• You are currently viewing our forum as a guest, which gives you limited access to view most discussions and access our other features. By joining our free community, you will have access to additional post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), view blogs, respond to polls, upload content, and access many other special features. Registration is fast, simple and absolutely free, so please join our community today! Just click here to register. You should turn your Ad Blocker off for this site or certain features may not work properly. If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact us by clicking here.

Wikileaks and Poetry

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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?
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
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.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Hacked last night and revealed today -

Marshland

We are all intruders here
though we fool ourselves this late winter day,
carving a place on the banks
to anchor our heels.
We stretch over the water, hoping
to slip onto the wings of a great blue heron
but afraid to get caught in the trap of reeds, twisting
in the foul water.
The marsh ignites: will-o'-the-wisps,
sprites, a wisp of flames,
torches held aloft by villagers
marching on the manor.
We've read too many fairy tales
but this much is true:
I heard voices.
Not the call of a willet or clapper rail
but a child caught beneath the ceiling of water
the thin reed of its voice
rising in the brackish light.

Carol V. Davis
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
It's the nice thing to do.

If you like, "Marshland", do ring the USA on (310) 434-4000 and ask for Carol V. Davis and tell her how much you like her poem, but you just wanted to hear her voice, warm muzzle to warm ear.

It's the nice thing to do.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
The Queen's Medal for Poetry

I have just discovered that Les Murray, the Australian poet, has been awarded the Queen's Medal for Poetry, given by the Queen herself.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Hacked last night and released today -

Day Moon

Too late or too soon, none can say,
the lantern you hold out mere
rumor now, your desert Sea
of Tranquility nothing more

than dust, or less, dissolved at last
in the waters of the sun's rays.
You the dime that midnight lost
to the bright distance of a day,

the coin that rolled through a ruin
of stars, out the acropolis
of our dead gods. You the crown
that handed down its human place.

What is your vigilance if not
the scratched mirror of our light.
Constellations cast their net
in the morning sky. Too late,

says the sky, and yet too soon
to tell, to read your beaten riddle
of things to come, the afternoon
of those who walk each year a little

closer to the ground, who would pull
through the hole in you, the hole
of you, as if you were the portal,
the pupil, the wound that never heals.

A window to the sun that stares
at you there across the room,
you the Cyclops of the nightmare
sent to wander over the rim

of dawn, unconscious of a fever
daybreak brings. You who howled
in the throats of us believers.
We were children then who held

you in the evening of our eyes
the way a bowl of water holds
a drink, a face, a dark sunrise
worlds beneath the underworld.

- Bruce Bond
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
If you liked, "Day Moon", you might like to ring the poet, Bruce Bond in the USA on 940-565-4139 and tell him so. And say you just wanted to hear the sound of his voice.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Hacked last night and revealed today -

At the end of the text, a small bestial form

This is the glimpse of the god you were never supposed to get.
Like the fox slipping into the thicket.
Like the thief in the night outside the window. The cool
gray dorsal fin in the distance. Invisible
mountain briefly visible through the mist
formed of love and guilt.

And the stranger's face hidden in the family picture. The one

imagining her freedom, like

the butterfly blown against the fence
in her best yellow dress
by the softest breeze of summer:

To have loved
and to have suffered. To have waited
for nothing, and for nothing to have come.

And the water like sleek black fur combed back that afternoon:

The young lovers rowed a boat. The boy
reeled in a fish. The husband
smiled, raising
a toast.

While the children grew anxious
for dinner. While something
struggled under the water
bound by ropes.
And the warm milk dribbled down the sick man's chin.
And the wife, the mother, the daughter, the hostess, and those
few people on earth she would ever
wish were dead
would be the ones she loved the most.

- Laura Kasischke
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Hacked last night and revealed today -

Without Mercy, the Rains Continued

There had been
A microphone hidden

Beneath the bed
Of course I didn't realize it

At the time & in fact
Didn't know for years

Until one day a standard
Khaki book mailer

Arrived & within it
An old

Stained cassette tape
Simply labeled in black marker

"Him / Me / September 1975"
& as I listened I knew something

Had been asked of me
Across the years & loneliness

To which I simply responded
With the same barely audible

Silence that I had chosen then

- David St. John
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Oz is a Continent of drought and flooding rains. And we have had and are having our share of flooding rains. But enough literalism, let us enter the merciless rains of David St John.

Why not ring USA (213) 740-2311 and ask for David St John and tell him whether you liked his poem below?
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Hacked last night and revealed today -

All the Sciences

The year I fail all the sciences there are
many factors but no one's in any way confused.
The radio brimming with everything it knows
about some shooters until it gets the shooters
down to two. The dead men's rooms reveal
nothing about unhappiness. What starts out
as reason refusing to make more of itself
has a way of becoming several mixed reports
from the field, where I'm having a feeling
of being eleven and watching the sun set.
I'm having a feeling of my chest as a trunk
full of blankets and answers to questions
about who gets to keep a garden. Often
enough we return to the field with trowels,
intentional. I'm told this is an American
approach to the problem. I've been trying
to figure out what it means to have
an American approach to a problem.
Maybe it's when I think the thoughts I have
that don't work hard enough to stick
probably weren't deserving of the field,
and not when I think the ones that do
are lucky. We like to be told what we're doing
is difficult so it's correct that the sky's mostly
a flubbed forecast until the part where it tums
to light or to egg down the calm sides
of a mixing bowl. I remember that to make
a solution, something needs to dissolve.
Sunsets. The library. The parts we've picked
apart with borrowed beaks or tractors.
It feels good to get an old thing next to
a new thing because of how sure it is
that they'll never turn into each other, or
maybe it's because we like what putting a rock
near a rocket says about what we can do
in the meantime. Sometimes I like to read
backwards until the bullet re-enters its gun.
Until the dead men remove their heads
from the bags and are about to be
hungry or can almost remember what
they came into that room for or are born.

- Laura Eve Engel.
 

Mole

Permabanned
Joined
Mar 20, 2008
Messages
20,284
Vote Assange

Good news, Julian Assange is thinking of running for the Australian Senate. The only question is whether the Australian people will get to vote for him or will the Americans get him first?

In the meantime the Oz Branch of Wikileaks, Poetry Section, releases one poem a day - read it and it will show on your face all day.

Of course Oz Branch, Wikileaks, Poetry Section, doesn't hack poems ourselves, rather we rely upon those brave souls who go out every night to hack mainframes, personal computers, servers and even, I am reliably told, Echelon (Signals Intelligence).

No, we don't hack ourselves but we assiduously vet each poem sent anonymously to us to ensure that the life of no poet, no muse, and no poetaster, is put at risk by releasing a poem a day.

Remember - vote Assange.
 
Last edited:
Top