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  1. #211
    Senior Member animenagai's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2008


    ^That sounds unseemly!
    Chimera of Filth

    A gruesome beast with dripping flesh
    Clings to me as a sick fixture
    My throbbing heart it gnawed apart
    It stalks and hunts me through mirrors

  2. #212
    jump sleuthiness's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2008
    54 so/sp
    IEI Ni



    -D.A. Powell

    wherever he wakes this morning, he knows the big bang is irreparable

    the following appraisal of saturn's rings: water, electrically charged particles
    specks of obliterated satellites & largely unoccupied dark bands--
    yes, they seem beautiful from this distance, as do so many colliding forms

    on the newsfeed, rockets spray across the lacquered box often
    & often, in a world which is now so completely occupied
    a freighter spills its tenebrous rings into the overburdened bay

    maybe he's eyeing his own depleted sac, remembering the humps of jellyfish
    littering the shore with their baggy lappets and plasticine bells
    maybe remembering carries no import now, since--space: relativity
    roseate sunset, the way the rays refract through the pollution

    the rays remind him of the little jellies on the beach, tentacles splayed

    with a certain tilt of the mind, an imperial flower might mean forgiveness
    & might even the most remote explosion be read as a sign of triumph.

    thinking of you

  3. #213
    Ghost Monkey Soul Vizconde's Avatar
    Join Date
    Sep 2009


    Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet,
    For sandals of lightning are on your feet,
    And your wings are soft and swift as thought,
    And your eyes are as love which is veilèd not?

    We come from the mind
    Of humankind,
    Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and blind;
    Now 't is an ocean
    Of clear emotion,
    A heaven of serene and mighty motion.

    From that deep abyss
    Of wonder and bliss,
    Whose caverns are crystal palaces;
    From those skyey towers
    Where Thought's crowned powers
    Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours!

    From the dim recesses
    Of woven caresses,
    Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses;
    From the azure isles,
    Where sweet Wisdom smiles,
    Delaying your ships with her siren wiles.

    From the temples high
    Of Man's ear and eye,
    Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy;
    From the murmurings
    Of the unsealed springs,
    Where Science bedews his dædal wings.

    Years after years,
    Through blood, and tears,
    And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears,
    We waded and flew,
    And the islets were few
    Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew.

    Our feet now, every palm,
    Are sandalled with calm,
    And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm;
    And, beyond our eyes,
    The human love lies,
    Which makes all it gazes on Paradise.
    I redact everything I have written or will write on this forum prior to, subsequent with and or after the fact of its writing. For entertainment purposes only and not to be taken seriously nor literally.

    Quote Originally Posted by Edgar View Post
    Spamtar - a strange combination of boorish drunkeness and erudite discussions, or what I call "an Irish academic"

  4. #214
    Symbolic Herald Vasilisa's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2010


    Lately, I'm feeling this poem.

    The River Has No Hair to Hold Onto
    by Ralph Angel

    It's only common sense (not that they know the score,
    they don't avoid it). And so one's life story
    is begun on a paper napkin and folded into a coat pocket
    to be retrieved later when its darker
    and cooler, and closer. And onward

    to rockier ground, where conversation is impassable
    and human beings matter more than
    the light that glimmers beneath the horizon
    before sinking into our own inaudible sigh (a long way
    from these fur-covered hands). And somehow

    the deal is struck. Money gets made.
    And the small shocks one undergoes for no reason,
    the bus driver handing you a transfer, a steamy
    saxophone ascending the jungle. The city
    lays down its blanket of rippling

    lamplight as though exhaustion too
    was achieved by consensus, and what one does
    and how one feels have nothing to do with one's self.
    No, this can't be the place, but it must be
    the road that leads there, always beginning

    when morning is slow and hazy, suffering to get somewhere
    with all the memorable mistakes along the way,
    piecing them together, arriving,
    believing that one arrives at a point different from
    the starting point, admitting things still aren't clear.

    A rag doll on a dark lawn injures the heart
    as deeply as the salt sea air filling one's lungs
    with a sadness once felt in a classroom
    a sadness older than any of us.
    And the dogs barking, challenging cars. And the willows

    lining the sidewalk, lifting their veils
    to the inscrutable surface of wood. (Someone
    is trying to get a message through. Someone thinks
    you'll understand it).
    the formless thing which gives things form!
    Found Forum Haiku Project

    Positive Spin | your feedback welcomed | Darker Criticism

  5. #215
    Lay the coin on my tongue SilkRoad's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2009
    6w5 sp/sx


    Quote Originally Posted by Spartacuss View Post
    O Little Root of a Dream
    by Paul Celan
    Translated by Heather McHugh and Nikolai Popov

    O little root of a dream
    you hold me here
    undermined by blood,
    no longer visible to anyone,
    property of death.

    Curve a face
    that there may be speech, of earth,
    of ardor, of
    things with eyes, even
    here, where you read me blind,

    where you
    refute me,
    to the letter.
    I'm glad this was posted in this thread, as I love Celan.

    I read a lot of poetry...I even get to read poetry as part of my work these days! (working on an anthology for recital.) It would be really hard for me to pick favourite poems or even poets, at least a list that's not very long. But here are a couple:

    Come into Animal Presence
    by Denise Levertov

    Come into animal presence.
    No man is so guileless as
    the serpent. The lonely white
    rabbit on the roof is a star
    twitching its ears at the rain.
    The llama intricately
    folding its hind legs to be seated
    not disdains but mildly
    disregards human approval.
    What joy when the insouciant
    armadillo glances at us and doesn't
    quicken his trotting
    across the track into the palm brush.

    What is this joy? That no animal
    falters, but knows what it must do?
    That the snake has no blemish,
    that the rabbit inspects his strange surroundings
    in white star-silence? The llama
    rests in dignity, the armadillo
    has some intention to pursue in the palm-forest.
    Those who were sacred have remained so,
    holiness does not dissolve, it is a presence
    of bronze, only the sight that saw it
    faltered and turned from it.
    An old joy returns in holy presence.

    By Derek Mahon

    The kind of rain we knew is a thing of the past –
    deep-delving, dark, deliberate you would say,
    browsing on spire and bogland; but today
    our sky-blue slates are steaming in the sun,
    our yachts tinkling and dancing in the bay
    like racehorses. We contemplate at last
    shining windows, a future forbidden to no one.
    Enneagram 6w5 sp/sx


  6. #216
    Join Date
    Jan 2010


    Fire and Ice by Robert Frost

    Some say the world will end in fire,
    Some say in ice.
    From what I've tasted of desire
    I hold with those who favour fire.
    But if it had to perish twice,
    I think I know enough of hate
    To say that for destruction ice
    Is also great
    And would suffice.

    The Sick Rose by William Blake

    O Rose thou art sick.
    The invisible worm.
    That flies in the night
    In the howling storm:

    Has found out thy bed
    Of crimson joy:
    And his dark secret love
    Does thy life destroy.

  7. #217
    Lay the coin on my tongue SilkRoad's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2009
    6w5 sp/sx


    WITH A VARIABLE KEY (Paul Celan - translated from the German by Michael Hamburger)

    With a variable key
    you unlock the house in which
    drifts the snow of that left unspoken.
    Always what key you choose
    depends on the blood that spurts
    from your eye or your mouth or your ear.

    You vary the key, you vary the word
    that is free to drift with the flakes.
    What snowball will form round the word
    depends on the wind that rebuffs you.

    POSTSCRIPT (Seamus Heaney)

    And some time make the time to drive out west
    Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
    In September or October, when the wind
    And the light are working off each other
    So that the ocean on one side is wile
    With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
    The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
    By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
    Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
    Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
    Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
    Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
    More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
    A hurry through which known and strange things pass
    As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
    And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.


    It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
    has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness;
    and the hands keep on moving,
    smoothing the holy surfaces.
    —In Praise of Ironing by Pablo Neruda

    It has to be loved the way a laundress loves her linens,
    the way she moves her hands caressing the fine muslins
    knowing their warp and woof,
    like a lover coaxing, or a mother praising.
    It has to be loved as if it were embroidered
    with flowers and birds and two joined hearts upon it.
    It has to be stretched and stroked.
    It has to be celebrated.
    O this great beloved world and all the creatures in it.
    It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet.

    The trees must be washed, and the grasses and mosses.
    They have to be polished as if made of green brass.
    The rivers and little streams with their hidden cresses
    and pale-coloured pebbles
    and their fool’s gold
    must be washed and starched or shined into brightness,
    the sheets of lake water
    smoothed with the hand
    and the foam of the oceans pressed into neatness.
    It has to be ironed, the sea in its whiteness.

    and pleated and goffered, the flower-blue sea
    the protean, wine-dark, grey, green, sea
    with its metres of satin and bolts of brocade.
    And sky – such an 0! overhead – night and day
    must be burnished and rubbed
    by hands that are loving
    so the blue blazons forth
    and the stars keep on shining
    within and above
    and the hands keep on moving.

    It has to be made bright, the skin of this planet
    till it shines in the sun like gold leaf.
    Archangels then will attend to its metals
    and polish the rods of its rain.
    Seraphim will stop singing hosannas
    to shower it with blessings and blisses and praises
    and, newly in love,
    we must draw it and paint it
    our pencils and brushes and loving caresses
    smoothing the holy surfaces.
    Enneagram 6w5 sp/sx


  8. #218
    LL P. Stewie Beorn's Avatar
    Join Date
    Dec 2008


    Smoking Spiritualized
    by Ralph Erskine (1685-1752)

    This Indian weed now wither'd quite,
    'Tho' green at noon, cut down at night,
    Shows thy decay;
    All flesh is hay.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    The pipe so lily-like and weak,
    Does thus thy mortal state bespeak.
    Thou art ev'n such,
    Gone with a touch.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    And when the smoke ascends on high,
    Then thou behold'st the vanity
    Of worldly stuff,
    Gone with a puff.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    And when the pipe grows foul within,
    Think on thy soul defil'd with sin;
    For then the fire,
    It does require.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    And seest the ashes cast away;
    Then to thyself thou mayest say
    That to the dust
    Return thou must.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    Was this small plant for thee cut down?
    So was the plant of great renown;
    Which mercy sends
    For nobler ends.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    Doth juice medicinal proceed
    From such a naughty foreign weed?
    Then what's the pow'r
    Of Jesse's flow'r?
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    The promise, like the pipe, inlays,
    And by the mouth of faith conveys
    What virtue flows
    From Sharon's rose.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    In vain th' unlighted pipe you blow;
    Your pains in inward means are so,
    'Till heav'nly fire
    Thy heart inspire.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

    The smoke, like burning incense tow'rs
    So should a praying heart of yours,
    With ardent cries,
    Surmount the skies.
    Thus think, and smoke tobacco.
    Take the weakest thing in you
    And then beat the bastards with it
    And always hold on when you get love
    So you can let go when you give it

  9. #219
    Senior Member KDude's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jan 2010


    The people cast themselves down by the fuming boards
    while servants cut the roast, mixed jars of wine and water,
    and all the gods flew past like the night-breaths of spring.
    The chattering female flocks sat down by farther tables,
    their fresh prismatic garments gleaming in the moon
    as though a crowd of haughty peacocks played in moonlight.
    The queen’s throne softly spread with white furs of fox
    gaped desolate and bare, for Penelope felt ashamed
    to come before her guests after so much murder.
    Though all the guests were ravenous, they still refrained,
    turning their eyes upon their silent watchful lord
    till he should spill wine in libation for the Immortals.
    The king then filled a brimming cup, stood up and raised
    it high till in the moon the embossed adornments gleamed:
    Athena, dwarfed and slender, wrought in purest gold,
    pursued around the cup with double-pointed spear
    dark lowering herds of angry gods and hairy demons;
    she smiled and the sad tenderness of her lean face,
    and her embittered fearless glance, seemed almost human.
    Star-eyed Odysseus raised Athena’s goblet high
    and greeted all, but spoke in a beclouded mood:
    “In all my wandering voyages and torturous strife,
    the earth, the seas, the winds fought me with frenzied rage;
    I was in danger often, both through joy and grief,
    of losing priceless goodness, man’s most worthy face.
    I raised my arms to the high heavens and cried for help,
    but on my head gods hurled their lightning bolts, and laughed.
    I then clasped Mother Earth, but she changed many shapes,
    and whether as earthquake, beast, or woman, rushed to eat me;
    then like a child I gave my hopes to the sea in trust,
    piled on my ship my stubbornness, my cares, my virtues,
    the poor remaining plunder of god-fighting man,
    and then set sail; but suddenly a wild storm burst,
    and when I raised my eyes, the sea was strewn with wreckage.
    As I swam on, alone between sea and sky,
    with but my crooked heart for dog and company,
    I heard my mind, upon the crumpling battlements
    about my head, yelling with flailing crimson spear.
    Earth, sea, and sky rushed backward; I remained alone
    with a horned bow slung down my shoulder, shorn of gods
    and hopes, a free man standing in the wilderness.
    Old comrades, O young men, my island’s newest sprouts,
    I drink not to the gods but to man’s dauntless mind.”
    All shuddered, for the daring toast seemed sacrilege,
    and suddenly the hungry people shrank in spirit;
    They did not fully understand the impious words
    but saw flames lick like red curls about his savage head.
    The smell of roast was overpowering, choice meats steamed,
    and his bold speech was soon forgotten in hunger’s pangs;
    all fell to eating ravenously till their brains reeled.
    Under his lowering eyebrows Odysseus watched them sharply:
    "This is my people, a mess of bellies and stinking breath!
    These are my own minds, hands, and thighs, my loins and necks!"
    He muttered in his thorny beard, held back his hunger
    far from the feast and licked none of the steaming food.
    — Nikos Kazantzakis (The Odyssey: A Modern Sequel)

    Sounds like my New Year's Eve..

  10. #220


    Seamus Heaney - Mint

    It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles
    Growing wild at the gable of the house
    Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
    Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.

    But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
    And newness in the back yard of our life
    As if something callow yet tenacious
    Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.

    The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
    Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
    My last things will be first things slipping from me.
    Yet let all things go free that have survived.

    Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless
    Like inmates liberated in that yard.
    Like the disregarded ones we turned against
    Because we’d failed them by our disregard.

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