The Poetry Thread

“Actually, I have a few sonnets of my own. None accessable online, but hard copies in a box within a box within my boxy storage building.

Here's a poemish something I wrote:

Appalachian Lullaby

Fifteen thousand strides. I did not count each one, but the map indicated that the days hike had brought us an additional ten miles or so, therefore, the number is probably a close estimate. Whatever the amount of lifts and drops my boots had endured, my final destination made them each worthwhile. Sarabelle, my faithful yellow lab, and I found ourselves nestled in a high cove of the Blue Ridge of Western North Carolina. The surrounding forest is designated as the Joyce Kilmer/Slickrock Wilderness Area, a 17,000 acre unit within the Nantahala National Forest. The wilderness is home to one of only a handful of virgin forests in America. For whatever reason - be it economic, political, or geographical - the trees had never fallen to the saw, or the rich earth laid open to the plow.

I leaned back against a large log that seemed a natural border for what had become our temporary homestead. I sat upon my folded sleeping pad. Sarabelle, contentedly tired and full of kibble and tuna and jerked beef, laid asleep with her head pressed hard against my leg in a perpetual nudge. Her occasional jerk and barely discernable whimper indicated her deep, restful slumber. I sat silently sipping hot cocoa - my traditional follow-up to Ramen noodles and tuna. Hot food and drink taste no better than in the backcountry - and nowhere else does a small fire warm so well. Despite the rains of the preceding days, I had managed to raise a more than adequate flame. I watched the fiery follies of the one-ring circus as my titanium cup became increasingly lighter, and my eyelids heavier.

As darkness grew, my dreamy attention was drawn to the treetops. There was a familiar stir in the air. Indeed, the stir was brought about by the News of things to come. The Titans - red maple, white oak, blue spruce - standing above me were first to receive the News. They became restless and excited; leaning first to one neighbor, then another - thus spreading the News. Then, to the rousing applause of the surrounding rhododendron, the News swept through the camp. The topmost leaves flew up off the ground in Derbish-like celebration; dosidoing and changing partners and clapping amid their shouts of loud laughter.

Smoke, which had been slithering about the ground as if searching out the vulnerable for it's flaming master, began first to stop, then reel, then dart off in a panicked retreat - disappearing into the shadows of the forest. Fire, angered by the News, glowed a ferocious red then orange then yellow. He raised up and hissed and threw outward and upward his pyroclastic weapons of destruction - all of which diminished, dim and harmless, until they fell black onto the damp ground. Seeing all this, Little Creek leapt into a rock crevice to giggle unseen like a bashful schoolgirl. She, too, had heard the News, and knew that her fantasies would soon come true; that she was about to grow into a beautiful and patient woman as she meandered to the place where she would someday wed her briney groom.

Then nothing. Silence. Eerily motionless and perfectly quiet. As soon as it arrived, it had vanished.

But not for long.

First, a tap on the hat. Then, a tap on the toe. Then another, and another, and another. The fire spat and spewed, the rhododendron began another ovation, and I roused from my slumber and scrambled to my feet. Within a few seconds, the pitterpatter of a few raindrops had become the roar of a deluge. I scurried around grabbing all that my headlamp illuminated, and within a minute Sarabelle and I were safely bedded down in the dry comfort of our little tent. The rain continued battering the fly of our shelter, and lulled us quickly to sleep - my favorite sleep. It is a sleep that can only be found 15,000 steps to where the giant sentinels of the forest stand watch, where the creatures of the darkness prowl by to whisper "good night", and where you are securely cradled in the loving arms of God.””

“Oh well, let my try another one too:

I sat in your car
As you drove us to the mountains
In this far away place
Once again a stranger
How was I supposed to stay calm
When you remained silent
It was just you and me that night
Under the trees at the campfire

The years I have been drifting along
Chasing the pictures in my head
This road I am driving alone
Only the radio playing
I kept calling on the phone
Waiting for an answer
How was I supposed to stay calm
When the hotelroom loneliness remained silent

I sat in my dads car
I still remember the old narrow road
That is long gone under the motorway
I am no stranger here
To these withered hills and their crumbling cliffs
This is old land
Mud stained red by time
Left rusty traces in my palm
The memory remains silent
My restless soul yearns to stay calm

I have been drifitng away
Chasing the pictures in my dreams
When I hear you call
I am alone in your car
You point at a sign by the road
This is your hometown
The moment remains silent
my heart is calm
I know this is old land
It's dust stained red by time
Leaves rusty traces in my palm”

“You are such a romancer of the pen- Didja know Chili has your "trail" piece up on myspace now? He does cite you as author, of course.”

“Thats's some freakin great stuff ain't it Rocksee? I hung the poem on my fridge last night.”

“I thought it was pretty good.

I attributed it to gojo.”

“I'm blushing. Seriously.

What is this "myspace" of which you speak?

Shameless plug:
See "...Reading Pleasure" thread.”

“On the porta-potty wall someone wrote:

Roll it tight,
Smoke it slow.
Wear your shades
So the boss won't know.

I *just happened* to be wearing my toolpouch, wherein was my Sharpie.

I wrote below:

You believe tinted glass
Will be your savior?
I know you're stoned
By your dumba$$ behavior! ”

“There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men too gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant's profit and gain.
There are men too gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of candied apples and ferris wheels
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who devour them with eager appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and suck their childhood dry.
There are men too gentle for an accountant's world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove.
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant's world,
Unless they have a gentle one to love.”

“


Cliché and triteness
It’s bad.
Cliché and triteness and redundancy
It’s bad.




Thirteen Ways To Say This Poem Sucks”

“i love to write poetry

here's a short short poem i wrote for Chris and Ashley when they were living thousands of miles apart. it was actually a challenge. Ashley gave us the first line and challenged everyone to create a poem with it. took me twenty minutes.

however far away i roam
you're in my heart
so carry on
i'm never far from you in thought
our souls are twined
our lives are not”

“Now look what you've done...
Reading those lines
I had to fight down a bitter sob
I dearly beg thou Mrs. Pamela
Write down poetry more uplifting
Cause clutching my achy little heart
I can't bear
To hear about
Twined souls
And lives that aren't

;-)
Nice one Pamela”

“

Poetry is...

Constructing phrases
typically not uttered
finding words
better left unmuttered”

“.
Our days are numbered and few,
For now the chores will do.
All your frets will stay -
Hike on! Hike away!

Tis so much yet to see,
Be it range or valley or tree.
Forego any further delay -
Hike on! Hike away!

Breathe deep the vibrant air,
Behold the glade so fair.
Hear the forest sway -
Hike on! Hike away!

Be it only for a while,
Or for mile after mile after mile.
For a month or a week or a day -
Hike on! Hike away!

Leave every worry behind,
And clear your busy mind.
Forget your cares - go play!
Hike on! Hike away!

So when my days are through -
Oh, and how 'bout you?
What better words to say
Hiked on! Hiked away!

.
last edited: 1/25/08 2:01:56 PM”

“Love is out there
Somewhere.
You'll find it -
I swear!
Look deep and you'll see.
Then when you find it,
Tell me.”

“Love`s a myth
for me and you
if it was real
it`d come true
love is like ships
in the dark they pass
for some they collide
but it`s for them, alass
real love is timeless
but it seems brand new
maybe it`s not for the masses
and only there for the lucky few”

“love sucks
the end”

“GD THIS IS GOOD!!!


L'ENVOI
You who have lived in the land,
You who have trusted the trail,
You who are strong to withstand,
You who are swift to assail:
Songs have I sung to beguile,
Vintage of desperate years,
Hard as a harlot's smile,
Bitter as unshed tears.

Litle of joy and mirth,
Little of ease I sing;
Sagas of men and earth
Humanly suffering,
Such as you all have done;
Savagely faring forth,
Sons of the midnight sun,
Argonauts of the North.

Far in the land God forgot
Glimmers the lure of your trail;
Still in your lust are you taught
Even to win is to fail.
Still you must follow and fight
Under the vampire wing;
There in the long, long night
Hoping and vanquishing.

Husbandmen of the Wild,
Reaping a barren gain;
Scourged by desire, reconciled
Unto disaster and pain;
These, my songs, are for you,
You who are seared with the brand.
God knows I have tried to be true;
Please God you will understand.

Robert Service”

“gangsta”

“what?”

“Hard as a harlot's smile,





.............ain't she?”

“

Roses are red
Violets are blue
I have Multiple Personality Disorder
And so do I


”

“Craving for Spring


I wish it were spring in the world.

Let it be spring!
Come, bubbling, surging tide of sap!
Come, rush of creation!
Come, life! surge through this mass of mortification!
Come, sweep away these exquisite, ghastly first-flowers,
which are rather last-flowers!
Come, thaw down their cool portentousness, dissolve them:
snowdrops, straight, death-veined exhalations of white and purple crocuses,
flowers of the penumbra, issue of corruption, nourished in mortification,
jets of exquisite finality;
Come, spring, make havoc of them!

I trample on the snowdrops, it gives me pleasure to tread down the jonquils,
to destroy the chill Lent lilies;
for I am sick of them, their faint-bloodedness,
slow-blooded, icy-fleshed, portentous.

I want the fine, kindling wine-sap of spring,
gold, and of inconceivably fine, quintessential brightness,
rare almost as beams, yet overwhelmingly potent,
strong like the greatest force of world-balancing.

This is the same that picks up the harvest of wheat
and rocks it, tons of grain, on the ripening wind;
the same that dangles the globe-shaped pleiads of fruit
temptingly in mid-air, between a playful thumb and finger;
oh, and suddenly, from out of nowhere, whirls the pear-bloom,
upon us, and apple- and almond- and apricot- and quince-blossom,
storms and cumulus clouds of all imaginable blossom
about our bewildered faces,
though we do not worship.

I wish it were spring
cunningly blowing on the fallen sparks, odds and ends of the old, scattered fire,
and kindling shapely little conflagrations
curious long-legged foals, and wide-eared calves, and naked sparrow-bubs.

I wish that spring
would start the thundering traffic of feet
new feet on the earth, beating with impatience.

I wish it were spring, thundering
delicate, tender spring.
I wish these brittle, frost-lovely flowers of passionate, mysterious corruption
were not yet to come still more from the still-flickering discontent.

Oh, in the spring, the bluebell bows him down for very exuberance,
exulting with secret warm excess,
bowed down with his inner magnificence!

Oh, yes, the gush of spring is strong enough
to toss the globe of earth like a ball on a water-jet
dancing sportfully;
as you see a tiny celluloid ball tossing on a squirt of water
for men to shoot at, penny-a-time, in a booth at a fair.

The gush of spring is strong enough
to play with the globe of earth like a ball on a fountain;
At the same time it opens the tiny hands of the hazel
with such infinite patience.
The power of the rising, golden, all-creative sap could take the earth
and heave it off among the stars, into the invisible;
the same sets the throstle at sunset on a bough
singing against the blackbird;
comes out in the hesitating tremor of the primrose,
and betrays its candour in the round white strawberry flower,
is dignified in the foxglove, like a Red-Indian brave.

Ah come, come quickly, spring!
come and lift us towards our culmination, we myriads;
we who have never flowered, like patient cactuses.
Come and lift us to our end, to blossom, bring us to our summer
we who are winter-weary in the winter of the of the world.
Come making the chaffinch nests hollow and cosy,
come and soften the willow buds till they are puffed and furred,
then blow them over with gold.
Coma and cajole the gawky colt’s-foot flowers.

Come quickly, and vindicate us.
against too much death.
Come quickly, and stir the rotten globe of the world from within,
burst it with germination, with world anew.
Come now, to us, your adherents, who cannot flower from the ice.
All the world gleams with the lilies of death the Unconquerable,
but come, give us our turn.
Enough of the virgins and lilies, of passionate, suffocating perfume of corruption,
no more narcissus perfume, lily harlots, the blades of sensation
piercing the flesh to blossom of death.
Have done, have done with this shuddering, delicious business
of thrilling ruin in the flesh, of pungent passion, of rare, death-edged ecstasy.
Give us our turn, give us a chance, let our hour strike,
O soon, soon!
Let the darkness turn violet with rich dawn.
Let the darkness be warmed, warmed through to a ruddy violet,
incipient purpling towards summer in the world of the heart of man.

Are the violets already here!
Show me! I tremble so much to hear it, that even now
on the threshold of spring, I fear I shall die.
Show me the violets that are out.

Oh, if it be true, and the living darkness of the blood of man is purpling with violets,
if the violets are coming out from under the rack of men, winter-rotten and fallen,
we shall have spring.
Pray not to die on this Pisgah blossoming with violets.
Pray to live through.
If you catch a whiff of violets from the darkness of the shadow of man
it will be spring in the world,
it will be spring in the world of the living;
wonderment organising itself, heralding itself with the violets,
stirring of new seasons.

Ah, do not let me die on the brink of such anticipation!
Worse, let me not deceive myself.

~~D.H. Lawrence”

“
Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.

If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.

Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.

That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.

Being but men, we walked into the trees.


      –Dylan Thomas

”

“If Elise let's that fly, there are no #&%!$ing rules.”

“SPINAL TAP! OH YEAH!!”

“Roses are red,
violets are blue,
one time my brother got the crabs

The End”

“
      new feet on the earth, beating with impatience.

                    –DHL

”

“Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
We've all had crabs -
Haven't you?
last edited: 4/01/08 2:14:22 PM”

“Journey


Tired
Tired of this
Tired of that
Need something new
But I’ll just grow tired of that

Sick
Sick of body
Sick of mind
I need healing
But there is just not enough time

Abyss
Staring into it
Just one small step
And I’ll be gone
But then, what will be found beyond

Back
Can’t go that way
No how, no way
All bridges burned
Nothing worth rebuilding anyway

Attacks
Come from both sides
To keep fighting
Is all there is
Maybe its time for something new

Abyss
I step inside”

“There once was a man from Nantucket...”

“Todays monotony cries for a bit of culture...



On Time

FLy envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

John Milton”

“Nice !!”

“We need more Milton, I think...

Sonnet 1

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray
Warbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,
Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's bill
Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate
Foretell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny:
As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too late

For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,
Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.”

“Hey I was just a skinny lad
Never knew no good from bad
But I knew life before I left my nursery
Left alone with big fat Fanny
She was such a naughty nanny
Heap big woman you made a bad boy out of me

I've been singing with my band
Across the wire across the land
I seen every blue eyed floozy on the way,
But their beauty and their style
Went kind of smooth after a while
Take me to them dirty ladies everytime

Now I got mortgages on homes
I got stiffness in ma' bones
Ain't no beauty Queens in this locality (I tell you)
Oh but I still get my pleasure
Still get my greatest treasure
Heap big woman you gonna make a big man out of me”

“I considered posting some Walt Whitman, but that could get me banned.”

“Do it. Live dangerously!”

“http://www.fourmilab.ch/etexts/www/Bible/Song_of_Solomon.html
........

Chapter 8
O that thou wert as my brother, that sucked the breasts of my mother! when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised.
I would lead thee, and bring thee into my mother's house, who would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.
His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should embrace me.
I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, until he please.
Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I raised thee up under the apple tree: there thy mother brought thee forth: there she brought thee forth that bare thee.
Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.
Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.
We have a little sister, and she hath no breasts: what shall we do for our sister in the day when she shall be spoken for?
If she be a wall, we will build upon her a palace of silver: and if she be a door, we will inclose her with boards of cedar.
I am a wall, and my breasts like towers: then was I in his eyes as one that found favour.
Solomon had a vineyard at Baalhamon; he let out the vineyard unto keepers; every one for the fruit thereof was to bring a thousand pieces of silver.
My vineyard, which is mine, is before me: thou, O Solomon, must have a thousand, and those that keep the fruit thereof two hundred.
Thou that dwellest in the gardens, the companions hearken to thy voice: cause me to hear it.
Make haste, my beloved, and be thou like to a roe or to a young hart upon the mountains of spices.”

“best book of the bible!”

“Yay biblical prOn!”

“Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River

The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.

A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.

A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.

Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it?

East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?

At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.

I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk
Things over, little buds ---open delicately, sparingly.

Tu Fu ”