Este tema está marcado actualmente como "inactivo"—el último mensaje es de hace más de 90 días. Puedes reactivarlo escribiendo una respuesta.
2alwaysasterisk
I will join your group :) I write poetry. I have what they call a "drawer book" I write a poem and I put it in the drawer and it collects dust (ha-ha) I have 125 poems that I will never get around to publishing. I haven't written anything new in about a year. Poetically speaking, I have run out of things to say so I read a lot of poetry, and recently I read View With A Grain Of Sand and the poetry is so bad I wonder how it ever got published some of the words in that book are a foot long and I don't know what they mean, I don't even think they are in the dictionary. I am now reading Pablo Neruda with much less difficulty.
3oldstick
I write poetry but don't read it, unless it is forced on me. I think I might be a better poet if I did but short stories are easier. Our little poetry book is full of old fashioned rhymes which modern poets would probably sneer at but we are getting good feedback from over seventies!
4MarianV
I read poetry long before I started to write it. I had a little book of Robert louis Stevenson's poems for little children & I read some of the poems over & over enough so that they still stick in my memory to this day.
I have moved on to other poets, most of whom do not rhyme but use their words to paint beautiful pictures in our minds. Sometimes I will study a poet's technique, images,. ect. to see if I can figure out how to do that, too.
I really believe one cannot write decent poetry without having read some (read a lot of it)
I have moved on to other poets, most of whom do not rhyme but use their words to paint beautiful pictures in our minds. Sometimes I will study a poet's technique, images,. ect. to see if I can figure out how to do that, too.
I really believe one cannot write decent poetry without having read some (read a lot of it)
5LheaJLove
You think short stories are easier than poetry! Ha!
...maybe I'm just now beginning to appreciate... and read... and write short fiction.
...maybe I'm just now beginning to appreciate... and read... and write short fiction.
6maab30
I've been a poet now almost 20 years. Its like any other art form, you to read or follow others in the same field to grow. This is just but one I learned. i now this maybe considered spam but for those who are interested, here is a copy of my book. http://plainviewpress.net/gallery2/pages/The-News-Factory.htm
7oldstick
I'm very sorry, busy bee
I do intrude, please forgive me
For I must cut some flowers bright
Of lavender, the time is right.
Now, while the scent is strong and sweet
The branches curve beneath my feet
I need to chop the purple heads
That edge the rose's flower beds.
Not poetry as it is generally recognised these days but the old folk in the care home enjoyed it, especially when I gave them each a lavender bag.
I do write more modern stuff when inspired, but that isn't very often.
I do intrude, please forgive me
For I must cut some flowers bright
Of lavender, the time is right.
Now, while the scent is strong and sweet
The branches curve beneath my feet
I need to chop the purple heads
That edge the rose's flower beds.
Not poetry as it is generally recognised these days but the old folk in the care home enjoyed it, especially when I gave them each a lavender bag.
I do write more modern stuff when inspired, but that isn't very often.
9maab30
Gray Dust
Did you know our lungs
Yours and mine
sit as otherwise empty vessels
where the air has been evicted
replaced by the gray exhaust and fluid
of staying too long?
It was as if they (our lungs) were vacant rooms
taken over by someone who was just visiting.
In midtown
Forget the medicine
you still have to breathe the air
with its unforgiving skin and metallic weight
that moves across the tongue as I cough up
what the bridge and tunnel crowd leave behind.
How can you make a natural home in the emergency room
after all our fortunes have been spent
and there are no more deals to cheat the gravity that draws us from wasted hours at the movies
where we watch as spectators
who sit silently under drawn shades of the darkened theater
to witness the brutality of a projected life
which ends every two hours
only to start over
until
the next show
when all the mistakes sit as an ever present threat
and the end seems so uncertain
and has curdled?
But when the lights come back on
and the thoughts of the body reform
we lose ourselves in the barracks of our clothing
Which we give no thought when picking out each morning
disappearing all those features of ruin
and freely giving ourselves over to the glare of the silent snow.
2
I will never pass as a ghost into the gray dawn’s early light
Only to return in the afternoon and wait on 8th Ave
For a taxi that never stops.
Nor will my voice only exist in the exhaust of idling cars
but my name will give the gray ash that was your body
the moisture of a life you cried for before you reached
the end of your line
that fateful morning
and the mold that has formed around my tub
will claim a piece my last breath.
Did you know our lungs
Yours and mine
sit as otherwise empty vessels
where the air has been evicted
replaced by the gray exhaust and fluid
of staying too long?
It was as if they (our lungs) were vacant rooms
taken over by someone who was just visiting.
In midtown
Forget the medicine
you still have to breathe the air
with its unforgiving skin and metallic weight
that moves across the tongue as I cough up
what the bridge and tunnel crowd leave behind.
How can you make a natural home in the emergency room
after all our fortunes have been spent
and there are no more deals to cheat the gravity that draws us from wasted hours at the movies
where we watch as spectators
who sit silently under drawn shades of the darkened theater
to witness the brutality of a projected life
which ends every two hours
only to start over
until
the next show
when all the mistakes sit as an ever present threat
and the end seems so uncertain
and has curdled?
But when the lights come back on
and the thoughts of the body reform
we lose ourselves in the barracks of our clothing
Which we give no thought when picking out each morning
disappearing all those features of ruin
and freely giving ourselves over to the glare of the silent snow.
2
I will never pass as a ghost into the gray dawn’s early light
Only to return in the afternoon and wait on 8th Ave
For a taxi that never stops.
Nor will my voice only exist in the exhaust of idling cars
but my name will give the gray ash that was your body
the moisture of a life you cried for before you reached
the end of your line
that fateful morning
and the mold that has formed around my tub
will claim a piece my last breath.
10oldstick
I moved over to poetry fool but it still doesn't seem very active. If we put stuff on line does that mean we have published it? I have sent some poems to competitions and hesitate to do anything else with them.
11maab30
Been digging Frank O'Hara recently if you are not familiar with his work try reading Meditations In An Emergency, one of the best poetry books I've read in a while.
14maab30
For those who are interested in the last of the true New York which is being white washed by the ever growing gentrification that has plagued the city since the 80s, please pick up a copy of my book these days. Also we will be helping a true independent artist. I have pr person so I do everything myself.
http://plainviewpress.net/gallery2/pages/The-News-Factory.htm
Matt
http://plainviewpress.net/gallery2/pages/The-News-Factory.htm
Matt
15MaryChase
My heroine in Fool's Journey is a poet -- so most of the poetry in the book was mine. :) It's part of a .99 promotion on Amazon until Jan. 12 if you want to take a look.
http://www.amazon.com/Fools-Journey-Mary-Chase-Comstock-ebook/dp/B005K3ESZA
http://www.amazon.com/Fools-Journey-Mary-Chase-Comstock-ebook/dp/B005K3ESZA
16leialoha
#15
Apologies for the "Reply/Less etc.. Iʻm new here.
Will read your poems soon. I love Anna Akhmatova, who moved me to write 9 poems. I wanted her Russian admirers to know there was one other (here) with them but did not know how to reach out to them, until I discovered Itʻs cited as the worldʻs greatest collection of poems past and present (in English mainly). All readers and active poets are invited to place their poems there for pleasure but for EDUCATIO-NAL purposes also (e.g. high school, English as 2nd language in-training poets too). Well, I placed 9 poems there and got one reply from a Russian in Australia (who also has a website in Russian and for translation). I donʻt regret it but I think LT may have been better suited but poems are for everybody everywhere? LT has active poets and critics as well as historians of both (professional and undeclared) although Iʻm not sure criticism is what active seasoned poets want or need especially if the poems are "finished." So HOW DOES THIS SITE DIFFER FROM Poetry Fools? I donʻt know Poetry Wise but saw it somewhere. Itʻs confusing. As someone earlier said: itʻs vexing to ask: put it here or not, if not published yet or published? I think I must learn to LINK? You seem to be interested in the poem, with less talk, perhaps. (Tell me if this is out of turn. Itʻs o.k. Iʻm new.) Hereʻs a poem that listeners like, published in a collection of the same title (2005).
HOW THE ʻIVA FLIES
I will not hold my breath
as the ocean rolls its long
and silver tongue sweeping
to death
the land in lilting song
I will not shut my eyes
to the rags of spindrift
the sharkʻs clean cruising
streak
and how the ʻIva flies
Crying from cliff to
littoral
Waving sea weeds desolate
in dance I know and I know
not
because there is a singing
in everything
and green is the colour of
the heart.
Apologies for the "Reply/Less etc.. Iʻm new here.
Will read your poems soon. I love Anna Akhmatova, who moved me to write 9 poems. I wanted her Russian admirers to know there was one other (here) with them but did not know how to reach out to them, until I discovered Itʻs cited as the worldʻs greatest collection of poems past and present (in English mainly). All readers and active poets are invited to place their poems there for pleasure but for EDUCATIO-NAL purposes also (e.g. high school, English as 2nd language in-training poets too). Well, I placed 9 poems there and got one reply from a Russian in Australia (who also has a website in Russian and for translation). I donʻt regret it but I think LT may have been better suited but poems are for everybody everywhere? LT has active poets and critics as well as historians of both (professional and undeclared) although Iʻm not sure criticism is what active seasoned poets want or need especially if the poems are "finished." So HOW DOES THIS SITE DIFFER FROM Poetry Fools? I donʻt know Poetry Wise but saw it somewhere. Itʻs confusing. As someone earlier said: itʻs vexing to ask: put it here or not, if not published yet or published? I think I must learn to LINK? You seem to be interested in the poem, with less talk, perhaps. (Tell me if this is out of turn. Itʻs o.k. Iʻm new.) Hereʻs a poem that listeners like, published in a collection of the same title (2005).
HOW THE ʻIVA FLIES
I will not hold my breath
as the ocean rolls its long
and silver tongue sweeping
to death
the land in lilting song
I will not shut my eyes
to the rags of spindrift
the sharkʻs clean cruising
streak
and how the ʻIva flies
Crying from cliff to
littoral
Waving sea weeds desolate
in dance I know and I know
not
because there is a singing
in everything
and green is the colour of
the heart.
17leialoha
P.S. The title of the website gets edited out, so thereʻs a sentence that skips the name and seems garbled. Just think: X. Itʻs fine, then. I think.
18James_Munro
I, too, am a big fan of Anna Akhmatova. And I loved this poem here - How the 'Iva Flies. Did you write this? It's not really clear when you say "Here's a poem ..." If you did, then congratulations.
Also, I absolutely agree with you that criticism, especially "constructive criticism", is unwanted when a poem is finished.
Also, I absolutely agree with you that criticism, especially "constructive criticism", is unwanted when a poem is finished.
19leialoha
#18
Akhmatovaʻs poetry is haunting. In response, I wrote nine poems. In order that my poems reach Russian lovers of Akhmatovaʻs poetry, I submitted them all to http://www.PoemHunter.com-- reaching out in English (I do not know Russian). But of course Akhmatovaʻs poetry, tr. by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward, is for everybody. I love Kunitzʻs poems -- his way of opening up experiences (condensed, rigorously iron fisted in a svelte intellectual gloved discipline) to a sense of the vastness of existence. That Akhmatovaʻs poems were memorized by her fellow Russians over long periods of censorship when she they could not be published is instructive: her themes (love, fear, death, faith, humility, courage stand starkly against her immediate extinction for reciting and writing them) are basic, the enormously complicated are simple, instantaneous. I learned a great deal from Kunitz and Hayward in their translation of Akhmatova -- the spareness of the language, the bare bone rhetoric, the intense emotional movement of the lines, the conflict gripping the silence in the diction. The wonder is the profundity that they must be carrying from the Russian (which I do not know) into English as poetry. The translated poems ring like originals: so striking is the English. It leads one to wonder about Akhmatovaʻs originality in Russian -- and Kunitzʻ originality of her originality of Russian into his English. I believe both poets knew enormous suffering. Or how else could they write about the pain of injustice, fear, humiliation, of lie as truth -- all smothered in restraint that comes off as purity of expression and clarity of simple truth-telling
that men endure for freedom? My poems are responses to Akhamatovaʻs and Kunitzʻs poetry -- that I heard and love them.
Akhmatovaʻs poetry is haunting. In response, I wrote nine poems. In order that my poems reach Russian lovers of Akhmatovaʻs poetry, I submitted them all to http://www.PoemHunter.com-- reaching out in English (I do not know Russian). But of course Akhmatovaʻs poetry, tr. by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward, is for everybody. I love Kunitzʻs poems -- his way of opening up experiences (condensed, rigorously iron fisted in a svelte intellectual gloved discipline) to a sense of the vastness of existence. That Akhmatovaʻs poems were memorized by her fellow Russians over long periods of censorship when she they could not be published is instructive: her themes (love, fear, death, faith, humility, courage stand starkly against her immediate extinction for reciting and writing them) are basic, the enormously complicated are simple, instantaneous. I learned a great deal from Kunitz and Hayward in their translation of Akhmatova -- the spareness of the language, the bare bone rhetoric, the intense emotional movement of the lines, the conflict gripping the silence in the diction. The wonder is the profundity that they must be carrying from the Russian (which I do not know) into English as poetry. The translated poems ring like originals: so striking is the English. It leads one to wonder about Akhmatovaʻs originality in Russian -- and Kunitzʻ originality of her originality of Russian into his English. I believe both poets knew enormous suffering. Or how else could they write about the pain of injustice, fear, humiliation, of lie as truth -- all smothered in restraint that comes off as purity of expression and clarity of simple truth-telling
that men endure for freedom? My poems are responses to Akhamatovaʻs and Kunitzʻs poetry -- that I heard and love them.
20leialoha
There seems to be a confusion here. The title of this topic is in the plural "Poets." So writers began to weigh in. The prompter seems to suggest A "touchstone" be given; so Mary Chaseʻs book is cited.
The sub-title is "Writer-readers." So we are being asked to submit comments on a "writer" and that writer is Mary Chase? Why "poets" (plural) in the lead heading?
I think I got into the wrong pew. Or worse. Like some others? LeahJLove, perhaps youʻd like to start over again?
The sub-title is "Writer-readers." So we are being asked to submit comments on a "writer" and that writer is Mary Chase? Why "poets" (plural) in the lead heading?
I think I got into the wrong pew. Or worse. Like some others? LeahJLove, perhaps youʻd like to start over again?
21leialoha
#18
Yes, I wrote it. Thereʻs a series of other of my poems in PoemHunter. And there are several volumes (stand alone) as well as anthologies (with others), listed on Google. Hereʻs another, like the one above. The first line is also the title of the poem.
Here lies the Marble
of my heart
the agate of my bones
and for the years of thought
no flowing wind, no rain
but stones
for wordsʻand dust thick on
my tongue.
Death hired me to its feast,
gave flesh as lamb
and cooling drink
with metal hands.
Eat, drink, it said.
It laughed that still I sang
until the hour glass filled
my mouth with sand.
Through the long summer
rains
Iʻve seen the sun rise through the mists
and wrestle the sky to the
valley floor.
And as I watched I knew the warrior sons
were never coming home,
the sacrificial
offering s notwithstanding ,
notwithstanding
and all the love of the ancestral gods,
the grief laid at their door, the
grief and love
that had gone before.
-Ancestorsʻ Crossing, 2005
Yes, I wrote it. Thereʻs a series of other of my poems in PoemHunter. And there are several volumes (stand alone) as well as anthologies (with others), listed on Google. Hereʻs another, like the one above. The first line is also the title of the poem.
Here lies the Marble
of my heart
the agate of my bones
and for the years of thought
no flowing wind, no rain
but stones
for wordsʻand dust thick on
my tongue.
Death hired me to its feast,
gave flesh as lamb
and cooling drink
with metal hands.
Eat, drink, it said.
It laughed that still I sang
until the hour glass filled
my mouth with sand.
Through the long summer
rains
Iʻve seen the sun rise through the mists
and wrestle the sky to the
valley floor.
And as I watched I knew the warrior sons
were never coming home,
the sacrificial
offering s notwithstanding ,
notwithstanding
and all the love of the ancestral gods,
the grief laid at their door, the
grief and love
that had gone before.
-Ancestorsʻ Crossing, 2005
22leialoha
RICKHARSH, would you post SCOTT COFFELʻs poems? and tell us something about him, since you know him? that would be like being in the same Coffee Shop, hearing you . . .and then him, since you know HOW HE READS (Iʻm told FAST).
For readers who do not know SCOTT COFFELʻs poems, see 4 of them on the internet. They won him the Boston Poetry Prize (cf. Boston Review). COFFEL is, I think, the new T.S. Eliot for discovering this Living Periodʻs new Meter/Rhythm -- the sexameter and hexameter (like Greek epic poetry). This long, long VERSE LINE allows one to play the trochaic against the iambic and dactylic . . ..so you can get (as SCOTT COFFEL does) ALL KINDS OF Small and Big, Short and Sweeping
rhythms . . .
In this day and Age of Multi-National, Multi-Ethnic, Multi-Lingual, Multi-Cross BELIEFS and POLITICS -- it takes a LONG LONG LINE TO RUN CONTEMPORARY IDEAS NA_TU_RA_LLY . . .
The AMAZING FACT IS: that IS the way we Speak . . .the way we talk . . .which must be the way we Think/think . . .much of the time . . .
Read COFFEL, then read ELIOT. What I donʻt know about is -- how FAST is FAST, as the Boston Reviewr S. Gregerson said is the way he read the poem . . .Heʻs a New Yorker out of Iowa . . . .! Thatʻs what I mean: we are from the entire world. We need a long line to fit everybodyʻs styles within . . .
Post-PAUL CELAN or Parallel (with whom we have yet to catch up to . . .but you know, his poems are HARD TO REMEMBER . . the rhythms are complicated, the "lines" short, shifting, in and out of all kinds of depth charged denotaions (he uses all of Western history for imagery and Eastern too, which is not new, since EZRA POUNDʻs CANTOs, FENELLOSA, going back to 8th c. WANG WEI.
Let us PRAISE POETS! PRAISE POETRY! LONG LIFE!
Akhmatova
Mandelstam
Mayakovsky
Tsvetaeva
Blok
Pushkin
Zukovsky
BRodsky
Gumiliev
Rimbaud
Heine
Rilke
Kunitz
Rexroth
Merwin
Ransom
Lowell
Roethke
Ginzburg
Corvo
YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA"
Sappho
Barrett Browning
CHARLOTTE MEW*
LI-CHIʻANG Chao
Maya Angelou
Vassar Miller*
Rita Dove
Louise Glueck
DIONNE BRAND*
DIANE GILLIOM FISHER*
CATHY SONG*
MAHEALANI KAMAUʻU*
JEANNE KINNEY*
BRANDY MACDOUGALL*
(You fill in) . . .
PACIFIC AND ASIAN POETS NEED TO BE BETTER KNOWN!
(SEE A/P/A at New York University; UPAAN at University of Pennsylvania (Phila); the Womenʻs Centre at University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa, Hilo, And West Oʻahu
(campuses) besides the obvious: University of California, Berkeley, Los Angeles, Santa Cruz; University of Washington, Seattle etc.; University of Wisconsin, Madison; University of Texas, Austin; University of Louisiana ("Southern Review"); University of Illinois, Champaign; University of Iowa, DesMoines; University of Chicago; University of New Hampshire; Middlebury College, Kenyan College, Reed College, Amherst, Oberlin, Antioch, Fairleigh-Dickinson . . . .
It is true: the centres of poetry are at the Universities and State Colleges; but that is in large part because they are established, old, and had a running start. The Other Centres are associated with Small Press, as well as once Small now prestigious (e.g. New Directions) . . .And of course ON LINE collections, for which see
Apologies for this short list.
IT IS NECESSARY TO THANK THE INSTITUTIONS THAT HAVE CARRIED THE WORK OF POETS AND HELPED POETRY LIVE FULLY AND VIGOROUSLY in every niche, in every part of the land.
* means Not Well Known and NEEDS TO BE BETTER KNOWN!!!!
The March issue of POETRY MAGAZINE has EXCELLENTO New Poets and prose writers.
To the new Editorial Staff -
MAHALO PIHA, OUTOU! (THANKS HEAPS, EVERYBODY!)
**********************
For readers who do not know SCOTT COFFELʻs poems, see 4 of them on the internet. They won him the Boston Poetry Prize (cf. Boston Review). COFFEL is, I think, the new T.S. Eliot for discovering this Living Periodʻs new Meter/Rhythm -- the sexameter and hexameter (like Greek epic poetry). This long, long VERSE LINE allows one to play the trochaic against the iambic and dactylic . . ..so you can get (as SCOTT COFFEL does) ALL KINDS OF Small and Big, Short and Sweeping
rhythms . . .
In this day and Age of Multi-National, Multi-Ethnic, Multi-Lingual, Multi-Cross BELIEFS and POLITICS -- it takes a LONG LONG LINE TO RUN CONTEMPORARY IDEAS NA_TU_RA_LLY . . .
The AMAZING FACT IS: that IS the way we Speak . . .the way we talk . . .which must be the way we Think/think . . .much of the time . . .
Read COFFEL, then read ELIOT. What I donʻt know about is -- how FAST is FAST, as the Boston Reviewr S. Gregerson said is the way he read the poem . . .Heʻs a New Yorker out of Iowa . . . .! Thatʻs what I mean: we are from the entire world. We need a long line to fit everybodyʻs styles within . . .
Post-PAUL CELAN or Parallel (with whom we have yet to catch up to . . .but you know, his poems are HARD TO REMEMBER . . the rhythms are complicated, the "lines" short, shifting, in and out of all kinds of depth charged denotaions (he uses all of Western history for imagery and Eastern too, which is not new, since EZRA POUNDʻs CANTOs, FENELLOSA, going back to 8th c. WANG WEI.
Let us PRAISE POETS! PRAISE POETRY! LONG LIFE!
Akhmatova
Mandelstam
Mayakovsky
Tsvetaeva
Blok
Pushkin
Zukovsky
BRodsky
Gumiliev
Rimbaud
Heine
Rilke
Kunitz
Rexroth
Merwin
Ransom
Lowell
Roethke
Ginzburg
Corvo
YUSEF KOMUNYAKAA"
Sappho
Barrett Browning
CHARLOTTE MEW*
LI-CHIʻANG Chao
Maya Angelou
Vassar Miller*
Rita Dove
Louise Glueck
DIONNE BRAND*
DIANE GILLIOM FISHER*
CATHY SONG*
MAHEALANI KAMAUʻU*
JEANNE KINNEY*
BRANDY MACDOUGALL*
(You fill in) . . .
PACIFIC AND ASIAN POETS NEED TO BE BETTER KNOWN!
(SEE A/P/A at New York University; UPAAN at University of Pennsylvania (Phila); the Womenʻs Centre at University of Hawaiʻi, Mānoa, Hilo, And West Oʻahu
(campuses) besides the obvious: University of California, Berkeley, Los Angeles, Santa Cruz; University of Washington, Seattle etc.; University of Wisconsin, Madison; University of Texas, Austin; University of Louisiana ("Southern Review"); University of Illinois, Champaign; University of Iowa, DesMoines; University of Chicago; University of New Hampshire; Middlebury College, Kenyan College, Reed College, Amherst, Oberlin, Antioch, Fairleigh-Dickinson . . . .
It is true: the centres of poetry are at the Universities and State Colleges; but that is in large part because they are established, old, and had a running start. The Other Centres are associated with Small Press, as well as once Small now prestigious (e.g. New Directions) . . .And of course ON LINE collections, for which see
Apologies for this short list.
IT IS NECESSARY TO THANK THE INSTITUTIONS THAT HAVE CARRIED THE WORK OF POETS AND HELPED POETRY LIVE FULLY AND VIGOROUSLY in every niche, in every part of the land.
* means Not Well Known and NEEDS TO BE BETTER KNOWN!!!!
The March issue of POETRY MAGAZINE has EXCELLENTO New Poets and prose writers.
To the new Editorial Staff -
MAHALO PIHA, OUTOU! (THANKS HEAPS, EVERYBODY!)
**********************
23Altruistic
Im a poet and my debut book is on Amazon and other places, https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/35654010-philanthropy
If you're up for a heart-wrenching read then i recommend!
If you're up for a heart-wrenching read then i recommend!
24smitasingh06
I lobe writing poetry. I habe a blog for it. My two poetries were selected for anthology by poetry.com twive. Can I join your group, Poetry?
25blacklynal
Poetry Now has become dormant on LT. You can find it by searching for the name in Groups, then looking into the inactive groups in the results.
26TonySandy
DEAF TO THE WORLD
My life is a stream of consciousness, wherein I drown in a sea of imagery.
I am a camera that flows over the world without sense or censorship.
No sound acts as a full stop on my endeavours.
I am not disturbed by noise or distracted by voices.
My existence is a solitary pursuit through the realms of vision.
I see the dumb show of those that speak as if engaged in a game of charades.
They laugh at monkeys but we see them as no different (great apes).
They call us slow because we cannot speak clearly in their tongue.
We laugh behind our hands as our fingers do the (rapid) talking.
The world is blind to our existence and we are deaf to its.
TREE BONES
The bones of trees – skeletal hands grasping for the sky;
the undead reaching from below the ground,
for the life they left behind at Winter’s cold embrace
now turn green flesh at the call of Spring
I FORGET...
I am a blank sheet
Where once I was a man.
I stop to think
But no thoughts come.
The rhythm of my life has gone
And only an empty shell remains.
Who am I? Where am I? Why am I?
No answer is the silent reply.
I want to scream in impotent rage
But I can't remember why.
Did I shave this morning or yesterday
(A second was so long ago)?
I look in the mirror
Is that me or someone I don't know?
I haven't written much but I seem to be getting back into it after years of pursuing other avenues. Apart from these it has mostly been parodies or humorous verse.
My life is a stream of consciousness, wherein I drown in a sea of imagery.
I am a camera that flows over the world without sense or censorship.
No sound acts as a full stop on my endeavours.
I am not disturbed by noise or distracted by voices.
My existence is a solitary pursuit through the realms of vision.
I see the dumb show of those that speak as if engaged in a game of charades.
They laugh at monkeys but we see them as no different (great apes).
They call us slow because we cannot speak clearly in their tongue.
We laugh behind our hands as our fingers do the (rapid) talking.
The world is blind to our existence and we are deaf to its.
TREE BONES
The bones of trees – skeletal hands grasping for the sky;
the undead reaching from below the ground,
for the life they left behind at Winter’s cold embrace
now turn green flesh at the call of Spring
I FORGET...
I am a blank sheet
Where once I was a man.
I stop to think
But no thoughts come.
The rhythm of my life has gone
And only an empty shell remains.
Who am I? Where am I? Why am I?
No answer is the silent reply.
I want to scream in impotent rage
But I can't remember why.
Did I shave this morning or yesterday
(A second was so long ago)?
I look in the mirror
Is that me or someone I don't know?
I haven't written much but I seem to be getting back into it after years of pursuing other avenues. Apart from these it has mostly been parodies or humorous verse.
