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Mudcat Poetry Corner
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 14 Feb 03 - 09:44 AM Beautiful, Sandy!! Beautiful, Chip! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Foe Date: 14 Feb 03 - 10:59 AM Once a composer named Bach Said he'd heard some wonderous tach In the future I'm told There'll be music that rolls And also sometimes will rach All those who would mess with the Sioux Should find someting better to dioux Or like George and his friends You'll soon meet a sad end Toodle-dioux, Toodle-dioux, toodle-dioux (to the tune of Taps) |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: *daylia* Date: 14 Feb 03 - 11:42 AM WAR War is for neanderthals who brandish bloody clubs; and roaring insane battle calls smash kinder hearts to pulp. War's roots lie deep in avarice in hatred and in lies and suck the bile of ignorance that their deathly fruit survive. O hither come the blokes of war See how they foam and rage! They're howling just outside my door "Join the tyrants of this age!" And though the wisest of the wise teach war is obsolete; Still we march toward that vile dawn on shameless, guilty feet. daylia PS - sorry about the negativism folks. :-( This was inspired by reading a couple of the Mudcat war threads (too early in the morning?) today. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: *daylia* Date: 14 Feb 03 - 01:38 PM "And though the wisest of the wise teach war is obsolete; Still we march toward that vile dawn on shameless, |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Wuzzle Date: 14 Feb 03 - 01:51 PM Autumn mist is love enfolding golden rays of wonderlight leaves are kisses gently falling fading into night winters cold a rugged beauty blood red berries mistletoe ice cold tears of love unfailing falling into snow springs fresh day brings hope and freedom daffodils and tulips gay rejoice today sweet life has risen turning night to day summer life with love indwelling far above the clouds of time smile the gentle smile of peace upon our lives come shine |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: *daylia* Date: 14 Feb 03 - 01:57 PM Oops, hit the wrong clicky ... just needed to brighten up that last line a little ... Cuz it's Valentine's Day, and |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Rustic Rebel Date: 14 Feb 03 - 02:08 PM Blue Generation It all just popped into my head everything I've said and done. My existence doesn't revolve around yours. Yours is from a planet of somewhere unknown to most. My belly crawls Flesh creeps Eyes weep. Blue generation General feelings of anticipation New creation Mother wails, in comparison Compassion left. Walls abound My eyes well with tears Body shivers with fears Look into all the mirrors Reflection disappears With the blink of an eye you appear once again and we start over. Peace. Rustic (2000) ps. Great works from everyone! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: limejuice Date: 14 Feb 03 - 03:19 PM It was so cold that night but there was no wind and it felt like the air would never move again the porch light forgot to turn on as I creaked open the door and padded across the grey carpet when I finally reached the bathroom the light was too brittle and it smashed against the faucet as it fell but it kept on falling I didn't feel the water on my hands and I'd swear it never touched my face although I saw my cheeks were wet in the wavering mirror I wanted to see the stars but I thought if I opened the window for sure I'd fall out so I stood there and clutched the curtains tightly closed just in case |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: limejuice Date: 14 Feb 03 - 03:28 PM *laughing* And a little ditty inspired by the charms of our BC ferries... O, the grimy blue carpet crunches under your feet and the ceiling-beams rattle to an unsteady beat the cheap vinyl chairs peel off of your back as you struggle for comfort (of which there's a lack) The lights up above are a skull piercing glare so you vacate your seat 'cause your nerves are rubbed bare the scent from the head just adds to your mood as you stumble down hallways a' looking for food The galley is crowded with tables galore and ketchup packs squished all over the floor The quality vittles availible here would make the most hardened of men shed a tear I'm sure some more verses will come to me the next time I have occasion to ride that majestic craft we call a ferryboat! Cheers, ~lime |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Deda Date: 14 Feb 03 - 04:11 PM Wow, these are all great, and such a rich feast. Amos, way to go. You have always had it and you always will. I haven't written much lately so I'm going to post an old one. It is not from my kindest or most enlightened time, but for some reason I have always considered it my favorite poem-child. Bonnie's Solution If my clothes were real silk, bright, and new, and rich, Then I'd be well. If I re-did my kitchen, muted, modern, subtle, Then I'd be well. If I tidied my room, hung black and white photographs -- Tastefully chosen, artistically framed -- Then I'd be fine, I'd really be fine. If I lined up brand-name bottles in the bathroom And folded fat, clean towels in neat rows, Scrubbed everything, fixed the screens, Then I could stride out and take command. If I got expensive haircuts and sexy little shoes, Then all the world would love me And I'd love me, too. Then my heart would stop leaking out of my gluey ribs. Then my slithery bones would re-gel into immobility (Icy toughness, like hers) And no one could hurt me anymore. I'd be as crimson and as memorable as a staple through your thumb. I'd be smarter than a speeding bullet. (But not by very much.) -Rebecca Jessup (c) 1995 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 14 Feb 03 - 06:17 PM Aw, Deda, that's a puredee winner. I love it. :>) Bro. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Micca Date: 14 Feb 03 - 07:03 PM TRAP Snap! The non-existent trap closes on the non-victim, makes solid bars and walls, dungeons in the air, from fears. We talk, explain, defuse the bomb, and show the hinges where the trap door once hung. But now you watch, waiting,testing, searching my eyes for the inevitable lie, poised for flight. And I, closing the doors, draw in, slowing actions spontaneous no more, pause listening, for the beat of your wings. Copyright Micca |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 14 Feb 03 - 09:49 PM Loverly work, Micc!! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 14 Feb 03 - 09:59 PM The Long Problem I. The long problem, the old problem, Is not seen in the streets of day. They have buried, buried, buried it Put it down, under long hours of passion and of clay. They have suppressed it, they have nullified The old problem, the old problem, So that the wheel may turn and the names be called They have hidden the old problem away. Money streets are walled with suits And the hot sweets calling That drip syrup on the fingers of men Twined in the crisp leaf-fall?s scream And the long problem echoes when it is allowed In the hour of the dream. Balls And the cold-climaxed dance deny while flying Through the long problem?s halls. Burials fade, and the long problem returns A deal of well-suited clay cries in it And the old wheel?s fire burns to its tune And the crisped leaf crying. II. Answers are in communication: The faces will flow And the plenum reveal And the denial be known And the far northern call be heard And the leaves transform, each To its own kind of bird As the wheel runs back And the burial is undone And the unspoken, known, Advises the becoming. All streets will as rivers Advance to the delta call ?Auroroa! Aurora! Aurora!? tells All there is, while the suits are falling. All balls are cancelled by the flux, The plenum explains, and the warm river-climax Echoes the answers when the long problem falls. Now is the beginning. Tell Edna. She, too, will answer. Answers are in communication, And the long problem falling |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: CapriUni Date: 14 Feb 03 - 10:34 PM The following was written for and performed for the June, 2001 Art Garden held at the Depot Theater in Garrison, New York. The Art Garden is a night of theater organized like a literary magazine, where writers independantly create pieces on a particular theme, and then perform them before a live audience. The theme for this particular "issue" was Beaches. THE TIDES WITHIN We came from the sea before our days were numbered. And before our eyes knew light from dark, when time was kept with the heartbeats of our mothers, we took our breath through gills. We hold the sea within us, like a pebble under the tongue -- a secret charm of protection. Our passions: blood and tears, are as briny as the sea. The ebb and flow of tides within follow the gravity of the heart. And at the bone-cold shore, where dream and duty meet, the coastline is never smooth, but, echoing the curl of each crashing wave, twists upon itself toward fractal infinity. After we have forgotten the numbering of our days, after the longshore drift of memory has swept away our care, these crashing waves will turn our bones to sand for a cuttlefish to hide in. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 14 Feb 03 - 11:32 PM Made me grin, ya did, CU!! Thanks!! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Neighmond Date: 14 Feb 03 - 11:37 PM I love to hear the multitudes the people speak and sing Oh! To hear ten thousand toungues And hear the voices ring. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: harpgirl Date: 15 Feb 03 - 01:52 AM and some more of hg's doggerel... Hephastus Hephastus, so the story goes Once found himself a wry cuckhold And to avenge his wife's wild passion Tricked her love in a clever fashion. While he was tending the smithy fire, Mars was fanning his wife's desire. As they lay entwined on the smithy's bed They failed to see the net o'erhead. It was rigged to fall as the story goes when the flames of passion curled their toes! Hephastus saved his reputation And, passion is indeed a conflagration! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: darkriver Date: 15 Feb 03 - 04:06 AM Ukiah haikU One hundred degrees by noon already: too damn hot to write. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 15 Feb 03 - 08:05 AM Night Flight '67 The dreams come back when the stars take flight. Old friends in old places come around at night and we ride our dark horses through the Valley of the Loon laying waste to Eden and darking the moon. Again we are dauntless, heroes to a man. We are the last few living, the last ones to stand. As the morning hides from darkness and the images slip from sight, I lose sight of their faces as the dawning brings the light. We are saddened and wizened as around and again it goes. We are just old men wearing young men's clothes. Dark horses refer to helicopter gunships. The area is near Khe Sanh, Republic of South Vietnam. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 15 Feb 03 - 08:52 AM Sandy: Right between the eyeballs, man. Well crafted, too. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Deda Date: 15 Feb 03 - 01:36 PM (Written in the late 1980s.) Autumn The only divinity I can sense or find Comes when I regain my mind After losing it completely. Human help has failed. Gently, discreetly, God sends some hopeful message with the wind. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Deda Date: 15 Feb 03 - 02:15 PM In this poem I took some liberties with the legends about Merlin, whose end came because he fell in love with a powerful sorceress, in some versions the Lady of the Lake, and in order to escape his attentions she locked him, or tricked him into locking himself, in either a tower or a menhir, one of the mysterious standing stones that are found all around the coast of Brittany. Long before, Merlin had trained Morgana le Fay, a protegee/student magician(ess?) who "goes bad" and becomes King Arthur's magic foe. (Also, Merlin's experience of time was reported in some myths to be "backwards" -- i.e., the future was his past.) (Dear God, is anyone going to really bother reading all this??? Oh well, here goes) I. Merlin Considers Mad Morgana His magic hands could heal her, they both knew it. But the magic was withheld. She was too mad, mad with need, Too sick for his taste. He hadn't meant to trigger So deep and wild a need; A transfiguring need, that stripped all loveliness, Muddied all beauty, like some obscene graffitti of the soul. He took aim with his eyes, coolly so that no light Might blur his view of that fevered, foaming soul, That madness which his hands could heal. But even his hands cannot touch without feeling, And who could know what that madwoman's skin Might unleash in him? Mad though she was, she understood The wizard's loneliness, his isolation, The problems of living backwards, and among men. Once in some other time he had spoken to her often Of these and many other things, and they had laughed. He was so fond of her then! She had shown promise and wit, And her dark eyes were deep to her heart, spilling the heart and hope's Gratitude, merriment, all at his feet, all in his trust. But now -- she was writhing mad, and there were risks. Risks to these primitive men, and his especial ward. And his own risk. Was she the foretold foe? That other time was packed away now and he Must hold his power all alone, must bear The icy seclusion of vicarious rule Among this childlike tribe. She was of his race, perhaps. Perhaps some kin. But she had bad blood, or bad stars. He clasped his magic hands behind. He shook his bearded head. II. Afterword "Was Merlin ever slain? And did he die?" No. Somewhere stands a rock with a quick eye. He loved to desperation, Merlin did. The lady had no choice, no way to rid Herself of his obsequious attention But to lock him into magical detention. He's alive and buried by his own spell In some stone in Brittany. Who can tell? So many rocks stand sentry on that rock-infested coast. Any silent one might be his crypt, his silent host. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 15 Feb 03 - 11:17 PM (((((appplause)))))) Bravo, sis! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Micca Date: 16 Feb 03 - 07:52 PM This kinda grew outa trying to make sense out of this click here The quiet descends The flowers start to wither In red brick furnace The ashes slowly cool The hymn is sung The eulogy delivered mourners head home while Tired children mewl Pile into cars Lifts offered and accepted Then rush hour roads To go and Wake the dead Then time to go And scatter back to places To far and near With all that's left unsaid Hugs and handshakes After a drink together bright hollow smiles As people leave at last It don't seem much To tuck away a brother And close the book on fifty years of past copyright Micca |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 16 Feb 03 - 09:48 PM Bravely done, Micca. Thanks. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 16 Feb 03 - 09:55 PM This is a piece that grew out of a number of converging forces. It is not autobiographical, certainly, but it reflects part of collective persona, culturally, if briefly:
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Peg Date: 17 Feb 03 - 04:25 PM Deda: cool poem about Merlin and Morgana! Very incisive. I include here a long triptych first published in Obsidian Magazine and then on gothic.net, and this same myth makes an appearance herein... peg Avalloch and The Tree Fairy: a triptych Part One (The Fairy Ailinn) I romp towards Broceliande a slippery undine shrieking silent paeans of wood lust my face smeared with pitch thighs shining with vetiver, tacky with blood Where are you? Cloaked in mist, I huddle beneath pine boughs breakfasting on fallen acorns. I wait, and sing. I have lost you to the dawn running backwards to daylight to your city to timepieces and rough weather to loved ones and gold coin and sour beer. How could you have become lost among trees? You, the huntsman who's plundered every acre of Bretagne? How came you to the faery realm? How, if not trapped by magic? You ran me through Herne to my Sadhbh antlers singed in the spitting fire hot meat juices dripping from your beard to stain my breast the colour of venison. You semen swirls in my belly. My teeth are imprinted on your spine. I wait. You won't be leaving. I could have been a mermaid could have dragged you over rocks knotted your fingers in my silver hair offered you to any or all of my sisters their combs in hand, cold hips floating. I could have filled your lungs with salt and pearls stopped your legs kept you with me. But I am alone in this. I love you. I want you here. An ageless and nubile forest nymph I tempt you with peaty scotch and promises luring you with apples and high sweet music into the green and breathing temple of myself. LATER: In Celidon Wood nine dryads play at calixte twigs, the old game dividing the contents of a buckskin pouch squealing with delight as each receives a bauble in turn: chunks of flint, silver coins, golden needles, stubs of tallow candles, black feathers, oat biscuits, a flask half-filled with honey mead, a scarlet silk ribbon, a tine of stag horn carved with Ogham, a knife blade sticky with sap. Part Two (The Huntsman Avalloch) Bitch. No you never twisted my arm. I wanted to stay with you. Twenty years I gave, petrified in the screaming orchard, choked with ivy and mushrooms. Twenty years recalling the taste of your mouth, while you seduced a dozen lovers and I watched. The fisherman, called to your side from his bleak rock village, The selkie trapper, his silver eyelashes frozen to your lips, The woodsman, his hatchets rusted in your juices, Even the idiot farmer, with his gifts of barley and turnips. I saw it all, enslaved as I was among apple trees their clumsy caresses bludgeoning my stopped eyes, even as they bruised your greenfairy skin. But you are not as fragile as you look. For they, too, have been imprisoned in the oaks, in the hazels, the hawthorns, put away, endless forest denizens rooted in the soil of Broceliande, soil trod by Merlin, another hapless fool, frozen in transfigured time by a conniving fey doxy was that your work, too? LATER (Ailinn Speaks): What do you mean, you're sorry? Oh my love, I had such hopes for you, for us. But in the end, you disappointed-- too angry, too possessive, too too too monogamous. It's better this way, don't you see? Patience, Avalloch: our flesh may yet be one. Think not on the others, they will wither in six seasons' time. You are the one I loved enough to stay the flow of your blood. Your body is yet warm as milk, sturdy as horn. For now, remain in the grove, be my shelter and my food, and remember those nights we loved, your antlered crown tangled in my hair, while a thousand colours woke and danced about us and we named them all forest green. Part Three (Merlin Speaks) It is all one. Frozen I have been, but powerless, no. Magic has flowered in me, a thorned, odorous canopy of roses, balm, and rubine foxgloves. I could crush you like beetles, like dried petals, and scatter you from the cliffs of Orkney. I could send you to the heinous bogs of Lindow, there to drown forever in her peaty stench, embracing my kinsman there, a late harvest offering, the stuck-up golden boy, an ungrateful druid if ever there was one. Perhaps his withered lips might rouse in you some occult passion, stir your breast to sugared musings, or move you to pretty tears, such as I could never wrest from you. For I do long to see you wed, my dear, as, in my dotage, I drive roots deep and deep into river-wet rock beds. I am become stone, my robes a melted, igneous drapery, my eyes mere chunks of amber. I have been in the unhewn dolmen, and I have been in stag horns, and sea salt, and my hard, gnarled roots have plumbed soils richer and moister far than yours, my darling. Stuck? Petrified? Mudlogged? I am in my element, you might say. A tree in the earth, a stick in a hole, my arms forever raised, my head forever bent, in benediction. I forgive you. Your time is almost done, you know. And when at last red fire rents the air and all save the Eternal Ones must die, your blood and sinew and snot and bones will all be dust, greying in the black wind. But I will rise from this Last Burning, a golden and phantasmagoric birdling, something between a merlin and an ibis, unfettered, unfrozen, undead And I will remember you. Wait for me. LATER: (The Goddess Speaks) Alas, my mountains, laid waste, are sloppy with glistering guano. My waters, poisoned, lie thick, unmoving, stinking. The forests, the grasses, all picked clean of berries and milk. Tittering, chirping, screeching, the very air is an insult to me. Who would have thought, in my autumn years, I'd have been ousted, raped, undone, not by men, but by a myth? |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Deda Date: 17 Feb 03 - 04:51 PM Wow, again to Amos, and Wow to Peg -- what an opus! Fascinating - very rich. Thanks for posting it. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,vorblesnak@yahoo.com Date: 17 Feb 03 - 08:08 PM Ha! Such talent. Warms my heart to see the rythms of the mudcats in the muddy waters of this day. Here be one from the nib. Little bits of whimsy, Worlds beyond my eye, Twisted thoughts, In twisted words, That haunt me till I die. Long remembered moments, Splinters of my life, They flee the vault, Of never say, My fingers weave the strife. I never meant to poet, Condense myself to verse, Expose my soul, To sharp critique, A most perplexing curse. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 17 Feb 03 - 09:48 PM Peg..thanks for the wonderful piece on King Authur...Sam |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 17 Feb 03 - 10:17 PM Peg, ditto! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 18 Feb 03 - 11:53 AM Amos, thanks for this great online poetry magazine. Preflight Sometimes I wish that I could be the hawk that sits high up in the tree Sometimes I wish that I could glimpse the world outside my town Is it flat or is it round How far does it go Will I ever know if the Earth sits still or is it slung all around and will I be flung to the ground or perhaps whirled free to fly real high so that I can see the world outside my town without sitting high up in the tree |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Metchosin Date: 18 Feb 03 - 01:07 PM and where would we be without paying homage to Robert Service, of course, there are those who do not consider him a poet either...... with apologies to Robert Service....... THE SONG OF THE WEST COAST TRAIL There are those fools who decide, To test mettle and their pride And hike the temperate rainforests western rim, Where pouring rain and muck, Is the measure of your pluck And the backpack, of your vigor and your vim. Over hill, through mired bog, Over greased and slippery log, Over tangled roots that trip you on your way, Just when the slogging's getting tough And you think you've had enough, The map reveals there's still another K. In the campfires smoky heat When you're too damned tired to eat And you wonder why you started on this quest, Just then Pacific breakers roll And a sunset stirs your soul, You know by God, today you've earned your rest. In the realm of breaching whale, Where muting fog or blowing gale Cloaks the Sitka spruce and cedars somber edge, The kelp beds heave and fall To the gull and ravens call And the breakers thunder on a rocky ledge. As you eat nut and raison lunch And do the periwinkle crunch You make up time on shelves of hardened sand. Then there's the giant's cobblestone, A misplaced foot could snap a bone, Slowly pick your way and wish, for trails inland. On the Cullites bolted rungs, As the breath rips through your lungs, Humbly recall, shipwrecks, in days of yore, Where a tar, sans boot and gaiter, From surf wracked and broken freighter, Unaided, scaled this treacherous height before. You'll meet a hiker who'll report Someone's run this trail as sport, Racers time in hours and minutes, not by day. But the runner that's hell bent Isn't packing your food or tent And he missed the otter family hard at play. For the hidden gold you seek, As you wade the icy swollen creek Is right there, in each footstep that you take, It's not just the getting through, That's the mother lode for you It's every living, breathing, moment wide-awake. Salal bush wind clipp'd and bent By the western wind is rent Into bonsai gardens of the rain and storm. Sparkling silver sea and mist Has constant, held and kissed This wild topiary landscapes sculpted form. At the Nitinat's tidal stand Meet the tenders of this land, Caretakers of split cedar boarded trail. For ten thousand years or more They have worked this windswept shore For the bounty of the salmon and the whale. Just when you think this part's a lark, A Sunday stroll out in the park, Don't dismiss those paw prints in the sand, For the "cougar warning" on a sign Will send a tingle down your spine For you know who really rules this primal land. And when the journey's through Pachena Bay comes into view, Remember in the elation of the day, Sometimes success is not all luck, Nor because of stamina and pluck, But the spirits there, beside you, on the way. Copyright © S.Grieve 1999 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 18 Feb 03 - 01:30 PM Paid in Full I won me a chest full of medals for killing ole' Charlie Cong. Hell, it wasn't wrong. Couldn't have been. I was paid every month and then once I met a General who slapped me on the back and we laughed at the crack he made about body count. "Son, it's not the fact, it's the amount. We kill one, we write down three and between you and me thats the way to win wars." Government pimps... Military whores... Who could possible know more than they do. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 18 Feb 03 - 02:05 PM Mets! No need to apologise to Service! Ya done him proud, IMO. Absolutely beautiful; I was there in the reading of your eloquent imagery. Thanks, kat |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 18 Feb 03 - 02:30 PM CORRECTION Paid in Full last two lines should read----- Who could possibly know more than they do. Sorry 'bout that. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Metchosin Date: 18 Feb 03 - 02:48 PM thank you, kat. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 18 Feb 03 - 03:40 PM Sandy: I should thank you! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Dexter Date: 18 Feb 03 - 09:53 PM Ode to a Bluebird Good morning, little bluebird Upon my windowsill. I saw you in my dreams, And now, I see you still Dancing to and fro Upon my window ledge, Fresh from last night's rest Of nesting in a hedge; And, as I see your beauty Against the morning fog, I hit you with the waste can, And feed you to my dog. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 18 Feb 03 - 10:49 PM Very droll, Dexter. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Dexter Date: 19 Feb 03 - 10:50 AM yes. thank you. dex |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sandy Creek Date: 20 Feb 03 - 07:50 AM Where was I when yesterday came when the stars of last night stayed out of sight hidden behind the only cloud in the sky I missed the sound when day broke striking back from the dark. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: posterchild Date: 20 Feb 03 - 02:46 PM Sandy Creek, your war poems are very strong. Do you have more? If you do please post them or email them to me. Thank you, Aronelle |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,stone Date: 21 Feb 03 - 08:55 AM sniper when we did our killing we slid from sight we left no shadow we hid our faces ten paces from the light |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 21 Feb 03 - 12:51 PM We are the thought mongers. We make hard noise. Guts rumble with unquenchable smoke – the furnace only roars. Heads rattle with machinery, attitudes built into plastic parts, The rattle of fast translations, too hard to love, that love destroys. Peering through windows where we build no doors, Fanning minds not joined to human hearts. We have left no-one on watch in the furnace-room below. No fires call -- the basement is adrift in blowing snow. We are churning the chimes of the weird bazaar As all our kind do, and have since young. Smoke throated, voices aflame Tongues waving at the hopeless stars Hopes in mean messages, meanly flung And the hard calling of names. And, floating up from the furnace room below, Coals scream, surrendering to snow. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Promises like pie crust by C Rossetti sound Date: 21 Feb 03 - 12:57 PM The reclusive mystical genius Christina Rossetti expressed so many of her thoughts and frustrations through her poetry this delightful lyrical poem gives us perhaps some insight into the mind of this deeply religious Victorian lady who shunned close friendship prefering to live within her close-knit family unit away from the attentions of outsiders who perhaps she never entirely trusted....Heres the link to the page with the sound file.. Promises like pie crust by Christina Rossetti 1830 - 1894 (sound poem set to mus Regards. Jim Clark PS..Dont forget you can if you prefer listen to my sound poems at my Yahoo "sound poetry" web group (look in "files") heres that link http://groups.yahoo.com/group/bloozman_uk/ All rights are reserved on this sound recording/copyright/patent Jim Clark 2003 Promises like pie crust Promise me no promises, So will I not promise you: Keep we both our liberties, Never false and never true: Let us hold the die uncast, Free to come as free to go: For I cannot know your past, And of mine what can you know? You, so warm, may once have been Warmer towards another one: I, so cold, may once have seen Sunlight, once have felt the sun: Who shall show us if it was Thus indeed in time of old? Fades the image from the glass, And the fortune is not told. If you promised, you might grieve For lost liberty again: If I promised, I believe I should fret to break the chain. Let us be the friends we were, Nothing more but nothing less: Many thrive on frugal fare Who would perish of excess. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Rustic Rebel Date: 21 Feb 03 - 01:43 PM Vodka makes me turn pretty red Tequila makes me forget what I said, Whiskey makes me wish you were dead, I think I should smoke pot, instead! Peace. Rustic, getting deep! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Schantieman Date: 21 Feb 03 - 01:54 PM I wrote this addition to William Blake's Jerusalem many years ago. It always seemed to me (singing it) that it needed another verse, and the sentiments are a bit old-fashioned. This brings it up to date a bit. And shall the joy be thus confined, Cease at the bounds of England's shore? Shall minds be closed and hearts unmoved While mute starvation pleads for more? This must not be, we shall fight on - Our love extend, our greed destroy. Then truly shall Jerusalem The whole world o'er shout out her joy! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,stone Date: 21 Feb 03 - 02:38 PM On Losing Your Friend There is no song for a broken heart and no place to start when no stone is left to turn and no lesson is left to learn. The spirit is dark when there is no gift for giving. We are not yet dead. We have just quit living. |
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