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I liked this poem so much I thought I'd share it with you. Its called 'Desire' and it's by Jennifer MacKenzie. (no relation)

---------------------------- Clearly this is a city that defers to love, where the couple in the room promised to us at noon still possess it undisturbed at six. Idly we push the melon seeds into patterns on the plate. Are they sitting face to face on the bed before the open window, cooling their bodies slick with sweat? I know how dusk pearls their skin, how she twists her hair into a rope and lifts it off her neck. How one breast rises with the motion. How they turn again. They cannot get enough. As evening deepens, still they linger stalled in the forecourt of desire.

------------------------------------------------ Use this thread to share poems you love, and your own poems that you are proud of.

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Oh bugger, buggered that *right* up. Hope you can still make it out. Er... new answers.

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Second time lucky...



Clearly
this is a city that defers to love,
where the couple in the room promised to us at noon
still possess it undisturbed at six.
Idly we push the melon seeds into patterns
on the plate. Are they sitting face to face
on the bed before the open window,
cooling their bodies slick with sweat?
I know how dusk pearls their skin,
how she twists her hair into a rope and lifts
it off her neck. How one breast
rises with the motion. How
they turn again. They cannot get enough
As evening deepens, still they linger
stalled in the forecourt of desire.
 

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Poems about sex turn me right off. Also "the forecourt of desire" blows it a bit as I think of Shell Select and petrol fumes.

Tom, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Sorry Will for dissing something you like but it made me go 'ew'.

Tom, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

So, how many people "felt the poem differently in prsoe style? Eh? Eh?

You're just a perv, McKenzie.

Mark C, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

No worries Tom, although the notion of the petrol station only makes the poem better in my eyes - lends the charge in the poem a kind of urban aspect, and a foreshadowing of menace. Like 'Crash' or that Suede song 'She's Not Dead' where the characters make love in a car that fills up with gas. That also in turn reminds me of Gaultier or Baudelaire

Er... I've just conveniently proven Mark's 'perv' charge beyond doubt.

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Likening a peom to a Suede song is not exactly giving it a ringing endorsement.

RickyT, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

b-b-b-b-b-b-ut...!

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Are we supposed to hate this couple and their stupid shagathon?

Nick, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

You're supposed to put the poems *you* like on the thread, Nick! So as, hopefully, to focus attention away from the stupid shagathon!
Sorry!

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

there was a poem on the origin of fleas: Adam

had'em i put html in that. i hope it worked!!

katie, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Sex, sex, sex. More odes from swains to country lasses! Or shepherds to sheep. Er...

Ned Raggett, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

only sort of. poo.

katie, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

First poem ever, also a palindrome (well, apart from rogue punctuation):
Madam, I'm adam.

Will, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

I liked the poem and I like the idea of posting poems people like. This is Song by Frank O'Hara. Is it dirty
does it look dirty
that's what you think of in the city

does it just seem dirty
that's what you think of in the city
you don't refuse to breathe do you

someone comes along with a very bad character
he seems attractive. is he really. yes. very
he's attractive as his character is bad. is it. yes

that's what you think of in the city
run your finger along your no-moss mind
that's not a thought that's soot

and you take a lot of dirt of someone
is the character less bad. no. it improves constantly
you don't refuse to breathe do you

dan, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

I'll start this one for someone else to finish:

Ahem

The pointy birds - all pointy, pointy,

Pete, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

In the future we'll drive flying cars
Wear spacesuits and go to the stars
In the future, microchips
Will be inside our heads
We'll use telepathy
And have robots to make our beds
In the future, the sadness won't go
The sadness won't go, the sadness won't go

james, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

I'm still bracing myself for a contribution by Hanle y -- the Shel Silverstein of the ILX generation.

Brian MacDonald, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Here's a short poem I like a lot.

The Pope's Penis by Sharon Olds

It hangs deep in his robes, a delicate clapper at the center of a bell.
It moves when he moves, a ghostly fish in a halo of silver sweaweed, the hair swaying in the dark and the heat
-- and at night while his eyes sleep, it stands up in praise of God.

Samantha, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

http://home.graffiti.net/camel16filters/poetrymenu.htm

Geoff, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

samantha,

the poem is alot longer and great, you should find more sharon olds

anthony, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Variations on the Word Love

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.


Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
-Margaret Atwood

anthonyeaston, Friday, 9 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Fix

There is no caring less
for you. I fix on music in the weeds,
count cricket beats to tell the temp, count
my breaths from here to Zen.
September does its best.
The Alaskan pipeline lacks integrity,
mineral fibers are making people dizzy,
we're waiting for a major quake. Ultra-
violet intensity is gaining,
the ozone's full of holes and

I can find no shade.
There is no caring less.
Without the moon the earth
would whirl us three times faster, gale-force
winds would push us down. Say
earth lost mass, a neighbor
star exploded—it's if

and and and
but. The cosmos owns our luck.
Say under right and rare conditions,
space and time could oscillate.
I know what conditions
those would be for me.
I'd like to keep my distance,
my others, keep my rights reserved.
Yet look at you, intreasured,

where resolutions end.
No matter how we breathe
or count our breaths,
there is no caring less
for you for me. I have to stop myself

from writing "sovereign," praising
with the glory words I know.
Glaciologists say changes
in the mantle, the planet's vast
cold sheets could melt. Catastrophe
is everywhere, my presence
here is extra—yet—
there is no caring less.

-- Alice Fulton

bnw, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Rabbits like to eat carrots,
Talking birds are called parrots,
Hedgehogs like delicious slugs,
I'm quite scared of vicious rugs.

Bricks aren't round or good to eat,
I once met a bloke called Pete,
Tables mostly have four legs,
Coats are hung on hooks or pegs.

Could I be killed by rancid peas?
Or beaten up by purple cheese?
What if blue looked just like red?
A shed for bikes is called a bike shed.

Living fish are usually wet,
I haven't eaten Muesli yet,
Trees are made from lots of sticks,
Have you had your Weetabix?

Graham, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

(If you liked that, I have many more)

Graham, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

Wooden Overcoat

There's a man in a pitch black hat
And his underwear's made of mud
He jumps like a pouncing cat
And he lands with a sickening thud
His head is surrounded by ravens
The plague has progressed to his heart
Best that you meet him clean shaven
Cos his razor is not kept sharp
And he's wearing a wooden overcoat

He's known in the underworld
He lives in the undergrowth
And he's knowingly undersold
Though he's never been under oath
His devil's are arrayed in armies
And his angels will fix the fight
He'll shape you like origami
And throw you away at night
And he's wearing a wooden overcoat

His house is a damp museum
And all of his servants worms
Mating in mausoleums
Licking the floor for germs
And his cabinet's full of wonders
There's specimens everywhere
He's negative six feet under
And has to submerge for air
And he's wearing a wooden overcoat

Don't ever act too humble
Don't eat away thy heart
He's tearing apart each dungeon
His tail's an evil dart
And he's wearing a wooden overcoat

J.W. Harding

(my favourite thing ever - set to music, but a poem nonetheless)

Kim, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

oops - ignore rogue apostrophe in "devil's"

Kim, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (seventeen years ago) link

one year passes...
bored, finished tax, take this:

Andy Goram Broke My Heart by Will Ferguson

It’s artificial to stop the ball
at this point.
But Goram does: in a minute.
The goal’s already shelved, the ball relaxed
after its blaat through November’s
stubborn air, filed
in its sleeve of net.
Already shelved, when the lump of skin
hits it: Goram.
Time stopped as a vector:
all motion, no direction, a sequence
of unitary incidents staring
at the full, stop second:
blaat, shelved, lump, disappointment.
The trick was ‘don’t tell gravity’;
how it pulls from-to the inevitable,
toward a net of comfort, the habitual
dwelling. Goram didn’t tell gravity,
leapt and landed, a dumb thud of skin
on ground; the ball resting,
safe
from its shelf.
A language my children
(my memory’s trickery)
can’t understand or even begin to
graze its meaning; like light
peeking through pock-marks
in pit-dark curtains, they’re unable
to source or context it.

dwh (dwh), Monday, 9 December 2002 22:02 (sixteen years ago) link

five years pass...

summer

every minute
of every day
is endless
and too short.
every glance i find
every man
i hide from
feels like
the end of the road.
so i take it off
and put it on.
i take it off
and put it on.
i let him watch
and go on
and on.
i let him watch
i pose
i arch myself
over my doubts
shortcomings
surely turn someone on.

Surmounter, Wednesday, 30 July 2008 14:39 (ten years ago) link

all of you
please find the heights of my regard
the lengths to which i would go
for you.
all of you
please listen when i sing your praises
i can't help but see your faces
in these late hours.
all of you
please see the limits of my charms
and carry them with you
carry me with you
take me on.
all of you
please, even though i don't know how
to show you
take me on.
please take me on.

Surmounter, Wednesday, 30 July 2008 16:23 (ten years ago) link

ten months pass...

a catalogue of emergencies which i will feign to help you bail on an annoying friend

-My roommate lit my cat on fire and stole my car.
-I have been kidnapped by Nazis. For ransom they are demanding the hair of an ex punk girl.
-Werewolves have stolen my wardrobe and I am naked in the middle of South Congress.
-I am drowning. Come get me.
-Mars is entering the seventh house and my self destructive proclivities are becoming more pronounced so I need you to remove this scotch bottle from my mouth if you've got a minute to spare.

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 17 June 2009 05:12 (ten years ago) link

catalog, obviously

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 17 June 2009 08:37 (ten years ago) link

For the man with the erection lasting more than four hours

He’s supposed to call his doctor, but for now he’s the May King
with his own maypole.
He’s hallelujah, he’s glory hole. The world has more women than
he can shake a stick
at. The world is his brickbat, no conscience to prick at, all of us
Germans he can ich
liebe dich
at. He’s Dick and Jane. He’s Citizen Kane. He’s Bob Dole.
He’s Peter the Great. He’s a tsar. He’s a clown car with an extra car.
Funiculí, Funilucá. He’s an organ donor. He works pro boner.
He’s folderol.
He’s fiddlesticks. He’s the light left on at Motel 6. He’s free-for-alls.
He’s Viagra Falls. He’s bangers and mash. He’s balderdash.
He’s a wanker.
He’s got his own anchor. He’s whack-a-doodle. King Canoodle.
He’s a pirate, Long John
Silver, walking his own plank. He has science to thank. He’s in
like Flynn. He’s Gunga Din.,
holding his breath, cock of the walk through the valley of the
shadow of death. He’s Icarus,
hickery dickarous, the mouse run up the clock. He’s shock and awe.
He’s Arkansas.
He’s the package, the deal, the Good Housekeeping Seal.
He’s Johnson & Johnson.
He’s a god now, the talk of the town. He’s got no place too go
but down.

—John Hodgen

Beth Parker, Tuesday, 23 June 2009 01:41 (ten years ago) link

TO go. sorry for fucking up last line.

Beth Parker, Tuesday, 23 June 2009 01:42 (ten years ago) link

what is this? a work in progress? I dunno:

Infinite Streets

birdwings slap in the square
and a distant mothering cry
echoes through canyons of stone

then there, unexpected,
a blast of grass untouched
beside the black canal

鬼の手 (Edward III), Tuesday, 23 June 2009 01:48 (ten years ago) link

two months pass...

We quarreled that morning,
For he was sixty-five, and I was thirty,
And I was nervous and heavy with the child
Whose birth I dreaded.
I thought over the last letter written me
By that estranged young soul
Whose betrayal of me I had concealed
By marrying the old man.
Then I took morphine and sat down to read.
Across the blackness that came over my eyes
I see the flickering light of these words even now:
"And Jesus said unto him, Verily
I say unto thee, To-day thou shalt
Be with me in paradise."

Daniel, Esq., Sunday, 20 September 2009 02:42 (nine years ago) link

Jonas Keene thought his lot a hard one
Because his children were all failures.
But I know of a fate more trying than that:
It is to be a failure while your children are successes.
For I raised a brood of eagles
Who flew away at last, leaving me
A crow on the abandoned bough.
Then, with the ambition to prefix
Honorable to my name,
And thus to win my children's admiration,
I ran for County Superintendent of Schools,
Spending my accumulations to win-- and lost.
That fall my daughter received first prize in
Paris For her picture, entitled, "The Old Mill"--
(It was of the water mill before Henry Wilkin put in steam.)
The feeling that I was not worthy of her finished me.

Daniel, Esq., Sunday, 20 September 2009 02:45 (nine years ago) link

six months pass...

a catalogue of emergencies which i will feign to help you bail on an annoying friend

-My roommate lit my cat on fire and stole my car.
-I have been kidnapped by Nazis. For ransom they are demanding the hair of an ex punk girl.
-Werewolves have stolen my wardrobe and I am naked in the middle of South Congress.
-I am drowning. Come get me.
-Mars is entering the seventh house and my self destructive proclivities are becoming more pronounced so I need you to remove this scotch bottle from my mouth if you've got a minute to spare.

― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, June 17, 2009 5:12 AM (9 months ago) Bookmark

holy fuck talk about a time and a place

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Monday, 29 March 2010 06:20 (nine years ago) link

and a terribly formed "poem"

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Monday, 29 March 2010 06:22 (nine years ago) link

The Skull Ring - Chelsey Minnis

I am very excited about the skull ring.
I didn't know anyone would think
I wanted a silver skull ring.
Now, when I am rude to those who oppose me,
I can just look down at the skull ring.
It has ruby chips in the eyes!
Ruby chips like the nasty flame in my own eyes
when I am insulted or reviled.
No one will dare oppose me now
in my own hometown.
For a very long time I have avoided rings
because none of them seemed right for me.
A skull ring is actually a good complement
to my diabolical will.
Thank you very much for the skull ring.

iiiijjjj, Monday, 29 March 2010 18:59 (nine years ago) link

seven months pass...

Hot damn I love this opening couplet from Speech by Walter de la Mare; it's perfect -

The robin's whistled stave
Is tart as half-ripened fruit;

Pork Pius V (GamalielRatsey), Thursday, 4 November 2010 15:27 (eight years ago) link

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

popular yes, but my favorite.

Str8 Drapin It (chrisv2010), Thursday, 4 November 2010 15:49 (eight years ago) link

three years pass...

https://i.imgur.com/MtGyqmY.png

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Friday, 13 June 2014 06:49 (five years ago) link

two months pass...

drunk hoos appears to have left sober hoos a present in the rolling drafts doc

http://i.imgur.com/7iquddC.png

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 27 August 2014 18:06 (four years ago) link

A+ Berryman tweets

lars von (Treeship), Wednesday, 27 August 2014 18:10 (four years ago) link

hoosteen bores me, with his plights and gripes as bad as achilles

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 27 August 2014 18:25 (four years ago) link

lol ty tho

BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 27 August 2014 18:26 (four years ago) link

two years pass...

http://i.imgur.com/M1h3fj1.jpg

example (crüt), Tuesday, 3 January 2017 03:20 (two years ago) link

that is a gr-r-reat poem

rap is dad (it's a boy!), Wednesday, 4 January 2017 01:59 (two years ago) link

one year passes...

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DoqNoVKXoAA4tOq.jpg

calzino, Thursday, 4 October 2018 11:51 (nine months ago) link

Thought the revive would be because today is NATIONAL POETRY DAY

the word dog doesn't bark (anagram), Thursday, 4 October 2018 12:12 (nine months ago) link

probably why it popped on my feed earlier.

calzino, Thursday, 4 October 2018 12:37 (nine months ago) link

is that a Limmy

imago, Thursday, 4 October 2018 13:29 (nine months ago) link

of course it's a Limmy, I don't even need to ask

imago, Thursday, 4 October 2018 13:29 (nine months ago) link

Robert Florence "most popularly known for starring in the popular BBC comedy sketch show Burnistoun" he's probably very bad, everyone from the comedy world is!

calzino, Thursday, 4 October 2018 13:36 (nine months ago) link

four months pass...

I really like this poem by Alberto Ríos

It is blunt, but lovely. And both an elegy and benediction. It reminds me a little of Larkin's 'High Wires'

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/house-called-tomorrow

A House Called Tomorrow
Alberto Ríos, 1952
You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries

And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step

Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,

The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.

If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:

The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are.

We simply would not be here
If that were so.

You are made, fundamentally, from the good.
With this knowledge, you never march alone.

You are the breaking news of the century.
You are the good who has come forward

Through it all, even if so many days
Feel otherwise. But think:

When you as a child learned to speak,
It’s not that you didn’t know words—

It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many,
And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.

From those centuries we human beings bring with us
The simple solutions and songs,

The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies
All in service to a simple idea:

That we can make a house called tomorrow.
What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,

Is ourselves. And that’s all we need
To start. That’s everything we require to keep going.

Look back only for as long as you must,
Then go forward into the history you will make.

Be good, then better. Write books. Cure disease.
Make us proud. Make yourself proud.

And those who came before you? When you hear thunder,
Hear it as their applause

remy bean, Wednesday, 13 February 2019 23:31 (five months ago) link

three months pass...

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