Mudcat Poetry Corner

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 21 Jul 15 - 03:47 PM

The Tin Man

The Tin Man walks down 6th Avenue,
ipod stuck in his ears disguises
the jangled sound of jagged metal,
stripped toothed gears, half melted belts,
over stretched springs,

all in a plastic Fred Meyer grocery bag
stuffed in the depths of his black backpack.

Its been broken too many times, oiled tears
drain down rain gutter cheeks, remembers
the blue eyed munchkin maiden.

The cool damp salt air drifts from Puget Sound
paints rust tattoos on his silver skin,
as he stands in the shadow of the Wizard's
Space Needle castle, the throne room
in a constant rotation against the blue sky.

He came to see if his heart was under warranty,
to see if he could trade the Wizard for a new one….
this one is too fucked up to repair.

Nathan Tompkins

© 2014 NonBinary Review

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Galloping Gwdihw
Date: 20 Jun 15 - 05:29 AM

Personality
My sideboard has plenty of
What it lacks is brains.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 19 Jun 15 - 11:49 PM

The Supermoon

The moon danced the summer reel
with Perseus beneath the ballroom
starlights, as his meteorite shoes
sparked across the night sky floor.

Her full white face, crater lips smiled,
sang to the tune of the August pipers,
as they fingered tree limb chanters,
squeezed green leaf bellows.

Together they swung close to the earth,
as she whispered her heart to his ears,
felt his lips with hers, I knew she found another,

together they would sleep with the sunrise,
together they would wake with the sunset…

Nathan Tompkins

© October, 2014 published in North West Words

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 27 May 15 - 07:54 PM

Amos -- That's a big part of why I've chosen to go the route of self-publishing / Print-on-Demand.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 27 May 15 - 04:39 PM

Published in Calliope, © February, 2015

Deletion

We sat across from each other,
as we drank our Irish whiskey,
handed the glass back and forth,
while we talked in the dim light
of the overflowed pub,

you stretched your arm
across the wooden table
as I sipped from the glass,
my pint of India pale,
I grasped your fingers,
lifted your hand, felt static shock

when my mouth tattooed
a lip shaped beer stain
on the back of your skin....

or we snapped photographs,
of sunflower gardens,
as we laughed together,
and I loved….

I want to delete you
from my computer,
but like some self-flagellating
emotional masochist…

I can't.

Nathan Tompkins

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Airymouse
Date: 27 May 15 - 04:25 PM

PARTING SHOT
Small ball of murmured purring fur
With faith to move mountains
Faith misplaced
For I, Pagliaccio, clown
Have come, not to the rescue,
But to put you down.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 27 May 15 - 12:37 PM

Bravo, bravo, bravo.

Joe, that terse piece is as sharp as a new nail.

Capri Uni, your treatment of the voices of Grimm's tales is fascinating and beautifully done!

Bert, I love "Spiffeye"!

If you scroll back you will find most of my original poems have been taken down. This is in order to be able to submit them "unpublished"; I hope no mystery ensued.

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 26 May 15 - 03:01 PM

RELIEFS

Turn off fan. Noise stops.
Turn off lamp. Glare stops.
No switch turns off shame.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 26 May 15 - 09:28 AM

These two are really a pair. And as a preface, here are links to my source tales: Tom Thumb and Hans my Hedgehog

TOM THUMB

The people tell me I'm a lucky one,
'Cause even though I am a wish-born child
(Those never come out normal, like you want),
At least I'm human-shaped from head to heel.
Not like that monster, Hans, the next town, over,
Who's just a prickly hedgehog, snout to waist,
So he must spend his life behind the stove,
On a moldy bed of straw, with bugs to eat.
A burden to his father – such a shame!
And then, they start to argue: When's the last
That anyone had caught a glimpse of him?
Some hope he's finally dead, and so at peace.
The people tell me I'm a lucky one,
'Cause even though I'll never grow a whit,
At least I'm handsome, and I'm clever, too.
And I can help to drive my father's cart,
Whispering commands in Dobbin's ear.
They say I'm blessed. I grit my teeth and nod,
Not like that poor boy Hans, the next town over.
My parents love me like a wish come true,
And listen to me when I have ideas.
My father built a bed that's just for me.
My mother stitched a coat that's just my size.
My supper dish may be an acorn cap,
But I have had my fill of bread and cheese.
They tell me to be glad I'm not like Hans.
And I am glad. I wish they'd notice why.

KING HANS THE QUILLBACK

I've heard the rumors-- how my story's told.
First things first: it did not end that way
(My skin all milky white, and hair all gold,
My father proud until his dying day).
And second, tell me, how would I have known
All of the things I'd need to "Break the Spell,"
When I'd been left to die in straw on stone?
As if I'd even want to. Go to hell!
That's just the yarn they spin to quell their fears,
And I've remained a monster sixty years.

I ran away from home, that much is true.
But never with a gift from "dear old Dad."
I stole those bagpipes, and the black hen, too--
The only friend I ever really had.
It's true the king was lost, and heard me play,
Though, like I said, I never had a plan.
But when he told me he would gladly pay,
And pulled one of those rings from off his hand --
He asked me if I'd like his pretty hat.
(Can you imagine -- velvet on my head?)
And really, what would I have done with that?
But he was loved! 'Twas what I wished, instead.
So yes, I said: "Give me a living thing--
The first to come and greet you at the door."
I never thought: "The Daughter of the King"
Might be his dog, for I'd seen that, before.
And after that, I let myself forget--
Until the day my dear old chicken died.
That was the first I ever felt regret,
Though not the first time I had ever cried.
I really didn't think 'twould do much good,
To try and claim a worn-out I.O.U.,
But there was nothing for me, in that wood,
And there was nothing left for me to do.
They kept their promise-- that's the magic thing,
When they could have lied, or had me killed.
I married her. And now I am the king,
Though I still have my snout, and all my quills.
For we can't shed our pain, like some old shirt,
To throw onto the coals, until its gone.
I'm less than half a man, without my hurt
Yet, truly, I was changed, that coming dawn.
'Twas neither flames nor salves that transformed me,
But She – who saw my full humanity.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: gnu
Date: 06 Dec 14 - 12:00 PM

Got this from Trinity Today and the "article" contained no title or source for this...

I was shocked , confused, bewildered
as I entered Heaven's door,
not by the beauty of it all,…
nor the lights or its decor.
But it was the folks in Heaven
who made me sputter and gasp–
the thieves, the liars, the sinners,
the alcoholics and the trash.

There stood the kid from seventh grade
who swiped my lunch money twice.
Next to him was my old neighbor
who never said anything nice.

Bob, who I always thought
was rotting away in hell,
was sitting pretty on cloud nine,
looking incredibly well.

I nudged Jesus, 'What's the deal?
I would love to hear Your take.
How'd all these sinners get up here?
God must've made a mistake!.'

'And why is everyone so quiet,
so somber – give me a clue.'
'Hush, child,' He said,
'they're all in shock.
No one thought they'd be seeing you.'

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Bert
Date: 04 Dec 14 - 05:21 PM

The Spitfire

We couldn't say it properly when we saw them in the sky.
Us kids would run and point and shout
Spiffeye, spiffeye, spiffeye.

We hid under our desks in school each time there was a raid
we would laugh and play the fool too young to be afraid
when the raid was over we'd look up in the sky
to spot the guys who'd saved us
the Spiffeye, spiffeye, spiffeye.

Now I'm living near the flight path of Pete Field and Shriever bases
I don't know the names of these modern planes
with their modern pilot aces
But to honor every one of them as I watch them flying by
you'll hear me quitely whispering
Spiffeye, spiffeye, spiffeye.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST
Date: 04 Dec 14 - 01:08 PM

I was thinking of you
and birthdays long ago
When we were young
and did not know
the wind's caress
of icy snow
We thought the world
a kinder place
and humankind
a kinder race
'cause we were young
and did not know

JC

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 25 Nov 14 - 04:52 PM

M.B.

6 gunshot drumbeat strokes roll his eyes closed.
6 grief dyed lullabies sing him to sleep.
6 brass knuckled tongues chant his spirit home.
but one killer with a badge, walked free.

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST
Date: 11 Nov 14 - 02:39 PM

'On yonder hill there stands a coo-
If it's no' there, it's awa' the noo.. '

William McGonagall, poet and tragedian

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 11 Nov 14 - 11:01 AM

The Homecoming Parade

When Specialist Martin returned
from Afghanistan,
he was veiled in a flag.
His family were there to greet
as they hugged and keened
their tears on the oil stained tarmac
of the Sandpoint airport.

The Patriot Guard Riders,
those knights upon their motorbikes,
led the honour brigade,
protected the motorcade
as they slid down Highway 95
to Bonners Ferry,
his hometown.

Spectators lined the fringes
of this two laned mountain encased track,
burned by the mid August sun.

Some held signs and placards that said:

Thank you, Ethan.
God Bless You, Martin Family.
SPC Martin is our hero.

Still others held their hands to their chests,
felt their hearts twitch beneath
the wrinkled lines of their palms.

When the convoy pulled into
the funeral home parking lot,
the bikers, in their badged leather armour,
stood in formation, hands lined
across their forward as they saluted him,
while his honour guard escorted
him from the back of the white hearse,
into the shaded solitude
of the brick building.

At 22, Army Specialist Ethan Martin
came home.

© 2012 by Nathan Tompkins

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 22 Oct 14 - 01:29 AM

Well, I like it.

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Bill D
Date: 21 Oct 14 - 06:48 PM

Herons..sunset.. withered Aster
Premonitions of disaster.
Dark clouds racing... silent moon,
Trying not to rise too soon.
Last geese flying... leafless tree.
Again, November has to be.

(resurrected from an old notebook I kept about 1958)
I decided poetry was not my best use of time.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 21 Oct 14 - 04:06 PM

Originally published in UK based digital magazine Angle Poetry ©October, 2014.


Cu Chullainn and Ferdia

After three days of duel, one on one battle,
at the ford of Dee, he carries him to the bank,
the bronze body is limp in war weary arms,
head hung back, slain eyes open,
one arm reaches for the water's surface,

smelted tears lurch down metallic cheeks,
for his best friend, for his enemy,
as they reach the bank. Soon he will fight
some more to defend his home,
but now, he weeps for the man he killed.


nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 25 Apr 14 - 11:48 PM

Rain drops kiss my eye
as I stare at cloud veiled stars
in search of the moon's
pale asteroid pock marked face
and her sun ray lipstick grin.

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: MGM·Lion
Date: 24 Apr 14 - 10:07 AM

I have already posted these two poems by my late first wife on a thread of Poems about aging; but I think they will bear repetition here ~~

NOCTURNE


A phalanx  of old ladies
Each wheelchair like a throne
Sit doped and dozy in the Kozy
Kare Retirement home.
Our hair's time-bleached to monochrome,
Our teeth are not our own;


   Since it's got so hard to chew,
   We live on tablets, mince and stew.

Precarious, this refuge
(Eight hundred pounds a week) 
Meant selling off the bungalow
In Frinton, not Mustique:
We're better placed than plenty,
But the present's pretty  bleak. 


We're stuck with nothing much to do;
   Our visitors are none or few.

Time was we went to dances,
Our hair in lacquered curls;
In sugar-stiffened petticoats,
We executed twirls.
Oh, how we used to jitterbug,
When we were pretty girls!


Valerie Grosvenor Myer ( 1935-2007)







Sing a song at sixty
Winner of 2nd prize (£300) in a poetry competition


It is too late alas to learn a musical instrument,
To become a downhill racer on skis or compete at Wimbledon;
I shall never be able to read Dostoievsky in the original.
I have not won any cups for achievement,
And so many things I dreamed of will never happen: 
I shall never achieve my own chat show on television,
Or dissolve gracefully into artful tears, clutching my Oscar.

I must reconcile myself to clothing which is 
Comfortable rather than glamorous,
And acknowledge that hair-dye after sixty is usually a mistake.
I refuse to lament the loss of my beauty and my slender waist,
Instead I will be grateful that I retain my teeth, 
More metal than ivory, it must be frankly admitted,
Propped, pinned, posted and padded with plastic, 
But I can still eat with them.

I will be glad that that I was not born in the Dark Ages 
Before the invention of spectacles. I will not agonize
Over tests I have failed, but will concentrate on remembering 
The ones I have passed, and the people who have loved me.

It is futile to lie awake brooding over old animosities.
It is time to forgive one's parents, and to contemplate the young 
Not with envy but with tender concern and generosity,
Betraying no awareness of how vulnerable they are.

Valerie Grosvenor Myer (1935 - 2007)
-

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 14 - 09:55 AM

Sonnet 19/05/01                        DLIII

        A perfect day for planting, with no sun
        To burn life from small leaves; The promise of
        Water to sustain new growth. Here's one
        Of Nature's subtle gifts, to show her love.
        You plant sweet herbs for future use, and weed
        Unwanted growth, but know a use for all
        The garden grows. Four senses gardens feed,
        And birds, who nourish fifth with evening call.
        The breeze brings cool contentment, as the day
        Slides into night. You have the future sown.
        In time, all that you plant will grow, to pay,
        With interest, labor done by harvest grown.
        With laughter in eyes, and smile touching cheek,
        You have in your garden all I might seek.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 24 Apr 14 - 01:44 AM

Green leaves poke their heads
uncertainly from bark beds
as winter recedes
for the intermittent sun
to herald the coming spring.

nt

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 23 Apr 14 - 02:34 PM

An Illusion of Islands

Breaking many waters, proudly and dumb
(Until things grow).
Grasses, palms, bugs and pelicans. Then
They become full of sound, seem less proud,
More ready to speak somehow, and listen.

But no saying anything will change it— their attention
Comes back over and over to breaking
Hostile currents and the solid
History of deep groundswell which
Raised them up and never
Leaves.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: VirginiaTam
Date: 20 Apr 14 - 02:07 PM

FOR EVERY THOUSAND WORDS

For every picture a thousand, what?
Limbs, organs, lives?
We now see human devastation
with desensitised eyes.
Games, film, news media,
the social network wars,
gods and politics, then as now,
still the corporate whores.
Games have turned
our souls to clay
Conflict is a bore,
war is cliché
Vote for those. Pray with these.
Join virtual oblivion escapees.
There's a different value
on suffering now.
What once was sacred
is now cash cow.
For someone somewhere
there is something to be gained.
For one hundred and forty characters,
or to take another level
or to see a thousand words,
were you entertained?

Tamara Linn Hiatt, April 2014 - I've been wondering how Wilfred Owen would see war today in the context of corporate profiteering, violent video games and social media.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 13 Nov 13 - 02:15 AM

Drunken Howls

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 25 Oct 13 - 01:15 PM

What makes the heart to scream, the spirit
to twist in hot
Winds of love and message,
Showering the eye of the I
With the burning sparking cascade of Real?

Only the whisper of a
Soul hoping,
Like sunrising dew

On a cold brick.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 08 Aug 13 - 04:56 PM

To Martin, the Saint of Boston

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 25 Jul 13 - 11:53 PM

The Erection

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: theleveller
Date: 23 Jan 13 - 12:24 PM

Thanks for the interest and your nice comments, folks.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 22 Jan 13 - 08:11 PM

There's just the shadow of a grin

Well, that ending made me grin! Thanks, Leveller, for the poem and your compliment.

And thanks, frogprince and Kat for your compliments.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 22 Jan 13 - 01:13 PM

i agree. Well-done, Capri and Leveller! Thanks!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 22 Jan 13 - 12:02 PM

Capri, Leveler, those are both just delightful.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: theleveller
Date: 22 Jan 13 - 05:01 AM

I love that poem, CapriUni.

Here's one from my blog Poems and Paths

The Shadow People

By shadow hedge along the lane
Where shadow trees stand stark and plain,
Two shadow figures, shaped like pegs
Glide on fantastic shadow legs.
Their spindly shadow bodies look
More dark and shadowy than a rook,
And on his shadow head, see that
One shadow wears a shadow hat,
That makes the low sun's piercing rays
Cast deeper shadows on his face
Where, beneath the shadow brim,
There's just the shadow of a grin.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 22 Jan 13 - 12:44 AM

Since December 1989, I've been a regular contributor to something called "The Art Garden," which was set up as a cross between live theater, and a literary magazine. At regular intervals (at first, quarterly, then semi-annually, and finally, annually) a theme would be selected by the editor/organizer (Irene O'Garden), and sent out to a group of writers. Each of those writers would, independently, create a piece about that theme (a poem, essay, skit, or song), and then gather on the appointed night to read/perform their piece on stage before a live audience in a small theater in Garrison, New York.

After 25 years, and 52 performances, nearly all the core writers had come to places in their lives where taking part in the performance was no longer possible (moving across country, moving across the globe), and so November 24, 2012 was the night of the Final Art Garden, with the theme: "Harvest."

This is the poem I wrote, and read, for the event:

Just like the garden, this poem is a trick

Just like the garden, this poem is a trick.
What seems, at first, so natural and free
Is just the clever artist's sleight-of-hand.
(With all the awkward phrases weeded out,
And punctuation paving stones swept clean).
Just turn your back a moment, then you'll see:
True Nature has a way to claim Her own.

The poetry they handed you in school
To memorize, and analyze, recite,
Will cross pollinate and then, bear fruit
And Dickinsen and Shakespeare will entwine
And you'll forget--
Who wrote the one about
The hen and the wheelbarrow?

Scraps of conversation overheard
Will drop, like seeds, from a passing bird
Onto the farmhouse roof,
And Virginia Creeper,
Like illuminations in the margins of the page
Will curtain down your windows and frame the scene
As garden transforms to enchanted wood

Where tadpoles covered in fur, and web-footed mice
Swim in the frog pond,
And men sprout beards of leaves
And goat beginnings end with fish's tails
Like the punch-line to some joke.
And Red Riding Hood seeks flowers that never grew
On her mother's windowsill.

And where, once upon a time, Rapunzel (her hair cropped short),
Banished from her tower, built a house of her own
And did just fine. With her son and daughter
Toddling at her heels, she harvested acorns for their bread
Until her blind, despairing, Prince stumbled to her door.
He carried her home to a royal garden:
Always tended, never free.

I wonder: did she ever crave a taste
(as her mother had)
Of her own green namesake,
That grows (unbidden)
Amid the stubble of last year's wheat?

...Do you?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 21 Jan 13 - 02:12 PM

Some technical vocabulary for poets:


Alliteration
Repetition of consonant sounds, usually at the beginning of words.

Anapest
Two unaccented syllables followed by an accented one, as in un-der-STAND.

Assonance
Repetition of similar vowel sounds.

Caesura
A pause within a line.

Dactyl
A stressed syllable followed by two unstressed ones, as in SHUD-der-ing.

Diction
The selection of words in a literary work—for example, if a narrator says blood-red, that selection has different connotations than rose-red, even though the colors may be similar.

Elision
The omission of an unstressed vowel or syllable—such as o'er for over.

Falling meter
Meters that move (or fall) from stressed syllables to unstressed syllables.

Foot
A unit of measure in a metrical line; syllables included in a kind of musical bar or measure.

Iamb (as in Iambic)
An unstressed syllable followed by a stressed one, as in at-TEMPT.

Meter
The pattern of accents in poems.

Onomatopoeia
Words that imitate the sounds they describe.

Pyrrhic
A metrical foot composed of two unstressed syllables (as in for the).

Rhyme
Matching sounds in two or more words.

Rhythm
The repetition of accents or stresses.

Rising meter
Poetic meters that move (or ascend) from unstressed to stressed.

Spondee
A metrical foot represented by two stressed syllables.

Style
The way an author selects and arranges words, and develops ideas using literary techniques.

Syntax
The order of words.

Tone
The writer's attitude implicitly conveyed through diction, syntax, etc.

Trochee
Accented syllable followed by an unaccented one, as in MAY-be.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 21 Jan 13 - 01:07 PM

CERTAIN TIMES

She has left behind her certain times
That she did not understand.
Those moments when, being of a mind
To act, she acted out of hand
And gave up thought for the sake of voice.

Instead, she gathered up the chat and noise
Of feelings, flight, desire, pain,
Mounted in heart within her brain
And gave the world all that she had.
She found the good in doing something bad.

She spent, and fled, and struck the cheeks of time,
And kicked dreams into the shadowed shed of mind
And lurched, and loved, and said her say,
Making the harm sufficient to the day.

And later, much, more settled in her lines,
At home with things uncertain, unrefined,
Less driven to some lost duty to a vague divine,
She has left behind her certain times.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 28 Nov 12 - 04:59 PM

Digging Out

Some headway occurs when
You just shake the cage, or
Throw yourself against the barred doors, hard.

Such remedies can drag you out
From the dark pens under the earth,
Protesting loudly.

They will deliver you into the hard arena of the present,
To stand blinking in the sunlight before
The lions are loosed.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Gutcher
Date: 31 Oct 12 - 06:56 AM

At the time, when delivered with a deadpan expression, it went over very well with the younger members of the audience, the older ones pretended not to understand the allusions.

Nothing like being in a byre full of cows on a cauld winters day.
As Para Handy would have put it the milk straight from an Ayrshire cow was " chust sublime".

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 30 Oct 12 - 09:32 PM

:D Very guid, Gutcher!! But aren't you mucking a very cold byre?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Gutcher
Date: 30 Oct 12 - 07:08 PM

At the height of the Clinton/Lewinsky stushie a panel on the radio were discussing why there had been no songs on the subject. Their conclusion was that the name Lewinsky did not lend itself to rhyme
My head had barely hit the pillow that night when the following came to me:----
                                                
cried===called
notter==notorious
licks===lick with the tongue==corporeal punishment on the hands with
       the tawse [a leather belt used on the hands as punishment in
       Scottish schools in the past}

Bill Clinton is a notter loon
and a bet he wishes he wisny
on setturday nichts he got his licks
fae a lassie cried Lewinsky

It helps to have a Scottish accent and vocabulary

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: GUEST,mayomick
Date: 30 Oct 12 - 04:47 PM

I didn't see so many poppies around Dublin this year so far . Over the past few years the World War One nostalgia brigade in Ireland has taken clever advantage of the GFA to tout the bloody things around town –parity of esteem and all that . Wondering where they'd all gone as I walked around town , I found myself singing this and thought I'd share it with you all.

Where Have All The Poppies Gone ?

Where have all the poppies gone ?
Leeds General Infirmary
Where have all the poppies gone ?
Stoke Mandeville
Where have all the poppies gone ?
Gone to Saviles everyone
When will they BBC ?When will they BBC?

Where have all the Saviles gone ?
Leeds General Infirmary
Where have all the Saviles gone ?
Stoke Mandeville
Where have all the Saviles gone ?
Gone to mortuaries every one
When will they BBC ? When will they BBC?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Joe_F
Date: 27 Oct 12 - 08:22 PM

By the Waters of Babylon

(Boston, winter of 1959-1960; age 22. I have suppressed the names of some real people, and corrected the name & serial number of Dina Barzilai.)

quiet
hear the alarm clock
    beat its way off in good time toward its appointed coming
          at 8:00 this day when i shall rise
               and waste more time
hear ------ scratch his ass
    remember -------
          saying with what joy he looked into the john after having
          the dribbly shits for 2 bad days
          in east anglia
          and saw at last a hard turd grinning at him
------ is kind
------- is sane
--------- is good
    blest be their blinding sanity
hear the water
    the smoothed out boundary between cold and warm
    moves down the pipe,and microbes
          swimming against the stream,notice it
hear the good people on the street below
    who laugh,and drink,and fuck their bloody world
to raytheon,and death

it is winter now in jerusalem,and it may be
    that a flake of snow from time to time
    settles on the brown skin of the construction worker
    and melts with the muscle's heat
          that puts the honest iron in concrete
it is winter now in london,and the rains
    wash the blown kiss into the sewer
          to southampton,maybe to suez
          where,being picked up as a mild case of the flu by any
               number of colonels
          and transmitted to a haganah commander
          it might end up near haifa,where it started
it is winter now in boston:ropy snow
    mingles with the dogshit in scollay square
    around the edges of the traffic
    under the friction of whose wheels
    the glistening street reflects the coca cola sign
          impressing upon mine eyes a sickening jazz
          of barfcolored light
but the city is never quiet:
the sky is white with stars,and the radios
    play those distinct tunes that merge
          into each other,and the night
    the nameless tunes that fill the lives of the faraway people
    what are they playing?
          is it "you gotta have heart" for those that haven't gotta
               have it
          or "dina barzilai" for those that have it
          49635-1
          miles and miles and miles of fart
    well,i guess it's you gotta have heart for me
    not much chance of dina anyway
    besides,i'd rather be buggered on
          an accelerating motorcycle in the midst of a discussion
          on the mathematics of masochism
have you any advice,doctor?
hold on tight

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 27 Oct 12 - 12:22 AM

Incidentally, Capri Uni, this afternoon my wife was practicing "How Can I Keep From Singing" for a song circle.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: frogprince
Date: 27 Oct 12 - 12:06 AM

Capri Uni: tears; wonderful.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 26 Oct 12 - 02:50 AM

Georgian Silver --

Thank you. So nice to remember warm summer days on chilly autumn nights.

Amos. Thank you. And hugs for the hugs... :-)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 26 Oct 12 - 02:39 AM

Capri:

Hugs for a beautiful poem.

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 26 Oct 12 - 02:02 AM

Dreaming back to childhood.. has a kind of charm:-

In fresh and tranquil valley, as I Iie beside the meandering stream,
My eyelids gently meet and there I slip into a dream.
I dream of better days, of days of sunshine, sea and sand,
Of trees, of bushes, flowers and hues that beautify the land.
Long glasses full of lemonade, fruit with vanilla ice cream,
Aunties apple dumplings, with custard, see it steam.
Picking those wild strawberries and crunchy hazelnuts,
Catching hands on blackberry thorns and getting nasty cuts.
Climbing trees, oft falling out, not breaking any bones,
Trying to skim the water with those nicely flattened stones.
Hearing mummy shouting "Come on kids it's time for tea"
Mouths began to salivate, wondering what 'twould be.
Sadly the dream ends abruptly as a bird begins to sing,
I lie in the sun, contemplating, what the rest of the day will bring.

(c) Mike Hill (May 2011)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: CapriUni
Date: 26 Oct 12 - 01:00 AM

My latest, written in response to a "Blog Carnival" theme: Birthdays, anniversaries, and other days of celebration and commemoration

"If" and "When"

If my grief over Mother's death were a person,
This would be the year it could buy its first drink
With friends at the bar
Slamming the mug down in triumph,
Froth crowning its upper lip.
Then, maybe, there'd be singing.
Or, maybe, my grief, taking after me,
Would be a teetotaler, content
To drift on the rising tide
Of friends' besotted laughter.

If my grief over Mother's death were a person,
I'd make a wish that its friends,
When drunk, would only laugh --
Opening their arms wide for tipsy hugs
And slurred "I love yous!"

I remember the year my grief was born --
Seems like only yesterday, sometimes.
I, a grad student a hundred miles from home,
Rolling across campus in my motorized chair,
Would sing aloud, not caring
If my spastic throat Pulled the tune off-key.
I needed to sing, to give my voice
The power to cut through helplessness
Like the prow of an ice-cutter
Through the North Atlantic:

"My life flows on, in endless song
Above Earth's lamentation.
I hear the sweet, though far off, hymn
That hails the new creation.
Above the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing.
It finds and echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?"

Of course I got noticed.
Moving through the cafeteria,
The song's final notes trailing behind me,
I'd overhear: "She's such an inspiration --
Always so happy!"

The irony sparked
Even through my grief-fogged mind.

This woman: my mother,
Daughter of a mathematician,
Graduate of the Bronx High School of Science,
Asked me to work magic on her behalf --
To arm myself with Hope and Vision,
To battle at her side from a hundred miles away.
Whether she believed the Power of Thought
Could alter the progress of her cancer,
Or merely deflect the pity and disgust
That Oncoming Death inspires,
I do not know.

But when I was two, this woman, my mother
Refused to be cowed by the hospital psychologist
And saved me from a life behind institutional walls.
When I was eight, she taught me
How to write a letter of protest.
She hand delivered it to my teacher
At the PTA meeting, that night.
The next morning, I learned that the authority of justice
Could make the authority of position tremble.
When I was thirteen, in the spring of 'Seventy-seven,
We rallied together under hand-painted signs
So that I (and others) could roll across campus.

(While waiting for the elevator,
An acquaintance finds the courage to ask
If I dream of walking, or hope for a cure.
I say there is no cure. And anyway,
I'd rather spend my numbered days
Out in the world, writing stories, or teaching children,
Then behind the walls of a physical therapy gym.
My answer earns rebuke
For 'giving in to my disability')

When I was sixteen, Mother fought our town hall
For a wheelchair access ramp,
And cut the ribbon at the opening ceremony,
The mayor smiling at her side.
"I will support you in anything
You decide to do," she told me, years later --
"But it is up to you to decide it."

And so, for her sake, I sang
And told no one the reason.

"The water's wide, and I can't cross over.
And neither do I have wings to fly.
But give me a boat that will carry two
And both shall row
My love and I."

Reincarnation, she once said, happened
When daisies pushed up from the grave,
And bugs ate the flowers, and birds ate the bugs.
She assured me that the energy of her life,
(Like the energy of an electron) would be conserved --
And if I needed to, I could find her
In the downbeat stroke of a crow's wing.

In those first years, my grief demanded
All my attention, and care.
Now there are long stretches of silence between us
But it still wanders home in the middle of the night
Waking me from dreams.

For twenty-one years,
I have watched for the shadows of crows.
And told no one the reason.

Until now.

---
A video of this poem (with photos of Mother, and one of yours truly (circa age two), is here: "If" & "When" -- a Poem of Eulogy and Celebration

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amos
Date: 25 Oct 12 - 04:46 PM

Dawn Promenade

Walking the streets before sunrise
In this Western suburb, I saw
A thousand dreams being pursued in darkened houses,
Littering the hot air of a thousand heated beds.
In them were desire and retreat and
Beings, some with trumpets and some with zithers.
Some of the men spent, some fired and overwrought;
Of women, some in fear, some dreaming of creation,
Or of being desired. Some were talking and some
Simply dancing in worlds.
The homes were dark, the rooms were dark;
Dark painted chariots waited ,with their engines unfired,
Some paid for, some never to be,
Hoping for slow instruction. Within, the worlds
Unfolded at the speed of thought
Revealed joys, damnation,
Sad forgotten lies and worries
Laced with trumpets and with zithers.
Why the music did not leak into the streets
Was a mystery I took home with me.        
                

A.H. Jessup
San Diego
10/25/2012

Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner
From: Amergin
Date: 26 Sep 12 - 07:30 AM

This is the latest one I have written. I wrote it for my cousin's 3rd birthday.

Leo The Lion