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Index »
Entertainment »
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Poetry Forum
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Page: Previous 1, 2, 3, 4 ... 210, 211, 212 Next |
ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Feb 21, 2023 - 5:08am |
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VIII – from “Twelve Songs”by W. H. Auden At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end, The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend; Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire; Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire. Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links, Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks, Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye. For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall, The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall, The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss, There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Feb 9, 2023 - 6:46am |
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The reason Miss Delaney was my favorite teacher, not just my favorite English teacher, is that she would let me read any book I wanted and would allow me to report on it. I had the pleasure of reading The Scapegoat as well as We the Living as well as Silver Spoon (which was about a whole bunch of rich folk who were unhappy), and Defender of the Damned, which was about Clarence Darrow, which led me into Native Son because the real case was defended by Darrow though in Native Son he got the chair despite the fact that Darrow never lost a client to the chair including Leopold and Loeb who killed Bobby Frank. Native Son led me to Eight Men and all the rest of Richard Wright but I preferred Langston Hughes at that time and Gwendolyn Brooks and I did reports on both of them. I always loved English because whatever human beings are, we are storytellers. It is our stories that give a light to the future. When I went to college I became a history major because history is such a wonderful story of who we think we are; English is much more a story of who we really are. It was, after all, Miss Delaney who introduced the class to My candle burns at both ends; /It will not last the night; /But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends— /It gives a lovely light. And I thought YES. Poetry is the main line. English is the train.
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Jan 25, 2023 - 5:12am |
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Things Shouldn’t Be So Hardby Kay Ryan A life should leave deep tracks: ruts where she went out and back to get the mail or move the hose around the yard; where she used to stand before the sink, a worn-out place; beneath her hand the china knobs rubbed down to white pastilles; the switch she used to feel for in the dark almost erased. Her things should keep her marks. The passage of a life should show; it should abrade. And when life stops, a certain space— however small— should be left scarred by the grand and damaging parade. Things shouldn’t be so hard.
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Jan 22, 2023 - 7:18pm |
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for a late January day
I had a dream, which was not all a dream: The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless and pathless, and the icy Earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air! Morn came, and went, and came - and brought no day. And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. And they did live by watchfires - and the thrones, The palaces of crownéd kings, the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons. Cities were consumed, And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face. Happy were those which dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch! A fearful hope was all the World contained - Forests were set on fire, but hour by hour They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks Extinguished with a crash, and all was black.
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Manbird
Location: La Villa Toscana Gender:
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Posted:
Jan 22, 2023 - 3:22pm |
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ScottN wrote:
Geography of the Forehead
by Ron Koertge
Everyone thinks the brain is so complicated,
but letâs look at the facts. The frontal lobe,
for example, is located in the front! And
the temporal lobe is where the clock is.
What could be simpler?
The hippocampal fissure is where big, dumb
thoughts camp, while at the Fissure of Rolando
dark-skinned men with one gold earring lie
around the fire and play guitars.
The superior frontal convolution is where
a lot of really nice houses are set back off
a twisty road, while the inferior frontal
convolution is a kind of trailer park, regularly
leveled by brainstorms.
The area of Broca is pretty much off limits.
And if you know Broca, you know why.
Dutch? Or not...
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Jan 17, 2023 - 10:03am |
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Let other mornings honor the miraculous. Eternity has festivals enough. This is the feast of our mortality, The most mundane and human holiday.
On other days we misinterpret time, Pretending that we live the present moment. But can this blur, this smudgy in-between, This tiny fissure where the future drips
Into the past, this flyspeck we call now Be our true habitat? The present is The leaky palm of water that we skim From the swift, silent river slipping by.
The new year always brings us what we want Simply by bringing us along—to see A calendar with every day uncrossed, A field of snow without a single footprint.
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Jan 12, 2023 - 5:05am |
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Geography of the Foreheadby Ron Koertge Everyone thinks the brain is so complicated, but let’s look at the facts. The frontal lobe, for example, is located in the front! And the temporal lobe is where the clock is. What could be simpler? The hippocampal fissure is where big, dumb thoughts camp, while at the Fissure of Rolando dark-skinned men with one gold earring lie around the fire and play guitars. The superior frontal convolution is where a lot of really nice houses are set back off a twisty road, while the inferior frontal convolution is a kind of trailer park, regularly leveled by brainstorms. The area of Broca is pretty much off limits. And if you know Broca, you know why.
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Antigone
Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley Gender:
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Posted:
Dec 25, 2022 - 6:37am |
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ScottN wrote:
Christmas Light
When everyone had gone
I sat in the library
With the small silent tree,
She and I alone.
How softly she shone!
And for the first time then
For the first time this year,
I felt reborn again,
I knew loveâs presence near.
Love distant, love detached
And strangely without weight,
Was with me in the night
When everyone had gone
And the garland of pure light
Stayed on, stayed on. âChristmas Lightâ by May Sarton
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Dec 25, 2022 - 5:33am |
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Christmas Light When everyone had gone I sat in the library With the small silent tree, She and I alone. How softly she shone! And for the first time then For the first time this year, I felt reborn again, I knew love’s presence near. Love distant, love detached And strangely without weight, Was with me in the night When everyone had gone And the garland of pure light Stayed on, stayed on. “Christmas Light” by May Sarton
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Nov 16, 2022 - 7:42am |
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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.
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miamizsun
Location: (3283.1 Miles SE of RP) Gender:
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Posted:
Nov 15, 2022 - 2:46pm |
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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
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Manbird
Location: La Villa Toscana Gender:
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Posted:
Nov 15, 2022 - 2:27pm |
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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)
Cool site! Most of the poetry generated there is ten (10) times better than any of the junk I've ever written.
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miamizsun
Location: (3283.1 Miles SE of RP) Gender:
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Posted:
Nov 15, 2022 - 1:44pm |
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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)
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Manbird
Location: La Villa Toscana Gender:
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Posted:
Nov 14, 2022 - 1:51pm |
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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
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Antigone
Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley Gender:
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Posted:
Nov 13, 2022 - 9:48am |
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Cold clouds scuttle past The half moon. The sun warms us. The dog and I walk.
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Antigone
Location: A house, in a Virginian Valley Gender:
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Posted:
Oct 2, 2022 - 5:31am |
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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.
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oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
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Posted:
Sep 12, 2022 - 3:16pm |
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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
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Manbird
Location: La Villa Toscana Gender:
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Posted:
Aug 19, 2022 - 5:07pm |
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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 ââ
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 ââ
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 â blackness and silence
love love love this
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ScottN
Location: Half inch above the K/T boundary Gender:
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Posted:
Aug 19, 2022 - 2:08pm |
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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
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oldviolin
Location: esse quam videri Gender:
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Posted:
Aug 19, 2022 - 12:16pm |
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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
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