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Thread: Wikileaks and Poetry

  1. #1
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    Mar 2008

    Smile Wikileaks and Poetry

    Released by Wikileaks today, hacked last night -

    Alfred Hitchcock, by John Koethe.

    There are four movies that I saw
    Between the ages of ten and fourteen that became
    Parts of my life, for what that's worth:
    The Man Who Knew Too Much, which I saw

    When I was ten at the Mission Theatre
    On Fifth Avenue, half a block north of the Orpheum.
    Doris Day and Jimmy Stewart leave their stylish
    London friends completely in the lurch

    In their elegant hotel room, and set out in search
    Of Ambrose Chapel, which turns out not to be a person,
    But rather a church where their kidnapped son is being held.
    There's a concert and a clash of cymbals and a shot;

    A party at an embassy where she sings "Que Sera,"
    While he sneaks up the stairs to find their son.
    The suspense becomes unbearable, but it all ends well,
    And with their death-defying labors done,

    The three of them return at last to their hotel,
    Where their friends have fallen fast asleep. Vertigo,
    Which I'll come back to in a minute, came to the Orpheum
    In 1958, followed a year later by North By Northwest,

    Which is completely captivating—probably the best
    Piece of entertainment ever filmed. Cary Grant
    Is on the lam, wrongly suspected of an assassination
    In a crowded lobby at the United Nations.

    He sneaks aboard a train bound for Chicago,
    And in the dining car falls in with Eva Marie Saint.
    They seem to hit it off, engaging in some quaint
    Old-fashioned bantering and flirtation

    Before repairing to her sleeping car where,
    Alas, she makes him sleep alone. He has a close call
    With a crop duster in a tall corn field in downstate
    Illinois, leaving him covered with dust, yet still impeccable,

    And the movie culminates in a scene atop Mt. Rushmore, Where after clambering around a presidential nostril
    Or two he saves her life, and pulls her up into their nuptial bed,
    An upper berth back on a train—although the famous phallic finish,

    As the train goes roaring through a tunnel, went over my head.
    I saw Psycho at the California Theatre on Fourth in 1960. It starts out in a seedy hotel room in Phoenix—so much
    Grimmer than the hotel room in The Man Who Knew Too Much

    Which foreshadows the seedy Bates Motel. Janet Leigh
    Is also on the lam—flight seems to be a reoccurring theme—
    And holes up there, and then decides to turn around.
    Before she can she's gruesomely dispatched (we later learn)

    By Anthony Perkins in the notorious shower scene,
    Which tore me out of my seat. He's devoted to his mother,
    Who shows up in another scene that made me jump,
    As Martin Balsam, a private investigator in touch with Leigh's lover

    John Gavin, heads up the stairs to the mother's bedroom And she lunges out at him with her brutal knife. She appears again
    At the movie's climax, when Leigh's sister, Vera Miles, finds her in the fruit cellar
    And she slowly turns to her, the way a malignant figure in a dream,

    With an averted face, starts to turn to you, and then you scream.
    All of these movies were tremendously entertaining, sure, And a lot of fun, but Vertigo was something else again—a pure
    Fever dream, a fantasy fulfilled and then at once destroyed.

    I saw it again last weekend at the Rosebud Cinema in Wauwatosa,
    And it still retains its power to disturb. It's Jimmy Stewart once again,
    A wealthy acrophobic retired policeman hired by a college friend,
    Tom Helmore, to investigate his wife, supposedly possessed by the ghost

    Of her great-grandmother, Carlotta Valdes, who killed herself
    At twenty-six, his wife's own age. Kim Novak impersonates the wife
    As part of a plot to murder her. Stewart falls in love with her
    Of course, but driven forward by Carlotta's furious rage to end her life,

    Novak leaps (?) from the bell tower of Mission San Juan Bautista,
    Though it's the real wife who falls. Stewart is destroyed. And then his life
    Starts to begin again. He meets a shop girl, Judy (it's Novak again),
    And tries to resurrect the past, remaking her in the image of his dead love

    Madeline, until, his fantasy complete, she stands before him in a gauzy haze
    —And then Carlotta's necklace makes him see the truth. In a daze
    He drives her to the mission where the "suicide" occurred,
    And struggling against his vertigo he drags her up into the tower

    Where—hysterical—she admits to everything. Suddenly a nun
    Emerges from the shadows muttering "I heard voices."
    Novak screams and plunges to her death. Stewart stands there stunned
    And silent, looking down in disbelief at what he's done.

  2. #2
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    Mar 2008

    Politics and Entertainment

    As you notice, Wikileaks are hacking and releasing one poem a day, but the question remains, should they be released in the thread, "Politics and Current Affairs", or should they be released, one by one in the thread, "Arts and Entertainment"?

    Some say entertainment now is politics, and others say politics is entertaining, while others wish to keep the traditional categories.

    What do you think?

  3. #3
    Senior Member Array Beargryllz's Avatar
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    Jun 2010


    Go Lemmiwinks

    Stop Wikileaks

  4. #4
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    Mar 2008
    Quote Originally Posted by Beargryllz View Post
    Go Lemmiwinks

    Stop Wikileaks
    They say if you go for two days without reading a poem, it shows on your face.

    So look in the mirror and see if a poem is written all over your face,

  5. #5
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    Mar 2008

    One Poem a Day

    Hacked last night and released today by the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section -

    Looking for The Gulf Motel
    Marco Island, Florida

    There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

    The Gulf Motel with mermaid lampposts
    and ship's wheel in the lobby should still be
    rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
    My brother and I should still be pretending
    we don't know our parents, embarrassing us
    as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk
    loaded with our scruffy suitcases, two-dozen
    loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging
    with enough mangos to last the entire week,
    our espresso pot, the pressure cooker—and
    a pork roast reeking garlic through the lobby.
    All because we can't afford to eat out, not even
    on vacation, only two hours from our home
    in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled
    by whiter sands on the west coast of Florida,
    where I should still be for the first time watching
    the sun set instead of rise over the ocean.

    There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

    My mother should still be in the kitchenette
    of The Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from Kmart
    squeaking across the linoleum, still gorgeous
    in her teal swimsuit and amber earrings
    stirring a pot of arroz-con-pollo, adding sprinkles
    of onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce.
    My father should still be in a terrycloth jacket
    smoking, clinking a glass of amber whiskey
    in the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us
    dive into the pool, two boys he'll never see
    grow into men who will be proud of him.

    There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

    My brother and I should still be playing Parcheesi,
    my father should still be alive, slow dancing
    with my mother on the sliding-glass balcony
    of The Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves
    keeping time, a song only their minds hear
    ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba.
    My mother's face should still be resting against
    his bare chest like the moon resting on the sea,
    the stars should still be turning around them.

    There should be nothing here I don't remember . . .

    My brother should still be thirteen, sneaking
    rum in the bathroom, sculpting naked women
    from sand. I should still be eight years old
    dazzled by seashells and how many seconds
    I hold my breath underwater—but I'm not.
    I am thirty-eight, driving up Collier Boulevard,
    looking for The Gulf Motel, for everything
    that should still be, but isn't. I want to blame
    the condos, their shadows for ruining the beach
    and my past, I want to chase the snowbirds away
    with their tacky mansions and yachts, I want
    to turn the golf courses back into mangroves,
    I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was
    and pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.

    - Richard Blanco

  6. #6
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    Mar 2008

    Cool A New Face Every Day with Wikileaks Poetry

    In the olden days they would deliver a fresh poem with the milk every day. Then they stopped delivering the milk and the poems dried up as well. Until the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section, started delivering a fresh poem every day to Typology Central, Arts and Entertainment forum, Wikileaks and Poetry thread.

    Our motto is 'put on a fresh face every day', for we have noticed that if we go for two days without reading a poem, it shows on our face. So put on a new face every day in the Wikileaks and Poetry thread.

  7. #7
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Array Mole's Avatar
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    Mar 2008

    Smile Les and his cat

    This was hacked three nights ago and first released on Facebook and now released here -

    Observing the Mute Cat

    Clean water in the house
    but the cat laps up clay water
    outside. Drinking the earth.

    His pile, being perfect,
    ignores the misting rain.

    A charcoal Russian
    he opens his mouth like other cats
    and mimes a greeting mew.

    At one bound top-speed across
    the lawn and halfway up
    the zippy pear tree. Why? Branches?
    Stopping puzzles him.

    Eloquent of purr
    or indignant tail
    he politely hates to be picked up.
    His human friend never does it.

    He finds a voice
    in the flyscreen, rattling it,
    hanging cruciform on it,
    all to be let in
    to walk on his man.

    He can fish food pellets
    out of the dispenser, but waits,
    preferring to be served.

    A mouse he was playing
    on the grass ran in under him.
    Disconsolate, at last he wandered
    off—and drew and fired
    himself in one motion.

    He is often above you
    and appears where you will go.

    He swallows his scent, and
    discreet with his few stained birds
    he carries them off to read.

    - Les Murray.

  8. #8
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    Mar 2008

    Smile Warm Muzzle to Warm Ear

    Les lives on the north coast of New South Wales, said to be the best climate in the world. And like any poet he would love to hear from you if you like his poem about his cat.

    You could ring him on 011 61 2 6559 1520, 320 Bulby Brush Rd, Bunyah, and ask for Les Murray the Australian poet. Or you could ring him for free on skype.

    When you have his attention, you could tell him how much you liked his poem but you just wanted to ring to hear the sound of his voice. No poet could resist anyone who just wants to hear the sound of their voice.

    And what a lovely thing to do it is to ring a poet and thank them for their poem and tell them you want to hear the sound of their voice, warm muzzle to warm ear.

  9. #9
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    Mar 2008
    Hacked last night and released today -

    Don Quixote in the Hudson Valley

    July. Last May a neighbor's tractor pushed
    the roadside sign askew; now blowsy lupines
    trail their fray of blue along a cross

    that leads to nowhere: Taxidermy, Skins,
    it advertises. Dusty ruts unwind
    from crumbs of asphalt back to patchy lawn

    that tufts against the porch. Mosquitos whine.
    A drift of smoke collects in lazy blurs
    as if it had a season, still, to finger

    hazy far-off hills. From there to here,
    where pickups rust on punctured rubber paws,
    the view of planted land—its tasseled corn

    and fattened pumpkins, green tomatoes lashed
    to spars and apple saplings slim as girls
    —is his. Or his in debt. He turns the gas

    to low and shuts the cover, sipping beer
    and guessing if they still paraded bands
    of scouts the length of Main Street once a year.

    He didn't miss the fuss. No, keep it dumb
    as dirt, the smell of meat, this drowsy rush
    of scorn. The summer heat. His failing farm.

    - Siobhan Phillips

  10. #10
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    Mar 2008

    Smile All poets love that

    If you liked Siobhan's poem, ring her in the United States on (717) 243-5121, ask for her then tell her. And tell her you have rung her because you wanted to hear the sound of her voice, warm muzzle to warm ear. All poets love that.

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