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Mudcat Poetry Corner
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 30 Jan 09 - 08:33 PM Pretty is thy thatch, pretty thy fur, Pretty thy golden ears wherein my tongue Shall fuck, whereon my lips shall nibble, where My murmur to embrace shall lovelike reach, And we shall lie like mortars, each in each, In wavy luxuries of flesh and hair, Grasping with teeth at last joy's bottom rung, Until we clasp as wet as once we were In the first camp of praise. Some oil drips, Some burns, and finally the engine bursts. Suffer our thousandths to be like our firsts, And we will be content with ears and lips, With tongues and teeth and fingers; but above Hover these fears of boredom: thoughts of love. (ca. 1968) |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: John Hardly Date: 30 Jan 09 - 08:03 PM Dandelions are dangerous Dandelions don't need gardeners Dandelions are artists They ignore all the boundaries in the yard Flower beds? They're in them and they're out of them Wreaking their insomniac havoc all about. The crafted and groomed watch jealously From their straight rows and their well planned lives. And they can see who is having the fun. Painting dada smiley faces on daVinci lawns The other flowers are not stupid Just stationary And, sheltered as they are They know who's been around Growing zones? Don't make me laugh The other flowers are not stupid They just have the plastic-ness left on their couch-ness They have their "Do Not Touch" signs Displayed in their careful elegance Meanwhile the children make chains with yellowed fingers Meanwhile the children test to see if they like butter And the crafted and groomed look on And wish they'd come up with that simple idea first. Dandelions are artists. With their outrageous style And a bright yellow Tina Turner hair-do With outrageous opulence that doesn't spare a Springtime acre Subtlety be damned. Dandelions are dangerous Dandelions have no need for gardeners Dandelions are artists. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 25 Jan 09 - 08:25 PM WE're in dark veins together, Joe, as the strep said to the staph. :D A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 25 Jan 09 - 07:55 PM You cannot sleep forever on percale. More transient even than a fancied kiss is the complaisance of the pillowcase. Weary though you may be, and strong the pill, Dark's consolation, like itself, will pale. You cry, and blow your nose. You sleep, and piss. One-two, fuck-you, mad Nature sets the pace For us, too frail to help, too tough to kill. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 25 Jan 09 - 06:13 AM Prison Breaks Who does not dream of prison-breaks? A pal with a motorcycle or a hidden airplane on the moor? To heal the hard scars And too many churlish thoughts from Brute planet-living where The food is poor. Not enough drink. Corners smell of sweat and The entertainment's lousy and All the fun is happening Somewhere else. It stinks. Who, if only they had a map, Would not bust out and Take your chance On the outside? But you're dreaming, pal. The place is too well organized, see. You've been trained into it, see. Just go back to sleep, would ya? Nobody's going anywhere, no Breakouts; you'll be right here tomorrow. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 24 Jan 09 - 10:03 PM We whom fear and chance deprive of dependents to deprave must take our consolation prize in foul but charitable praise of precious peers who will connive at comfort in a naked knave, whose laugh affirms what sense denies, whose love is death to yeas and nays. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 24 Jan 09 - 12:44 PM Notes: words and music by Malvina Reynolds; copyright 1964 Schroder Music Company, renewed 1992. People often think of this as an ecology song, but Malvina wrote it after reading Mark Lane's book, Rush to Judgment, about the Kennedy assassination. God bless the grass that grows thru the crack. They roll the concrete over it to try and keep it back. The concrete gets tired of what it has to do, It breaks and it buckles and the grass grows thru, And God bless the grass. God bless the truth that fights toward the sun, They roll the lies over it and think that it is done. It moves through the ground and reaches for the air, And after a while it is growing everywhere, And God bless the grass. God bless the grass that grows through cement. It's green and it's tender and it's easily bent. But after a while it lifts up its head, For the grass is living and the stone is dead, And God bless the grass. God bless the grass that's gentle and low, Its roots they are deep and its will is to grow. And God bless the truth, the friend of the poor, And the wild grass growing at the poor man's door, And God bless the grass. Malvina Reynolds |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 23 Jan 09 - 09:36 PM Ever since Alan T. and Johnny von, We've known that life is just a silly con -way game, an endless evanescent volley of bytes inflicted by a melancholy on us black sheep in this enshrouded valley, true to the falsity of golden Cali., despising cant, and doing all we can, despite CO, to keep up with the van. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Stephen L. Rich Date: 23 Jan 09 - 01:28 AM Beware By Stephen Lee Rich Beware the man who offers a list of how much we must fear and boasts deliverance. Beware the man who cries, "Hide under your beds and I will make your beds a safe shield!" Beware the man who arrests angels from their flight then demonizes the fallen. Beware the man who proclaims, "Those who do not know terror, who stand up to and face it are dangerous fools! I shall smite them down along with all those amongst the scribes and rabble who applaud them!" Beware the man who brags that he can make fear know fear. While it is true that there is much in the world of which to be afraid, we must ask ourselves this question. Against whom do we need the greater defense, The foreign terrorist who hates us and wishes our destruction simply for being us, Or the man from our own home who is having breakfast in the bed under which he would have us hide? |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 23 Jan 09 - 12:10 AM Wonderful new additions, folks! Thanks for posting them! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,Indrani Ananda Date: 22 Jan 09 - 11:52 PM I've only just discovered this! So here's one from me. I wrote it when Tabitha my cat died five years ago. Lost Treasure It's not for a child that I'm grieving; No daughter, no son, not that; But the memory I have that is sweetest - The soul of a beautiful cat. But what of the cats whom nobody loved - The feral, the wild, and the stray- Do they abide in God's memory To wake and be treasured one day? Indrani |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: John Hardly Date: 22 Jan 09 - 09:16 PM Cheese Limburger send your smell away Cheddar, the orange one on the tray Gouda's very very extraordinary Muenster, not the Addam's family Jack, don't hit the road I love ya babe Colby, just the smoky taste I'm bound to crave Gouda's very very extraordinary Muenster, not the Addam's family. Bleu I serve you in my salad bowls Swiss I stick my fingers in your holes Gouda's very very extraordinary Muenster, not the Addam's family. Baby, baby, I'll Brie around. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 22 Jan 09 - 08:35 PM Convected, fueled by the noon's fat (you are a flame in all you eat), in sight of our ruddy and pale tent at the top, we made a movable feast. Now we stand, staring at the east like the moon, and break our starry fast: golden-breasted, silvery-assed, unbound boots on reminiscent feet. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 22 Jan 09 - 07:48 PM Man after me own heart, TJ! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST,TJ in San Diego Date: 22 Jan 09 - 05:46 PM Mere singing makes not a singer, Nor mere writing, a writer. Wishing is not believing, Nor a promise, a deed. A dilettante's life is a life unfulfilled, Dabbling, trying, touching without feeling. A life must be more, with its pain and its joy, Without depth, one swims in a shallow pond, And dies, unremembered, and in need. Living is immersion, not simply connected, But one with your passions. Like a steed seeking freedom, Take the bit in your teeth, and run! Run until you bleed. Dare to be ridiculous, Dare to lay bare your soul, Dare the slings and arrows Of those less willing and more fearful. Drink deeply from life's fountain, drink indeed. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: VirginiaTam Date: 22 Jan 09 - 03:43 PM I just discovered this thread today. Thank you Amos for creating it and for ressurecting from last post. It is going to take me some time to read through entire thread. I like to take my time with poesy. Some wonderful stuff here. Already pm'd one poster cause he made me cry. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: VirginiaTam Date: 22 Jan 09 - 02:45 PM FRACTIONALITY
Written by Tamara Hiatt between 1992 and 1996 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: VirginiaTam Date: 22 Jan 09 - 02:33 PM CAPRICE Having no mind to make up provokes me defies that need to take a stand to resist deviation from a course of action that will identify me place me safely firmly somewhere written by Tamara Hiatt, between 1992 - 1996 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 22 Jan 09 - 10:52 AM Inauguration The impossible is made by street walking, Menders, and patchers, Fixers of today, making ready, lovers in wait. Teaching the earlier lessons, talking About small, important matters, About each; nothing heady, but nothing late. When embers are made new by the breath And such places prepared to be filled, Then it begins, by multiplication. Then, the whispers of old deaths Sing to bring out the impossible In the voice of a whole nation. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 27 Sep 08 - 08:50 PM Beautiful work, Joe. Jeri, that is rich. Poignant, also. Good. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 27 Sep 08 - 08:29 PM JOe, I love that degrees of freedom one, esp!!! Really brilliant! Jeri, no, no, and no! Don't touch it! Don't doubt it! Aye-yi-aye, woman! That is stunning. I love it!! (Esp. since my jewellery company is called "StonePeople!") |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 27 Sep 08 - 08:14 PM Professor, resting from your rigor to dimple the contour up, do not mumble "causality", say "because the sky is black at night so that there can be physics". Copywriter, moiling on the 23rd floor in an inside room, to be a nuisance and a liar just within the law, how much more you would stink with no seas to piss in! Man, how little you could make of life if you did not rest from your rigor at last! (ca. 1970) |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Jeri Date: 27 Sep 08 - 11:04 AM I LOVE Joe's work! This, however, is all over the place, much like me. Doesn't know if it wants to rhyme or not. It probably needs editing... a LOT of editing. I used to write stuff like this when I was young, and I'd hide a bit of rhyme in it. I also wanted to turn this into a legend with a crow bringing the promise of life and setting the conditions. Stone Woman The world is made of one too many sunsets, Glowing bittersweet fire through dusky clouds at the end of too-short days. It is said that statues sometime live, No one knows what magic makes it so. Stone Woman watched as three times the sun rose- Molten gold in a sky of cornflower blue possibility The first day glowed with joyful color, Until the sky went black and the light was ripped away Like a door slamming shut After just a glimpse of joy denied. On the second day, the morning bloomed vermillion and marigold Promising fullness and warmth But smothering clouds soaked up the sun Sucked out the air and mocked her foolish hope. The world dimmed slowly, allowing her to believe sunset was illusion So when might came, it was all the sadder. On the third day, a bashful sun kissed the morning. The far-away was amethyst and peach; the sunlight, golden laughter. Stone Woman watched and longed to join the birds of dawn, and lift upon the breath of a sigh She thought, 'Night will only come again' But she opened her heart one last time. As long as life had not abandoned her, she would not abandon it. She wanted happiness but knew that day too would end, When it did, she faced west to never see the dawn again She was given three days to live and feel before she turned again to stone And in what passes for a heart in a stone thing She wondered at the cruelty love and life could bring She knew she was not blessed but cursed, to remember all and to be alone And she stood through cycles of day and dark for uncountable years The days were dimmer, the grey land stark, and the rain was all she had for tears. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 26 Sep 08 - 11:09 PM Joe, that's just brilliant,man!!! A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 26 Sep 08 - 09:00 PM DEGREE-OF-FREEDOM BLUES What makes the mist boil off the street? What makes big molecules soak up more heat? Just that they can do it -- they don't have to choose. They've got those everloving degree-of-freedom blues. Why isn't the sky solid white with stars? Why don't you see much from Jupiter to Mars? There's lots of space for losing what you have to lose. Just don't let it give you those degree-of-freedom blues. Energy is everything -- so some people say, but entropy has got the keys and trucks it all away. Everything is plenty -- more than we can use, but most of it is down with those degree-of-freedom blues. We may get TV signals from deep in outer space, and funny, long-dead faces may stare us in the face. If they look a little green, that won't be news. That's just your dopplered-down degree-of-freedom blues. There are more words than you can ever say, more stars and people than ever come your way. You ignore the billions to learn the ones and twos. Open up your ears to those degree-of-freedom blues. Once love was stuck in cylinders and pulled creation's train, but now, if you believe it, it's falling with the rain. Love is free to cover whatever may amuse. I think I hear love drumming those degree-of-freedom blues. Ropes knot and snarl if you just let them be. No river runs straight down to the sea. Crooked ways are billions; straight ways, ones and twos. All the worms are singing those degree-of-freedom blues. We send our whores banging thru the sky; we keep on building bombs as if we'd like to die -- just cause we can do it (costs too much to choose). That's what's got me singing those degree-of-freedom blues. You can run a rocky road balancing a pole, but you can't run with water and keep it in the bowl. What you've got to run with has still more ways to lose, and what you've got to live with is degree-of-freedom blues. 1978 |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Georgiansilver Date: 26 Sep 08 - 03:17 PM Refresh |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 26 Sep 08 - 11:10 AM Renewal is joined at the head With the truth of things. That is the great secret, and why This thread comes back Over and over. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 16 Sep 08 - 10:32 PM ELEGY FOR THE COMBAT ZONE (The raunchy district in Boston -- pornographic movies & the like -- succumbed some years ago to political pressure from the city and economic pressure from the expansion of Chinatown.) Farewell, O street of sleaze, For even sleaze must pass! Rebuild, O virtuous Chinese, That true blue Boston, Mass., Where men still had their powers, And women used their wits; And "topless" went with towers, And "bottomless", with pits. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Lonesome EJ Date: 16 Sep 08 - 10:29 PM Joe F, were you by any chance an early subject for lysergic experiments? I love the imagery! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: olddude Date: 16 Sep 08 - 07:36 PM AT LAST Elizabeth Akers Allen At last, when all the summer shine That warmed life's early hours is past, Your loving fingers seek for mine And hold them close at last at last! Not oft the robin comes to build Its nest upon the leafless bough By autumn robbed, by winter chilled, But you, dear heart, you love me now. Though there are shadows on my brow And furrows on my cheek, in truth, The marks where Time's remorseless plough Broke up the blooming sward of Youth, Though fled is every boyish grace Might win or hold a lover's vow, Despite my sad and faded face, And darkened heart, you love me now! I count no more my wasted tears; They left no echo of their fall; I mourn no more my lonesome years; This blessed hour atones for all. I fear not all that Time or Fate May bring to burden heart or brow, Strong in the love that came so late, Our souls shall keep it always now! |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 15 Sep 08 - 09:07 PM A MIGHTY YOGURT IS OUR GOD A mighty yogurt is our God, And wicked as a teasel, Which makes Our Mother dark and cross As clouds above grass-laden sod That draw its great green breasts of loss Up to the Big Sloth Weasel. He, stretched upon the thongs of hate, Despises every inning Wherein poor pricketts pushing past The hateful health of Pa's debate Let go the thought of shorn things massed As if they might be winning. Soon comes the second -- aye, that long -- When they are caused to know it: Each prickly parent reams them through With a necessitated gong, To wake them up astride the ewe, And only snow to show it. He that did plow a Christmas path Amidst dark stumps of apples Shall sure upon the hills be struck With avocado pears of wrath And heathen antonyms of luck, Which each brown spatter dapples. Each now devises by his ways An ever crushing pattern Of rampantly abrading spheres Dispersed in swarms of bleak displays, To vomit heat on stellar fears, While Justice bides, a slattern. Evil are they that hate the witch That drinks their blood upon them, For it is purple, and can but Despoil the whimsies of our stitch Till naught but razor blades can cut Such strings, from such as don them. But worse and worse the wet flesh gets By every moonlit measure, So sprouts of vaginated teeth Infest the serifs of our debts, Like pintles holy men bequeath For our dendritic pleasure. And so the asterisks of hate Have synchronized their twitches In order to become the sight Of film-clothed Death (at any rate) And, with a little luck, of Night, Who comes in small, ripe breeches. [Written about 1959] |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Sailor Ron Date: 15 Sep 08 - 11:55 AM Full forty years and over this task have I done Ate the meal from off the corpse before the requiem. The 'sin-eater' of the county. I eat their sins with the wine & bread And with take unto my self the sins of all the dead.But who is there to take it on? Where now can I turn? For if no one steps forth for me in Hell's cold fire I'll burn. The sins of hundreds gone I carry in my soul What happens when the 'sin-eater' lies cold beneath his pall? With sins as countless as the stars, murder, lust & hate Will anyone step forward my legacy to take? The 'Death Song' they are keening, so to me they call Yet they'll cross to the other side fore my shadow on them falls. Will they watch my spirit flee bearing this black load the sins of generations past to be judged before the Lord? For this task you were chosen, so do not your duty shun For the only one to eat my sins is you my only son. Eat the bread, and drink the wine, as the priest at my mass The choice my son is in your hand, do not let this chalice pass. Or you condemn your father's soul to Hell and black despair. My son in love, I beg of you take up this cross to bear. Are you here to take it on? Unto you may I turn? For if you don't step forth for me in Hell's cold fire I'll burn Who is there to take it on? Where now can I turn? Or in Hell's fire, in Hell's cold fire, in Hell's cold fire I burn. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 15 Sep 08 - 06:23 AM Off we went the hops to pick, Followed by apples, we gotta be quick, The winter is coming but harvest we must the hard times will soon be running. the wagons need paint, the chavvs need food, the money we earned a lot has been spent, time to knock doors with pegs and posies time to shelter we wont be cosy. Hard time is coming shelter to find heather to cut, brooms to bind. where to stop without fear can we go back where we were last year meat we will poach the keeper aware just a few few rabbits look there are children here they cant eat grass nor the hoss that we rear. what to sell just to keep em fed need warm things for the chavvs bed the boys on the ground. the girls fair better they sleep in the wagon the boys underneath on straw with the hound. some folks take pity on lives so hard others give fear and drive us away the hares in the field they will feed us for a week the deer in the forest a month they will keep the he knows and traps he do set we just want to live guv you have so much most game you dump after you have all shot. We are human guv dont to prison me send, who food to my young'uns will send as i walk to the gibbet for poaching the game i say to you boys keep liiving the game for young lads now men will become in just a few moments my breath will be gone look to your mother your sisters to look to our ways aqnd never give in. a right to live and a right to roam my dear sons it will soon be gone. look to your lives look to your ways lookt the sad times aheading your way. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 12 Sep 08 - 10:57 AM Thank very much for sharing with us, romany man. Much appreciated. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: GUEST Date: 12 Sep 08 - 10:26 AM I think I shall never hear, After everything's been said, Nothing so sweet and dear as, "Original Poster, you give good thread." |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 12 Sep 08 - 05:55 AM Nah just like to write it, the old ways are gone never to return, the younuns dot want to know us getting on a bit know the ways cant come back and are left to history, or museum peices, yeh i can still cut pegs and mend lodsa thing, but people want machines, and plastic, our history is bastardised, our ways treated with contempt. its always "oh you are a gypsy" then they are gone. ifn you want to use it please do, there are loads more, Ken |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: peregrina Date: 11 Sep 08 - 07:52 AM that's really powerful and poignant, Romany Man. have you thought of singing or reciting it? |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 11 Sep 08 - 07:11 AM Just marks in the grass, where the wagons sat; Just marks in the grass, where the horses grew fat, Just marks in the grass, the turf a bit higher, Just marks in the grass, where they had the camp fire, Just marks in the grass, folk stayed here you know, Just marks in the grass, they were forced to go, Just marks in the grass, Those lives they have gone Just marks in the grass, the bailifs my son. just marks in the grass, spattered with blood , just marks in the grass, we will stop this flood, Just marks in the grass, no body will care, Just marks in the grass, Gone , but where ? |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Lonesome EJ Date: 10 Sep 08 - 12:14 AM Joe, shocking, disturbing, maybe a trifle disgusting. Very interesting and real though. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 09 Sep 08 - 10:18 PM Wow, Joe. Those dances were a sore spot with me, too. I never could figure out the game very well. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Joe_F Date: 09 Sep 08 - 08:36 PM A BREATH OF FRESH AIR AT A PARTY The moon, a little bag of death, shakes shit within itself above a tree: a Spanish-rhythmed slog with every breath insults the intellect, and me. Now, in a ferment smug and pure, this single buttock germinates and bursts, spilling a hate jazz out along the sewer of light, to taunt the common thirsts. It's time now for a job of talk. Why don't they fuck and bugger on the floor? I came in case they did, so I could gawk, and it is what they came here for. -- June 1965, but a remembrance of undergraduate mixer dances in the 1950s |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 09 Sep 08 - 03:56 PM AW, jesus. Thanks, romanyman. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 09 Sep 08 - 09:54 AM Four days it took to get to the tan, (camp) Here to farm for to work, Money to earn, to get food for the pan, Not known to us the gavvers (police, etc) did lurk. Vardos set tilts tied tight, camp fires burning heating the pani (water) Strong tea, an cheeseon bread will have to see us right, By morns rising to fields we'd go just like an army. The night was cold, the moon she was full, sitting high in the sky, little we knew how the day it would start, as sun replaced moon, they raided the tan, ol' joe the first to die, The gavvers cosh it hit him hard, the skull it did part. the waggons did burn the chavvs (children) they did run, the gavvers the council, the locals, didnt care for any, Pain and fear it ruled the day, many did die at the end of a gun, The new laws were in, no stopping it says, not even allowed to earn a penny. The travelling day gone , the people are next, settle you will, the law says you must, no land can you live on, your ways they are hex'd where ever you go your type we wont trust. a way of life, a culture being slowly destroyed and smashed, we the victims sit and watch, for to stand up and fight, would only bring quicker the time to be cashed. who will pick up the pieces, and see our plight. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 09 Sep 08 - 05:17 AM Thanks, some of the threads go way over my head with all the bitching and psuedo racism ie go to 5000 morris dancers, oh my god. ive chosen to drop nthat thread as its just tooooooooo much, i have and use the word loosely "suffered" all my life and im knocking on a bit, 3 major breakdowns, spells in looney bin, etc but hey im still here fighting the corner, love our music though we tend to keep it to ourselves, ive bought so called gypsy music cds and laughed at the obvious piss takes that the producers and non gypsy folk dont realise, still life goes on, just wish i still had the stopping places and work we used to have. Theres always a bye law that says no stopping and another that says no travelling, so good bye to the thirty foot trailer, in the words of the song. see ya |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 08 Sep 08 - 07:45 PM romany man, you might be interested in a few threads including this one: Origins: Traveller and Romany Influence on Trad. If you put "romany" in the search box at the top of the thread titles and use teh drop down box to set the date to "All" there are a few others. Similarly, if you use other words such as "romani, roman, etc." there are a few others, some contentious. Welcome to the Mudcat! kat |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 08 Sep 08 - 12:57 PM Im used to it amos, life goes on, it will never stop, it happens daily, eventually you get either numb or bitter, i choose the middle road , ie dont hear it as i cant fight it. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Amos Date: 08 Sep 08 - 10:12 AM I am sorry you have to endure such targeting, Romany man. I would think, by now, that that sort of categorical insult was behind us, buit this appears to be disappointingly untrue. A |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: romany man Date: 08 Sep 08 - 06:03 AM With the romani love of music , I thought id just place this old romany poem, first in romany then in english. Miro dadus miro jin, miro daia durogilo; miro pireni sar o iouzers jell. bor miro ker no, yeckoro tu mi bosh, miro mi yeckoro bor. ENGLISH My father I have never known My mothers long since gone My sweetheart with the flowers go of friends i have none, only you my violin are my only friend. A sad tale relevant today, it shows that many romanys who like me have no KNOWN family left, feel that they really dont have any friends wether that is true or not is debateable, I have many friends, all romas who have seen me through some very bad and sad times, but sadly there are times that as many people do , the feeling of being alone tend to overwhelm. Being of romany decent i know the real world of exclusion from mainstream life. Yes we are a race apart but since the first arrival of the roma folk in the 14 1500s there has always been suspicion and fear of the unknown, but only last week i was called a dirty pikey, by a shop keeper, because i had tied my horse to a lamp post as i went in to buy a packet of fags, had i pulled up in my car and parked in the same place would he have said anything?, but because i was taking the horse and trap out, he did, so what do i think ? sorry got on me soap box again. oops. |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: katlaughing Date: 07 Sep 08 - 11:32 PM Love it, LeeJ, esp. as I used to sell specialty ad products just like that!**bg** A friend came to visit. In the middle of the night She was just there. I heard her first on the phone After months of no calls, nothing I said, I cannot believe it is you! She said, I've crossed over. I gasped with sorrow, cried her name. No, no, it's okay, she said, it's really nice! There we were in the middle of the night In a room of high ceiling, warm wood Singing, her strumming, a session of our own. I realised there were others there, singing, too Playing, too, a full session which filled me with joy And, wonder that it was there in my home, though not my home. How could this be, in the middle of the night A stranger on the phone, then known, then here? A dream, precognition, or a visitation? copyright 2008 Kat LaFrance |
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Subject: RE: Mudcat Poetry Corner From: Lonesome EJ Date: 07 Sep 08 - 11:20 PM I found this poem in some papers. I wrote it when I was 22. I had a strong urge to edit it, but resisted. An old man stumbled through the door his overcoat gray and solemn December Stark against the glassed-out sunlight he fumbled, spoke with a voice like cracked marble "My name is O.L. Brown. I sell matches." He dropped a brown suitcase like a basket of bricks the leather scratched and scarred with years of layered sweat- the young man's nervous sweat in buffed-brass waiting rooms the old man's thin moan of beaded sweat mapping the wrinkles on his face with moisture and the dust of the road. "35 years in the Advertising Game" he winked with a salesman's rude charm "My matches have carried names of men great and small into the pants pockets of America. My matches have shouted manure to hog farmers- have sung silver against the cigarettes of rich men. They have told barroom secrets to distrustful wives they have flamed for seven men-all strangers. For 35 years they have flashed in the cupped hands of nameless people. For 35 years they have told stories to chance eyes. For 35 years they have kept me from the cold." He smiled and held out a crooked hand. Small flames glowed behind his eyes. I reached out to take his hand. A matchbook fell with a whisper into my palm. O.L. Brown 35 Years in Matches |
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