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Index » Entertainment » Books » Poetry Forum Page: 1, 2, 3 ... 207, 208, 209  Next
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ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 16, 2022 - 7:42am

The Day Beauty Divorced Meaning

by Leslie Harrison

Their friends looked shocked—said not
possible
, said how sad. The trees carried on
with their treeish lives—stately except when
they shed their silly dandruff of birds. And
the ocean did what oceans mostly do—
suspended almost everything, dropped one
small ship, or two. The day beauty divorced
meaning, someone picked a flower, a fight,
a flight. Someone got on a boat.
A closet lost its suitcases. Someone
was snowed in, someone else on. The sun
went down and all it was, was night.

miamizsun

miamizsun Avatar

Location: (3261.3 Miles SE of RP)
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 15, 2022 - 2:46pm

 Manbird wrote:


Cool site! Most of the poetry generated there is ten (10) times better than any of the junk I've ever written. 


ok, but not because you say so!

How To Scratch Mother Lips

For a day, maybe thousand,
I rested under a harrowing wind
at a bus stop, waiting for the aunt to be inside.
Carry me onto your raft - the apple of my school -


/poem/9288b8d98c54a191



Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: Owl Creek Bridge
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 15, 2022 - 2:27pm

 miamizsun wrote:

I Expected Mothers

Our new rose, our scrupulous ritual tetrahedrons.
In the face of so many blades to animosity.
Within the scratching receptacles.
I'd do it for the branch in which you preserve
for the honeysuckles of cashmire you've built.

A loaf of bread baked with lewd sincerity and salt.
The green car weaves in transforming your eyelids.
It showers like a flag outside the cathedral.

-poetry ninja (ai generated)

/poem/d651b4862dedc231






Cool site! Most of the poetry generated there is ten (10) times better than any of the junk I've ever written. 
miamizsun

miamizsun Avatar

Location: (3261.3 Miles SE of RP)
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 15, 2022 - 1:44pm

I Expected Mothers

Our new rose, our scrupulous ritual tetrahedrons.
In the face of so many blades to animosity.
Within the scratching receptacles.
I'd do it for the branch in which you preserve
for the honeysuckles of cashmire you've built.

A loaf of bread baked with lewd sincerity and salt.
The green car weaves in transforming your eyelids.
It showers like a flag outside the cathedral.

-poetry ninja (ai generated)

/poem/d651b4862dedc231




Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: Owl Creek Bridge
Gender: Male


Posted: Nov 14, 2022 - 1:51pm


Unslept

Of an evening sky this blood entailed

There was blood in the forest

And blood on the trail

The shotgun suicide sky has wept

All its forlorn gore and most of its flesh

Bone - it had none - nor tendons to stretch

Its breath without lungs but still sucked once

Then strangled the black neck of twilight

The silence the night the quiet the none

A torn photo of daylight remained

Like eventual or sometime or maybe

A thin sprocket of light a razor the drain

Of becoming but teased - extinguished

His tar becomes dark


Of deep night sky this charcoal emitted

The patient's mouth gaping

His charcoal ingrained

Upon lips and between broken teeth

His stomach is pumped completely

And all that remains is sweet stain

And black sticky between his burned ribs

This is where the suicide patient

Lies darkly his wrists without skin

This is where the wound was compressed

And look... they found the bottle

Empty of his daylight prescribed

And having swallowed it all

He vomited night


Of specular dawn this horror arising

A stainless steel table

At an angle of seven degrees

Sluices catch serums and juices that seep

From the suicide specter with sun in his eyes

Wrinkles of cloud sprinkle drops of despair

Over purple edged moles with black shaven hairs

The urine is dried by a pale burning sun

The saliva stains gathered in jars

The snake stalks the rodent with a tongue

That can smell and the tang in the forest appalled

And people who sleep through all of this glory

Never visit this forest at all

This is the place where insomniacs walk

The landscape where lunatics fall

– Rob Diebold






Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Nov 13, 2022 - 9:48am

Cold clouds scuttle past
The half moon. The sun warms us.
The dog and I walk.
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Oct 2, 2022 - 5:31am

Something Told the Wild Geese
by Rachel Field
 
Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered,—‘Snow.’
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned,—‘Frost.’
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,—
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Sep 12, 2022 - 3:16pm

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand—
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep—while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

EAP

Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: Owl Creek Bridge
Gender: Male


Posted: Aug 19, 2022 - 5:07pm

 ScottN wrote:
 
h/t Manbird
 
 
Sylvia Plath
 
 
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ——
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly call out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ——
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness — blackness and silence

love love love this



ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Aug 19, 2022 - 2:08pm

 
h/t Manbird
 
 
Sylvia Plath
 
 
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ——
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly call out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ——
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness — blackness and silence
oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Aug 19, 2022 - 12:16pm

Poetry, even when apparently most fantastic, is always a revolt against artifice, a revolt, in a sense, against actuality.

James Joyce

 

I was reading the dictionary. I thought it was a poem about everything.

Steven Wright

oldviolin

oldviolin Avatar

Location: esse quam videri
Gender: Male


Posted: Aug 18, 2022 - 9:28am

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Jul 4, 2022 - 7:38am

 Lazy8 wrote:
Written a year ago and read at my mother-in-law's memorial service by the author. My Grandmother's Garden by M. Bessac I am bunches of wildflowers with their roots ripped up
I am the weeds your mother cannot get rid of
And the stained red poppies, held in place with a cup
I am the big willow tree, who watched you learn to love
I am the California sweet peas, so stubborn as to only grow in the summer
The orange tinted daffodils your father bought ...so long ago
The mistletoe your little sister always takes down for Mummer
I am the thorn-prone ivy that only grows in the snow
I am everywhere, it is time you know
For when it is my time to go
I will be anywhere, everywhere in that lush green paseo

 
{#Good-vibes}
Manbird

Manbird Avatar

Location: Owl Creek Bridge
Gender: Male


Posted: Jul 3, 2022 - 8:14pm

 Lazy8 wrote:

Written a year ago and read at my mother-in-law's memorial service by the author.

My Grandmother's Garden by M. Bessac

I am bunches of wildflowers with their roots ripped up
I am the weeds your mother cannot get rid of
And the stained red poppies, held in place with a cup
I am the big willow tree, who watched you learn to love
I am the California sweet peas, so stubborn as to only grow in the summer
The orange tinted daffodils your father bought ...so long ago
The mistletoe your little sister always takes down for Mummer
I am the thorn-prone ivy that only grows in the snow
I am everywhere, it is time you know
For when it is my time to go
I will be anywhere, everywhere in that lush green paseo





Lazy8

Lazy8 Avatar

Location: The Gallatin Valley of Montana
Gender: Male


Posted: Jul 3, 2022 - 8:02pm

Written a year ago and read at my mother-in-law's memorial service by the author.

My Grandmother's Garden by M. Bessac

I am bunches of wildflowers with their roots ripped up
I am the weeds your mother cannot get rid of
And the stained red poppies, held in place with a cup
I am the big willow tree, who watched you learn to love
I am the California sweet peas, so stubborn as to only grow in the summer
The orange tinted daffodils your father bought ...so long ago
The mistletoe your little sister always takes down for Mummer
I am the thorn-prone ivy that only grows in the snow
I am everywhere, it is time you know
For when it is my time to go
I will be anywhere, everywhere in that lush green paseo

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jun 30, 2022 - 6:50am

On the 747

by Malena Morling

As soon as I sat down
the seven year old girl
offered me gum
and showed me a postcard
of the airplane we were in.
She was writing her mother
whom she had just left at the gate,
smearing her love
in blue magic marker.
Then she pulled out a drawing
she had made of the wind
and one of a cloud
and a man who had ladders
for legs and eight arms
extending eight hands.
After the heavy body of the plane
lifted off the ground,
she held my hand and talked
about her flute teacher's birds
and the eels she had bought
in a bait store and let loose
on the beach, each one
slithering into the dark
of the green waves,
returning to what she said
she could not imagine.

Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Jun 28, 2022 - 1:18pm

The best defense is offensive

The turkey vulture,
a shy bird ungainly on the ground
but massively graceful in flight,
responds to attack
uniquely.
Men have contempt for this scavenger
because he eats without killing.
When an enemy attacks,
the turkey vulture vomits:
the shock and disgust of the predator
are usually sufficient
to effect his escape.
He loses only his dinner,
easily replaces.
All day I have been thinking
how to adapt
this method of resistance.
Sometimes only the stark
will to disgust
prevents our being consumed:
there are clearly times
when we must make a stink
to survive.

~Marge Piercy
ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jun 28, 2022 - 11:35am

 Antigone wrote:

Marge Piercy: Right To Life

A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of your
descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes gather interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, any more than you are.

You plant corn and you harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in to
butcher for chops. You slice the mountain
in two for a road and gouge the high plains
for coal and the waters run muddy for
miles and years. Fish die but you do not
call them yours unless you wished to eat them.

Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies like iceberg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cough to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.
At this moment at nine o’clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in Texas who can’t get
Medicaid any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants discipline.

We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother’s blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted, is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad is summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.

I will choose what enters me, what becomes
of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold shares
in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
I want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.

 
{#Clap}
Antigone

Antigone Avatar

Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley
Gender: Female


Posted: Jun 28, 2022 - 5:16am

Marge Piercy: Right To Life

A woman is not a basket you place
your buns in to keep them warm. Not a brood
hen you can slip duck eggs under.
Not the purse holding the coins of your
descendants till you spend them in wars.
Not a bank where your genes gather interest
and interesting mutations in the tainted
rain, any more than you are.

You plant corn and you harvest
it to eat or sell. You put the lamb
in the pasture to fatten and haul it in to
butcher for chops. You slice the mountain
in two for a road and gouge the high plains
for coal and the waters run muddy for
miles and years. Fish die but you do not
call them yours unless you wished to eat them.

Now you legislate mineral rights in a woman.
You lay claim to her pastures for grazing,
fields for growing babies like iceberg
lettuce. You value children so dearly
that none ever go hungry, none weep
with no one to tend them when mothers
work, none lack fresh fruit,
none chew lead or cough to death and your
orphanages are empty. Every noon the best
restaurants serve poor children steaks.
At this moment at nine o’clock a partera
is performing a table top abortion on an
unwed mother in Texas who can’t get
Medicaid any longer. In five days she will die
of tetanus and her little daughter will cry
and be taken away. Next door a husband
and wife are sticking pins in the son
they did not want. They will explain
for hours how wicked he is,
how he wants discipline.

We are all born of woman, in the rose
of the womb we suckled our mother’s blood
and every baby born has a right to love
like a seedling to sun. Every baby born
unloved, unwanted, is a bill that will come
due in twenty years with interest, an anger
that must find a target, a pain that will
beget pain. A decade downstream a child
screams, a woman falls, a synagogue is torched,
a firing squad is summoned, a button
is pushed and the world burns.

I will choose what enters me, what becomes
of my flesh. Without choice, no politics,
no ethics lives. I am not your cornfield,
not your uranium mine, not your calf
for fattening, not your cow for milking.
You may not use me as your factory.
Priests and legislators do not hold shares
in my womb or my mind.
This is my body. If I give it to you
I want it back. My life
is a non-negotiable demand.

ScottN

ScottN Avatar

Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary
Gender: Male


Posted: Jun 26, 2022 - 9:04am

For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid

There is a country to cross you will
find in the corner of your eye, in
the quick slip of your foot—air far
down, a snap that might have caught.
And maybe for you, for me, a high, passing
voice that finds its way by being
afraid. That country is there, for us,
carried as it is crossed. What you fear
will not go away: it will take you into
yourself and bless you and keep you.
That’s the world, and we all live there.

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