. It is not so blue as we thought. To be blue,
There must be no questions. It is an intellect
Of windings round and dodges to and fro.
Writhings in wrong obliques and distances,
Not an intellect in which we are fleet: Present
Everywhere in space at once, cloud-pole
Of communication. It would be enough
If we were ever, just once, at the middle, fixed
In This Beautiful World Of Ours and not as now,
Helplessly at the edge, enough to be
Complete, because at the middle, if only in sense,
And in that enormous sense, merely enjoy.
5403. RyckNelson - March 13, 1999 - 6:03 PM PT
Retrospective is what I meant to spell.
5404. RyckNelson - March 13, 1999 - 6:35 PM PT
Fourteen inches of snow...
Watching radar for a prediction of snowfall
Minnesota precipitation opposed the set level
March ninth ninetynine thwarts the prepared
Start to end, fourteen inches lay upon the lawn
Stubborn, with shovel in hands, optomists will work
The first round over, seven more inches were due
Next days sore back sought mercy but found none
Children wholely unvexed seen running all around
School closings in Minnesota require this rare depth
Monopolizing daylight youths strength is spent in the snow
Trudging into chest high piles many paths were used but once
The laughing worked as a poltice to ebb the winter mood
The week passes quickly and the sun sends its pardon
Snowy paths melt exposing sculpted scapes of snow
Jutting as feathered plummage in shimmering white
Juxtaposed upon the scene while all else plays real life.
5405. RyckNelson - March 16, 1999 - 5:22 AM PT
Snow melts, so what's the big deal?
Some it will kick down
Others will play around
still more will just ignore
All know the snow will pass
With a burst of beaming sun
A melt remolded the snow
Once mounds now plops in grass
Once trudging now walking
The love for the grasses green
The love for the blooming things
The love for the leafy things
The love for the coming spring
5406. JamesWright - March 16, 1999 - 12:37 PM PT
Or, as we have it here, peach blossoms pink and ready to pop.
5407. Judithathome - March 16, 1999 - 4:16 PM PT
Ryck:
I was cruising thru the Fray and popped in on Poetry; immediately I was taken back in time to my grandfathers farm where the well water was so cold it would make ones head hurt and the strawberrys were in a field next to the bedroom where I would sleep on visits...I could almost hear the tortises munching on the hidden fruit. I knew they did this at night because when I would find them in the strawberry patch before breakfast, their toes and faces would be stained bright red.
Thanks so much for the lovely trip....
5408. RyckNelson - March 16, 1999 - 8:54 PM PT
Judith,
I benefit equally from your story.
5409. uzmakk - March 18, 1999 - 4:41 PM PT
THE TALE OF TERRENCE TURKEY: A STORY OF THE WILD AS A FRIGHTENED CHILDE
The first portent of Terrence was the appearance of a male and a female turkey in the Spring.
Before long the male was gone and the mother trailed ten tiny chicks by the side of the pond.
Days passed. The family's numbers diminished. The cats of night performed their evil.
On the next observation first seven, then five, then three, then Terrence alone of the children.
Mother and son lay low
And when they next appeared
Young Terrence was a turkey of considerable stature following his mother closely in fear.
Who knew the tales of terror Terrence could tell
The screams in the night, the slashing, grasping claws, the crunch of baby brother and bloody bone, and his sisters all dead.
And now his mother had left him.
My first recollection of his speech was "uluka, uluka,uluka" as he ran toward me across the yard, "Please, sir, please take me in for all my brothers and sisters have been murdered and my mother has left me."
Anyhow, Terrence turns out to be an interesting bird and does strange things for a wild turkey. I wonder if this relates to animal domestication in the Germs Guns and Steel Thread? There is really quite a bit more to tell, but this is only the Fray. BTW this electric scribbling is dedicated to Asure NW.
5410. uzmakk - March 18, 1999 - 4:45 PM PT
I mean I'm not going to write an epic poem about a turkey, but Terrence was quite a fellow.
5411. AzureNW - March 19, 1999 - 8:44 PM PT
uzmakk -
Those "Indians" are a fucking hoot, aren't they?
Good poem.
5412. AzureNW - March 19, 1999 - 8:49 PM PT
uzmakk -
I assume "turkey" = "some kind of Native American" in your poem, right? I hate to ask, but you probably already know what I dumb animal I am anyway, right?
5413. AzureNW - March 19, 1999 - 8:52 PM PT
uzmakk -
Thanks, by the way. Your opinon really matters to me.
5414. RyckNelson - March 20, 1999 - 6:34 AM PT
Not that my opinion should or does matter(truely), but I can't see an analogy to natives in Uzmakk's poem. I see a story of a turkey. I cetainly could 'create' an analogy but that is so subjective. It is better for me to see a turkey who is a sole survivor. Then must run up to a human and be a pet for saftey.
This isn't dismissive I don't want an analogy in Uzmakk's poem. I reject it without source and debate.
5415. uzmakk - March 20, 1999 - 7:36 AM PT
Azure and Ryck:
There is absolutely no analogy to "natives" . Human beings perhaps? If so, its unintentional. The story is a true story of a wild turkey that grew to young adulthood with us one Spring. I thought it might interest you, Azure, because of what I have been able to glean from your postings. Let's not be defensive. The refernce to GGS refers to the domestication of wild animals. There are some very interesting stories regarding this turkey that I would like to put into poetic form. I will do so with the slightest bit of encouragement.
Azure:
I am dissappointed to learn that you put a curse on Jenerator. She appears quite harmless.
5416. RyckNelson - March 20, 1999 - 7:53 AM PT
Uzmakk,
I've been reading and contributing to Slate/Fray poetry for over two years and I invite you to wholely delve and contribute into this thread and medium. Best regards.
Yo.
5417. uzmakk - March 20, 1999 - 8:01 AM PT
Thank you , Ryck.
Shall do, but won't be posting often. I have a small list of favorite poets, but never was tempted to expand into this area. Poems do pop up from time to time. Have a bunch of them in the "workshop" like automobiles needing renovation and completion. Thank you again for the encouragement.
5418. RyckNelson - March 20, 1999 - 8:15 AM PT
Of Streams and Bubbly Brooks:
Peaceful slow stream with pebble bed
sand bars and pools welcoming draw
winding through soft grass pastures
bordered by wood and reed of the wilds
Fermented brooks smooth rock surfaces
cascades and flows in undulating landscape
suns sparkeled surface stirs sentiment
rains torrent waterfall invites excitement
to be continued...
work bekons, ciao.
5419. RyckNelson - March 20, 1999 - 8:27 AM PT
Last browse and I see my poor spelling is messing up my poem...
The next will be calmly edited.
5420. AzureNW - March 20, 1999 - 11:08 AM PT
uzmakk -
Re: Message #5415
Your poem makes an unintentional mockery of part of a Native American myth. I sincerely apologize for over reacting to it. The oldest traditional myths themselves are often very raw and funny, and would make easy targets, so if you are unaware of any similarity, I'll go ahead and leave it that way. Sorry.
Also, in my opinion, proselytizing Christians and the agenda they promote does represent a threat to my values, and I find the public display of Christianity extremely personally offensive. I'm expected to deal with them, and I expect them to deal with me. Jenerator knows that.
Anyway, I have to get out of here.
5421. JamesWright - March 21, 1999 - 4:23 PM PT
That's nice, Ryck. What am I doing living in a city?
5422. Blaise - March 23, 1999 - 8:15 AM PT
Good morning to all,
I've written a short commentary on the poet, Jorge Luis Borges, "Reflections on Jorge Luis Borges," i.e. a poem of his that appeared in The New Yorker. If anyone's interested in discussing it--check it out:
Waking Up by Jorge Luis Borges
5423. RyckNelson - March 23, 1999 - 8:25 PM PT
Blaise,
Yes.
The nuances that are reflected.
Look in the mirror and read the poem.
I haven't but my imagination allows such ventures, therefore without further adieux(?), Feel the need, the need for speed. Stop and think what I mean. Am I being glib, again?! Maybe, but it's more than that if a consideration of the life and the needs of that life come into reflection. Where will I be if I don't write about that frustration of age and deaths knock? Yuh know what I mean? It's like, f' it. Yet, I wont give in.
5424. RyckNelson - March 23, 1999 - 8:50 PM PT
Of Streams and Bubbly Brooks:
Peaceful slow stream with pebble bed
sand bars and pools welcoming draw
winding through soft grass pastures
bordered by wood and reed of the wilds
Fermented brooks smooth rock surfaces
cascades and flows in undulating landscape
suns sparkled surface stirs sentiment
rains torrent waterfall invites excitement
Aged paths now moss covered stones
Towering tree guardians with long shadows
Geese pass honking loudly over the tops
Homing in on solace and quietude
Towering pines of days long ago, today
A veritable cornucopia of sites and sounds
Stop and look finding them all around
A glance perchance to see a wolf prance away
Work of many generations past now fallow
gave life to young fry in refreshing ponds
elsewhere water cress beds yielded peppery flavor
Minnesota River Valley worlds lay a walk away
One considers proximity and beauty apart
Nations now know the Mall of America's draw
But, few now the secrets of natural beauty
Just a short walk from Macy's entrance view
5425. resonance - March 25, 1999 - 8:33 PM PT
the eye of ouroboros
They found eternity within my form.
At once devourer and consumed,
joined in a doubling coiled loop
where the older flesh
feeds the new
becoming the void
of which Epicurus dreamed, late in the day,
the hot sun of his world burning upon stone
casting a shadow into the earth
upon the rock beneath, waiting to thrust up
into wearing, to be riven
into tawny grains
by the passing rasp of scales.
There is a shadow, too,
that grows from within the land
that shines in convex arcs, dark, within the eye
made to surge up upon the light,
a union that pulls both
into the holy void.
Becoming me, becoming I,
duality in one, becoming
why.
Epicurus shifts in sleep disturbed,
his arm thrown over his eyes,
plagued by a horror of dream
against which his living shape rebels,
seeing within it the curve of glinting teeth,
waiting to open and bite
fed by the tearing jaws of gnosis
upon that which was,
and becomes so again
realigned. Formed. Returned. Unmade. Divine.
The world folding into a doubled shape
sand rasp easing into his why,
flick of tongue hissing in air,
In the sudden shout of a passing drover,
he opens his eyes, sweating, certain, staring
within, looking, finding-
And the void smiles within my eye,
as the sun burns itself in a labyrinthine roar-
5426. Jenerator - March 26, 1999 - 2:52 PM PT
My soulmate waits amid the din
Of rushing ages and of nights
Spent sleeplessly waiting to embrace
The arms of innocence and sweet delight
5427. rondiaherlihy - March 26, 1999 - 10:11 PM PT
Airmen's Duty
Bombs will drop and the enemy will die!
Pilots never seeing them from the sky!
Night is here, time to make more people free!
God forgive us for those whom we will never see!
5428. rondiaherlihy - March 26, 1999 - 10:25 PM PT
Someday
Will we ever see peace on earth?
It seems, never in our life time!
I think," God,please let this happen?"
This is my prayer for world peace!
5429. rondiaherlihy - March 26, 1999 - 10:30 PM PT
Lotto Time
I check my numbers very carefully.
There is one and I find another!
I need six and come up short again!
Maybe next time I will find the magic?
5430. rondiaherlihy - March 26, 1999 - 10:31 PM PT
Lotto Time
I check my numbers very carefully.
There is one and I find another!
I need six and come up short again!
Maybe next time I will find the magic?
5431. rondiaherlihy - March 26, 1999 - 10:44 PM PT
Travel We Must
The sun is back and time for travel.
We pack and drive off to find some fun.
Hundreds of miles traveled away from home.
We arrived and think, is this really better?
5432. rondiaherlihy - March 27, 1999 - 1:50 PM PT
Midnight Moon
I look at the lake and see the moonbeam!
Streaks of light meandering like many streams.
How can light on the lake cause such beauty?
Life can be so beautiful, that is it's duty!
5433. RyckNelson - March 30, 1999 - 8:27 PM PT
Of course you know that now is know, you knew that, right?
Anyway,
The latest Slate poem has some emotion. That's my gig so it's cool.
Anyone want to write a colaborative poem. I want to do one line then let the other be done and so on. Any takers?
I'll do multiple takers as well. I coordinate it and when it's finished we'll put it together as one coherent work.
5434. RyckNelson - March 30, 1999 - 8:31 PM PT
DANG, yah think yah hit two ll's and it's not the case.
colaborative = collaborative.
5435. RyckNelson - March 30, 1999 - 8:42 PM PT
Had I known that life was ending
or
Horizon lines vexed my eyes giving off no plane
or
Hasten not toward yearning life
or
Worked by hands loving this land
or
5436. RyckNelson - March 30, 1999 - 8:44 PM PT
Message #5426 is such a turn on, yet knowing the writer, I'm still liking it. Cool.
5437. RyckNelson - March 30, 1999 - 8:58 PM PT
Has anyone visited Mr. Pinski's web site of poetry reading? It's kind of sappy wonderful. I love it.
Reading for it seems as distant as Baram. Ha, know what I mean?
5438. RyckNelson - March 30, 1999 - 9:05 PM PT
Absence most certainly makes the heart grow fonder!!!
Return! Return!
5439. RyckNelson - March 31, 1999 - 6:14 AM PT
Pinsky
5440. NuPlanetOne - March 31, 1999 - 12:49 PM PT
\
/
\
Awful quiet in here. Ryck, you are like a one man thread. I hope soon that I will have the time to get things percolating. Ciao for now.
\
/
\
My Sad Song
What a wretched calamity, my fate
Was it to love in vain so profoundly
That it swallowed whole my purpose
To wait unknowing how it might end
Like an imbecile, unable to defend
Against the obvious. Unwilling to
To connect the dots. Fathom the clues
Was it a failure to choose between
Comfort and despair, Hope or fear
That in the end I mastered all
That I fell desolate beyond all description
Save pathetic inquiries and feeble wishes
As like the expressionless eyes
On billions of fishes dead and dried.
That I could have died, or better
Been crippled by a vicious disease
Giving me reason to suffer, to appease
A need for pain. A desire to wallow
In the agony of the moment
The drama of the truth, the hollow
Depth that I had eaten into, so yes
Perhaps my fate, this miserable condition
Must run it course. And though of late
Spring has lessened my plight
I still sing out into the night, my rendition
My sad song.
5441. Jenerator - March 31, 1999 - 12:51 PM PT
Ryck,
Your Message #5436 is mean.:-(
5442. RyckNelson - March 31, 1999 - 6:02 PM PT
Jenerator,
I see you're point. I was trying to tone down the 'turn on' part not put down the writer.
I really liked that poem a lot!
I fumbled where you deserved respect. Do you accept my apology?
5443. JamesWright - April 4, 1999 - 11:27 AM PT
Hey there, Ryck.
5444. RyckNelson - April 4, 1999 - 11:32 AM PT
Hi James,
long time no read.
Do you have any poetry appropriate for this day?
5445. Jenerator - April 4, 1999 - 4:32 PM PT
Ryck,
I'm glad you liked my poem. It's the very first one I've ever written.;-)
5446. Jenerator - April 4, 1999 - 8:34 PM PT
My soulmate yearns to feel the heat
Of distant love's escaping light
A heart that has for ages waited
To hold the heart of his delight
5447. rondiaherlihy - April 4, 1999 - 9:03 PM PT
Deep Blue
The sea I see!
See, I see the sea?
The blue sea is the sea you see?
Yes, the blue sea is the sea I see!
I see, the sea you see is a blue sea!
Will the sea I see always be a blue sea?
Yes, the sea you see is always a blue sea!
See, the sea has always been a blue sea to see!
Yes, the blue see I see has always been a blue sea to see!
I see, that blue sea you see has always been a deep blue sea!
5448. Jenerator - April 5, 1999 - 3:17 PM PT
My soulmate cries in lonely anguish
Separated by a timeless gulf
Of tears and trials and endless waiting
Our souls have yet to become one
5449. marshame - April 5, 1999 - 3:58 PM PT
Ryck - I liked your idea of the communal poem. So here goes:
Had I known that life was ending
glossing by the signs portending
5450. rondiaherlihy - April 5, 1999 - 8:58 PM PT
See the first see on the 9th line, you see it should have
been sea not see, see?
Deep Blue
The sea I see!
See, I see the sea?
The blue sea is the sea you see?
Yes, the blue sea is the sea I see!
I see, the sea you see is a blue sea!
Will the sea I see always be a blue sea?
Yes, the sea you see is always a blue sea!
See, the sea has always been a blue sea to see!
Yes, the blue sea I see has always been a blue sea to see!
I see, that blue sea you see has always been a deep blue sea!
5451. rondiaherlihy - April 5, 1999 - 9:27 PM PT
Father Almighty
People pray!"Dear God, help us with a tender hand?"
God, can you help these people in their homeland?
Lord, can you save these war torn people who cry?
Dear God, many can be saved if we all really try!
5452. resonance - April 6, 1999 - 12:20 AM PT
Life is a gift I can't return
prosaic in its accident --
a sunbird lighting on a branch
a raindrop rolling down the sky
to streak my face
a rain-splashed dance
A cold moment frozen in molecules --
Life is my chance.
Life is the song in poetry
the roiling clouds of summer days
where nature walks and blind men craft
the mystery within their way
where the larger part of Life
smiles back even as it cries
whispering 'I die, I die'
through the torched embers
of our love's July
Life is the breath with which I sigh.
Life is the dreaming of this race
the way I still dream you're alive
sere leaves that still will ever chase
themselves beneath a harvest moon.
The way my body bends to break;
the way I've learned to live a lie.
September mourning without end.
Life is the way I feel your grace
when someone loves me with their touch
when someone's fingers entertwine
when their voices flow like wine
when I can see you in their eyes
blessing me, bade to feel again.
Autumn fading without a trace;
these uproots bade to find their soil
and peace, the lesser sweet of taste.
Life is these two.
Between them I fly.
Life is a gift it's hard to leave --
I love it so, and it loves me --
even as it takes away.
A hand on mine with which I pray,
a descent locked in auto-glide --
my life depends upon the day.
5453. RyckNelson - April 6, 1999 - 4:29 AM PT
res,
You've a way with songful beauty.
Marshame,
Communal seems like a good title for a start.