do you ever think about the wavesand how they just keep on comingand coming and coming and comingand waving to the shore WORDPLAY!!!
― G00blar
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:53 (fourteen years ago) link
Pork pies.Pork PIES,You are full of LIES!Your pastry covered meatis the result of mistreat-ment of swine!
But have you thought abouthow yourpetite bourgouisfood funds facistsand dictators?Far worse thanpotatos.
So next time you atthe supermarket.Have a thinkabout it.And stop buyingPIES that are fullof LIES!
― snoball
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:54 (fourteen years ago) link
INSECTS AND YOU
Have you ever seen an insect?You probably have eyesand they probably workand you probably look at thingsso you've probably seen an insect.
Have you ever eaten an insect?You are probably in an English-speaking countryand you're probably revolted by touching an insect let alone eating oneso you've probably never eaten an insectunless you went to a foreign country where they eat insectsand they asked you to eat one and you were too polite to say noor 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 cicadaand 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 withcertain demands it placeson my weakest struts. For example,
I love the buckskin reekof the flayed hidenailed to the barn door,a little, perhaps,
by not rejecting theraw sequence of ownershipimposed roughly, but rectifiedby the logic of use and need.
But too much of what's to love is reconditein this sad way, or more so.The melon is quite easily lovedwith a knife and a spoon,
but what of leeches, flies who,spoonless, eat the melonof 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 artof watching the insides of stones,or curling and uncurling my toesemploying nothing but thin air.
Now, love, this is the partwhere you come in.Quick! Give me a stick to whittle,for I have immortal longings in me.
― Aimless
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
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 sofasbut 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 youngstersand some other wild mammals--a certain degree of organization can be seen.but when the group breaks down
***
― ian
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:55 (fourteen years ago) link
the moment of silence is over,although the flags remain at half-masthaving been there for what seems like foreverthey 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 sideand are a cow standing in the field behind my girlfriend’s houseyou 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 barshe smirks and exhalesit occurs to me thather smiles are crooked and smoky,like chairs around the tableafter poker night
II.as she leans forward totake a sip from her straw,a strand of hair falls in frontof her face. she moves tobrush it away, but thensees the expression on my faceand decides to let it stay
III.while we're dancingshe pivots her foot just slightlyand spins on her toesthe white polka dotson her red dress swirl andblur together.i get wonderfully dizzy
IV.as i'm walking her homeshe tilts her head backand laughs. her mouthopens wide and sheechoes
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver
Paul Was Saul Until He Was Blinded
Each sound finds its waynear the end of winding daysso silence calls with large teethasking 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 usfor there is no road and no rain here,only ankle and rattle and a model of savoir-fairevigilantly 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 gazedon augury as plain yetall the amor fati in the worldis 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, understandthat 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
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:56 (fourteen years ago) link
Of all the things I've posted here and wishI could take back, thispoem leers atopthe mortifying heap.
― M.V.
MY POEMTITLEDTUESDYAS
I unlit my cigarettein my earTilted my headdrank a beerwith my earwith my ear
― uh oh I'm having a fantasy
boring job
incredible returns next yearsays 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 kindlywith the pull of greener dreams,so memories of happy backyardautumn river screams
go glancing off, again againthis late, this echoing screen.
optimism for gold futures fading it says.
― rent
April Has The Cruelest Poems
I keep writing poemstoo mean to put out in the world.Little girly stabs at peoplewho love me, who are readily identifiable,the poems pulled from a field guideof my resentments, written downto spare my husband the tediumof one more spoken version.Not that I’m notmaking him read endless drafts.
You always hurt the ones you love,bite the hand that feeds you,tell all.
My victims—one whose hypochondria soursevery dinner conversation, anotherwhose slathering greed for goodsis the nation’s soul-rot writ small.
I could keep the poem a secret,like a love-child of shameful parentage.
Fictionalize—turn dog-trainersinto lace-makers, unfaithful boyfriendsinto 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 himthe poem is about some other personnamed “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 onequickly-dimming filament of decencymandates that you hold back?
Even monsters deserve compassion.
― Beth Parker
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:57 (fourteen years ago) link
TUGJBHHINGS III CAN MN SMELL;
bBY SNITTER
RAINBOLSW
LOVE
ABSZTARCT CONCEPTS SUCHY ASD PIBUT 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 peaceBut all I really want in lifeIs 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 teaAnd some new shoes.
― a hoy hoy
We Staggered Like Bonsai
We staggered like bonsai through the generalassent of glasses, trailing streamersfrom our heels and fresheningdrinks with a vengeance.
Understand, we expected thisto happen to other people. There had been no callfor laughter, nothing insidious at the get-goto suggest that we would find our tongues
So soon. We were twins, and fatherless,standing on our own feet under the gauntlanterns, plumped up with savoir-faire, game nowfor skinny-dipping and all sorts of June buggery.
The wind came up and blew the crows cleanOut of the pines.
― rogermexico.
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:58 (fourteen years ago) link
(emotions)
they may not be focussed as much as they shouldor turned into a nice portrait, lamp or flowering garden bed -sometimes I just throw them like platesagainst a walland regret having to clean up the mess afterwardsand perhaps I don't discipline them well oroften enoughHow dare she, they say, such rowdy misbehaviourBut they are the engine room of my creativitythe children I don't havethe fuel that makes my head keep burningwhen all around the rest of me is ashenget away from me with that firehose
― Trayce
yeah for rotational symmetry!
the revolving signs are positivetunes running throughcities wearing earphones
and all around the bridgeover the elapsing riverdances the music
files turning tunnelstuning an immersionto stave each other off
the city as subjective constructtelekinetic realisationsdownload each other
from the playlistone song is chosenfacing north or south
the same story is toldin the eyes of passers-byattuned to their song and yours
project horizontallywith a complacent fixityof noting
and this is the symmetry of it:nobody needs to acknowledge youto be in your music video
they could shout or swiveland only fall out of harmonywith unseen dials
citing answerphone damnexciting here downphone city areas
i’ll bring gold frankincense and myrrhand you'll just take the donkeyhaphaw spun into mayday
until once againensconced contentlywithin our orb
we look outwardsat the endless randomcycle 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 suctionof 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 daywas 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 spinesto stilt astride the faithful, mouth stooping in mercyto scavenge with its grasping tongue, taking into itselfthe 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-fundnumbskull 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 bugus punk fuck-ups.Humdrum suburbs suck.
― jaymc
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 15:59 (fourteen years ago) link
I went to the Donuts a-DunkinAnd thought I would buy me a munchkin.When asked to describeWhat they were to my eyes,I said they were donuts a-shrunkin'.
― EZ Snappin
Spandrels
Obsolete black boxes turn quietly,light golden glinting spinningon 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 culprithe is to be taken out and whippedhe dared to sully our sacred pulpithe failed to wow us with his wit
― darraghmac
An lonely inquisitive stroll down lover's lane
I really wanted to write a great poemBefore the deadline was dueI ended up procrastinatingOr maybe I just struggled a lot and came up with nothing good.
I never had a god but I sure wish I didHe would help me achieve simple goalsSo that I could be the man I want to beAnd 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 laughsThey think I'm a great funny guySo maybe I should end this (uhh) poem optimisticallyand 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 leapbut I never got past the titleAnd if you like this poem then FUCK YOU.And FUCK ME too. I wouldn't mind being fucked.
THE END
― Mulvaney
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 16:00 (fourteen years ago) link
long live mulvaney
― sorry for british (country matters), Saturday, 16 May 2009 16:01 (fourteen years ago) link
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
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 16:05 (fourteen years ago) link
loss of italics in my entry is driving me crazy < /anal>
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Saturday, 16 May 2009 16:07 (fourteen years ago) link
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 :)
― Mulvaney, Saturday, 16 May 2009 18:09 (fourteen years ago) link
Also, Beth I would love to hear you go on longer about your victims ;]
― Mulvaney, Saturday, 16 May 2009 18:12 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― Aimless, Saturday, 16 May 2009 18:29 (fourteen years ago) link
so many of these are wonderful
― the insane Dr. Morbius and his HOOSical steens (BIG HOOS aka the steendriver), Saturday, 16 May 2009 18:53 (fourteen years ago) link
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
― Mulvaney, Saturday, 16 May 2009 19:42 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― Aimless, Saturday, 16 May 2009 19:46 (fourteen years ago) link
Yeah, that's why I submitted a poem that was written in one go
― Mulvaney, Saturday, 16 May 2009 20:15 (fourteen years ago) link
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
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 18 May 2009 14:15 (fourteen years ago) link
in other news the mysteries of server timezone settings are interfering w/ my joyce homage end date
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 18 May 2009 14:23 (fourteen years ago) link
unsure who to pick here, have narrowed it down to 3 or 4 tho'
― BIG CHOO-CHOOS aka the steamtraindriver (country matters), Monday, 18 May 2009 14:45 (fourteen years ago) link
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
elmobethedaimlesstable
but this could easily change, especially if some sort of discussion breaks out here
― cumlord smedley (country matters), Tuesday, 19 May 2009 03:12 (fourteen years ago) link
Ugh I didnt know this would be a poll, thats... tacky. I wish I hadnt posted anything now!
― Trayce, Tuesday, 19 May 2009 04:45 (fourteen years ago) link
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
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Tuesday, 19 May 2009 04:47 (fourteen years ago) link
besides tacky is the new austere
Taste is well-known to be democratic, Trayce. *shruggles mcgee* *that means I shrugged*
― cant go with u too many bees (Abbott), Tuesday, 19 May 2009 05:14 (fourteen years ago) link
My dog is pretty upset, too.
one of those tortured artist types
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Tuesday, 19 May 2009 05:18 (fourteen years ago) link
Ech, I didnt mean this whole thing is tacky, sorry guys! I just feel out of my depth or something. Never mind, carry on.
― Trayce, Tuesday, 19 May 2009 05:22 (fourteen years ago) link
emotions! sensitive poets! offended canines! this poll contains multitudes!
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Tuesday, 19 May 2009 06:00 (fourteen years ago) link
this poll is america
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 19 May 2009 06:05 (fourteen years ago) link
*cryingeagle*
― Trayce, Tuesday, 19 May 2009 06:19 (fourteen years ago) link
I'm so happy my poem has been anthologized.
― Bathtime at the Apollo (G00blar), Tuesday, 19 May 2009 06:52 (fourteen years ago) link
That name sounds kind of familiar.
― kind-hearted, sensitive keytar player (Abbott), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:23 (fourteen years ago) link
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, … stupendousEvening 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 heightWaste; 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—qúiteDisremembering, dísmémbering ' áll now. Heart, you round me rightWith: 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 windOff hér once skéined stained véined variety ' upon, áll on twó spools; párt, pen, páckNow her áll in twó flocks, twó folds—black, white; ' right, wrong; reckon but, reck but, mindBut thése two; wáre of a wórld where bút these ' twó tell, each off the óther; of a rackWhere, selfwrung, selfstrung, sheathe- and shelterless, ' thóughts agaínst thoughts ín groans grínd.
Gerard Manley Hopkins
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:27 (fourteen years ago) link
"(LJ) is referring to the number of yanks"
i stopped reading right there
― there is no there there (elmo argonaut), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:27 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:27 (fourteen years ago) link
how many yanks does it take to get lj's goat
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:29 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― gonna be a long hot summer for the MS Word paperclip (the table is the table), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:29 (fourteen years ago) link
A: this one here will suffice ^
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:32 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― kind-hearted, sensitive keytar player (Abbott), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:32 (fourteen years ago) link
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)
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:34 (fourteen years ago) link
to be fair, british poets pwned english poetry until the 1800s
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:35 (fourteen years ago) link
marvell 4eva right guys
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:39 (fourteen years ago) link
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
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:44 (fourteen years ago) link
FUCK ANYONE WHO DOESN'T REP FOR SWISS TUBA
― kind-hearted, sensitive keytar player (Abbott), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:45 (fourteen years ago) link
had we but yanks enough and time
― BIG HOOS's wacky crack variety hour (BIG HOOS aka the steendriver), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:48 (fourteen years ago) link
SHUT UP KRAUT TUBA IS ALLTIME YOGA FLAME
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:49 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― gonna be a long hot summer for the MS Word paperclip (the table is the table), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:53 (fourteen years ago) link
some of us are trying to yank it off you guys
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:58 (fourteen years ago) link
i.e. shhh lj is trying to concentrate
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Monday, 20 July 2009 18:59 (fourteen years ago) link
also I'd say the jump happened much earlier than 1940
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 19:03 (fourteen years ago) link
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...
― grocery groin (snoball), Monday, 20 July 2009 19:05 (fourteen years ago) link
starting to prefer prissy 50s british poetry to the greater part of 50s american poetry. great decade for poetasters all round tho
― thomp, Monday, 20 July 2009 19:06 (fourteen years ago) link
love that word
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 19:16 (fourteen years ago) link
funny that
― thomp, Monday, 20 July 2009 19:21 (fourteen years ago) link
prissy?
― Mr. Que, Monday, 20 July 2009 19:21 (fourteen years ago) link
some real zing action here tonight
― mathgasmic! (country matters), Monday, 20 July 2009 19:26 (fourteen years ago) link
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.
― Aimless, Tuesday, 21 July 2009 01:14 (fourteen years ago) link
I guess it is about time Edward IIIwhat were the rules again?
― CaptainLorax, Wednesday, 28 April 2010 02:32 (fourteen years ago) link
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"
― CaptainLorax, Wednesday, 28 April 2010 02:35 (fourteen years ago) link
aimless is right, we should do this again
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 18:56 (nine years ago) link
its me said it last iirc
― nakh is the wintour of our diss content (darraghmac), Tuesday, 2 September 2014 18:59 (nine years ago) link
aimless and darraghmac and me and lorax are all otm
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 19:02 (nine years ago) link
does anyone know how lorax is getting on these days
― Nothing less than the Spirit of the Age (nakhchivan), Tuesday, 2 September 2014 19:08 (nine years ago) link
didn't he appear recently i think
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 19:15 (nine years ago) link
mm suppose not
I can't send e-mails because I've been banned before but yes I want to quit.
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 19:16 (nine years ago) link
elmo was and is a superlative poet
beth too, wonder where she's at
― imago, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 19:18 (nine years ago) link
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
― Nothing less than the Spirit of the Age (nakhchivan), Tuesday, 2 September 2014 19:20 (nine years ago) link
I fondly remember his sensible advice to wait to follow your passions until after you've got a wife and a full time job.
― chinavision!, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 20:24 (nine years ago) link
huh, that is remarkably sensible for someone who seemed so..........expressive
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 20:31 (nine years ago) link
He loved Tull's Songs from the Wood, this he will not be denied his place in heaven
― before you die you see the rink (Jon Lewis), Tuesday, 2 September 2014 22:17 (nine years ago) link
This = thus ffs
― before you die you see the rink (Jon Lewis), Tuesday, 2 September 2014 22:23 (nine years ago) link
xxpost I thought it was pretty non-sensible myself!
― chinavision!, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 22:39 (nine years ago) link
oh i meant sensible in the sense of circumspect & cautious, not 'good advice'
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 22:46 (nine years ago) link
lol, yes
― mh, Tuesday, 2 September 2014 22:50 (nine years ago) link
so are we really doing this
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 3 September 2014 02:09 (nine years ago) link
i'm down to kick the tires and light the fires
all of yr poems & posts
― the one where, as balls alludes (Eazy), Wednesday, 3 September 2014 02:14 (nine years ago) link
2014 ILX Poetry Contest: The Captain Lorax Prize (Submissions Thread)
― BIG HOOS aka the steendriver, Wednesday, 3 September 2014 02:17 (nine years ago) link
i havent written creatively in 5evs, i would be down 4 this
― owe me the shmoney (m bison), Wednesday, 3 September 2014 02:32 (nine years ago) link
hope Lorax is ok.
― Now I Am Become Dracula (underrated aerosmith bootlegs I have owned), Wednesday, 3 September 2014 02:53 (nine years ago) link