Poetry thread

[sonshine76]

I figured we have a lot of comedic and creative genius flowing around this board. Hell, we have 2 collegiates with writing based- majors of whose work I am very interested in reading. Feel free to post your favorite or make up your own. Don't be shy. We won't criticize, ostracize or aerobicize.

With saying that-- in one of my creative writing college courses my friends and I used to mess around and write poems to each other and read them out loud which turned out to be hilarious. I'll start it off.

ODE TO THE FORUM MAKER

Pete, Pete, what is there to say about you?
You love 311 with a passion, it's true.
You make it known to people far and wide.
Deathless is the nickname by which you abide.
You post song lyrics all over the place,
Sometimes it seems as if you're high is the case.
Are you? I'm just kidding. Or maybe I'm not?
Do you quote yourself in posts because of pot?
You post the same picture in multiple threads,
To see it once is enough, unless it's of Warren in dreds. (What? It rhymes.)
I feel like you're a younger brother to me,
We can tease, but beware if anyone else steps to thee.
That's right people, you heard me, I used the word "thee,"
I'm going Shakespearean on your asses for Pete.
I do have to thank you for making this forum,
You kept us together so we didn't die of boredom.
So keep on rocking, you 311 lovin fool,
You're a pain in the ass, but in my book you're cool.

[NonDylan]

Thank you for reading my crap.
--------------------------------------

Bad News


The moon is floating away.

I just found out that ever so slightly,
like he's trying to find his other shoe
in a lightless room, our moon is floating

away. It's nothing I've been able to see.
We're talking inches, tenths-of-inches
every few birthdays. Or was that miles?

We're taught to treat miles as inches
in space, with its parsecs and solar units
and speeds of light, but it's true that at one time

we were pressed together in a tiny sizeless point.
I was squashed next to you, my nose
tucked sizelessly in the crook of your neck.

You just as close, our atoms not quite atoms
in the prehistory of our cramped bodies.
The sidewalk we stroll down today pressed

sizelessly against our bare feet, our shoes
sizelessly next to us. Then, we didn't need anything,
everything was already there. But now

our shoes are in the other room and the sidewalk
has been blocked off for repairs,
and the moon is floating away.

The same moon we once sizelessly slept on
before anything like a nap existed.
So I guess you could say we invented the nap,

and while were' at it, the atom and the shoe,
the sidewalk, but the moon? I doubt we
had anything to do with that. Why invent

something that's always tyring to float away?
At least he faces us in his depature, as if the decision
to go comes not from him but another, more powerful source.

~ for Aimee

--------------------------------------


After Being Called Ma'am on More than One Occasion


Should I pull it out, or let them think
I'm the ugliest girl they've ever seen?
Usually they correct themselves,
having called a man with longer-than-average hair
a ma'am--a slight turn of consonance
some players try to volley, tongues hitting nets
as ma'amna, some sort of half-man,
half-woman. Perhaps a word used to describe
actual half-men half-women on Internet porn sites. Suddenly,
pulling it out doesn't seem so convincing. These days,
even the prettiest girls get one. Short of sewing bags
to my chest, growing long hair was my way
of being more ma'am than man.
I concede I've never thought it until just now.
How ridiculous: a man growing long his hair
to be more woman.
Thank God I wasn't thinking that.
But every time someone calls me ma'am,
I sit in a crowded room
with others like me, the sex I've only known
as sex. My legs together, I pick nervously at lint
and wonder if I'm better looking than every other female
in the room. This is just a guy-who's-been-misidentified-
as-a-girl's idea of what goes on
in a room of crowded women, if one even exists.
I don't mean disrespect and would actually like to know
what, exactly, does happen in a room like this, but long hair
only goes so far. So I wonder if those ma'amns out there,
those Internet womenmen
know something they're not telling us?
What is it like to play both harpsichord
and electric guitar simultaneously?
I figure we'll never get anything but
TOTALLY LIVE AND STEAMY SEX SHOWS!!!
from them, those womenmen
who must know so much about
both of us. My second concession
comes in the fact I've never understood women
or men or those in between. I'm convinced
when they were handing out sex parts,
I simply grabbed the one easiest to handle.

[sonshine76]

If all you can come up with is, "there once was a man from Nantucket..." or the banana-fanna song, that's fine too. But here's two I like:
 <br>George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron.
She walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822618. Music, when Soft Voices die

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

[sonshine76]

That's what I'm talking about Warren. Thank you for validating my thread. Without sounding like Professor White, (in the library? With a knife?) who was one of mine in school...I think good writing gets inside a persons head and makes them think differently... for a little while at least. You totally did that to me on the first one. The second one made me smile.
(down there)

[censored]

Did anyone else pull down their pants mid poem?

[Macha]

Here is one of my favorites:

SONNET NO. 130
By William Shakespeare

My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red than her lips red.
If snow be white why then her breasts are dun
If hairs be wires black wires grown on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight,
Than in the breath that from my Mistress reeks,
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
Than music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My Mistress when she walkes treads on the ground,
And yet by heaven I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.

[NonDylan]

Ahhhhh, let's see. Here's a good one from Bob Hicok, from his latest, "Insomnia Diary." Note: this dude didn't even graduate from college, so all you people looking for "majors" I say, EFF THAT SHIZ.

-------------------------------------------

Dropping the euphemism



He has five children, I'm papa
to a hundred pencils.
I bought the chair he sat in

from a book of chairs,
staplers and spikes
that let me play Vlad the Impaler

with invading memos. When I said
I have to lay you off
a parallel universe was born

in his face, one where flesh
is a loose shirt
taken to the river and beaten

against rocks. Just
by opening my mouth I destroyed
his faith he's a man

who can think honey-glazed ham
and act out the thought
with plastic or bills. We sat.

I stared at my hands, he stared
at the wall staring at my hands.
I said other things

about the excellent work he'd done
and the cycles of business
which are like

the roller-coaster thoughts
of an oscilloscope. All this time
I saw the eyes of this wife

which had always been brown
like almonds but were now brown
like the crust of bread. We walked

to the door, I shook his hand,
felt the bones pretending
to be strong. On his way home

there was a happy song
because de Sada invented radio,
the window was open, he saw

delphinium but couldn't remember
the name. I can only guess.
Maybe at each exit

that could have led his body
to Tempe, to Mars, he was tempted
to forget his basketball team

of sons, or that he ever liked
helping his wife clean carrots,
the silver sink turning orange.

Running's natural to most animals
who aren't part
of a lecture series on Nature's

Dead Ends. When I told him,
I saw he was looking for a place
in his brain to hide

his brain. I tried that later
with beer, it worked until I stood
at the toilet to make my little

waterfall, and thought of him
pushing back from a bar
to go make the same noise.

[Macha]

My favorite one of warren's is "The Clock"

And Cal's is, of course, "Dance of Shiva"

[pete]

No Poetic Device
I've been dreaming. I was lucid. I was dreaming blood was seeping from my pores. Who'd believe that it was all my own decision? Cracked faces and medicated smiles. Set fire to my home before I turned and walked back in. For even needle open my chest and insert ten pins. I just anticipate what awaits when I awake... break. I die in my daydreams. The gardens have all been overgrown. I pushed my hand through the thorns to crush the final rose. A deadly secret only I suffer to know. I can't eradicate what awaits when I awake... break. I die in my day dreams.

[2Short]

Sonshine, Byron and Shelley are two of the greatest Romantics. I want you even more. Neither of them hold a candle to Keats, though.

This is the "Dance of Shiva" that Macha referred to.

Dance of Shiva

There will be no more nails on chalkboards
Never again will I hear babies crying from hunger
No more sirens screaming and phones ringing
The sibling tantrums and fights between parents will be silenced
Screeching tires and slamming doors will be things of the past

It will all be buried under the calloused heel of Shiva

There will be no more laughing at dirty jokes
Never again will I hear my family talk at the dinner table
No more fans cheering and audiences applauding
The lovers’ moans and talk between friends will be silenced
Music that jump-starts my soul will be a thing of the past

It will all be trapped under the hooked toenails of Shiva

Still we provoke him
Come dance Shiva
Weave your arms and kick out your legs
Toss back your head and groove to the boogie-woogie of dropping bombs
Give me that toxic two-step
Let us all simmer and sizzle as you do some sinful soft shoe
Choke the world as you do the Charleston
Let loose and show us mellow new-wave destruction
Dance, and show us what it is to be nothing

Here's a newer one.

Things I’d Like Said at My Wake

He would have hoped the coroner dressed him in pink panties,
Because nobody would know
And it takes a real man to wear ladies’ underwear

He knew that sometime during this wake at least one of you will pass gas,
But you shouldn’t feel embarrassed
Because he can’t smell a thing

He would have liked if while somebody knelt beside him praying
A stored electrical pulse was fired
And he sat bolt upright

He would have liked for you to have brought your pets
He wouldn’t have an allergic reaction now
And animals should be allowed to grieve, too

He would have liked for there to be clowns present
Or at the very least a live band
A wake is no place for sadness

He would have liked for somebody to record this event
And send it into America’s Funniest Videos
As a joke

He would have really liked for these words to fall unheard
Or to not have been said in the first place
Because this is a useless thing

[pete]

i write the best poetry you ever read. this next one, id liek to call Evenflow...



Freezin', rests his head on a pillow made of concrete, again
Oh, Feelin' maybe he'll see a little betters any days
Oh, head down, faces that he sees don't look it ain't that familiar
Oh, girlfriend he can't have when he's happy looks insane, oh yeah


Even flow
thoughts arrive like butterflies
Oh, he don't know
so he chases them away
someday yet he'll begin his life again
Life againn


Kneelin', looking through the paper though he doesn't know to read
Prayin', now to something that has never showed him anything
Oh, feelin', understands the weather or that winters on its way, yeah
Oh, ceilins people fall between all the legal halls of shame


Even flow
thoughts arrive like butterflies
Oh, he don't know
so he chases them away
someday yet he'll begin his life again
Whispering hands, carry him away
him away, him away
yeah!
woo
oh yeah yeah

[noshit]

you walked out in the rain.
stood there and watched you go.
falling tears washed you out,
of my mind, of my soul.
why dont you let me be?
and leave my memory.
shadows haunt my thoughts,
what you left there is lost.

why are you blind to see,
what you've done to me?
I'm down, i'm low.
aint no strength left in these bones.

I dont understand why you cried.
I dont understand why you lied.
You said you loved me, but it was so easy....
to walk away.

Why did I comfort you, when you let me go?
Why was i the one to wipe your tears?
Why was i the one to be strong?
Why?

Im letting you go (im falling) im letting you go (im falling)
letting you go (falling)


okay.. so its not really a poem.. its a song i wrote.. and censored actually has music to back that up.. but yeah.. there ya go.

[pete]

is she the beatbox?

[noshit]

she's on the keyboard, baby!

[pete]

Cal can be tha beat box.