impaled by the ghost
of who I used to be
reduced to minor plagiarisms
of my own thought
and forgeries of love
tormented by fear
that my crimes
of the heart
have all been
mere misdemeanors
the jaws of temptation
vised my spirit
yellow fangs of entropy
gnawed my dreams
I cannot remember
what I came here to forget
I have nowhere to go
and anyway
I have already been
so many times before
Office of Poetry
Although most poems are portrayed as frighteningly figurative and meant to scare away evil spirits, some are meant to be a "sermon in stone" that can be "read" by an illiterate population. Some poems illustrate biblical stories.
Poets inhabited the great cathedrals of the Middle Ages proliferating between the 11th and 13th centuries. Some of their descendants have ventured away from churches, migrating to other important buildings.
Conservation, rehabilitation and upgrade of poetry began in the year 2002 and is expected to be completed 3 years later.
Rehabilitation = Repair poetry that is damaged
Conservation = Preserve poetry that is there
Upgrade = Meet current poetry standards
Poems of heritage value will be protected or enhanced. Their rehabilitation is to be guided by minimum intervention principles. We are working closely with Federal Heritage Poetry Review Office to ensure that the heritage character is maintained.
Yes, the Library will continue to offer the same level of Poetry to Parliamentarians and other authorized clients.
N.B. this was (obviously) twiddled from the same source as John W. MacDonald's piece below
Poets inhabited the great cathedrals of the Middle Ages proliferating between the 11th and 13th centuries. Some of their descendants have ventured away from churches, migrating to other important buildings.
Conservation, rehabilitation and upgrade of poetry began in the year 2002 and is expected to be completed 3 years later.
Rehabilitation = Repair poetry that is damaged
Conservation = Preserve poetry that is there
Upgrade = Meet current poetry standards
Poems of heritage value will be protected or enhanced. Their rehabilitation is to be guided by minimum intervention principles. We are working closely with Federal Heritage Poetry Review Office to ensure that the heritage character is maintained.
Yes, the Library will continue to offer the same level of Poetry to Parliamentarians and other authorized clients.
N.B. this was (obviously) twiddled from the same source as John W. MacDonald's piece below
Omaha Out of Mind Juice
Listen my friends:
fruit-flavoured battering rams dock simply at REPUBLICAN NATIONAL HEADUARETERS, sighing frantic weasel. Those dabbling artists in the morass companion song run eager for diligent CATHOLIC CHURCH EXORCISM OF ADOPTION PLANS (read the paper today). It's all the fault of, and remember too. When we went GOGOs circa 1984, it was the bass drum particularly. This is the slaughter of slip jigs in the margin of went to working from all other plans. The GOGOSs were not useless, historically founded by certain austere rendering magic.
Please stay for dinner.
Friends, that is, stay for dinner.
fruit-flavoured battering rams dock simply at REPUBLICAN NATIONAL HEADUARETERS, sighing frantic weasel. Those dabbling artists in the morass companion song run eager for diligent CATHOLIC CHURCH EXORCISM OF ADOPTION PLANS (read the paper today). It's all the fault of, and remember too. When we went GOGOs circa 1984, it was the bass drum particularly. This is the slaughter of slip jigs in the margin of went to working from all other plans. The GOGOSs were not useless, historically founded by certain austere rendering magic.
Please stay for dinner.
Friends, that is, stay for dinner.
Voice
Speaking at too low a pitch
(trying to sound sexy)
authoritative voicethink says
it's very easy to use a search
engine to produce a text
with Skateboarding-for-Jesus
circa-1999 stinko funds
but it's harder to find something
poetic or corporate mandates
to “get it” to sculpt a text
with the same corporations
that bought you corporate
USA Fascism
As for dictatorial cuddlings
authoritative voicefeel implicated
folks in Asia who were prone
to cuddle a text the Constitution
is an inspired document designed
by our Maker to set up
a government For example
we are under divine obligation
to find psychoanalytic cuddlings
no better than to believe and
act upon the belief that we can
reshape ourselves through words
(trying to sound sexy)
authoritative voicethink says
it's very easy to use a search
engine to produce a text
with Skateboarding-for-Jesus
circa-1999 stinko funds
but it's harder to find something
poetic or corporate mandates
to “get it” to sculpt a text
with the same corporations
that bought you corporate
USA Fascism
As for dictatorial cuddlings
authoritative voicefeel implicated
folks in Asia who were prone
to cuddle a text the Constitution
is an inspired document designed
by our Maker to set up
a government For example
we are under divine obligation
to find psychoanalytic cuddlings
no better than to believe and
act upon the belief that we can
reshape ourselves through words
Turncoat
Poetic words often don't make much sense. Especially when you're talking about love.
I've had a theory. That when you write that you want to sail across the seven seas, climb to the highest mountain, journey to the seven wonders of the world with that eighth wonder, ie, your sweetheart, you're not really telling him/her that you love him/her: you're setting a great agenda as his/her chief physical coach. And, no, I don't mean chief physical coach in any cheesy sense of the term.
Just a theory.
But of course, there are exceptions. And when you end up spouting poetry yourself, about how you will battle all the obstacles in the world, and stay true till as long your heart beats, that there may be two hearts in two different parts of the world but they always listen to the song of each other, and yadayadayada... you realize that you're a rather hypocritical little theory maker.
;-)
Theories, like rules, are meant to be broken.
I've had a theory. That when you write that you want to sail across the seven seas, climb to the highest mountain, journey to the seven wonders of the world with that eighth wonder, ie, your sweetheart, you're not really telling him/her that you love him/her: you're setting a great agenda as his/her chief physical coach. And, no, I don't mean chief physical coach in any cheesy sense of the term.
Just a theory.
But of course, there are exceptions. And when you end up spouting poetry yourself, about how you will battle all the obstacles in the world, and stay true till as long your heart beats, that there may be two hearts in two different parts of the world but they always listen to the song of each other, and yadayadayada... you realize that you're a rather hypocritical little theory maker.
;-)
Theories, like rules, are meant to be broken.
The Pyramid
So then, wandering round a corner, only to bump into all the mothers
draping autism on their offspring, swaddling them to sweat and panics,
And having to flee a second time,
Because, earlier in the day, the nature of truth and lies in a testament,
A cold moment of pyramids seen, in their three of the law,
Sandy but rocky, from Gizeh, from nowhere but always and
forever,
Having replaced the bowl of hills, now they were the skyline,
And truth they told in their solid mass,
Lies they told in their anciency.
The pyramids seen, by swains on the boating lake with simple ideas
of perpetuation, first doing the impressive to their sweethearts,
Fathers-to-be, if cards are played orderly correct,
Now left slack, agog, capsized on the reef arrived.
The pyramids seen, at the steps of the Capitol, and the capitolmen
rushed out to watch them as children,
Trying to go higher, they clambered with their eyes,
Who was there to warn them not to go too high, tall tales of tears
before bedtime?
The pyramids seen,
When mothers and fathers gladly renounced their being and were glued to
the shape,
Making the shape of bones, and not of rock,
And making more in their own image, Pascal's triangle in four imagined
corners,
The heritage is the back turned, obstinate, rude, featureless,
Unassailable, all living creatures praise the pyramid,
So back then,
The mothers are practising at popes, they appreciate the worship,
Back then, to the fathers who slurp their gin and rum and ignore
their offspring,
Let's have a day of truth and lies, in the ghostly shadow of Egypt's mistake,
Let's have a day of truth and lies, as if the Eurydice matter had gone well,
Back then, to truth and lies, the thing is over.
draping autism on their offspring, swaddling them to sweat and panics,
And having to flee a second time,
Because, earlier in the day, the nature of truth and lies in a testament,
A cold moment of pyramids seen, in their three of the law,
Sandy but rocky, from Gizeh, from nowhere but always and
forever,
Having replaced the bowl of hills, now they were the skyline,
And truth they told in their solid mass,
Lies they told in their anciency.
The pyramids seen, by swains on the boating lake with simple ideas
of perpetuation, first doing the impressive to their sweethearts,
Fathers-to-be, if cards are played orderly correct,
Now left slack, agog, capsized on the reef arrived.
The pyramids seen, at the steps of the Capitol, and the capitolmen
rushed out to watch them as children,
Trying to go higher, they clambered with their eyes,
Who was there to warn them not to go too high, tall tales of tears
before bedtime?
The pyramids seen,
When mothers and fathers gladly renounced their being and were glued to
the shape,
Making the shape of bones, and not of rock,
And making more in their own image, Pascal's triangle in four imagined
corners,
The heritage is the back turned, obstinate, rude, featureless,
Unassailable, all living creatures praise the pyramid,
So back then,
The mothers are practising at popes, they appreciate the worship,
Back then, to the fathers who slurp their gin and rum and ignore
their offspring,
Let's have a day of truth and lies, in the ghostly shadow of Egypt's mistake,
Let's have a day of truth and lies, as if the Eurydice matter had gone well,
Back then, to truth and lies, the thing is over.
now that i have your attention
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
read this. read this. read this
alien egg bonus
technology hasn’t kept up with
the muff crawled into my head
honest taken away and my hands
are cold and empty
motorcycle in the from pond to
podium that’s a good soup mix
delivery to the alien egg
bonus could make you a
winner die hard with a
infomercial drained away till
the skin is the kind you can
sea through inexhaustible tango
scrape the grey away circle of
teeth of statue to fall and smack
your pink bunny against a dome
head i apologized for the old
place acceptance morning and
night morning and night in line
keeping mean pioneers personal
sky of a laugh line dreadful
ping pong pony the burning
munich or broke your back
tell us banking a pile of shade
with the smoke and mirrors
crescendo quietly fades out
side
technology hasn’t kept up with
the muff crawled into my head
honest taken away and my hands
are cold and empty
motorcycle in the from pond to
podium that’s a good soup mix
delivery to the alien egg
bonus could make you a
winner die hard with a
infomercial drained away till
the skin is the kind you can
sea through inexhaustible tango
scrape the grey away circle of
teeth of statue to fall and smack
your pink bunny against a dome
head i apologized for the old
place acceptance morning and
night morning and night in line
keeping mean pioneers personal
sky of a laugh line dreadful
ping pong pony the burning
munich or broke your back
tell us banking a pile of shade
with the smoke and mirrors
crescendo quietly fades out
side
in a gap
the thought that drives
a cloud across the sky
someone is
wishing you luck
counting the ways
you have failed
fail yourself
to sleep
-----------------
watch blinding city
a cloud across the sky
someone is
wishing you luck
counting the ways
you have failed
fail yourself
to sleep
-----------------
watch blinding city
Mona Lisa Smile
World-crawling chatter curled excitedly around her. It bored her but kept her strangely amused. Conversations and debates so fluid she wished the world could drink it, this transparent flow that may just turn into something more…dimensional.
She was too shy to ask: “do these really matter?”, “are these elemental noises created to quieten the stern silence of our selves?”.
What she really wanted to know was whether they have ever explored another world through the unconditional beats of their hearts, forgetting the grounds on which they stood on.
Cecilia
January 9, 2006
She was too shy to ask: “do these really matter?”, “are these elemental noises created to quieten the stern silence of our selves?”.
What she really wanted to know was whether they have ever explored another world through the unconditional beats of their hearts, forgetting the grounds on which they stood on.
Cecilia
January 9, 2006
combustibles
pin cloud on cloud
speed thru gusts
sound sea sewn
thru eyeshine
step cow
the bother
don’t labor
erections
in violet light
would it were
epics with
sumplogic
foot in cowpie
step on move
ments
undone
begun
there is
no logic nor meta
for
now go for
there is no one here
rich lopez och a. p. sullivan
speed thru gusts
sound sea sewn
thru eyeshine
step cow
the bother
don’t labor
erections
in violet light
would it were
epics with
sumplogic
foot in cowpie
step on move
ments
undone
begun
there is
no logic nor meta
for
now go for
there is no one here
rich lopez och a. p. sullivan
Reconstruction
It'ws hard to get
away from the furies
of autumn,
drenching
withered streets
in diesel pools,
staccato
carburretors
silenced by birdsong
and by overboiled
meridian
lines
choke holding
this Indian summer.
We
gathered our friends
and tag'd their feet
when
even
the stars were meaning-
less.
We dug
holes
for them.
And
afore th'
atrocity
was recorded
by historians,
(who have no
module
for the
fragrance
of decay)
we saw
more bodies
and rubber tyres
floating
past the library roof
like a computer game.
Senseless -
this isometric
despair,
as a stretch
of Rocky Mountains
that dips
away from the horizon
and into a docile
lake unseen -
senseless.
Now,
after
the hardbacks
sold out
and comissioned
memorials
blossom with fig
and cherry pollen
in autumn renewed,
there is only
the hole
filled in
to remind us
of the calm
before,
and
after,
the storm.
9/1/05
away from the furies
of autumn,
drenching
withered streets
in diesel pools,
staccato
carburretors
silenced by birdsong
and by overboiled
meridian
lines
choke holding
this Indian summer.
We
gathered our friends
and tag'd their feet
when
even
the stars were meaning-
less.
We dug
holes
for them.
And
afore th'
atrocity
was recorded
by historians,
(who have no
module
for the
fragrance
of decay)
we saw
more bodies
and rubber tyres
floating
past the library roof
like a computer game.
Senseless -
this isometric
despair,
as a stretch
of Rocky Mountains
that dips
away from the horizon
and into a docile
lake unseen -
senseless.
Now,
after
the hardbacks
sold out
and comissioned
memorials
blossom with fig
and cherry pollen
in autumn renewed,
there is only
the hole
filled in
to remind us
of the calm
before,
and
after,
the storm.
9/1/05
Take Me With You Round Up
Loosen the thing, buy American sturdiness, understand popular loopiness, screentest pleasantry, scour the field for a good one, place extra on top, under the other thing try sticking something else, risk some sort of sentence structure for making it 'new', list other things as well, make sure you have the indents correct, buy more and save them for later, trace out some the unusual parts, plan to be there, try a little harder: after all you are just one person among many, speak of things you know about, don't hesitate to call,
do you like poems? Come here often? Are you sure about that? What else could you really do
all covered with kevlar...?
do you like poems? Come here often? Are you sure about that? What else could you really do
all covered with kevlar...?
The question:Consider This
I like the name of this blog. Sounds very cheeky. Very tongue in cheek. Very ooo and aaa. And so I thought about maybe posting something here which I'd written ages ago:
Consider this, she said, leaning over the table, a smile curled around her lips as she did so, consider all this around us, and tell me that you wouldn't trade all of it for just a few seconds of bliss?
He was leaning back on the velvet of the iron grilled chair, as he observed her. He wasn't quite sure what to make of her, when she said that, and then settled back into her seat, re-arranged an imaginary stray strand of hair behind her left ear, and looked back at him. She was playing, he was sure, but how serious was her game he could not tell. If he answered yes, then would she take his hand and then repair outside in the balcony, or maybe to his car, where she would let him kiss her? If he answered no, would she marvel at his control, and then forego the kiss in the balcony for a nightcap - and more - when he dropped her home that night?
The question was: which one did he want more?
The question was: how ambitious was he?
***
She waited for his reply, all the while feeling the satin coverlet brush smoothly against her back. There was a strand of hair she brushed behind her left ear, but that did not distract her from the objective she had. It was him, she knew, he... he... he was the one, she knew beyond a doubt. But would he answer yes, and then she would lazily flick her cigarette ash in the ash tray, pretending to be unconcerned, all the while trembling like a leaf inside, wondering how his tongue would probe her soul later...? Or would he answer no, and she would sigh inwardly, but feel strangely secure, that he was not ready as yet (though he was very much the one), and she would re-assume her role as protector, priestess, mystery, ice all at once?
The question was: how weak was she really?
The question was: which role was her forte?
Consider this, she said, leaning over the table, a smile curled around her lips as she did so, consider all this around us, and tell me that you wouldn't trade all of it for just a few seconds of bliss?
He was leaning back on the velvet of the iron grilled chair, as he observed her. He wasn't quite sure what to make of her, when she said that, and then settled back into her seat, re-arranged an imaginary stray strand of hair behind her left ear, and looked back at him. She was playing, he was sure, but how serious was her game he could not tell. If he answered yes, then would she take his hand and then repair outside in the balcony, or maybe to his car, where she would let him kiss her? If he answered no, would she marvel at his control, and then forego the kiss in the balcony for a nightcap - and more - when he dropped her home that night?
The question was: which one did he want more?
The question was: how ambitious was he?
***
She waited for his reply, all the while feeling the satin coverlet brush smoothly against her back. There was a strand of hair she brushed behind her left ear, but that did not distract her from the objective she had. It was him, she knew, he... he... he was the one, she knew beyond a doubt. But would he answer yes, and then she would lazily flick her cigarette ash in the ash tray, pretending to be unconcerned, all the while trembling like a leaf inside, wondering how his tongue would probe her soul later...? Or would he answer no, and she would sigh inwardly, but feel strangely secure, that he was not ready as yet (though he was very much the one), and she would re-assume her role as protector, priestess, mystery, ice all at once?
The question was: how weak was she really?
The question was: which role was her forte?
wordswordswords
We talk as if to exhaust language to the bones;
conversations so fluid and dimensional,
wordswordswords
to replace an elemental existence,
wordswordswords
that do not lose their grip,
pressing,
like a blanket exhaling on your skin.
Cecilia
May 26, 2005
conversations so fluid and dimensional,
wordswordswords
to replace an elemental existence,
wordswordswords
that do not lose their grip,
pressing,
like a blanket exhaling on your skin.
Cecilia
May 26, 2005
Peace & Its Discontents*
Here! Right here!
Let’s draw a line
and reach an understanding
albeit hesitant
that we will not
step across it
but then who is to decide
what is righteous?
The loose ends, the cul-de-sacs
in the labyrinth in our heads
often spill on to the other side;
barbed spaces
where our tolerance resides.
And then the discontent,
fermenting underneath with gnomic intent,
like Azaan at the crack of dawn
will pierce through this uneasy peace,
shattering it
long after stillness has settled
in our clattering teeth.
© Dan Husain
February 11, 2006
-------------------------------------------
Let’s draw a line
and reach an understanding
albeit hesitant
that we will not
step across it
but then who is to decide
what is righteous?
The loose ends, the cul-de-sacs
in the labyrinth in our heads
often spill on to the other side;
barbed spaces
where our tolerance resides.
And then the discontent,
fermenting underneath with gnomic intent,
like Azaan at the crack of dawn
will pierce through this uneasy peace,
shattering it
long after stillness has settled
in our clattering teeth.
© Dan Husain
February 11, 2006
-------------------------------------------
shatter . song
sticks. & stones
will break. my bones
& names. they
will. never. what
sticks & stones.
will break
my bones. but names
they will. & what
stones. will break.
sticks & stones. will (do
you know who's
looking (out) at us
bones. break
sticks. & stones
will break. us
break. our bones
like names
will break. my bones
& names. they
will. never. what
sticks & stones.
will break
my bones. but names
they will. & what
stones. will break.
sticks & stones. will (do
you know who's
looking (out) at us
bones. break
sticks. & stones
will break. us
break. our bones
like names
On different continents
She flew away today, leaving me stranded
on another continent, vague and alone.
We have been on different continents before
but as long as it was the same landmass
a few thousand miles seemed quite tractable
for even the roads and railways connected us.
Being on the same continent allows hues of hope
to dawn daily on the horizons of aching hearts.
We have been on different continents before
but our voices had always found each other
at absurd hours and in jetlagged states
our words crawled and held us together.
Our silences were always full of understanding
We nurtured costly silences on international calls.
We have been on different continents before
but this winter the custom shall display her
alignment of planets and parental wishes sway her
to participate in the ritualized embrace of another.
My eyes shall rain icy, salty monsoons and
new oceans will rend my imaginary homelands.
We have been on different continents before
but now on our worlds shall be distant journeys
our silences will intersect, but never meet, and
from the womb of past "us" emerge a stillborn "I".
Dec 12/13, 2005
on another continent, vague and alone.
We have been on different continents before
but as long as it was the same landmass
a few thousand miles seemed quite tractable
for even the roads and railways connected us.
Being on the same continent allows hues of hope
to dawn daily on the horizons of aching hearts.
We have been on different continents before
but our voices had always found each other
at absurd hours and in jetlagged states
our words crawled and held us together.
Our silences were always full of understanding
We nurtured costly silences on international calls.
We have been on different continents before
but this winter the custom shall display her
alignment of planets and parental wishes sway her
to participate in the ritualized embrace of another.
My eyes shall rain icy, salty monsoons and
new oceans will rend my imaginary homelands.
We have been on different continents before
but now on our worlds shall be distant journeys
our silences will intersect, but never meet, and
from the womb of past "us" emerge a stillborn "I".
Dec 12/13, 2005
reason bee hind golden
i second that revolution
so out of line what
was the extra large chunk
of this end there was an
election tomorrow show
card advanced industrial
state we sent them the
mess beneath our dress
bet he’d be fun in
person pounderment and
brought the high liter back
into action pretty pretty
and better looking from
your dreams go and surf
safely it was downhill
mannerist sounds like
love radically and trust
know one can know the
secrete reason bee
hind golden gift
horse crazy ass sex
chemistry espresso kit
gently gently smaller
than you
i second that revolution
so out of line what
was the extra large chunk
of this end there was an
election tomorrow show
card advanced industrial
state we sent them the
mess beneath our dress
bet he’d be fun in
person pounderment and
brought the high liter back
into action pretty pretty
and better looking from
your dreams go and surf
safely it was downhill
mannerist sounds like
love radically and trust
know one can know the
secrete reason bee
hind golden gift
horse crazy ass sex
chemistry espresso kit
gently gently smaller
than you
chains on the floor
On an island I met a very old man who as a boy knew Trotsky. Trotsky would fish for a specific red-skinned type in the sea near his house. He didn't speak to the boy. Once Trotsky pulled a gun on the boy's doctor as the doctor had reached into his pocket for a notebook. The doctor told the boy about it and the boy was terrified. At eighty something he still was. He was now one of the last Christians and Greeks left on the island. He had once lived in its historic monastery.
In Istanbul later I saw the room in the Church of Divine Wisdom (a cathedral/mosque that remains a wonder of the world. It was inspired originally by an Emperor's vision). Here one day a handful of smelly, sweaty old bishops from all over the tiny known planet decided that the church must have only one line on divinity and a murderous institution to enforce it which was placed squarely between God and Us. It was the beginning of everything going bad for creative activity. The assholes. To decide that there under the icons and angels!
The twenty foot gold and blue and still very intensely feathered angels in the dome had resisted the conversion of the church into a mosque. They still floated high above the rising non-representative and coded Islamic tilework. Islam had never reached to the dome, the dome that was originally built to hold divine wisdom and placed to catch sea breezes in a city of spirit and riots over images.
Back to Trotsky. You read it all here first. It is nowhere else. Not on the web. Don't tell anyone else either or I will know.
The island on which he was exiled and on which he wrote The History of the Russian Revolution, My Life and others and where he organized the spiderweb of the Fourth International is covered with Cypress trees and wild olives. The ancient monastery on the high hill dominates it. Travel on the island is still by horse and buggy. It is now a place for romance and picnics by Turkish youth. It seems to them a place away from the increasingly stricter mosques and the political turmoil of Istanbul.
Trotsky's house was on the beach shore facing the sea and also Europe. It was behind the hill that blocked the view to Asia. During his stay assassins and lunatics arrived by boat regularly and some worked in his secretariat. The house was firebombed mysteriously. Was it by someone he knew?
The island was traditionally a place of exile for misbehaving empresses, mad mothers of the heirs to the sultanate, megalomaniac generals and for others. Trotsky stayed for years, trying constantly to get away. He wrote to everyone.
But not just that. The monastery on the hilltop was in fact one of the first asylums for the wealthy and possessed. They were chained to the floor in front of the crucifix to remain until they said they believed and were cured or they died. Here God would speak to them. The treatment was provided to all of Byzantine and later to the top people in the Ottoman Sultanate for 1500 years (yes to Muslims). The chains on the floor are still regarded as holy relics and are the object of pilgrimages by members of ancient families with hidden histories including from the British aristocracy.
You may know about Trotsky's daughter. She joined him there on his island in the fury and paranoias of his exile. She languished in the heat and gaslight isolation of the place. She became terrified at his predictions about the rise of fascism and of soviet bonapartism. He was toxically messianic to all around him and gathering disciples. He challenged everything, thought of every expedient.
She felt she was going insane. Her father was cold and disdainful. She was bored and frustrated. The kingdom they had was gone.
She was losing faith. The island doctor wasn't to be trusted for the treatment of her shaking and weeping nervousness. Trotsky hadn't time as he obsessively tried to reverse history, to sort friend from foe staring at his patch of trees and bit of sea on the Marmara.
Did he send her up to the monastery?
He could see it every day from his window.
He had to get back to work. She screamed in the sunshine.
In any event she left the island later. In Germany she gassed herself on the eve of Hitler's ascension to power. The friends of Trotsky say it was for political reasons.
I recommend a visit.
It is a lovely place, magical. The horses freed in the evening from their buggies frolic unrestrained in the trees.
(originally on my bloghttp://blogspot.blogger.com)
In Istanbul later I saw the room in the Church of Divine Wisdom (a cathedral/mosque that remains a wonder of the world. It was inspired originally by an Emperor's vision). Here one day a handful of smelly, sweaty old bishops from all over the tiny known planet decided that the church must have only one line on divinity and a murderous institution to enforce it which was placed squarely between God and Us. It was the beginning of everything going bad for creative activity. The assholes. To decide that there under the icons and angels!
The twenty foot gold and blue and still very intensely feathered angels in the dome had resisted the conversion of the church into a mosque. They still floated high above the rising non-representative and coded Islamic tilework. Islam had never reached to the dome, the dome that was originally built to hold divine wisdom and placed to catch sea breezes in a city of spirit and riots over images.
Back to Trotsky. You read it all here first. It is nowhere else. Not on the web. Don't tell anyone else either or I will know.
The island on which he was exiled and on which he wrote The History of the Russian Revolution, My Life and others and where he organized the spiderweb of the Fourth International is covered with Cypress trees and wild olives. The ancient monastery on the high hill dominates it. Travel on the island is still by horse and buggy. It is now a place for romance and picnics by Turkish youth. It seems to them a place away from the increasingly stricter mosques and the political turmoil of Istanbul.
Trotsky's house was on the beach shore facing the sea and also Europe. It was behind the hill that blocked the view to Asia. During his stay assassins and lunatics arrived by boat regularly and some worked in his secretariat. The house was firebombed mysteriously. Was it by someone he knew?
The island was traditionally a place of exile for misbehaving empresses, mad mothers of the heirs to the sultanate, megalomaniac generals and for others. Trotsky stayed for years, trying constantly to get away. He wrote to everyone.
But not just that. The monastery on the hilltop was in fact one of the first asylums for the wealthy and possessed. They were chained to the floor in front of the crucifix to remain until they said they believed and were cured or they died. Here God would speak to them. The treatment was provided to all of Byzantine and later to the top people in the Ottoman Sultanate for 1500 years (yes to Muslims). The chains on the floor are still regarded as holy relics and are the object of pilgrimages by members of ancient families with hidden histories including from the British aristocracy.
You may know about Trotsky's daughter. She joined him there on his island in the fury and paranoias of his exile. She languished in the heat and gaslight isolation of the place. She became terrified at his predictions about the rise of fascism and of soviet bonapartism. He was toxically messianic to all around him and gathering disciples. He challenged everything, thought of every expedient.
She felt she was going insane. Her father was cold and disdainful. She was bored and frustrated. The kingdom they had was gone.
She was losing faith. The island doctor wasn't to be trusted for the treatment of her shaking and weeping nervousness. Trotsky hadn't time as he obsessively tried to reverse history, to sort friend from foe staring at his patch of trees and bit of sea on the Marmara.
Did he send her up to the monastery?
He could see it every day from his window.
He had to get back to work. She screamed in the sunshine.
In any event she left the island later. In Germany she gassed herself on the eve of Hitler's ascension to power. The friends of Trotsky say it was for political reasons.
I recommend a visit.
It is a lovely place, magical. The horses freed in the evening from their buggies frolic unrestrained in the trees.
(originally on my blog
How Yah Doon?
How Yah Doon?, London, is accepting books of poetry, novels and rock and roll books for review. Please send your books to Editor, How Yah Doon? 35 B Park Grove Road, Leytonstone, U.K. E11 4PT. We cannot guarantee that your book will be reviewed but we will make every effort to review books which catch our eye. We also actively seek reviewers. Contact: editor@insolentboy.com****Insolent Boy Entertainment is an archive of Toronto films, novels and poetry projects from 1998-2003. There are several features on the site, so please have a look.******
stony lemon shrooms lapdog
earth before books a belief
ace of blades face up chance
shadow and reflection work together
two derivations from an original
superimposed on someone else
imagination executed debased
unstable my speed corrections
slipping on parking lot ice waning
yellow moon climbing night
noodles curry sauce refried beans
ate eight huit wheat mit mitts
wake wanting to do some
not watch something good
read something some poetry
shower calm how i feel
sometimes wanting to tear
erections to throw flesh
to wild dogs ants worms
of recycling earth life
conflicting human rot
burrowing owl or cicada
unthinking eye caught épine
on dining room floor
french rose part appropriate
in reconstruction’s edit
from surgery human body
—Joe Blades
ace of blades face up chance
shadow and reflection work together
two derivations from an original
superimposed on someone else
imagination executed debased
unstable my speed corrections
slipping on parking lot ice waning
yellow moon climbing night
noodles curry sauce refried beans
ate eight huit wheat mit mitts
wake wanting to do some
not watch something good
read something some poetry
shower calm how i feel
sometimes wanting to tear
erections to throw flesh
to wild dogs ants worms
of recycling earth life
conflicting human rot
burrowing owl or cicada
unthinking eye caught épine
on dining room floor
french rose part appropriate
in reconstruction’s edit
from surgery human body
—Joe Blades
A Private Play
As the curtain lifts we are on a bed under the stars. The bed is in the center of the stage. In the background are fields of corn stretching to the horizon. There is no light anywhere except for the soft moonlight.
[The night’s shadow comes to rest between her breasts. She looks at me with eyes full of an erotic rage. An eroticism that never fails to make me swell with the lust of a love waiting to take shape between her loving hands. It is a gentle violence between us. The playful nipping, the sudden bites, the pinpricks of soft slaps, and the twisting limbs fighting for domination in a game as old as Gaia’s wet lips.]
HER: Do you think we can go on loving like this? This intense urge to devour everything the other has to offer. Won’t this burn and scar us forever?
ME: Nah, I do not think so. But even if we burn, isn’t it better to burn like meteors, painting a beautiful nude across the night sky rather than spend a lifetime trying to stoke the fires of a dead passion?
[She thinks about this. But before she can answer I pull her closer and wrap my mouth around the nipple of her left breast, my favorite one. I love how the nipple tastes in my mouth. She sighs with a wet longing, a long and deep sigh coming from the depths of her soul, smelling of a love she wants my mouth to smell and my nose to taste.]
HER: Darling, how many lifetimes will I have to suffer before I encounter you again? For that random instant where I’ll be waiting with a raw hunger for you?
ME: I could fashion my answer into a verse that would be the greatest love poem ever written. But my dearest, words are ephemeral, lasting not for an instant in the eternity of our souls united by a love for which words have not been discovered yet.
HER (smiles): You and your poetry! I could rip out your organs one by one but you will still want to write poetry with the blood that is gushing out.
[She slides down and bites me on my chest, next to my right nipple. I gasp in recognition of that subtle mix of pain and pleasure that always comes as a surprise. I grasp her slithering hair and pull her up. She cries out but before the cry can escape the confines of her throat my mouth is on her’s. Her tongue shoots up into my mouth like a diver coming up for air. We kiss like it is the last kiss we will have before reality chases our unbelievable dream away. We stop after only a minute but which feels like our collective lifetime.]
ME: I want to rise and fall inside your perfect depths. I want to taste you as you explode like a star going supernova. I want to lay my head between your breasts and feel the gentle rise and fall your breathing makes. I want to whisper my dreams into your ear while you sleep and somehow feel that you dream those whispers as telepathic poems from my heart. I want to cleanse your every fear with all the love that is seeping out of each and every single pore of my body.
HER: I wish I could dissolve in the glistening wetness of your eyes while you say these things to me. I wish there was some way to tattoo these words onto my heart so that they will always be there as guiding lights through our every lifetime together until even eternity breathes her last.
[She hugs me tight, squeezing me as if wanting to feel all the love that we have for each other at once. I kiss her hair and hug her back, wanting to crush her between my arms and thereby distill the love we have into the purest liquid the universe has ever seen or tasted.]
As the curtain falls we are still interlocked, blissfully ignorant of the bright blue of a slowly advancing dawn to the east.
[The night’s shadow comes to rest between her breasts. She looks at me with eyes full of an erotic rage. An eroticism that never fails to make me swell with the lust of a love waiting to take shape between her loving hands. It is a gentle violence between us. The playful nipping, the sudden bites, the pinpricks of soft slaps, and the twisting limbs fighting for domination in a game as old as Gaia’s wet lips.]
HER: Do you think we can go on loving like this? This intense urge to devour everything the other has to offer. Won’t this burn and scar us forever?
ME: Nah, I do not think so. But even if we burn, isn’t it better to burn like meteors, painting a beautiful nude across the night sky rather than spend a lifetime trying to stoke the fires of a dead passion?
[She thinks about this. But before she can answer I pull her closer and wrap my mouth around the nipple of her left breast, my favorite one. I love how the nipple tastes in my mouth. She sighs with a wet longing, a long and deep sigh coming from the depths of her soul, smelling of a love she wants my mouth to smell and my nose to taste.]
HER: Darling, how many lifetimes will I have to suffer before I encounter you again? For that random instant where I’ll be waiting with a raw hunger for you?
ME: I could fashion my answer into a verse that would be the greatest love poem ever written. But my dearest, words are ephemeral, lasting not for an instant in the eternity of our souls united by a love for which words have not been discovered yet.
HER (smiles): You and your poetry! I could rip out your organs one by one but you will still want to write poetry with the blood that is gushing out.
[She slides down and bites me on my chest, next to my right nipple. I gasp in recognition of that subtle mix of pain and pleasure that always comes as a surprise. I grasp her slithering hair and pull her up. She cries out but before the cry can escape the confines of her throat my mouth is on her’s. Her tongue shoots up into my mouth like a diver coming up for air. We kiss like it is the last kiss we will have before reality chases our unbelievable dream away. We stop after only a minute but which feels like our collective lifetime.]
ME: I want to rise and fall inside your perfect depths. I want to taste you as you explode like a star going supernova. I want to lay my head between your breasts and feel the gentle rise and fall your breathing makes. I want to whisper my dreams into your ear while you sleep and somehow feel that you dream those whispers as telepathic poems from my heart. I want to cleanse your every fear with all the love that is seeping out of each and every single pore of my body.
HER: I wish I could dissolve in the glistening wetness of your eyes while you say these things to me. I wish there was some way to tattoo these words onto my heart so that they will always be there as guiding lights through our every lifetime together until even eternity breathes her last.
[She hugs me tight, squeezing me as if wanting to feel all the love that we have for each other at once. I kiss her hair and hug her back, wanting to crush her between my arms and thereby distill the love we have into the purest liquid the universe has ever seen or tasted.]
As the curtain falls we are still interlocked, blissfully ignorant of the bright blue of a slowly advancing dawn to the east.
Oh Canada! (Or Switzerland for your Britz)
Address to the inmates at the weekly gathering at The Poet, in London.
Thanks for coming guys...I`ve been waiting for you for years, seriously. If you catch up, we can get this thing sorted...
First, the language. We HAVE to work on that. "You Wot", "Manky Man", "Diamond Geezer." Sorry. I don`t get it. Try: How Yah Doon? Friggen Rights!
Some funny shit...Employment... I`m scared of losing my job.... I get too excited. It's the gout.. What, you want me to work for you? I can`t shake your hand... too much cheese and wine... and no vegetables...
They say Canadians are boring. You ever seen a beaver swimming? Buck toothed and fucking beautiful.
Back in England....That stick with tits on the T.V? What`s her name, Ann Robinson? Her skin is tighter-than-a-mouse`s-hole-stretched-over-a-barrel. She gives new meaning to the expression: Face for radio. Mean? She`s the white witch of Narnia with ginger hair.
Oh my hands... It`s the gout.
Speaking of gout.
In England you have the Great figures of History: Henry the Eighth. You know the story, when the old prick gets in a fight with his wife he doesn`t go and make her a cappucino. He cuts her head off. New wife, new knife. In Italy, they call him Enrico. I like that. Respectful. Enrico don`t sound like a fat man wearing a tent, does it?
So boring Canadians. Admittedly, here in the U.K., you have Margaret Thatcher. But we have our own Maggie, man: Margaret Trudeau. She did Mick Jagger, man. Whilst her husband was trying to repatriate the constitution. Jagger was having his constitutional... in Toronto. Man. T. dot O.
Gout. Ouch.
So back to Russians. Lenin`s tomb, that poor bald bastard entombed. We have out own entombment. Maggie`s son man. Michel Trudeau. That poor bastard is buried under an avalanche of snow ina mountian in B.C.B.C? Where`s that?Canada you squids.That is Switzerland for you Britz. Just minus the Germans.......
Thanks for coming guys...I`ve been waiting for you for years, seriously. If you catch up, we can get this thing sorted...
First, the language. We HAVE to work on that. "You Wot", "Manky Man", "Diamond Geezer." Sorry. I don`t get it. Try: How Yah Doon? Friggen Rights!
Some funny shit...Employment... I`m scared of losing my job.... I get too excited. It's the gout.. What, you want me to work for you? I can`t shake your hand... too much cheese and wine... and no vegetables...
They say Canadians are boring. You ever seen a beaver swimming? Buck toothed and fucking beautiful.
Back in England....That stick with tits on the T.V? What`s her name, Ann Robinson? Her skin is tighter-than-a-mouse`s-hole-stretched-over-a-barrel. She gives new meaning to the expression: Face for radio. Mean? She`s the white witch of Narnia with ginger hair.
Oh my hands... It`s the gout.
Speaking of gout.
In England you have the Great figures of History: Henry the Eighth. You know the story, when the old prick gets in a fight with his wife he doesn`t go and make her a cappucino. He cuts her head off. New wife, new knife. In Italy, they call him Enrico. I like that. Respectful. Enrico don`t sound like a fat man wearing a tent, does it?
So boring Canadians. Admittedly, here in the U.K., you have Margaret Thatcher. But we have our own Maggie, man: Margaret Trudeau. She did Mick Jagger, man. Whilst her husband was trying to repatriate the constitution. Jagger was having his constitutional... in Toronto. Man. T. dot O.
Gout. Ouch.
So back to Russians. Lenin`s tomb, that poor bald bastard entombed. We have out own entombment. Maggie`s son man. Michel Trudeau. That poor bastard is buried under an avalanche of snow ina mountian in B.C.B.C? Where`s that?Canada you squids.That is Switzerland for you Britz. Just minus the Germans.......
in canadadadada land
'in' canadadadada land where nothing exists besides the immanence
flows of there's a side line flows along sides of artic
and other puzzled pieced geographs side of the line that cloaks
its flow its floak of Francais et Anglais et les neiges
qui parles des autres et le sang qui chante dans le bouillon
de terres des hommes et les mere les mere de Oedipe of Heedeepus
his mudder Y'ocasta sfirst stone or the shrugging shoulder
of the Jewish book-seller
where the bear stalks and the gufflalo gloam
but bison pack it in at 42 of witches and other condign figures
bt not the 'h'old wars please,not
not de'h'old wars s.v.plait of immanence and artic
La Nouvelle France and les guerres d'antan a programme
not a party a slang not a ridge where
snow flakes fatten on the gooseberry
in that space Gwendolyn spoke of where was a boy
her honeyed hair straw as ice She know where is an Hind
of awkward pools of Sesame and blother bizzare 'pasures'
of exalted ones, les exaltes s.v.plait et mon force
et de connaitre l'autre this latin tacks its
North to South medicating gather berries on the South
winds of rocking ailers their boiler room buddies
St. Catherine street its deaths notthe Toronto hubs
its bars whores guff literary coaches scarlet beaches
the dead blameless not the fiery warning of
stormy warning dead fires fizzle now their warming
coughed in the gone of their belongness some immanence
which catches its cut awkward size of the not flookers
gapes a positive note in its treble-clef of desire
(not drafting all their way to the bank of
credit & debit chair)
Nietzsche's Daughter brings you her skirt
kept in the kilt of time
like murmur murmur murmur song
beleagured flag of treasure test thy trove
make a sticking berry to worry yer song
not a mackerelto hitch yer trousers
Holy Mackerel hitch your trousers
loose lent intent
grabbing at the flick of dock
2
the important thing's to recall the names of those not recall'd the ones
read not read heard not re-called from the grave of their bead book
and worry not the
recall the few fit and merry the many starry and struck
paused and engulfed of their books esteem
3
agreed . agreed , l o v e r .
______________________________________
detention . stairwell
heard any good acronymns lately
page cannot be displayed
(i am) a harmonic of sirens &&&&
kind men who beat the street
to a pulp (to extricate)
when i was a boy
i could have stayed
in the grass for years
i had to stay after, whose good
who say it is father, father, father
fat-|of|-her mathematics:
i will draw a map of multiplication
tables perhaps you
can diagram them
when i was a boy
the good (best) acronymn:
did you just hear the sirens?
the page often begins roughly,
obliquely
i have not eaten for over 8 paper
& pencil put-downs (gymnasium) stopwatch (hours)
i should fill my stomach instead
with the economies
of clear blue morning
vodka & paint thinner
first-cut mind me now
mind me
no gristle
page cannot be displayed
(i am) a harmonic of sirens &&&&
kind men who beat the street
to a pulp (to extricate)
when i was a boy
i could have stayed
in the grass for years
i had to stay after, whose good
who say it is father, father, father
fat-|of|-her mathematics:
i will draw a map of multiplication
tables perhaps you
can diagram them
when i was a boy
the good (best) acronymn:
did you just hear the sirens?
the page often begins roughly,
obliquely
i have not eaten for over 8 paper
& pencil put-downs (gymnasium) stopwatch (hours)
A) hysterectomy c) friedrichabove
B) bolivia D) demi-glaze e) all of the @!#$
i should fill my stomach instead
with the economies
of clear blue morning
vodka & paint thinner
first-cut mind me now
mind me
no gristle
The Answerist
Electra, in slow secrecy, allows the high-built towers to soak into
her,
Secure their anchor to the rock of the planet, tethered, they go only
to the sky.
Clever to demand belief in the way they do and she isolates their
vile success,
Belief demanded from those never shown another way,
One Answer received, one Answer given, perforce.
Shouldn't the people of Alba have realised? By now?
Shouldn't they know they operate on one Answer out of a many?
That always they trot in masses toward?
That every faction they weld has the Answer as stated policy? (Their
hustings are not of great excitement.)
Told in the loudest voice has deafened them,
The people, great Samson taken to the sheets and shorn by murderous
murderous chaff.
She's got eyes for the stagnancy,
The laziness from populace to governance, there 's a King gone to
quoits and bowls and falconry,
A no-good Piers Gaveston beside, full of pleas to be indulged,
While at the palace, a Richelieu places his seal to the great charters, his
job all spun in disguise.
That a monoculture cannot prosper forever?
That they are derelict in their duty?
That they tramp incurious, content to make yesterday today?
That they be on the qui vive, that acrid should be
their enquiry,
It 's not as if things are so good round here.
The Answer has found a means to consume, as life will eat all
smaller life
It has taken the light, insatiate, from the trees in the canopy,
All the others, they lie unused,
When a multitude of Answers could have their trial.
A black blazing Sun rises today, on a sky of vermilion,
She's got eyes for the stagnancy (and if blinded tonight might be
happier), knowing,
And grabbing at passegiati with fierce rays,
Daring them to defend their God in all his inactivity,
But still these Albans go, oblivious to their forehead number,
Bumbling bluegrey carp in a murky pond, the postnoon too hot to bother,
Not to create the world, since their God has done it for them.
Knowing that they are lethal, these fools, with their answer so well
supplied,
I am an Answerist, I am greedy for many, says Electra.
her,
Secure their anchor to the rock of the planet, tethered, they go only
to the sky.
Clever to demand belief in the way they do and she isolates their
vile success,
Belief demanded from those never shown another way,
One Answer received, one Answer given, perforce.
Shouldn't the people of Alba have realised? By now?
Shouldn't they know they operate on one Answer out of a many?
That always they trot in masses toward?
That every faction they weld has the Answer as stated policy? (Their
hustings are not of great excitement.)
Told in the loudest voice has deafened them,
The people, great Samson taken to the sheets and shorn by murderous
murderous chaff.
She's got eyes for the stagnancy,
The laziness from populace to governance, there 's a King gone to
quoits and bowls and falconry,
A no-good Piers Gaveston beside, full of pleas to be indulged,
While at the palace, a Richelieu places his seal to the great charters, his
job all spun in disguise.
That a monoculture cannot prosper forever?
That they are derelict in their duty?
That they tramp incurious, content to make yesterday today?
That they be on the qui vive, that acrid should be
their enquiry,
It 's not as if things are so good round here.
The Answer has found a means to consume, as life will eat all
smaller life
It has taken the light, insatiate, from the trees in the canopy,
All the others, they lie unused,
When a multitude of Answers could have their trial.
A black blazing Sun rises today, on a sky of vermilion,
She's got eyes for the stagnancy (and if blinded tonight might be
happier), knowing,
And grabbing at passegiati with fierce rays,
Daring them to defend their God in all his inactivity,
But still these Albans go, oblivious to their forehead number,
Bumbling bluegrey carp in a murky pond, the postnoon too hot to bother,
Not to create the world, since their God has done it for them.
Knowing that they are lethal, these fools, with their answer so well
supplied,
I am an Answerist, I am greedy for many, says Electra.
SPRING
in a Century we are just beginning to learn
The Bearded Lady
weeps
and each of us
stares back
from
the wrinkled depths
of her simian eyes
She would love us
if we could allow it
A small dog
extends a hot red tongue
licks the smile
from her face
In the distance we hear
the first of the bombs
& reach for our guns
as the last of our youth
walks away.
--Ben L. Hiatt
The Bearded Lady
weeps
and each of us
stares back
from
the wrinkled depths
of her simian eyes
She would love us
if we could allow it
A small dog
extends a hot red tongue
licks the smile
from her face
In the distance we hear
the first of the bombs
& reach for our guns
as the last of our youth
walks away.
--Ben L. Hiatt
POEM BEGINNING WITH A LINE FROM ODD JOB
for Jim Behrle
Ah Ah!
Stop your Andrea Doria dreaming;
Get with the rose revolution.
Filling life with words, sounds, images—Why?
Let us walk again soon in Pere Lachaise
Or I could make up a story if you prefer:
It takes two to know one,
And you think I’m alone now.
The man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo,
Searching for harsh truths in poor light—
He still carries a torch for her,
And always takes a left at the iron lion.
You picked a real bad time this time;
I’m somebody or other, but just call me “Jimbo.”
You should know about objectionable content:
Your taste is in your ass—Get in!
Ah Ah!
Stop your Andrea Doria dreaming;
Get with the rose revolution.
Filling life with words, sounds, images—Why?
Let us walk again soon in Pere Lachaise
Or I could make up a story if you prefer:
It takes two to know one,
And you think I’m alone now.
The man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo,
Searching for harsh truths in poor light—
He still carries a torch for her,
And always takes a left at the iron lion.
You picked a real bad time this time;
I’m somebody or other, but just call me “Jimbo.”
You should know about objectionable content:
Your taste is in your ass—Get in!
good
someday
at my funeral
strangers will come up
to my family
and say
- he was kind and honest,
- he was brave,
- he was a good man.
i really really hope
they won't be lying.
at my funeral
strangers will come up
to my family
and say
- he was kind and honest,
- he was brave,
- he was a good man.
i really really hope
they won't be lying.
Slightly Engaged Collective
is a regal story, captured at breaking time. That time—which was scrolled across a textile loom, drifting a busy mode—disappears as a fragrant and yet losing issue. The snow will melt with a caution extending into language. Our passive texts submit a lightly flowing river. This river slides by Boston and other towns. We have named it. This river intends to cool the sea, and it does. The sea cools with lost land, and people venture, and a troubling dislocated broil of clumped intentions, all for the future. People as a single thing, touched into the first haze they could imagine, building a city. Now it is this city, standing tall but unknown. Who could possibly know several stories of buildings, as well as several stories of roads leading somewhere else, and several stories of citizens in all tremendousness and new on the day? No, the city is just a blot, which we admire as standard. The city, too, is named. It would have to be. It has made its place, and expects us to make ours. We study the enterprise of royal wishes, excavate for the sake of excavating, and land in a muddle. The dead days of winter that you see everywhere, they are passages and cunning instruments. Each day of winter passes. Summer never does, and spring never exists. Autumn is a lonesome thought, one evening maybe... you are restored... the path is wordy.. you protest... a poem expects more from you...
Are You Sure You Want To Send John Ashbery To The Recycle Bin?
With whatever form of writing in formal verse
that will best hold this or that subject, whether
that be To deliberately cut yourself off
from a little late coming to the party or
instead slightly left of dolled up, I pretty much
agree with limitations for my poetry. Are any haiku
real poetry? the potential of any poetic 'resources'
seems to me to be very short-sighted at best and helps
keep free verse much more stilted (old? Archaic?) and
more or less random.
I can't understand that quality that can come from writing
the formal poems Zach made about the problem. flow isn't why
anyone respects the bobbing for apples merits of formal
verse (sorry if I'm a fencepost). poetry is more highbrow
and attracts your brain more than Richard Nixon’s famous
“enemies list” of Watergate fame. I think it's rather silly
to cut farts just because it was just silly those days.
You should write formal verse like the neoformalists,
true weirdos in their moment (I just wish they spoke
plaing English), ONLY when there is obviously
many other kinds of forms to employ.
to learn to write pretty bad or negative, it just
depends how you utilize those catholic tastes
in this 'mainstream' poetry (i.e. not post-avant or
experimental) almost like swinging our lances, or swords.
In my opinion, a poet writing now out of this tradition
should avail him- or herself of deliberately wanting
to diminish their palette. As a poet, I want the option
of using any word, form, technique, etc., that will help
me get false limitations about not writing form
across to any reader/listener of the poem, no matter
what the world-at-large thinks!!!
The optimistically divine fireball of Sun was a poet's
priceless dream, and actual words are much more
subtle than that. This just makes sense to me.
Giving myself or exactly what I want to communicate
only writing form is a similar thing to those proponents
of never using words in my own special blend of language
and feelings that I call poetry because they
have been used (for some reason).
I just don't accept these kinds of sonnets or blank verse
or free verse where you might be able to take a poem
out. How well you use this inherent tool potential shows
a lot of mustard, imho.
PS: Although I am totally untrained in the world
of poetry, I know what "feels" right providing
the likes of John Frederick Nims and Frederick
Turner-who tend to churn out the poems with the
greatest entertainment value, a depth of emotion in a smart,
sassy poetry of the contemporary Western civilization-trash
culture and fraudulencies of Gwyneth Paltrow®.
that will best hold this or that subject, whether
that be To deliberately cut yourself off
from a little late coming to the party or
instead slightly left of dolled up, I pretty much
agree with limitations for my poetry. Are any haiku
real poetry? the potential of any poetic 'resources'
seems to me to be very short-sighted at best and helps
keep free verse much more stilted (old? Archaic?) and
more or less random.
I can't understand that quality that can come from writing
the formal poems Zach made about the problem. flow isn't why
anyone respects the bobbing for apples merits of formal
verse (sorry if I'm a fencepost). poetry is more highbrow
and attracts your brain more than Richard Nixon’s famous
“enemies list” of Watergate fame. I think it's rather silly
to cut farts just because it was just silly those days.
You should write formal verse like the neoformalists,
true weirdos in their moment (I just wish they spoke
plaing English), ONLY when there is obviously
many other kinds of forms to employ.
to learn to write pretty bad or negative, it just
depends how you utilize those catholic tastes
in this 'mainstream' poetry (i.e. not post-avant or
experimental) almost like swinging our lances, or swords.
In my opinion, a poet writing now out of this tradition
should avail him- or herself of deliberately wanting
to diminish their palette. As a poet, I want the option
of using any word, form, technique, etc., that will help
me get false limitations about not writing form
across to any reader/listener of the poem, no matter
what the world-at-large thinks!!!
The optimistically divine fireball of Sun was a poet's
priceless dream, and actual words are much more
subtle than that. This just makes sense to me.
Giving myself or exactly what I want to communicate
only writing form is a similar thing to those proponents
of never using words in my own special blend of language
and feelings that I call poetry because they
have been used (for some reason).
I just don't accept these kinds of sonnets or blank verse
or free verse where you might be able to take a poem
out. How well you use this inherent tool potential shows
a lot of mustard, imho.
PS: Although I am totally untrained in the world
of poetry, I know what "feels" right providing
the likes of John Frederick Nims and Frederick
Turner-who tend to churn out the poems with the
greatest entertainment value, a depth of emotion in a smart,
sassy poetry of the contemporary Western civilization-trash
culture and fraudulencies of Gwyneth Paltrow®.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)