lonely guy just writing poem baout things
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:05 (six years ago) link
that is a good one too
A Man in Assynt by Norman MacCaig is a little long to post here so I'll link it here
I really love this reading by the author and just falling into the West Highland landscapes.
― call me by your name..or Finn (fionnland), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:13 (six years ago) link
So many to name, but the beginning of Keith Waldrop's 'Shipwreck in Heaven' springs to mind:
Balancing. Austere. Life-less. I have tried to keepcontext from claiming you.Without doors. And there arewindows. How far, howfar into the desert have we come?Rude instruments, productof my garden. Might also bedifferent, what I am thinking of.So you see: it isnot symmetrical, darkred out of the snow.
Without doors. And there arewindows. How far, howfar into the desert have we come?
Rude instruments, productof my garden. Might also bedifferent, what I am thinking of.
So you see: it isnot symmetrical, darkred out of the snow.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:16 (six years ago) link
Or part I of Rosmarie Waldrop's 'In a Doorway' (from Blindsight):
The world was galaxies imagined flesh. Mortal. What to think now? Think simple. Matter? A lump of wax? An afterglow? Or does everything happen of its own accord? Perfect and full-bodied. No more. Observable. No longer. In your eyes or line of sight. Down all three dimensions of time. Or lock up the house. Or prophets.•Here I work toward. A kind of elegy. Here a strange ceiling. "Earth fills his mouth." I would look at you. And write you. A spell but slack at the edge. And in the door where I stand your voice goes. Hollow.•If what happened. (Happened?) Hand. Between palms. Grief. Death. Coffee with cream. Coffee. Arms, knees and free will. And shiny. Rainbows.•The words have detached. And spread throughout my body. Such reckless growth. Windbag! Want to see come full circle the wheel? To comment. My own commentary till I till. My own great-granddaughter's body?•Absence. But it cuts. Repeat. Furiously Yes then No. Even a fictional character catches a chill. Makes the heart. And cold penetrates. We do not fall off the surface. But you, planet earth. Grow. Even as we read. Fonder of the dark.
•
Here I work toward. A kind of elegy. Here a strange ceiling. "Earth fills his mouth." I would look at you. And write you. A spell but slack at the edge. And in the door where I stand your voice goes. Hollow.
If what happened. (Happened?) Hand. Between palms. Grief. Death. Coffee with cream. Coffee. Arms, knees and free will. And shiny. Rainbows.
The words have detached. And spread throughout my body. Such reckless growth. Windbag! Want to see come full circle the wheel? To comment. My own commentary till I till. My own great-granddaughter's body?
Absence. But it cuts. Repeat. Furiously Yes then No. Even a fictional character catches a chill. Makes the heart. And cold penetrates. We do not fall off the surface. But you, planet earth. Grow. Even as we read. Fonder of the dark.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:22 (six years ago) link
I also miss the late Simon Howard, whose blog is still up:
http://walkingintheceiling.blogspot.ca
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:24 (six years ago) link
The following was written by one of my students, a 12 year-old kid from New York whom I taught via Skype. I provide it verbatim:
The LookThis look I see too much,Out of confusionAnd bewilderment.From people who,Cannot comprehend,The stories of those,Who can suppress.This look I find unbearable,The lookFrom those who mayBe forgetful.I still do not understand,What is the cause ofThis unmistakable glance.
This look I see too much,Out of confusionAnd bewilderment.
From people who,Cannot comprehend,The stories of those,Who can suppress.
This look I find unbearable,The lookFrom those who mayBe forgetful.
I still do not understand,What is the cause ofThis unmistakable glance.
I sometimes wonder what he's up to now. Hopefully writing poetry.
― #TeamHailing (imago), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:41 (six years ago) link
After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.
It is difficult even to choose the adjective For this blank cold, this sadness without cause. The great structure has become a minor house. No turban walks across the lessened floors.
The greenhouse never so badly needed paint. The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side. A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition In a repetitiousness of men and flies.
Yet the absence of the imagination hadItself to be imagined. The great pond,The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence
Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all thisHad to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,Required, as a necessity requires.
― morning wood truancy (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:43 (six years ago) link
I was expecting 'The Charge of the Light Brigade'.
― pomenitul, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 23:56 (six years ago) link
O commemorate me where there is water, Canal water, preferably, so stillyGreeny at the heart of summer. BrotherCommemorate me thus beautifullyWhere by a lock niagarously roarsThe falls for those who sit in the tremendous silenceOf mid-July. No one will speak in proseWho finds his way to these Parnassian islands. A swan goes by head low with many apologies, Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges - And look! a barge comes bringing from AthyAnd other far-flung towns mythologies.O commemorate me with no hero-courageous Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.
― spaghetti connemara (darraghmac), Friday, 15 January 2021 02:43 (three years ago) link
Its hard to read any poetry not written by irish tbh
love that one so much i moved to the canal in question tbh
― Ár an broc a mhic (darraghmac), Monday, 22 May 2023 23:20 (eleven months ago) link
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50986/paradoxes-and-oxymorons
― The Triumphant Return of Bernard & Stubbs (Raymond Cummings), Tuesday, 23 May 2023 20:14 (eleven months ago) link
A FOOTFALL TAPPING SECRECIES OF STONE
kavanagh stop it
― close encounters of the third knid (darraghmac), Tuesday, 2 January 2024 23:52 (four months ago) link
As I wend to the shores I know not,As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck’d,As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,I too but signify at the utmost a little wash’d-up drift,A few sands and dead leaves to gather,Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.
O baffled, balk’d, bent to the very earth,Oppress’d with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I have not once had the least idea who or what I am,But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet untouch’d, untold, altogether unreach’d,Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.
I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single object, and that no man ever can,Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon me and sting me,Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.
― The king of the demo (bernard snowy), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:13 (four months ago) link
One must have a mind of winterTo regard the frost and the boughsOf the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long timeTo behold the junipers shagged with ice,The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to thinkOf any misery in the sound of the wind,In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the landFull of the same windThat is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,And, nothing himself, beholdsNothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:21 (four months ago) link
love these, keep em comin
― Humanitarian Pause (Tracer Hand), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:38 (four months ago) link
I have a feeling I’ve already shared this here, but:
― Marten Broadcloak, mild-mannered GOP congressman (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:08 (four months ago) link
Ha! Yes! I already have
― Marten Broadcloak, mild-mannered GOP congressman (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:09 (four months ago) link
I got this one via Poetry Daily, I don't know that it's a "favorite" but it's one that stuck with me.
https://poems.com/poem/juvenilia/#featured-poet
― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:11 (four months ago) link
“This Dark Apartment”, James Schuyler, 1980
Coming from the delia block away today Isaw the UN buildingshine and in all themonths and years I’velived in this apartmentI took so you and Iwould have a place tomeet I never noticedthat it was in my view.
I remember very wellthe morning I walked inand found you in bedwith X. He dressedand left. You dressedtoo. I said, “Stayfive minutes.” Youdid. You said, “That’sthe way it is.” Itwas not much of a surprise.
Then X got on speedand ripped off anantique chest and anair conditioner, etc.After he was gone andyou had changed theSegal lock, I askedyou on the phone, “Can’tyou be content withyour wife and me?” “I’mnot built that way,”you said. No surprise.
Now, without sayingwhy, you’ve let me go.You don’t return mycalls, who used to callme almost every eveningwhen I lived in the coun-try. “Hasn’t he told youwhy?” “No, and I doubt heever will.” Goodbye. It’smysterious and frustrating.
How I wish you would comeback! I could tellyou how, when I livedon East 49th, firstwith Frank and then with John,we had a lovely view ofthe UN building and theBeekman Towers. They werenot my lovers, though.You were. You said so.
― he’s an adventurer (derogatory) (flamboyant goon tie included), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:43 (four months ago) link
i always post this and im never sorry:
The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.Under the fading lamp, half dressed -- my brainIdling on some compulsive fantasy --I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,A dry downturning mouth.It seems again that it is time to learn,In this untiring, crumbling place of growthTo which, for the time being, I return.Now plainly in the mirror of my soulI read that I have looked my last on youthAnd little more; for they are not made wholeThat reach the age of Christ.
Below my window the wakening trees,Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defacedSuffering their brute necessities;And how should the flesh not quail, that span for spanIs mutilated more? In slow distasteI fold my towel with what grace I can,Not young, and not renewable, but man.
― close encounters of the third knid (darraghmac), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:50 (four months ago) link
i have only made one poem, in 2013, but it's pretty epic. i fed Alan Ginsberg's 'Howl' into every language on Google translate and finally back to English like a game of telephone:
Radyositi most.Music is dead. During the next few years.
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― Deflatormouse, Thursday, 4 January 2024 01:26 (four months ago) link
wait that's not all of it, here's the whole thing:
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― Deflatormouse, Thursday, 4 January 2024 01:35 (four months ago) link
Stripped nude, my soul,on a windswept jetty, the exhiliration of emptiness no longer obtains.
This cruel December, my thoughtsas bare as the Atlantic.
― treeship., Thursday, 4 January 2024 02:07 (four months ago) link
I got this one via Poetry Daily, I don't know that it's a "favorite" but it's one that stuck with me.https://poems.com/poem/juvenilia/#featured-poet― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:11 (yesterday)
― immodesty blaise (jimbeaux), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:11 (yesterday)
― The king of the demo (bernard snowy), Thursday, 4 January 2024 03:04 (four months ago) link
My favourite poem of all time is "Long Distance II" by Tony Harrison.
Though my mother was already two years deadDad kept her slippers warming by the gas,put hot water bottles her side of the bedand still went to renew her transport pass.
You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone.He'd put you off an hour to give him timeto clear away her things and look aloneas though his still raw love were such a crime.
He couldn't risk my blight of disbeliefthough sure that very soon he'd hear her keyscrape in the rusted lock and end his grief.He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea.
I believe life ends with death, and that is all.You haven't both gone shopping; just the same,in my new black leather phone book there's your nameand the disconnected number I still call.
― lord of the rongs (anagram), Thursday, 4 January 2024 11:48 (four months ago) link