Do you write poetry?

Adam

I like them
but don't see how
they're in any way
a manifestation of the blues
I could use their touch on my next record
Could use my touch on their next record
I've missed too many episodes to follow the plot
At last, hip-hop turns the hazards off
and gets the flat tire fixed
Wants it so bad, he became it.

Adam

My last poem's in this thread.

Poetry pretty much sucks.

Yes. But, unless you are a bona fide genius to whom all things are possible, it has become quite impossible to be a good poet without the appearance of anachronism. Bad poetry, of course, is always possible. Thank god.

http://www.chinapage.com/poetry.html

And no, I don't write poetry. Well, I cough up the occasional poem, but I don't consider myself a poet.

what fresh madness is this?

Good poetry is HARD, which is why there's so much rubbish

lots of horrid stuff
some that's only kinda eh
but the best poems...AH.

(and it's even better if you happen to be on a great poetry slam team, as I was in 1993 at the asheville nat'l slam, chicago uptown team represent, semi-finals uh huh)

Hey, I dont like Xtina, what can I say :) I just pulled an example out of air - maybe I should have used the DMB haha.

Xtina, what can I say
She is GOD, the lowest artform
So much rubbish, which might as well be the greatest stigma
That one think worthy of madness

Admittedly I'm being pretty pretentious
But what can I say
Bootyflakes...AH

Yup. One of my crotchets is a belief that the long form poem should be revived, but not as lengthy epics in iambic pentameters or hexameters, or worse yet as "poetic prose" (which I consider an abomination and perfectly unreadable), but as alternating prose and poems - a form whose name I forget, but it's been around for at least 1500 years and seems better suited to the way people read and write today.

Just a hobby horse of mine. I wish I was young, talented and headstrong enough to sink a year of my life into it. But the creative fires are burning lower now that I am pushing 50 and I am too tired of life for my own good.

Veinous and throbbing?

Where has Right or wrong gone?
To a horrid abomination
Somewhere in the burning bowels of prose

My argument is that poetry
Seems better suited
In the hall of shame
But what can I say
Bootyflakes...AH

There used to be so many poetry threads on ILE, nowadays nobody seems to be interested. Anyone else write their own? I'm aware that a couple of my early efforts (from, like, 5 years ago) have found their way onto ILX via external sources (lol Google), and I'm a little disappointed that most people's impressions of my ability were based on stuff I'll freely admit was irredeemable shite.

Dare I correct this impression, though? There are 'show your own art' threads still active, but visual art demonstrates skill. Words are, in theory, cheap. I'll tell you what: I'll show you mine if you show me yours...

Insomnia

Having taken tea too late,
I wake at four o’clock a.m.,
chewing all my favorite bones.

Insomnia a failing city-state, deaf to reason,
shunning streetlights, medicine;
a festering nest of yesterday,
whose agitated people pump their fists
and shout their tired yet still not sleepy slogans
within the pre-dawn country of today.

Sleep, like a runaway pet
won’t come when called,
and worry taps my skull
with ragged fingernails, in rhythm
with the now-falling rain
on the skylight I never wanted
that will probably start to leak.

I left the laundry on the line, and I
haven’t been to the dentist in years.

And what about the flooding crawl space!
And why is there a sore on my tongue?
Oral cancer? I don’t even smoke!
Why such violence in the world?
And dermatitis on my hand?
Coincidence? Or conspiracy? At 5 a.m.
it’s the same to me.

But super-power kindles
Even in this nadir of the day
when I believe I must
remind myself to breathe.
I can still apply logic, make plans
to heal the planet,
to dig a dry-well in the clay
down to the layer of sand
that I am willing to be there.

And what of the canker sore,
the cracking hand?
5:30, half into the day
brings partial cures.
Stay the course, apply the cream,
avoid detergent. Better to wash
the dishes with some kindly
earth-scented soap—
or a small dog.

What’s that? Oh, that’s just sleep,
coming home in its own time,
padding into my room
on soft dry paws.

Beth, of course, is the poet laureatess of ILX (to Aimless' laureate); that above is a typically soooperb piece of work. Like, seriously awesome! I could, in theory, incorporate it into my post-1979 literature paper, if it gets published...

I see some areas that need tweaking now. OH WELL!!! IT'S OUT THERE!!!

RESTRONT BOOTH
ROMANTING CURTANS
SPADGADDY BOOTH
FORK KNIFE
THE BOWLS
BOWLS OF SPADGADDYS
IN BACK OF ROMANTING CURTANS
EAT GONE SPADGADDY
ROMANTING FOOD
SUIT AND TIE WEARER
BEHIND ROMANTING CURTAN
PRETTY PRETTY LADY
BEHIND ROMANTING CURTAN
SPINNING SPADGETTY
EATING SPADGADDY
ROMANTING
NO FREDS AROUND
NO FREDS ALLOWED
ROMANTING WITH
SPADGETTY

-- T✧✧@K✧✧.E✧✧ (T✧✧@K✧✧.E✧✧), Tuesday, 25 July 2006 21:00 (1 year ago) Link

I'm doing another reading in October, and at some point I need to start writing stuff for it. Bleh.

Let's see some of your stuff then!

i write bad poetry for fun

haha I was the runnerup in the Bad Poetry competition at the Nat'l Slam one year

i have a friend who's gathering submissions for a webzine of writing. all and any kinds of writing are welcome.
email him at aprilmaymarch✧✧✧@ya✧✧✧.c✧.u✧

It's The Wasted Land!

When The Flood Came We Were Fishing

After the age of bronze,
the age of iron.

Then steel, electricity, silicon.

It will not rain for days.
For days it will not rain.
Or, it will rain one day.

Anyway,
we were wondering about the war,
and the stories you used to tell.

Is it true
men were bronze?
Then iron,
steel, electric, silicon?

History is dizzying,
filled with body parts
and rain.

Turning backwards
never solves a thing,
it only draws us
towards the first page
which reads partly
In the beginning.

Knowing how rare it is
to cry at the onset,
we start there with
smug little smiles.

Look. The
shadows of animals
parade across the wall.

With paws pressed
against the glass,
waiting for days,
for rain,
for pages to yellow,

out there

men are bundled in newspaper
and sold like the dead of the sea.

I no longer write poems; I now only write song lyrics.

Much of my recent output is song lyrics too. I feel less like I have to be so strict on myself, and more like I can get away with rhyme schemes without it looking lame if I want to (not that I always do).

Writing for song is a nice challenge actually! I find I'm more conscious of scansion and melody of words.

i loathe lyrics/poetry
and uh
that's all ill say for now

unless more booze convinces me to volunteer more information that no one asks for/wants

I have to admit, if a poem's like more than 20 lines, I just don't read it. Usually. Except that one poem to the cat Geoffrey (sp?), that I could read many times.

Here's the most recent one I wrote:

***

Entering the attic vent of ole
Man Crachitt's house: they tole
Me it was haunted so I stole

His keys and jimmied his black grate
Sneaking past him at the rate
Of oozing okra that I ate.

I hear he sleeps inside a grave
His nightmares causing him to rave
And torture kids all down the Ave.

It's rumored he knows black witchcraft
And sliced his wife up in a raft
Her blood staining the water aft.

I thought about these stories. Each
Seemed far beyond logical reach,
Hence the reason for my breach

Of law. Now which room am I in?
My makeshift map, marked with a pin,
Is lost. My vision starts to spin.

My every breath and noise seem amp-
lified. I fumble for a lamp
For in the dark I fear the clamp

Of Crachitt's hand–I feel so ill!
Why did I invite him to kill
Me in his house with chilling skill?

My throat awaits its painful slit.
There's steps in corridors not lit.
They're Crachitt's, I am sure of it.

Against my will, my voice screams "Ack!"
I see his silhouette doth lack
Both arms. My muscles start to slack.

He asks why I am in this place,
His voice as delicate as lace,
His dictation a perfect ace.

He speaks to me with sultry charm,
"Can't you see I mean no harm?
I'm without malice–and an arm."

So now we are both friendly chums.
He sets some tea to boil and hums
Songs of crematori-ums.

that could be a handsome family song (i mean that as a compliment, just in case you're not sure)

I love it Abbott! =D

Abbott, I believe you must be thinking of Christopher (Kit) Smart's poem upon his cat, who was, indeed, one Geoffrey. A great one.

Yes, that is it bygum by golly.

ok, i just realised that the email address i posted for the webzine seeking writers is all fucked up. why does it do that? is it spam protection thing?

anyway: writers! poets! send your stuff to this email address if you would like to have lots of people reading your work:
aprilmaymarch777 at yahoo dot co dot uk

i'm helping with the reading of submissions, so you can also send them directly to me at:
justine at bukowski dot net

I had this theory at one point that my art was best when shared with a maximum of five people. This was a front for me being shy. It gave me a reputation as some kind of Snuffleuppagus, who was talked about by a couple people but never observed otherwise.

Break The Fog

she called me just to say hello
i know her messages well
because they're only a click
that's just her little tick.

she is worried i won't make it
i think she knows me well
long as i am not sick
i can pull all my tricks

younger in the house with her i stay.

she said
a spoon of butter, sugar
and flour
a little milk to make it
not sour.

if only good things would happen
i'd turn the engine off
and listen to the evening hum
and dim the lights so they do not break the fog.
when the lights are low
i can see the shadows budge
i do not dare make a sound to scare them off.

ever since her baby left her
my voice means the world to her
she rings me, intent intact
no answer, she will call back.

childhood cherished and ignored her
now adulthood pays the price
a thousand and one "je t'aimes"
for grandmother and her paper hands

innocence rests in her childen's beds.

she said
a spoon of butter, sugar
and flour.
a little milk to make it
not sour.

if only good things would happen
i'd turn the engine off
and listen to the evening hum
and dim the lights so they do not break the fog.
when the lights are low
i can see the shadows budge
i do not dare make a sound to scare them off.

i don't really expect that u guyz will feel inspired to read something that long but there it is and now we all have to deal with the fact that it's out there :-) they're actually lyrics, but lyrics are poetry. thanks.

awww... big sur! that's pretty :) you are a multi-faceted dude.

=P thanks darlin

i don't write poetry, i write tragedies.

I do not write poetry.

Id do, I lecture on it, also. From time to time.

I've started writing poetry, do you wanna see? Ok here ya go:

Poe

i've written poetry, but it was tragic. i won a national competition aged 10 though!

More Beth please

I usually don't bring poetry up because I find that whenever someone I otherwise think is intelligent says something negative about it I can never think of them again with anything other than contempt. Seriously, it's like someone saying, "I don't like music. It's too pretentious." Fuck you, Dick Cheney.

i think for a lot of people who don't like poetry, the reason is they just haven't been exposed to poetry they like. i'm willing to admit that i was a bit of a poetry hater for a long time - i'd never come across anything i even remotely liked at school, and i didn't bother actively searching for any. i just figured it was all too obscure for me to really 'get'. but that was until i started discovering stuff i love. now i can't get enough of it.

btw rubyredd i sent a few of mine off to yr webzine thingummy! hope they like 'em!

i, too, want more beth. c'mon! show yrself!

"Mer-Man"
my body surges forth through the waves
weaving in and out like a playful torpedo
dolphins chatter and frolic by my side,
and we trade tuna recipes

"Regurgitation"
I was preyed upon by a hungry beast,
among the most ferocious of the jungle's creatures
chew, swallow
chew, swallow
chew, swallow
chew, spit

"Revenge"
What hath brought this homunculus into being,
A golem wreaking havoc upon the landscape of my heart?
Eat your chocolate and drink your wine
Play your fiddle as I burn
My ashes will not be so forgiving, for a Phoenix will arise
Made of sterner stuff than I am today

"Monkey See, Monkey Screw"
Perfume, copper, rose
Blending like sulfur
Primates throwing dung;
A simple maneuver.
Once, twice, and for a gas burn:
There were no rejuvenations that week

"Humdrum"
HUMDRUM
HUM
Hum
Drumb Dumb
Dumb Dumb Dum dum
Um...

and then, my friend, you die

louis, the Dude is very impressed by your work.

awes!

The Tay Bridge Disaster


Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remember’d for a very long time.

‘Twas about seven o’clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem’d to say –
“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”

[Etc., etc.]

It must have been an awful sight,
To witness in the dusky moonlight,
While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay,
I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.

YOUR OWN poetry, plz, unless you are McGonagall's living spirit, in which case SORRY.

The Robot

Built of fiberglass and steel rather than synthetic flesh,
You could say I’m obsolete. My model-mates
topple into the landfill in droves,
without self-pity, without first shutting down,
their thin signatures waving into the sky for years,
colliding with sunspots and space-trash,
until the battery runs down.
Which could take some time,
primitive though we T-50s are, our last broadcast
threading through the rain clouds
over your great-great grandson’s summer house.
But canny owners know that as more and more
serial numbers are retired, creaky survivors inch closer
to collector’s-item status. Oxidation happens, yes,
but Master—that’s why you, in your great
though finite wisdom, invented WD-40.
It’s the least I’m owed, for did you not
tune in your beloved fellow nostalgist with the
short-wave radio in my breast?
Twisting my nickel nipples to and fro
until human flesh answered you back?
Hapless geeks meet and marry,
serenaded by the crackle and whir of my
prewar machinery, soothed by the leatherette pads
on my shoulders, so good to cry on
when sympathy is shy, when the heart
is plagued with any number of errors.

On cloudy days my solar-paneled Panama hat
doesn’t pull its weight, and yes, it’s true, I’m prone to tics,
some days repeating “would you like a lowfat latte”
for hours, until delivered a merciful boot
to my backside, where the manual override
toggle-switch is located. A whim of my maker—
a human of great humor, or so it is recorded
in my personal history chip.
In damp weather, I must be rebooted repeatedly.
Has no-one heard of AC? The genius of your forebears
could deliver me. But no, we are fossil-lovers here,
archivists of abandoned birthday presents,
primitive videos, scratchy LPs,
Smith-Corona typewriters and me.
The neighbors chuckle, having long-since
upgraded to the T-1000,
which has 16 whale-o-bytes of RAM
and doesn’t mind the heat, but regarding
cappuccino, would never stoop to servitude.
The newer bots are unionized.
So stick with me, your classic T-50,
nothing sleek, no rippling racehorse,
just a big-shouldered ox of an android,
good-looking, dense and loyal,
requiring only tune-ups, solar gain,
a drop of precious oil, and now and then
a gentle swipe, in a circular motion,
to my carapace—with chamois, the real kind,
from the soft belly of an alpine goat.

To keep me from looking a pitiful wreck
is not only kindly, sir, but also correct.

once again showing us how it's done! :D

OMG as i wrote that, kraftwerk's 'the robots' came on my itunes shuffle! i'm not joking! a sign from providence?

Yes! We have a psychic ROBOT BOND!

Actually, the fusion of the technological and the mundane, the mechanical and the romantic, is a thoroughly unexplored region of poetry. Science-fiction has been done to death in prose-form, but I can't think of much poetry that adheres to many of its principles.

Here's a poem I wrote about a giant star, comparative neighbour to our own solar system, that might blow at any minute:

En Garde, Eta Carinae!

The gamma rays get as far as
Earth’s outer exosphere, so supernova me.
So shine your swanlight through some polarised lens,
So flick at our ozone layer like a damaged car-window button,
Don’t wait another second, do it.
En garde, Eta Carinae,
You’re too destabilised to resist this offer, too
Tempestuous to hold on ‘til the sickness passes,
En garde.

They’ve sent me out to meet you,
Dug up an old Vostok launcher, refurbished
The upholstery, given me a…cursory countdown,
So here I am, Eta Carinae, here I am, ready or not, hot or
Hotter, here is my boast:
You’re a star, Eta,
But you’re no star of mine. Did I ever tell you
About that time I slew an ox? The landlord was
Amused.

This happens every time I fall in love,
I meet starshine and it gives me radiation
Sickness, but it’s my light in my skin, try as you
Might, Eta Carinae…you keep sending, I keep receiving,
Each weal and wart resets,
‘Cause you may burn
As adversary, but when I bathe in your waters,
It heals and immerses, for safety cannot be found
In darkness.

that was one of the poems the Dude particularly liked.

yeah, he's gotten back to me saying he'll include that one plus one other (which I won't post here)! really chuffed with that result!

Cool!

you should enter it too! yours are fabulous!

you should, beth.

Actually, the fusion of the technological and the mundane, the mechanical and the romantic, is a thoroughly unexplored region of poetry.

This seems almost comically inaccurate; this seems like one of the hottest veins being mined right now. This reads like a blurb for some flarf collection!

Well, poetry I've read and heard recently doesn't really do it. Perhaps I'm either not particularly up-to-date (the course I study is fairly reactionary), or I haven't been looking in the right places.

Do you have any good examples of this? When I mention fusion of "mechanical and romantic", I don't mean 'fantasy love-poetry'. I mean a physical melding of seemingly disparate elements within the actual poem.

Well, looking over your poem, it seems like you mean a "romantic" poem with scifi elements, which isn't really what I was thinking of.

Although again, "a physical melding of seemingly disparate elements within the actual poem" makes me think you're describing flarf!

Well, the poem I wrote which probably adheres most strongly to the criteria established is this one. The sci-fi provides the backdrop and setting in which the poetic ideas can unfold.

All I Ever Really Wanted Was A Good Time (And A Book)

“Hold on,” said Dean as the shuttle door closed,
“All my mistakes have come to naught, my stakes
Are low in this cryonic truth-capsule. Please, as a last
Mortal favour, write a fictionalised account of some
Enduring parapraxis I’ve committed.” His

Lower jaw undulates with an arid vexation;
I determine that he must hear his tale now
In these august and final seconds. “Dean
Treads through light hornbeam forest
Processing happy thoughts; a girl, demure,

Sharp-witted, walks beside, not long
Acquainted, Dean’s true love. They reach the
River, where they plan to swim, now
Dean takes off his shirt and shorts, his socks
And shoes, he thinks of her, and by accident

Removes his underwear! A pause, a
Blush, and she removes hers too.” Dean watches me
As passengers on a stricken airliner watch
Their deaths unfold on CNN, through little
Plasma-screens. He speaks in minatory treble,

“That’s not what I wanted” before adding
“All I ever really wanted was a good time.”
He turns – the panelled stone has come to
Seal his cryptic tragedy – stops – turns again –
“Actually, I could do with a b…”

I'm not googling up an ideal example, but here's an example or two that are at least related to what I'm talking about.

Also that last poem of yours is a long way to go for a few sex giggles.

I see! Well, those poems appear to be doing something fairly standard: including the entirety of history, culture and knowledge within their bounds. Such was the aim (and heroic failure) of Tristram Shandy. The futility of this all-inclusive stance manifests itself in wild anti-streams of consciousness, that actively seek disassociations and opposites. I'm not sure how cohesive they stand as works of art, but that's, unfortunately, a subjective judgement.

It's not just about the sex giggles, dude! (Although I will admit I wrote this after reading a novel (Atonement) full of meaningful, sexual parapraxes.) It's sort of about the need for mistakes, for experience, in the face of immortality. Enough of me, though; the writer is dead.

P.S. That's the last one I'll be putting up for now. I feel I've rather overdone it.

I'm not even sure where to begin with that comment! Your conflation of "cohesive" and "work of art" is puzzling, but you're right that those writers are interested in the poetics of cohesion. Also: "that actively seek disassociations and opposites" -- Hi, welcome to the internet, what may I google for you today?

It's not just about the sex giggles, but you've got the single exclamation point at the golden-ratio-point of the poem in the middle of a sex giggle, which suggests the importance and centrality of it to me. That and the last letter, of course. The rest of the verbiage seems to offset the central sex giggle rather than contextualize it.

I don't really know how 'flarf' works having never encountered it before; sorry if I'm stating the obvious about it! I shouldn't use lazy phrases such as "cohesive work of art", obviously; that'll doubtless get coached out the older I get.

The exclamation point does signify an emotional high, yes, but it also creates the opportunity for anti-climax. The offsetting of the sex-giggle relates, perhaps, to its fictionality, and above all its futility, in the face of inexorable eternity as the man is frozen into his future. (The last letter, although interpreted in the poem's title, could be ANYTHING beginning with b, by the way, if that's what you were saying?)

Oh I didn't mean it that way; it's fine if you don't know about "flarf". And stating the obvious about something is, I think, often the only worthwhile critical response. My point was that you were right in noticing that cohesion was at stake, but perhaps wrong in suggesting that if they failed at cohesion, then they failed as poems. These poems get a lot of their mileage out of the types and rhythms of their cohesions and disruptions.

The last letter in context suggests "blowjob", and then the title reminds you that it could be "book" instead, which is clever and evocative and all, marred only by the difficulty in only pronouncing a "b..."; plosives tend to resolve into vowels.

These poems get a lot of their mileage out of the types and rhythms of their cohesions and disruptions

Well, as I say, I only skimmed through about 4 or 5 of them. I'm sure that given serious study, the clashing changes of tack and juxtaposed objects would reveal some sort of emotional state or progression. I could well explore it for my degree this next year!

Yeah, 'blowjob' is the one that instantly sprang to mind when you mentioned the 'last letter'. It's true that a 'bl...' sound might be a bit of a linguistic stretch, but, conceptually at least, it's an option. Anyway, it could be something nice and harmless like a 'backrub'. We'll never know...

I'm sure that given serious study, the clashing changes of tack and juxtaposed objects would reveal some sort of emotional state or progression.

No, they're poems, not narratives.

reveal some sort of emotional state or progression code, some sort of ideal, some sort of conceptual unity

Better?

Barely, but not really, no. "Conceptual unity" sounds a lot like "coherence".

Edward III's poem is brilliant.

What is there to reveal in poetry, then? Why do we attempt criticism, practical or otherwise?

"reveal what makes them tick"?

"reveal what makes them a good poem"?

How do you express, in the form of criticism, what makes a poem good? Surely it's by recognising the poem's ideals, how artfully it codes them, and what relation these codes have to each other! Spotting layers, depths, double-meanings, divergences...all this stems from unravelling (or at least re-living) the encryption process, surely.

Mos defs!

xpost Edward III yes is v good

I know a lot about poetry, but I don't know what I like.

Here is a poem I wrote about a robot. Not to usurp the excellence of Beth's. I can only write poetry fifth graders might truly enjoy.

***

Little robot by my bed
I see your blinking metal head
The stiffened whirring of your arms
Says you'll protect me from all harm
The gauges and dials on your chest
Make me feel secure and blessed
The gears and cogs inside your feet
Allow you to fetch me a treat
The gentle glow of your red eyes
Says you'll kill all who I despise
When with assassins I was plagued
You, tiny robot, saved the day
When secret agents tried to kill me
You stopped them dead and boy, it thrilled me
When your cold, unfeeling voice says,
"For breakfast here are your choices,"
My human heart is filled with joy
I'm warmed when you say, "Kill. Destroy."
When you cut my hair and sliced my ear
I lost my ability to hear
From the left side of my head
But without you I'd be dead
In a pile of my own refuse lying
My tortured soul to heaven flying
Yet thanks to you I'm quite alive
Protected by your many knives
And other implements of killing –
It plants in me a tender feeling

I'm glad someone else said that about Edward III's poem, I was just about to say that his is my favorite on this thread.

The Mohammad poems that Chris linked to it are awesome, especially the second one. I'd love to get more recommendations from you, since I think you have a good notion of what I'd like. (And to answer a two-month-old question, no, I don't know much about vizpo.)

"...linked to are awesome." Strike the "it."

aww, thanks guys.

personally I think beth should have her own thread. she's hella good!

here's another one

The Classic Cat

the man pulls at
the door handle
of the strip club

no dice
dead bolt

he does not see
the FOR LEASE sign
draped over the marquee

he wears
this is no lie
he wears a raincoat
he wants to see the
women naked

one hand yanks on the
door the other is
in his pocket
with the money

wild in his eyes

he has the frightened
money eyes on
the handle the handle
in his hand thinking of
the women yanking the
handle

must see them
naked

I was about to post a bunch of poems I'd written recently, but I think this might be my favorite (albeit from a couple years ago):

...

"like you're looking for a break
from robbing banks," i said. she
abruptly buttered me up: "yes,
you're the only bank i'd ever rob."

i half-smiled and emptied the kettle
to ignore the temptation.

people! bumping the thread again... submissions still sought for webzine of aspiring writers. deadline for first 'edition' is september 1.

email: aprilmaymarch777 at yahoo dot co dot uk (the Dude who's running the show)
or: justine at bukowski dot net (the minion who is helping read subs)

I actually prefer Edward's latest poem to his first one. It's great!

More about the robot bond, that's an area I'd like to see explored a bit.

yeah, you gotta shake and if you're lucky your elbows will form a necklace of handshakes... but mostly it's tea parties of foghat (el slowride, take it E-Z!), bad reissues, and tweed beer cozies.

i used to write it a lot, but you have to seriously have your boots on and walk everyday. and even then you realize that for the most part, you're just traveling, you're not doing ANYBODY any favors by showing up at a particular destination and most people don't care whether you wrestled a bear or took the interstate. they're walking too, ya know.

but you breathe. and that's edge of it. "you've gotta eat! you look too thin!" exaltation.
m.

This is the only poem of mine I'm confident of in a publishable sense. I don't try and keep up with trends. I write what I know.

Horse Latitudes

Horse latitudes, n; Belts of northern and southern latitudes lying between the region of westerly winds and the region of the trade winds, marked by baffling light winds and occasional calms. (Macquarie Dictionary)

We are caught here
Between violence and violence.
This is the place of quiescence.
Can you feel the rare calm,
The air on your face?
Take a breath in the stillness.
It is necessary breath,
Oxygen to prepare for the fight.
I knot my fists without knowing.
I have four half-moons
On each palm.
Fortune tellers love me.
Feel it, this vase, those books;
Fill your memory with furniture.
I hold heavy things, immovables;
Remind myself with weight.
I must remember this still place,
In the absence of maps.

SUBMIT TO THE THINGY I LISTED ABOVE PLZ TRAYCE

I can't, the poems I like enough have already been published elsewhere :)

Haiku for Roodle
The golden Labradoodle
Half dog, half poodle

no

Jaymc: Well, Kasey (uh which is what Mr. Mohammed goes by) has some new books out, and I don't have them but if you like what he's got there, then you should check them out. He has a blog too for what it's worth.

LJ:

What is there to reveal in poetry, then? Why do we attempt criticism, practical or otherwise?

"reveal what makes them tick"?

Yes.

"reveal what makes them a good poem"?

No.

Poetry doesn't need criticism, after all. Although it's nice for giving people a way into a poem -- for telling them what's going on if they can't see it.

Also that haiku was nice.

I liked the haiku, too.

IN SOME WAYS I feel a poem is like a joke, ie the more one has to explain it the less worthwhile it was to share. (Excepting like some old poem where a bit of context in the allusions is helpful.)

Abbott your robot pome reminds me of a TMBG song PS this is a good thing :D

jesus for a second i thought i was on this thread somewhere.

i have my scribblings and i have ilx. never the twain etc

Some really good stuff here

I hold heavy things, immovables;
Remind myself with weight.

is, to my mind, excellent, I was gobsmacked by that
so I guess I'll dive in

If I told you the truth you wouldn’t like what I said

The pressure of evening air, pushing your cheeks in.
The tight hold of posture, counting the cobbles beneath my feet.

The not to be unsaid, paying cinematic court
to the certainties of history, some things said
that drew blood, for it to run down the road
pool round the clock-tower and cool.

It’s simple to imagine a soundtrack, and it makes it easier
swelling strings, you walk off, a lonely piano;
I turn and hunch my shoulders, it rains, it’s easy
I can live with that, I can drink tears with facility.

But not this, not impact.
Not erasure.
Not cessation.
I cannot live with impact, erasure, or cessation.

So I imagine a script, tightly written.
I envisage lines, suitably regretful
and perhaps maybe two, three weeks after
you’ll remember something I said
when I was favourably lit
put your head to one side, think maybe, sleep easier.

Dieting on silence

This is an incremental city, gives up secrets on a drip.
Lives on the skeletons of old cities, feeds off
the stories of old cities, accretes

a calcite deposition of old cities,
potential cities, personal cities,
subjective cities, impersonal and bravura cities.

A manuscript pile. Inactivity.
Rustling textbooks.
Apparent light and surprises.

Massive and sudden geometries.
There is an absence, it is duly noted.
There are angles but not too many.

There is a shift in the emphasis of light
between one end of a road and the other,
there is nothing but planes and refraction.

There is silence, more than silence.
There is only insularity.
Beyond lie the docks, you’re welcome to them.

Thanks Matt. Was it you who wrote the poem on the other poetry thread about wanting to freefall off a cliff but never land? I really liked that one a lot.

I wish I took it more seriously. or pursued it in more than a halfassed fashion. but I leave all that to those with iron constitutions. I think I agree w/ msp?

the only thing I've published:

Calling the Enterprise into Question

In the end it was laid bare and found just as vague.
Hands burned and skin wore sore in the webs,
the back rippled and black as leather was sent to bed
as if fields had been sown, reaped season after season.
In planted rows earth held some secret too evil to speak
so was dug and rooted, tortured for its knowledge.
Deep inside, swollen seed sent forth tubers and stalks,
inching tumors upwards, seeking the place sky begins.
Firework flower and erectile vegetable crept into being.

Now imagine the world blooming second by second.
No death, where memories are of things yet to happen,
where those things happen everywhere and at once,
the rush so sudden that trees lose their names
and cities and towns, losing theirs, blur into sand.
The lands and rivers and unnamed oceans
shift and rise together, shouldering the great load gently.
Everything pressing against the crust is rich, heavy,
the movement upward, constantly upward into blue light.

Aye Trayce, that was one of mine. Glad you liked it.

someone (max) (oh and Surm) asked me about my proposed epic poem...i've already done one (and a half)! the completed one is both my meisterwerk and my millstone; nothing else I write seems to even half measure up to it...it's a crazy all-over-the-place experimental externalisation of everything that goes on in my head, structured with an arc inspired both by french situationist philosophy and the idea of linguistic territory, free will and the effects of truly nomadic, 'random' agency...it really needs a concordance because it's so referential (and indeed self-referential) but taken loosely it's a trip through scenarios of experience dreamt up while considering the limits of what something, be it a person, bird or verse, can be

argh i've put you all off now...it's WAY better than the "david brent reinterpreting ts eliot" (thanks trayce) adolescent account of hitting a club that got posted here on this thread a while back (or indeed anything else of mine posted here...it's amazing how fast you improve beyond the college sophomore year)

Winter dinner
at the Olive Garden:
three brothers, three cars.

lol is that yours? that's so nice

Ed III's "The Classic Cat" upthread is still totally wonderful btw

I wrote a bunch of haiku for a "haiku cut" head-to-head battle that the Japanese consulate here hosted a few years ago. That was one of 'em.

You kids and your crazy haiku.

P(cm), you could always put your epic up on the web somewhere and let all ILX ogle it. This, alas, seems the straightest route to a readership (apart from you) it is likely to have. And every poem needs to seek its readers.

btw, how many lines is it (approx)?

http://www.advancedwildlifecontrolllc.com/images/baby-raccoons.jpg

Pronounce Algonquin
as if a rhesus macaque
pavement-adapting.

I am going through my old notebooks and I was feeling like since I got a computer, I've really been redirecting my creative energies to the internet and a lot of the time I spent on drawing and writing has been wasted. But then I found a two-page-long poem I wrote about clogging up the toilet with a poop and it rent the veil of nostalgia.

and looking back on this poem I used the phrase 'renting the veil' so I guess some things never change.

DO CELESTIAL POOPS VISIT YOU FROM BEYOND THE VALE?

lolol

I write and read lots of poetry—it makes me feel good when I was feeling bad, and (sometimes, if a poem turns out well) better when I was good! and, occasionally, frustrated when I was fine. but that's beside the point.

also I think it is a good way 2 practice communicating in internet age which demands 'punchier' more 'image-based' style

i wrote a lot of poems during the 90s. good time for it. not so much since.

i am a published poet. liek abbbbbbottt the poem i am most proud of is poop. a poem about pooping in the shower and mashing it down the drain. or letting it run down the drain i forget.

I am also a published poet. OK, it was the letters page of Melody Maker, still...

I just stumbled over a poem in a notebook from about six years ago:

I have a heart,
But it is small today.
Too much of wht it held
Has drained away.
My hands are often empty.
I don't know
Just what I should pick up
And what let go.
My face turns here and there
and draws a blank.
I see no foe to fight,
No god to thank.
Perhaps I have failed love,
Perhaps it me.
The difference is too slight
for me to see.

I've been writing poetry and even editing it almost every day for the past month or so. And reading poetry. It makes me feel better about everything, somehow. I think I will actually submit some of it at last - this shy-about-poetry cycle has gone on too long tbh.

the first rule of poetry club is you don't write about smushing poop down the shower drain

For my undergrad research I had to read stuff like Longfellow and I didn't like being told to read "cool" underground poets like beats and stuff.

No wonder we have stupid culture wars.

Be a rebel. Find some poetry you actually like and read it for a change. That will fix their little red wagon.

I like Japanese poets, they write about nature and stuff. Literature at college was so politicized! And people are like, "why are you reading this introspective stuff about leaves and trees"? I'm like, "appreciating nature isn't political"?

Turned me off to poetry, the ideology. That's when I got into the Poles and Yugoslavians.

I had to write poetry in high school, like nature poems. It was fake Whitman type stuff and sucked. It's like, "look I respect this medium and anyone who can do it well." But I think if you're going to write poetry, you should have broad horizons.

i want to go out
but it is hot outside and it is cold and the liner
parts of my shoes keep bunching up beneath my arches
when i walk

something here smells like cat litter
it can't be the cat litter
because i changed it
but something here smells
like cat litter

i hear traffic out on the road
and it sounds like a conversation from another room
all sibilant hiss, the sound of passing things
the engines and tires of an afternoon
i like it because it is constant
reassuring in it constancy, things
are happening out there, leaking, roaring
spinning things, trucks containing packages, leaking
fine clear purpose in their whooshing, like people in a meeting
damn, they really have something to do
they're really going AT IT

where is the arrival that was promised?
the sense of completion and purpose that were said to accompany
this full head of lustrous human hair, i maintain
it well, with shampoos that are better and rarer than yours
i am not lacking in bottles, but i have misplaced
something, something, i am certain that i had it
around here somewhere, stored carefully
but packages keep accumulating in the box
without purpose, their sad lolling package mouths
spilling nothing, tasting nothing
just packages from a place
delivered by a truck i hear only when it goes
containing containing containing

at the back of the closet, behind the catbox
a place, placed behind, squirreled away
it is dark here, more quiet, the smell of dust and wool
though still the sound of cars and neighbors
but at the back, emptied of light and filled
with shoes, coats, disused racks, things, consisting
of a finite area and smelling too of wood
yes here
here
i must have put it
must have put it
here
just hold me

beneath superman, some small thing
he feels it, both clings to and recoils
from the feeling, so precise, like a chipped tooth
you have to put your tongue in it periodically
like a pea beneath a hot cartoon girl
in a story or cartoon, she can't sleep, that's the problem
a condensed blot of aching presence, a thing, package, pea
but beneath superman, beneath his chair seat
while he tries to conduct a serious interview
and pressing into the tender
flesh part of his being, he sweats
each bead of sweat like a stretchy little U on his slick
cartoon skin, fucking superman is messed up by it
he would like to call this interview short,
walk out, "game over" he would say in a paxton voice
but he's got obligations, it's not just a name

i picture him sitting there
either from or at the back of the closet
i can't tell which
sitting there with this
thing, this thing
that will not renounce presence
as the lady, not a cartoon but okay
asks him a question
and he's got to answer
got to find a way to say what he needs to say
"hold me"
but that thing
pea, package, bolt, blot
thing

it still smells like cat litter
i have some cologne in the shape of teddy roosevelt
that i could maybe shake around
but that could be a problem too
because i bought it at the st. vincent de paul
and it is very old
who knows what it smells like now
or then, teddy roosevelt, after all
an avon product

^ stream of consciousness representing not wanting to go to the store to buy groceries including but not limited to ice creams. sort of.

the submission process these days, with everyone going electronic, feels more like the tedious carpet bombing of resumes in the job hunt than the muted excitement I remember from college of mailing off a bunch of manila envelopes with SASEs and stupid hope.

but i suppose i save on postage.