Poet's Corner

[SeaGal]

I am not a poet.

Though every now and then a faceless one appears without invitation.
Demanding, controlling, selfishly screaming words insistent on dictation.

Impossible to ignore, whirling round and round.
I do not create the words, merely write them down.

I am a scribe.

SeaGal 11/14/16

 

[Capstone]

To the Predators

In lucid dreams of massive wings,
serrated beak in dripping prey,
who screams at last the oddest things
before its life force bleeds away:

"Devour my flesh to your disgrace,
but grant my dying wish at least,
and save for last my eyes and face,
that I may watch you as you feast

on ignorance that what you eat
is not my body but your own.
So savor that delicious meat
and pick clean each and every bone.

This final thought is my bequest:
fly safely home when you are done,
and from the comfort of your nest,
digest the fact that we are One."​

 

[SeaGal]

 

[SeaGal]

Some years ago, a friend and I were discussing the finer points of cane syrup. The making of cane syrup is still a fall activity in parts of the south, much as it has been for generations. Little has changed in the cooking procedure. I prefer the lighter syrup...and he prefers the heavy bodied dark. As in making a dark roux - the darker syrup requires taking it almost, but not quite, to the stage of being burnt.

The whimsical, fleeting, unsophisticated kiss on the palate of the light - or the heavy, powerful, lingering taste of the dark - can apply to poetry as well as cane syrup, and life too, I suppose. Anyway, our discussion on the finer points of cane syrup...some years ago...inspired these few lines.

(Untitled)

You choose the dark...
I'll take the light.

One seeks the sun...
the other the night.

To inner voices we hark...
As we ponder man's plight.

When our journey is done...
Could both...be right?

SeaGal 2008

 

[Bleipriester]

The User

For quite a time he might appear
to be a stock of vast, wide lore
but once you´ve read his slime and smear
you ask yourself what you´re here for.

Time passes by and, nothing learned,
he still talks big and insolent
Harasses you and yet has turned
in useless waste the time you´ve spent.

You move along, another board
in hope for having better times
just to meet an equal sort
of users that yap even in rimes.

 

[Capstone]

Opposing Forces?

Two hands, one left the other right,
oppose but for the common goal
to bring together dark and light
components in the mixing bowl—

a sight one stirs above the dried
and moisten'd hidden down below;
a scent one wishes to abide
and therefore seasons to bestow...

a taste of what could only be
a combination to fulfill
the dictates of that Recipe
we read as our Creator's Will:

opposing forces that create
to break the silence (each its own),
those Two persist to satiate
the hunger One feels all alone.​

 

[SeaGal]

You sir are truly a poet, while I remain merely a scribe - albeit a joyful one.

Anyway - once joined an mail order weight loss program that had an online support forum - designed for members to have a place to give and receive encouragement, to share success stories and setbacks. Overall atmosphere was one of positive reinforcement on a sometimes difficult journey. One of the topics was a challenge to pen a few inspirational words about your 'weight-loss' experience as a way to encourage others. Some expressed the desire but didn't quite know how to begin - advice was given to just 'write what you know'...so I did...with Good Humor (or so was my intention).

'Write what you know says PamSB.
So what do I know, says I to me?
They say that we must reach for the stars,
but all I see there...are candy bars.

There is one named for Mars
the Chunky god of war.
An' the creamy Milky Way
leaves me yearning for S'More.

Meanwhile, eyes drifting downward to earth
where happily, gladly there is no dearth...

Of chocolatey goodness
and peanutty delight.
I'd spend my whole Payday
for two Twix's tonite.

Even in sleep, tucked snugly in bed
Peppermint Patty plays in my head...

Dreaming of battles fought
by Three brave Musketeers
raising up sword and shield
to help conquer my fears.

I try to flee but there's nowhere to go.
Rivers of Hershey's are starting to flow.

A bridge made of Snickers
O'er Butterfinger lane,
heapin' Mounds of Almond Joy
are driving me insane.

They say that we must reach for the stars
but all I see there...are candy bars.'

SeaGal 2012

ps - they kicked me out.

 

[midcan5]

Wow, this will be Post # 522 in this thread. I may have posted a poem by Wislawa Szymborska already, but this is a fascinating poem and poetry project.



"Draw a crazy picture, Write a nutty poem, Sing a mumble-gumble song, Whistle through your comb. Do a loony-goony dance' Cross the kitchen floor, Put something silly in the world, That ain't been there before." Shel Silverstein

 

[theliq]

For Rebecca (Becky) Born 29.12.1981....murdered 15.07.17

"Thy Tiny Footsteps on the sands,

Of a remote and lonely shore,

The twinkling of thine infant hands,

The wind swept golden hair you wore,

The mingled look of love and glee,

When we returned to gaze on thee."


In Memory of our Beautiful Daughter,We Loved you then, We love you still Darling.Papa
,

 

[midcan5]

Opinion | Memorize That Poem!

"To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--
To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action. -- Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia! -- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remembered."

Hamlet

 

[midcan5]

Fascinating TED talk.

The Museum of Four in the Morning


'Four In The Morning'

"The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.

The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.

The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
--three cheers for the ants. And let five o'clock come
if we're to go on living."

Wislawa Szymborska

 

[Mindful]

The Illusion of Love
by Boyd Cathey (October 2018)

At the Lapin Agile, Pablo Picasso, 1905


She was mine from the very first,
Or, so I thought in my proud mind’s eye,
Awakening in my loins unslakened thirst
Of desire and longing, and muted sigh.

But her one and twenty years
And my forty and five, thus doubled,
Spelled for me severest tears
And untold trouble.

Oh! What I desired from her
She would not deign,
And what she desired of me, alas,
Was just my brain.

 

[Mindful]

Published posthumously after the author was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

 

[theliq]

Published posthumously after the author was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Who was the writer Mindful,I wonder if it was written in the Trenches..such a premonition (sic) and anticipated finality of Death that eventually came,Sad Indeed,Iwonder if it was written to a Loved One...st

I like your new avie,much indeed

 

[Mindful]

Published posthumously after the author was killed at the battle of the Somme in 1916.

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ’twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Who was the writer Mindful,I wonder if it was written in the Trenches..such a premonition (sic) and anticipated finality of Death that eventually came,Sad Indeed,Iwonder if it was written to a Loved One...st

I like your new avie,much indeed

Didn't say who the author was.

We've been immersed just lately with the armistice remembrances. All of those young men sent out to battle, and never returning.

Peter Jackson has put out a movie about the Great War. I watched it last night.

 

[Mindful]

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

- William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII

 

[midcan5]

This is my 525th post in this thread.

'An American Poem'

"I was born in Boston in 1949. I never wanted this fact to be known, in fact I’ve spent the better half of my adult life trying to sweep my early years under the carpet and have a life that was clearly just mine and independent of the historic fate of my family. Can you imagine what it was like to be one of them, to be built like them, to talk like them to have the benefits of being born into such a wealthy and powerful American family. I went to the best schools, had all kinds of tutors and trainers, traveled widely, met the famous, the controversial, and the not-so-admirable and I knew from a very early age that if there were ever any possibility of escaping the collective fate of this famous Boston family I would take that route and I have. I hopped on an Amtrak to New York in the early ‘70s and I guess you could say my hidden years began. I thought Well I’ll be a poet. What could be more foolish and obscure. I became a lesbian. Every woman in my family looks like a dyke but it’s really stepping off the flag when you become one. While holding this ignominious pose I have seen and I have learned and I am beginning to think there is no escaping history. A woman I am currently having an affair with said you know you look like a Kennedy. I felt the blood rising in my cheeks. People have always laughed at my Boston accent confusing “large” for “lodge,” “party” for “potty.” But when this unsuspecting woman invoked for the first time my family name I knew the jig was up. Yes, I am, I am a Kennedy. My attempts to remain obscure have not served me well. Starting as a humble poet I quickly climbed to the top of my profession assuming a position of leadership and honor. It is right that a woman should call me out now. Yes, I am a Kennedy. And I await your orders. You are the New Americans. The homeless are wandering the streets of our nation’s greatest city. Homeless men with AIDS are among them. Is that right? That there are no homes for the homeless, that there is no free medical help for these men. And women. That they get the message —as they are dying— that this is not their home? And how are your teeth today? Can you afford to fix them? How high is your rent? If art is the highest and most honest form of communication of our times and the young artist is no longer able to move here to speak to her time…Yes, I could, but that was 15 years ago and remember—as I must I am a Kennedy. Shouldn’t we all be Kennedys? This nation’s greatest city is home of the business- man and home of the rich artist. People with beautiful teeth who are not on the streets. What shall we do about this dilemma? Listen, I have been educated. I have learned about Western Civilization. Do you know what the message of Western Civilization is? I am alone. Am I alone tonight? I don’t think so. Am I the only one with bleeding gums tonight. Am I the only homosexual in this room tonight. Am I the only one whose friends have died, are dying now. And my art can’t be supported until it is gigantic, bigger than everyone else’s, confirming the audience’s feeling that they are alone. That they alone are good, deserved to buy the tickets to see this Art. Are working, are healthy, should survive, and are normal. Are you normal tonight? Everyone here, are we all normal. It is not normal for me to be a Kennedy. But I am no longer ashamed, no longer alone. I am not alone tonight because we are all Kennedys. And I am your President."

Eileen Myles

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/240258

'I Must Be Living Twice: New and Selected Poems 1975 - 2014' by Eileen Myles

 

[midcan5]

'The Beautiful Poetry of Donald Trump' by Robert Sears




See the magic of Donald in link below.

This week in Trump World

 

[beautress]

O little friend, a toast to thee
As thou hath passed so quietly
Who smote the cat most callously
Farewell, O final feline flea.​

 

[Mindful]

Here's a nice one.

The Object of my Love

by Guy Walker (September 2019)

Woman Applying Makeup, Ernst Neuschul, 1930


Madam, whom to ‘objectify’
Is modern sin,
I can't, yet, help, faced with your feminine,
But view your form, your nape, your hair and thigh,
As beauty’s definition; wired
In me, a deep imperative,
To seek this lovely difference, desired,
Despite my will, (though hoping you forgive).
May be, while we are other, we’re the same,
Sharing the human species and its aim?

To super-add the person, who
Is who you are,
To your rare person, to increase so far
The pleasure of my conference with you.
To bestially efface her, I’d
Refuse the double privilege
Of human being, seeking to divide
Your nature and deny our lineage.
When you require my love to touch your skin,
You have me touch intelligence within.

So since, sweet love, imponderable
For us, that we
Cleave indivisible duality,
(And flesh a lens for better mutual
Knowing beyond our eyes) let’s use
Our differing forms in Love’s extreme
Articulation, bringing with it new
Endearment, causing even life to teem;
Obedient, let's consent to kiss and play,
Agreed rejoicing is the proper way.