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Post by LTrain06 on Jun 1, 2004 21:11:31 GMT -5
that's gross. I wouldn't want to run across that kid in prison.
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Post by 2Short on Jun 6, 2004 3:34:15 GMT -5
Bob Hicok is a silly bitch. I was laughing all the way through this poem. This is for Nick and Julie. Vagina canticleOne woman who was seventy-two had never seen
her vagina...She said it took her over an hour,
because she was arthritic by then, but when she
finally found her clitoris, she said, she cried.
-Eve Ensler Healed by water her hand unfolds, fingers uncurl to ancient length, slow as coral awakens, Bach in the room, Bach sliding up and down pink tiles, on her breath the light from candles runs away, fingers extended, if you've never seen a gondola a gondola amazes, never tasted salt your own skin is a feast, one lick's a harvest of the body, the soft message of her fingers is new, warm as the water, there's time, Bach isn't going anywhere, candles patiently eat their shadows, if you found a butterfly insode your ear, roused a dream sleeping inside your dream, you might cry, and she unearths a thriving tree with born-again hands, there's a piano in the room, music in the water, and skin gathered is ungathered a place of singular moment, and she alone touches where she alone exists, 72 is good year, decades without, a life without deliberate pleasure hones pleasure, you might cry, quick breaths now, and beyond the little gasps, shudders of flesh unfurled, there's suddenly a cryptic self, a deeper echo, and every day there's water, Bach's lush revelation, and each morning the sun, each night a candle, this spot around which her broken fingers turn green. |
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Post by ILaughAtSex on Jun 6, 2004 4:05:13 GMT -5
Bob Hicok is a silly bitch. I was laughing all the way through this poem. This is for Nick and Julie. Vagina canticleOne woman who was seventy-two had never seen
her vagina...She said it took her over an hour,
because she was arthritic by then, but when she
finally found her clitoris, she said, she cried.
-Eve Ensler What the hell are you thinking, dedicating such poetry to me?! Go kill yourself... NOW! |
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Post by sonshine76 on Jun 10, 2004 1:21:52 GMT -5
I'm still waiting to see "Clocks," War-to-the-ren. Look at us like an online workshop, if you will. Except we don't critique here, unless you are Pete posting lyrics and strange rantings about poetic numbers.
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Post by NonDylan on Jun 10, 2004 1:30:51 GMT -5
I'm still waiting to see "Clocks," War-to-the-ren. Look at us like an online workshop, if you will. Except we don't critique here, unless you are Pete posting lyrics and strange rantings about poetic numbers. How about this. I will READ it on my blog sometime in the near future? That should please all and induce widespread orgasmals. |
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Post by mandah on Jun 10, 2004 1:32:51 GMT -5
PS. The poem was derived from a few excerpts from the novel Night by Elie Wiesel. -gasps...good book....srry im so behind |
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Post by hiseyetwirls on Jun 13, 2004 1:33:12 GMT -5
I have two poems I wrote in high school.
The Beach
As the waves roll in
I think of times
not so far away.
And as I think
I sit and smile
about things I heard them say.
And even though
I long for then
I feel a certain feeling
Cause all the hurt
has left us now
and we are finally healing.
As things change
no one remains
cause people change direction,
and as I smile
I sit and file
away all the affections.
Jesus. I cant find the other one. Oh well. I'll get it later. It's a love poem
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Post by Macha on Jun 13, 2004 7:37:59 GMT -5
A friend of mine's bother wrote this
Angry In Deed
Poets are angry.
All over the world.
Life's roaring downpour
in springtime showers
penetrating and piercing
parched, eager soil.
Anger over
how things are.
Laughing for what
they could be.
Poets are angry.
After all these years,
the poets are still angry.
Angry in deed.
William E. Tickel DC.
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Post by sonshine76 on Jun 24, 2004 0:22:18 GMT -5
She can silently sing,
and speak without words.
She flies with the horses,
and trots with the birds.
She can fight without weapons,
and blind with her sight.
She can weaken your strength,
and laugh while you cry.
She can freeze in the hellfire,
and set the heavens aflame,
and she can know who you are,
without knowing your name.
She can feel without touching,
or cry without tears.
End life in a second,
or make a second last years.
Only few truly find her,
in her home up above.
No one can define her,
so they just call her love.
--Mike (my brother)
(yes, my siblings have normal names.)
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Post by pete on Jun 24, 2004 0:42:11 GMT -5
and now poetry from our friend 2Dope:
a beautiful butterfly
came floating by and landed on my chin
just a smigit from my eye
i said to the butterfly
GET THE FUCK OFF ME BUG!
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Post by sonshine76 on Jul 21, 2004 11:41:32 GMT -5
I just read William Blake's "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell." Whoa. Evidently this work inspired Jim Morrison to name the band The Doors, based on the themes of Heaven and Hell.
Beware: it's long.
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Post by 2Short on Aug 31, 2004 0:59:11 GMT -5
Fool's Gold by Constance Merritt
As once a child you relished childish things,
In reverie you surf the net for toys-
If only sex were somehow interesting.
It almost turns you on remembering
The mysteries of girls, the thrum of boys
When as a child you played at childish things,
But that, that wasn't real: imagining
Some pure, ethereal sweet that wouldn't cloy.
If only sex were somehow interesting.
Are we there yet? What can we do, it's boring?
Sure bullion in the bank becomes alloy
As when a child you tired of childish things.
Change positions, partners, sexes; fling
Inhabitions, morals to the wind. Joy.
If only sex were somehow interesting.
Methodically you play, no heart for playing-
Desire's game an unremitting toil
As when a child you aped grim grown-up things
And dreamed that sex was so so interesting.
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If you need help with vocab:
e•the•re•al (adj.) Characterized by lightness and insubstantiality; intangible.
cloy (v.) To cause distaste or disgust by supplying with too much of something originally pleasant, especially something rich or sweet; surfeit.
un•re•mit•ting (adj.) Never slackening; persistent.
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I really liked this poem. It was very honest and upfront, stripping away the connotations of sex and the assumption that it's an entirely enjoyable act. It also talks about how we rush towards sex, only to end up disappointed with it given time. This hit me hard, leaving me with a semi-sick feeling in my stomach.
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Post by pete on Aug 31, 2004 15:21:52 GMT -5
and now poetry from our friend 2Dope: a beautiful butterfly came floating by and landed on my chin just a smigit from my eye i said to the butterfly GET THE FUCK OFF ME BUG!i was just about to post aht, till i saw that i allready have. |
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Post by sonshine76 on Sept 7, 2004 11:36:50 GMT -5
PHEW! Thanks for posting that again, Pete. I was just thinking, "I need some inspiration...Where is that bug poem Pete wrote?!" And there it was.
Twice on the same page.
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Post by pete on Sept 7, 2004 14:57:42 GMT -5
PHEW! Thanks for posting that again, Pete. I was just thinking, "I need some inspiration...Where is that bug poem Pete wrote?!" And there it was. Twice on the same page. i didnt write it, i typed it while listening to a song called Wizard Of The Hood. and at the end of the song, there is a little poetry thing. that was 2 Dope's poetry, and intro. |
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