a fish hook,an open eye
- Margaret Atwood
― possible m (mandinina), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:33 (twenty years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:34 (twenty years ago) link
No use, you walk backwards,admiring your own footprints
- M.A
a better one...
― possible m (mandinina), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:37 (twenty years ago) link
― Madchen (Madchen), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:40 (twenty years ago) link
― Archel (Archel), Thursday, 27 November 2003 15:46 (twenty years ago) link
grey rain the day the man said when I die let it rain that day whenever it rains then is grey to whomever time says goodbye
who set the man singing said the man who died said grey the man is grey said grey the rain is dead goodbye said the rain
whenever the man is singing then in a grey raincoat time says die wring out the rain ring it out that day save the grave for whomever the man said save the rain for a gay day sing it whenever said the grey die sighs the rain goodbye whenever
-Colin Morton
― Prude (Prude), Thursday, 27 November 2003 19:30 (twenty years ago) link
Hope......goosestep.
― Bill Knott, Friday, 28 November 2003 04:20 (twenty years ago) link
Civilisation is hooped together, broughtUnder a mle, under the semblance of peaceBy manifold illusion; but man's life is thought,And he, despite his terror, cannot ceaseRavening through century after century,Ravening, raging, and uprooting that he may comeInto the desolation of reality:Egypt and Greece, good-bye, and good-bye, Rome!Hermits upon Mount Meru or Everest,Caverned in night under the drifted snow,Or where that snow and winter's dreadful blastBeat down upon their naked bodies, knowThat day brings round the night, that before dawnHis glory and his monuments are gone.
― ryan (ryan), Friday, 28 November 2003 04:49 (twenty years ago) link
I sang a song at dusking time Beneath the evening star, And Terence left his latest rhyme To answer from afar.
Pierrot laid down his lute to weep, And sighed, "She sings for me." But Colin slept a careless sleep Beneath an apple tree.
― Curt1s St3ph3ns, Friday, 28 November 2003 04:57 (twenty years ago) link
****************
A City's Death by Fire
After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky,I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire;Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, IWanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire.All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales,Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar;Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were balesTorn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire.By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, whyShould a man wax tears, when his wooden world fails?In town, leaves were paper, but the hills were a flock of faiths;To a boy who walked all day, each leaf was a green breathRebuilding a love I thought was dead as nails,Blessing the death and the baptism by fire.
--
-- Liz :x (elizabeth.daply...), October 10th, 2002
**********
I think there should be a separate Liz thread already, although there is no news yet of her. I don't know her, so don't feel that I am the one to start it.
― Maria :D (Maria D.), Sunday, 10 July 2005 00:39 (eighteen years ago) link
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails, I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
-- Pablo Neruda
― luna.c (luna.c), Thursday, 10 October 2002 17:15 (fifteen years ago) Bookmark Flag Post Permalink
https://miloraps.bandcamp.com/album/sovereign-nose-of-y-our-arrogant-face
― call me by your name..or Finn (fionnland), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 21:00 (six years ago) link
The things about you I appreciatemay seem indelicate:I’d like to find you in the showerand chase the soap for half an hour.I’d like to have you in my powerand see your eyes dilate.I’d like to have your back to scourand other parts to lubricate.Sometimes I feel it is my fateto chase you screaming up a toweror make you cowerby asking you to differentiateNietzsche from Schopenhauer.I’d like successfully to guess your weightand win you at a fete.I’d like to offer you a flower.
I like the hair upon your shouldersfalling like water over boulders.I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.Your collar-bones have great potential(I’d like all your particulars in foldersmarked Confidential).
I like your cheeks, I like your nose,I like the way your lips disclosethe neat arrangement of your teeth(half above and half beneath)in rows.
I like your eyes, I like their fringes.The way they focus on me gives me twinges.Your upper arms drive me berserkI like the way your elbows work,on hinges.
I like your wrists, I like your glands,I like the fingers on your hands.I’d like to teach them how to count,and certain things we might exchange,something familiar for something strange.I’d like to give you just the right amountand give some change.
I like it when you tilt your cheek up.I like the way you hold a teacup.I like your legs when you unwind them,even in trousers I don’t mind them.I’d always know, without a recap,where to find them.
I like the sculpture of your ears.I like the way your profile disappearsWhenever you decide to turn and face me.I’d like to cross two hemispheresand have you chase me.I’d like to smuggle you across frontiersor sail with you at night into Tangiers.I’d like you to embrace me.
I’d like to see you ironing your skirtand cancelling other dates.I’d like to button up your shirt.I like the way your chest inflates.I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurtor frightened senseless by invertebrates.
I’d like you even if you were malignand had a yen for sudden homicide.I’d let you put insecticideinto my wine.I’d even like you if you were the Brideof Frankensteinor something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’sJekyll and Hyde.I’d even like you as my Julianof Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.How melodramaticif you were something muttering in atticslike Mrs Rochester or a student of BooleanMathematics.
You are the end of self-abuse.You are the eternal feminine.I’d like to find a good excuseto call on you and find you in.I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,and see you grin.I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,I’d like to make you reproduce.
I’d like you in my confidence.I’d like to be your second look.I’d like to let you try the French Defenceand mate you with my rook.I’d like to be your preferenceand henceI’d like to be around when you unhook.I’d like to be your only audience,the final name in your appointment book,your future tense.
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:33 (six years ago) link
Damn dude
― calstars, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:44 (six years ago) link
I think I read that first on another ilx thread tbh it's a beaut
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:45 (six years ago) link
yes but you just try saying that to a coworker these days
― #TeamHailing (imago), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:47 (six years ago) link
Post a poem u
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:49 (six years ago) link
On the Flyleaf of Pound's Cantos
There are the Alps. What is there to say about them? They don't make sense. Fatal glaciers, crags cranks climb, jumbled boulder and weed, pasture and boulder, scree, et l'on entend, maybe, le refrain joyeux et leger.Who knows what the ice will have scraped on the rock it is smoothing?
There they are, you will have to go a long way round if you want to avoid them. It takes some getting used to. There are the Alps, fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble!
-- Basil Bunting
― the late great, Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:54 (six years ago) link
That's good
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:57 (six years ago) link
One more go-to:
Inniskeen Road: July Evening
The bicycles go by in twos and threes -There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,And there's the half-talk code of mysteriesAnd the wink-and-elbow language of delight.Half-past eight and there is not a spotUpon a mile of road, no shadow thrownThat might turn out a man or woman, notA footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every poet hates in spiteOf all the solemn talk of contemplation.Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plightOf being king and government and nation.A road, a mile of kingdom. I am kingOf banks and stones and every blooming thing.
-Patrick Kavanagh
I am endlessly taken by the run and rhythm from half past eight to stone
― remember the lmao (darraghmac), Wednesday, 10 January 2018 22:58 (six years ago) link
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 (ten 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 (ten 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 (two 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 (two 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 (two months ago) link
love these, keep em comin
― Humanitarian Pause (Tracer Hand), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 00:38 (two 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 (two months ago) link
Ha! Yes! I already have
― Marten Broadcloak, mild-mannered GOP congressman (Raymond Cummings), Wednesday, 3 January 2024 01:09 (two 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 (two 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 (two 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 (two 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.
The
Emergency Aluminium and Sphinx. ? And ideas.First, JP, Ashtrays "Our children ... -. Lower stairs crying. Call Baby reply I do not know.Or not. Before? Sugar shock! Do you want to! Has You're looking for swimming!10 point box. Pain and movement. Add module to stand BlackBerry. ?Technology in the future. I remember the blood. Money! Rufus is 10 centimeters! Perched book. Taking the kanibais public smoking volcano.Moore, thousands window blind Black Tower. A music moloki. You will spend and Malta. For Akron.Welcome to the olive bar pressure. Bank espirito Santa moloki. Hydrogen ears cool! Moloki. ToDownload Black Angels photography. I do not have sex before another busy?March gray in my life. The entire staff. Fear of the water. Jam! Contact your system with great sea! Light Sony Ericsson Download Paradise!Or not. First of all, I am not a robot or a financial institution. Action! International trade and human rights? Courses abroad. A Hardworking.Mountain road timber radio bar or not. If you are in London for a long time?Zion I jineunghyeongneun? He said,? U.S.. It. Water!Gold Service? Light! While there are many reasons to search. SkipA. Changing the river? Torrent This is very important! He knows! You will not be disappointed. Decades, animals, and the idea of suicide. I'm sure it will be as a new song! Ads.Ventilation water? Jerusalem Jerusalem gallon. I do not know? Did you know? Bad Cherry Beach water groups.
― Deflatormouse, Thursday, 4 January 2024 01:26 (two 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 (two 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 (two 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 (two 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 (two months ago) link