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Index » Entertainment » Books » Poetry Forum Page: Previous  1, 2, 3, 4, 5 ... 200, 201, 202  Next
Post to this Topic
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Jun 7, 2019 - 5:09pm

By Andrea Fisher (on what may be her last day on earth)
 

Rest for the Living

The best rest for the living
Is not oblivion
But hearing the hot tires of passing cars
Hiss by in the cooling rain,
Or the dry leaves of the trees by the window
Shuffle like a restless crowd,
Or well-known voices murmur close by,
No words but the sounds familiar,
For even as we turn our stiff, blind faces
Away from the baffling world,
Our bodies hum like empty shells
With songs of other creatures, sung
In an ocean of which we are part,
And in our weary hearts,
In the weary marrow of our bones
We want to feel life going on around us,
To know that it will go on,
Even while we nestle, quietly,
Curling around our heartbeats,
Curling into sleep.


Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: May 30, 2019 - 2:58pm

By Gregory Natt
 

oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: May 29, 2019 - 10:42am

Crow Blacker Than Ever

When God, disgusted with man,
Turned towards heaven.
And man, disgusted with God,
Turned towards Eve,
Things looked like falling apart.

But Crow . . Crow
Crow nailed them together,
Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood.

Then heaven and earth creaked at the joint
Which became gangrenous and stank -
A horror beyond redemption.

The agony did not diminish.

Man could not be man nor God God.

The agony

Grew.

Crow

Grinned

Crying: 'This is my Creation,'

Flying the black flag of himself.
.


Ted Hughes
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: May 23, 2019 - 10:08am

"Love is the wind, the tide, the waves, the sunshine. Its power is incalculable; it is many horse-power. It never ceases, it never slacks; it can move the globe without a resting-place; it can warm without fire; it can feed without meat; it can clothe without garments; it can shelter without roof; it can make a paradise within which will dispense with a paradise without.”

Thoreau Paradise (To Be) Regained
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: May 12, 2019 - 7:31am

Mother’s Day Memo
            Remembering Ida
by Anita Pulier

Breathe in her scent,
thumb through food stained pages,
touch her buttery finger prints.

Remove her little notes
on more garlic or less wine,
place them in your jewelry box

in case they contain
secrets, it's time
to find Mom's clues.

Bow your head to
this unique holiday offer
of sensory overload.

Recall family dinners crowded
around an orange banquette
curving around a Formica table,

kitchen walls
strewn with flowered wallpaper
insisting on cheer.

Allow a moment to grieve
the loss of unconditional love.

Pour a nice cup of tea,
open the Times online,
place the cursor
on the world you live in now.

oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: May 1, 2019 - 7:36am


Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Apr 12, 2019 - 2:30pm

Lovely, soft spring morn.
Breeze dances in the pine boughs.
Geese pass overhead.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Apr 7, 2019 - 2:06pm

No lions or ti-
gers, just a bear, oh my, on
the trail with Weezie.
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Mar 19, 2019 - 10:00am


oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Mar 16, 2019 - 12:24pm



 cptbuz wrote:
I belong to a poetry group that's really been a lot of fun. The challenge is to write one a week on a theme/word/phrase, then poll the entries and the most popular poet picks the theme/word/phrase for the following week. It's a pretty diverse mix of styles each week. Here is mine from a week where the phrase you had to include was "the way that I used to".


I just don't give a fuck,
not the way that I used to do
back when shit mattered
before the churn
of humanity
changed everything
destroying the
spirit of life
unveiling the
truth of man
where under the skin
infections of the rich
seep upon the poor
the weary and the weak
suppressing
their
resiliency
feasting upon the will
taken from those
who can no longer
think for themselves
and eventually cease
to give a fuck
like me.
 

So in this case it's fun in the way that a word or phrase can be used to manipulate
the ether or has the ether done its job and the author is given to autopilot?

In which case I think you're lying in state.  I'm not convinced. But then, the way that I used to mean something entirely opposite changed with the onion...

cptbuz

cptbuz Avatar

Location: Sacramento CA
Gender: Male


Posted: Mar 15, 2019 - 7:07pm

I belong to a poetry group that's really been a lot of fun. The challenge is to write one a week on a theme/word/phrase, then poll the entries and the most popular poet picks the theme/word/phrase for the following week. It's a pretty diverse mix of styles each week. Here is mine from a week where the phrase you had to include was "the way that I used to".


I just don't give a fuck,
not the way that I used to do
back when shit mattered
before the churn
of humanity
changed everything
destroying the
spirit of life
unveiling the
truth of man
where under the skin
infections of the rich
seep upon the poor
the weary and the weak
suppressing
their
resiliency
feasting upon the will
taken from those
who can no longer
think for themselves
and eventually cease
to give a fuck
like me.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Mar 15, 2019 - 2:29pm

R.I.P.
 

For the Anniversary of My Death

By W. S. Merwin
Every year without knowing it I have passed the day   
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star
 
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

SeriousLee

SeriousLee Avatar

Location: Dans l'milieu d'deux milles livres


Posted: Mar 15, 2019 - 10:51am

J'ai de la boucane dans les yeux
Quand je les leves vers Dieu
J'veux voir plus clair
J'veux voir plus loin
J'veux oublier hier
Pi me souvenir de demain

FAL
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Mar 8, 2019 - 9:12pm

It Is Time
by Laura Davies Foley

It is time to gather sticks of wood
so we can cook the sap that we have drawn from the earth.
We will bore holes into the maple trees,
collect buckets, stir the froth as it boils.
Then we'll finish it on the stove in the barn.
We will do this together,
balancing the heavy iron vat,
pouring the hot syrup,
tasting the sweetness.
We did it through the pregnancies, the births.
Let's do it once again.
And then we will cultivate the honey bees
and tend to the alfalfa in the fields.
It will be the best of times once more,
fourteen loads of fresh hay,
and my hair will be long and we will collect raspberries,
and make a pie.
The garden will yield a bumper crop of beets and basil,
and we will split wood all fall,
and stack it,
and be ready for the winter,
when you will weave a blanket on your loom
with dog hair and horse hair and my hair
and some dyed wool too.
And I will nurse the babies by the fire,
and neither of us will grow older,
and we will never forget,
and nothing will ever die.
We need to gather sticks now
and build a fire quickly,
before the season passes on,
before the field,
where you are sleeping,
blossoms.


oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Mar 5, 2019 - 7:13am


To A Skylark

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven,
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Mar 2, 2019 - 5:42am


Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Mar 2, 2019 - 5:41am

 ScottN wrote:

after a bottle of chianti
              Don’t mistake me, I’ve pondered this before.
              But tonight I’m serious.
              One bottle and the end is certain.
              Tomorrow: Lawyer. Boxes. Road map. More wine.
while walking the dog
              Paris won’t even notice.
              I’ll feed the pup, pack a quick bag,
              take out the trash, and slip away into the night.
              Home to Sparta. Or Santa Monica.
              An island off the southernmost tip of Peru.
              Disappear. Like fog from a mirror. while paying the bills
              Guess I’ll have to give up that whole new career plan.
              Academic dreams. House-and-yard dreams.
              Stay on like this a few more years. Or forever.
              Face the bottomless nights in solitude.
              Wither. Drink. Write poems about dead ends.
              Drink more. Work. Pay rent.
              End.

when Paris comes home drunk
              Call Clytemnestra. Make a plan.
              Move a few things into Clym’s spare room,
              storage for the rest. Set up arbitration.
              File what needs to be filed.
              Head to Athens. Or back to Crown Heights.
              Maybe find a roommate in Fort Greene.
              All I know is out out out.
              Sure, I can blame the past or the scotch
              or my own smartmouth or my worst rage,
              but blame is a word. I need a weapon.

when Menelaus writes a letter
              As if.

from the ocean floor
              Bathtub. Ocean. Whichever. All this water.
              Yes, Paris pulled me from the ruby tub.
              Menelaus fed me to the river a year before that.
              Metaphorical, and not at all.
              O, a girl and her water. Such romance.
              Gaudy. And gauche.
              How do I leave what cared enough to keep me?
              What of those goddamn ships?
              That ridiculous horse? All those men?
              Now, wretched little me. All this dizzy sadness.
              How many kings to tame one woman? Silence her?
              How many to put her under?



 
{#Clap}
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Feb 27, 2019 - 5:29am


after a bottle of chianti
              Don’t mistake me, I’ve pondered this before.
              But tonight I’m serious.
              One bottle and the end is certain.
              Tomorrow: Lawyer. Boxes. Road map. More wine.
while walking the dog
              Paris won’t even notice.
              I’ll feed the pup, pack a quick bag,
              take out the trash, and slip away into the night.
              Home to Sparta. Or Santa Monica.
              An island off the southernmost tip of Peru.
              Disappear. Like fog from a mirror. while paying the bills
              Guess I’ll have to give up that whole new career plan.
              Academic dreams. House-and-yard dreams.
              Stay on like this a few more years. Or forever.
              Face the bottomless nights in solitude.
              Wither. Drink. Write poems about dead ends.
              Drink more. Work. Pay rent.
              End.

when Paris comes home drunk
              Call Clytemnestra. Make a plan.
              Move a few things into Clym’s spare room,
              storage for the rest. Set up arbitration.
              File what needs to be filed.
              Head to Athens. Or back to Crown Heights.
              Maybe find a roommate in Fort Greene.
              All I know is out out out.
              Sure, I can blame the past or the scotch
              or my own smartmouth or my worst rage,
              but blame is a word. I need a weapon.

when Menelaus writes a letter
              As if.

from the ocean floor
              Bathtub. Ocean. Whichever. All this water.
              Yes, Paris pulled me from the ruby tub.
              Menelaus fed me to the river a year before that.
              Metaphorical, and not at all.
              O, a girl and her water. Such romance.
              Gaudy. And gauche.
              How do I leave what cared enough to keep me?
              What of those goddamn ships?
              That ridiculous horse? All those men?
              Now, wretched little me. All this dizzy sadness.
              How many kings to tame one woman? Silence her?
              How many to put her under?




ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Feb 25, 2019 - 8:32pm

The Other Poet


by Ellie Schoenfeld

The poet explains exactly
what her poems are doing on a variety of levels.
I am jealously impressed.
My poems go places
but send no postcards––I have no idea
what they are doing. They do
whatever they want to.
I give them curfews
but they wake me in the middle
of the night, they interrupt meetings
and other situations where I have no time
for them. They hang on me
when I am on the phone.
They do not keep my secrets
and sometimes they lie.
They can be sullen and withdrawn
or explosively obscene.
I think my poems have problems with authority,
conduct disorders, attention deficit.
The other poet is like the parent
with the bumper sticker about their honor student
while I am speeding along
to get to the correctional facility
before visiting hours are over.
I try to give my poems direction.
They tell me they have cleaned their rooms
but we both know it's not true.
After all these years of therapy
we still don't understand each other.
I write a poem and think
"What the hell is that?!"


Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Feb 23, 2019 - 2:29pm

Rainy afternoon
Naps take the place of walkies.
The dog and I snooze.
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