2009 capt lorax RIP we miss U boo memorial ILX POETRY contest poll

do you ever think about the waves
and how they just keep on coming
and coming and coming and coming
and waving to the shore WORDPLAY!!!

― G00blar

Pork pies.
Pork PIES,
You are full of LIES!
Your pastry covered meat
is the result of mistreat-
ment of swine!

But have you thought about
how your
petite bourgouis
food funds facists
and dictators?
Far worse than
potatos.

So next time you at
the supermarket.
Have a think
about it.
And stop buying
PIES that are full
of LIES!

― snoball

INSECTS AND YOU

Have you ever seen an insect?
You probably have eyes
and they probably work
and you probably look at things
so you've probably seen an insect.

Have you ever eaten an insect?
You are probably in an English-speaking country
and you're probably revolted by touching an insect let alone eating one
so you've probably never eaten an insect
unless you went to a foreign country where they eat insects
and they asked you to eat one and you were too polite to say no
or it was a dare and you didn't want to chicken out.

Have you ever heard an insect?
You've probably heard a fly or mosquito when it's close to you
(I think flies and mosquitoes live everywhere in the world)
and maybe you've heard an insect of the order Orthoptera, like a grasshopper or cricket or cicada
and maybe you've heard one of those screaming moths – I hope you haven't –
so you've probably heard an insect.

Have you ever killed an insect?
You probably have,
and I bet you've killed spiders too.
It's not my place to editorialize here.

― Abbott

Love in a Time of Everything

I love everything, it's true,
but I struggle with
certain demands it places
on my weakest struts. For example,

I love the buckskin reek
of the flayed hide
nailed to the barn door,
a little, perhaps,

by not rejecting the
raw sequence of ownership
imposed roughly, but rectified
by the logic of use and need.

But too much of what's to love is recondite
in this sad way, or more so.
The melon is quite easily loved
with a knife and a spoon,

but what of leeches, flies who,
spoonless, eat the melon
of our flesh and red juices?
Love shies and shudders at the thought.

Yet I love everything. I do! I do!
And you must imagine this to be the truth,
if we are meant to get anywhere together.
I think I manage it very sweetly, at times,

Persuading my mind to the abstruse art
of watching the insides of stones,
or curling and uncurling my toes
employing nothing but thin air.

Now, love, this is the part
where you come in.
Quick! Give me a stick to whittle,
for I have immortal longings in me.

― Aimless

Bump bump bump

Bumpity

Bump bump bump

Bumpity

Bump bump

So sayeth the Lord…

Googly goo

Googly gee

Googly gaga

Googly me!

Said the minstrel to the friar….

Freeky fro

Freekly free

Bump bump

Skiddly dee

The word was made flesh

Flesh as in clay

Clay as in Aiken

Achin' breakin' heart

Dart, shopping cart, K-Mart

― latebloomer

here are two cats sleeping on a pair of thrift shop sofas
but the similarities end where their white bellies do.
separate parents entirely, even the paw pads are distinct.

examining a group of individuals
--though it's most evident in youngsters
and some other wild mammals--
a certain degree of organization can be seen.
but when the group breaks down

***

― ian

the moment of silence is over,
although the flags remain at half-mast
having been there for what seems like forever
they are learning, without encouragement,
to dance a little in the stronger breezes.
still, as we continue,
let us be appropriately solemn.

if you turn your head to one side
and are a cow standing in the field behind my girlfriend’s house
you will see exactly what I mean:
it is in the workings of the street,
and all the people who come and go along it.
now turn the other way, and I am there,
I am waving.

― bernard snowy

"A Girl In Four Movements"

I.
in the darkness of the bar
she smirks and exhales
it occurs to me that
her smiles are crooked and smoky,
like chairs around the table
after poker night

II.
as she leans forward to
take a sip from her straw,
a strand of hair falls in front
of her face. she moves to
brush it away, but then
sees the expression on my face
and decides to let it stay

III.
while we're dancing
she pivots her foot just slightly
and spins on her toes
the white polka dots
on her red dress swirl and
blur together.
i get wonderfully dizzy

IV.
as i'm walking her home
she tilts her head back
and laughs. her mouth
opens wide and she
echoes

― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver

Paul Was Saul Until He Was Blinded

Each sound finds its way
near the end of winding days
so silence calls with large teeth
asking not What may I bring you?
but What may I take away?

There’s nothing to do but allow it.

Bike bells and umbrellas cannot save us
for there is no road and no rain here,
only ankle and rattle and a model of savoir-faire
vigilantly ensuring the chain gang moves along.

Here’s a riddle:
What color drains from the face,
and, by the way, what is joy?

If you can’t answer, everything changes.
At daybreak we will ride together to the sea.
In time we’ll fail among gulls and sand,
bodies pitched like ballast into anonymous night.

Few haruspex have gazed
on augury as plain yet
all the amor fati in the world
is small recompense.

No, no, no.
What I mean to say is this:

Will you hold my hand?
Will you tell me you love me?

It’s a great thing, they say,
the consolation of those dying.

― Edward III

denver airport advice to a member of the passeridae

Smack at the glass.

Bird, understand
that mountains

unshift. This

thinning of the clarity. Your view

will never bring horizon,

make mountains glare back

into this recycling of flesh

and habit,

the echo hollow here machine reverb.

Everb. Verb. Erb. Rb. rb. b. b.

(The security threat level remains orange. Range. Ange. Nge. nge.)

Scape.
The panes pull entrap

the view with ‘pre.’ No coaxing it,

wing-flail doorward then mountain-ward,

the mountain’s words’ ice refrain

richochet.

(Your skeleton. Your range.)

On mountain. Itself

a mountain. Fly.

― the table is the table

Of all the things I've posted
here and wish
I could take back, this
poem leers atop
the mortifying heap.

― M.V.

MY POEM
TITLED
TUESDYAS

I unlit my cigarette
in my ear
Tilted my head
drank a beer
with my ear
with my ear

― uh oh I'm having a fantasy

boring job

incredible returns next year
says the business section.

oh good. finally.

an end to uneasy equations,
and obligatos over dusty keys,
prying against these enemy hours,
these hollowed, frozen trees.

consolation reasons kindly
with the pull of greener dreams,
so memories of happy backyard
autumn river screams

go glancing off, again again
this late, this echoing screen.

optimism for gold futures fading it says.

― rent

April Has The Cruelest Poems

I keep writing poems
too mean to put out in the world.
Little girly stabs at people
who love me, who are readily identifiable,
the poems pulled from a field guide
of my resentments, written down
to spare my husband the tedium
of one more spoken version.
Not that I’m not
making him read endless drafts.

You always hurt the ones you love,
bite the hand that feeds you,
tell all.

My victims—
one whose hypochondria sours
every dinner conversation, another
whose slathering greed for goods
is the nation’s soul-rot writ small.

I could keep the poem a secret,
like a love-child of shameful parentage.

Fictionalize—turn dog-trainers
into lace-makers, unfaithful boyfriends
into treasonous atomic scientists.

The subjects would fail to recognize themselves.
After all, why would I do such a thing?

If all else fails, lie. Tell her or him
the poem is about some other person
named “Janice,” or “Dad.”

But what if, despite all this coyness,
the poem became famous? It could happen.
And these very people, my loyal supporters,
would be the first ones I’d tell. What then?

Oh, scabby wretch, festering in grievance,
whose friends and family lack all perfection—
how I made it this far will surely puzzle my biographers.

The experts advise to write what you know.
But what if you can’t? What if your one
quickly-dimming filament of decency
mandates that you hold back?

Even monsters deserve compassion.

― Beth Parker

TUGJBHHINGS III CAN MN SMELL;

bBY SNITTER

RAINBOLSW

LOVE

ABSZTARCT CONCEPTS SUCHY ASD PI
BUT ONLY TO THESD TENTHV DECIMAL

― Abbott's dog

1 Minute of Decadence

I want a parrot.
I want a parrot and some pistachios.
Sure, I could ask for world peace
But all I really want in life
Is a parrot and some pistachios.
(Actually, fuck a parrot)
I want some pistachios,
A lion bar,
(Maybe two lion bars?)
Yr lovin’, a cup of tea
And some new shoes.

― a hoy hoy

We Staggered Like Bonsai

We staggered like bonsai through the general
assent of glasses, trailing streamers
from our heels and freshening
drinks with a vengeance.

Understand, we expected this
to happen to other people. There had been no call
for laughter, nothing insidious at the get-go
to suggest that we would find our tongues

So soon. We were twins, and fatherless,
standing on our own feet under the gaunt
lanterns, plumped up with savoir-faire, game now
for skinny-dipping and all sorts of June buggery.

The wind came up and blew the crows clean
Out of the pines.

― rogermexico.

(emotions)

they may not be focussed as much as they should
or turned into a nice portrait, lamp or flowering garden bed -
sometimes I just throw them like plates
against a wall
and regret having to clean up the mess afterwards
and perhaps I don't discipline them well or
often enough
How dare she, they say, such rowdy misbehaviour
But they are the engine room of my creativity
the children I don't have
the fuel that makes my head keep burning
when all around the rest of me is ashen
get away from me with that firehose

― Trayce

yeah for rotational symmetry!

the revolving signs are positive
tunes running through
cities wearing earphones

and all around the bridge
over the elapsing river
dances the music

files turning tunnels
tuning an immersion
to stave each other off

the city as subjective construct
telekinetic realisations
download each other

from the playlist
one song is chosen
facing north or south

the same story is told
in the eyes of passers-by
attuned to their song and yours

project horizontally
with a complacent fixity
of noting

and this is the symmetry of it:
nobody needs to acknowledge you
to be in your music video

they could shout or swivel
and only fall out of harmony
with unseen dials

citing answerphone damn
exciting here down
phone city areas

i’ll bring gold frankincense and myrrh
and you'll just take the donkey
haphaw spun into mayday

until once again
ensconced contently
within our orb

we look outwards
at the endless random
cycle home

― country matters

On Inducing Retinal Hallucination During Mass

I wouldn't pray, or couldn't gloss my syllables like them,
their tongues loose as clappers in a lolling range of bell-buoys,
wakened by the Spirit. More simple to assume the prayerful attitude:
the fingers herringboned across my forehead would seam the suction
of the diving mask. Meek jelly eyeballs, pressured by the blunt palm,
would oblate: across the purple lids, a sudden bloom of algae.
Even in want of stimulus, there comes perception; in this fluid darkness,
a worm of light angles. Each phosphor germ inhabits this, only this,
atmospheric compression. The man speaking from the pulpit that day
was one of those visionaries who has seen the Blessed Virgin,
conjured by crisis. As he chanted to the congregation "Present,
She is present, she is present here now," I saw her, too,
carbuncular Star of the Sea: hard radiance honed into mobile spines
to stilt astride the faithful, mouth stooping in mercy
to scavenge with its grasping tongue, taking into itself
the dissolving flesh from the fissures of men.

― elmo argonaut

“Dutch Schultz, duh,”
Chuck blurts.

Hubbub. Ruckus.

“Hush up,” Buck murmurs.

Dumbstruck: “Uh, sum up.”

“Truth? Drunk trust-fund
numbskull slung guns.”

Lunch truck turns up: crumb-buns,
hummus, spuds, Busch.

Chuck shuts up,
stuffs flush mug full.

But: Lungs burn.
Chuck curls up. Hurls.

Succumbs.

Flu bug? (Shrug.
Stuff hurts.)

Tut-tut, brush-cut skulls.
Drug-bust dust-ups bug
us punk fuck-ups.
Humdrum suburbs suck.

― jaymc

I went to the Donuts a-Dunkin
And thought I would buy me a munchkin.
When asked to describe
What they were to my eyes,
I said they were donuts a-shrunkin'.

― EZ Snappin

Spandrels

Obsolete black boxes turn quietly,
light golden glinting spinning
on a slanted lazy susan.

Discarded heaps of furniture fill a P'up,
red-brown and chrome rusted junk,
in late afternoon on a Tuesday.

Glare in the rearview on the way to the dump:
the reflection on my cargo is bunk,
vestigial, but nicely decorated.

― later arpeggiator

taken out and whipped

after reading, remove the culprit
he is to be taken out and whipped
he dared to sully our sacred pulpit
he failed to wow us with his wit

― darraghmac

An lonely inquisitive stroll down lover's lane

I really wanted to write a great poem
Before the deadline was due
I ended up procrastinating
Or maybe I just struggled a lot and came up with nothing good.

I never had a god but I sure wish I did
He would help me achieve simple goals
So that I could be the man I want to be
And I could do the things I want to do.

Alas, that's not going to happen.
So I should be happy with what I am.
233 lbs of weak, pathetic, realistic,
generally optimistic, fat and bones.

Some people think I'm a barrel of laughs
They think I'm a great funny guy
So maybe I should end this (uhh) poem optimistically
and admit that I like myself the way I am.

I like myself the way I am.
(This poem isn't very good though)

I should have wrote out the poem idea about a possible suicidal jump at lover's leap
but I never got past the title
And if you like this poem then FUCK YOU.
And FUCK ME too. I wouldn't mind being fucked.

THE END

― Mulvaney

long live mulvaney

I think I goofed up and lost the formatting on some of these

oh well here are links to the originals

"do you ever think about the waves" by G00blar
"Pork pies" by snoball
"INSECTS AND YOU" by Abbott
"Love in a Time of Everything" by Aimless
"Bump bump bump" by latebloomer
"here are two cats sleeping on a pair of thrift shop sofas" by ian
"the moment of silence is over" by bernard snowy
"A Girl In Four Movements" by big HOOS aka the steendriver
"Paul Was Saul Until He Was Blinded" by Edward III
"denver airport advice to a member of the passeridae" by the table is the table
"Of all the things I've posted " by M.V.
"MY POEM TITLED TUESDYAS" by uh oh I'm having a fantasy
"boring job" by rent
"April Has The Cruelest Poems" by Beth Parker
"TUGJBHHINGS III CAN MN SMELL;" by Abbott's dog
"1 Minute of Decadence" by a hoy hoy
"We Staggered Like Bonsai" by rogermexico
"(emotions)" by Trayce
"yeah for rotational symmetry!" by country matters
"On Inducing Retinal Hallucination During Mass" by elmo argonaut
"Dutch Schultz, duh" by jaymc
"I went to the Donuts a-Dunkin" by EZ Snappin
"Spandrels" by later arpeggiator
"taken out and whipped" by darraghmac
"An lonely inquisitive stroll down lover's lane" by Mulvaney

loss of italics in my entry is driving me crazy < /anal>

I'm not going to vote for myself or poems with 5 or more words I don't understand (sorry Edward).
But I read through all of these poems just now and have chosen my ILPoet. Thanks for making this poll and keeping a deadline Edward :)

Also, Beth I would love to hear you go on longer about your victims ;]

When I read "the nation's soul-rot writ small", I know I have but one choice. You need a nice, firm grip (and an awesome backhand) to write that kind of stuff.

so many of these are wonderful

I have the sudden urge to change one word in my poem now that I reread it... "wrote out" should have been "fleshed out" - much more poetic and suggestive. oh wells

Picky poets tend to leave poems in the drawer a while so they can bring them back out later and pick out such nits before sending them into the world. This is not the world. It's just the interweb, so its ok.

Yeah, that's why I submitted a poem that was written in one go

I'm not going to vote for myself or poems with 5 or more words I don't understand (sorry Edward).

haha, anyone who votes for themselves should be sent to the waste land, or be compelled to submit a 5000 word essay on it, this is not a municipal election

in my defense those highfalutin words were used to set up a dopey punchline but no need to apologize, there are awesomely talented poets on ILX and I'm glad a majority of them crawled out of the woodwork for this to get some props n love n such

I wish some folks who weren't entrants would post their thoughts but maybe it's true modernism reduced the audience for poetry from tens of thousands to ten

in other news the mysteries of server timezone settings are interfering w/ my joyce homage end date

unsure who to pick here, have narrowed it down to 3 or 4 tho'

imo this is between the established big-hitters (beth, ed iii, aimless, elmo) but i could be persuaded towards the table is the table

at this very moment i'd probably rank them

elmo
beth
ed
aimless
table

but this could easily change, especially if some sort of discussion breaks out here

Ugh I didnt know this would be a poll, thats... tacky. I wish I hadnt posted anything now!

uh

2009 ILE poetry CONTEST giggity goo!

Alright, the poem must be 4 - 40 lines. That doesn't include line breaks. One entry per person. Post your entry here. I'll move them all later when the poll starts.
Tentative closing date is May 1st so get cracking

― CaptainLorax, Sunday, March 29, 2009 3:43 PM (1 month ago) Bookmark

besides tacky is the new austere

Taste is well-known to be democratic, Trayce. *shruggles mcgee* *that means I shrugged*

My dog is pretty upset, too.

one of those tortured artist types

Ech, I didnt mean this whole thing is tacky, sorry guys! I just feel out of my depth or something. Never mind, carry on.

emotions! sensitive poets! offended canines! this poll contains multitudes!

this poll is america

*cryingeagle*

mick jagger was a poet

That name sounds kind of familiar.

I stan for quite a lot of American poetry (hell, my dissertation was on it) but you can't disregard pure unadulterated genius like

Spelt from Sibyl's Leaves

Earnest, earthless, equal, attuneable, ' vaulty, voluminous, … stupendous
Evening strains to be tíme’s vást, ' womb-of-all, home-of-all, hearse-of-all night.
Her fond yellow hornlight wound to the west, ' her wild hollow hoarlight hung to the height
Waste; her earliest stars, earl-stars, ' stárs principal, overbend us,
Fíre-féaturing heaven. For earth ' her being has unbound, her dapple is at an end, as-
tray or aswarm, all throughther, in throngs; ' self ín self steedèd and páshed—qúite
Disremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now. Heart, you round me right
With: Óur évening is over us; óur night ' whélms, whélms, ánd will end us.
Only the beak-leaved boughs dragonish ' damask the tool-smooth bleak light; black,
Ever so black on it. Óur tale, O óur oracle! ' Lét life, wáned, ah lét life wind
Off hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páck
Now her áll in twó flocks, twó folds—black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mind
But thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rack
Where, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

"(LJ) is referring to the number of yanks"

i stopped reading right there

oh, not THAT mick jagger. I was referring to mick jagger the author of erotic villanelles, he emptied dustbins for a living, died from monge's disease and was buried in a pauper's grave just outside birmingham.

how many yanks does it take to get lj's goat

I can name a bunch of Brit poets...but usually choose not to, because for the most part, contemporary British poetry is shit when compared to contemporary poetry from the US, or Brasil, or even Canada. it's just the reality of the situation.

A: this one here will suffice ^

Q. How many British poets does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A. This question cannot be answered because of the cruel North American-centrism of the world of poetry and, to a lesser extent, poesy, in the entire history of the English language.

Contemporary British poetry is not in a particularly rude state but there are a few heroes here and there. Depressingly I think I was once in a small room with most of the genuinely good ones (self n/i obv)

to be fair, british poets pwned english poetry until the 1800s

marvell 4eva right guys

in the grand scheme of things I suspect the british vs. american poetry fite has as much contemporary relevance as germany vs. switzerland who has the best tuba players

FUCK ANYONE WHO DOESN'T REP FOR SWISS TUBA

had we but yanks enough and time

SHUT UP KRAUT TUBA IS ALLTIME YOGA FLAME

lol

Yeah, the Brits were THE poets, then around 1940...well, innovative art creation jumped across the pond, and the US became where it was at.

some of us are trying to yank it off you guys

i.e. shhh lj is trying to concentrate

also I'd say the jump happened much earlier than 1940

Depressingly I think I was once in a small room with most of the genuinely good ones (self n/i obv)

LJ's past career as a toilet attendant revealed...

starting to prefer prissy 50s british poetry to the greater part of 50s american poetry. great decade for poetasters all round tho

love that word

funny that

prissy?

some real zing action here tonight

I will also stan for GM Hopkins, but I must say that his habit of using accent marks to hammer home his stresses stinks. If the stresses don't fall naturally into place, without prompting, they are not quite right and should be redone, imho. It isn't a matter of there being only one way to speak a poem, so much as the speaking of it should not fail shockingly when first attempted and require painful working out like a puzzle.

I guess it is about time Edward III
what were the rules again?

ok I found it: "the poem must be 4 - 40 lines. That doesn't include line breaks or the title. One entry per person. Post your entry here. I'll move them all later when the poll starts"

aimless is right, we should do this again

its me said it last iirc

aimless and darraghmac and me and lorax are all otm

does anyone know how lorax is getting on these days

didn't he appear recently i think

mm suppose not

I can't send e-mails because I've been banned before but yes I want to quit.

elmo was and is a superlative poet

beth too, wonder where she's at

he said some very stupid things but mostly seemed harmless and possibly slightly vulnerable, like that time he was gambling his meagre savings away speculating on securities

I fondly remember his sensible advice to wait to follow your passions until after you've got a wife and a full time job.

huh, that is remarkably sensible for someone who seemed so..........expressive

He loved Tull's Songs from the Wood, this he will not be denied his place in heaven

This = thus ffs

xxpost I thought it was pretty non-sensible myself!

oh i meant sensible in the sense of circumspect & cautious, not 'good advice'

lol, yes

so are we really doing this

i'm down to kick the tires and light the fires

all of yr poems & posts

2014 ILX Poetry Contest: The Captain Lorax Prize (Submissions Thread)

i havent written creatively in 5evs, i would be down 4 this

hope Lorax is ok.