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5068. NuPlanetOne - 10/1/2003 5:17:18 AM
Hello my infrequent friends and subliminal scribblers. The summer has passed without much to show in our cobwebbed corridor down through a hole to box in a room with a spinning disk. Bits and bytes blinking through nights and days, either coming or going, racing or slowing like molasses in ways that only electrons can know. And yet it is nice to still see it all here.
And Rick, you have, as you say, in tidbits, at least kept enough of a presence to fill a few of the spaces where as a group we are as usual not the least prolific. But it is fun to watch you work at finding your balance in this affliction we have with trying to paste words together to spell out our various imaginings. Your efforts improve constantly! And seamus, your ‘been there, dear reader’ the fecking thing is some of your best! And pinsky, imagine earning a living off of poetry! Such an oxymoronical thing.
Anyway, just passing through…and ScreamingSin, don’t know if I’ve had the pleasure, but I have enjoyed your offerings. Very nice. Ciao.
5069. NuPlanetOne - 10/1/2003 5:20:18 AM
/
Marley’s Ghost
It would be easy to live in the past
As if the last thing I needed was something
New..some new emotion to figure out
A fresh and new complicating doubt
Or some calamity or commotion or even
An unexplained joy..unexpected to bump
Me into a different mood or to hump me
Like it always does or like it was back then
When I believed in possibility..before I gained
A sensibility and perception of alternatives
It gives me little hope for surprise where
Instead I pander to and despise unveiled
Pleas for attention as if in some dimension
At some level I have had the same experience
And as if the suspense and drama and the
Boatloads of Karma that crash on my shores
Aren’t enough..I suddenly discover that
Even in the arms of my lover there is a game
There is a name for your indifference..for
Your unyielding platitudes..ok..your superior
Your obscure attitudes and denials offset with
Smiles that play at the corners..in the corner
Of your eyes..ok lies! Perhaps even arrogance!
But what else shall I call the truth..for isn’t
Deception a perfect truth..isn’t it punishment
Enough, and to have called your bluff..do you
Then not suffer and squirm and affirm your deed?
...cont... 5070. NuPlanetOne - 10/1/2003 5:20:41 AM What I need, what I most humbly ask, no plead!
Is that just this once it ends differently, that it
Is not about possession or attention or a fragile
Contention that must so always be upheld, as if
A confession were the keys to ones soul, that an
Admission of confusion can be stamped on or
Permanently clamped around my gut dragging it
All behind like Marley’s ghost, yes, what I need
Most is a happy ending with no one defending or
Pretending or calling out names no icons in flames
No hung head brooding with a shot glance alluding
To abandonment. No. The sign is off my back
I won’t be kicked and I will not dance or be tricked
Into deluding myself…and in this happy ending
This parted sea where those parts of you and these
Parts of me drift away…is not what’s left at the end
Of the day..at the end of it all…worth remembering?
So, I will live in the past and recall that part of you
That I so dearly loved that was so nearly perfect
For so perfect a time and when once again I believe in
Possibility and trust the here and now I will look
Forward and perhaps wonder how, wonder why
I suppose, I might even try….to forgive you.
5071. wabbit - 10/4/2003 12:20:07 AM The POTUS pens a poem She revealed that President Bush had penned a poem for her when she got back from a five-day solo trip to Europe, where she attended a book festival in Moscow and visited France -- getting two kisses on the hand from French President Jacques Chirac.
"President Bush is a great leader and a husband, but I bet you didn't know he is also quite the poet," she said. "Upon returning home last night from my long trip I found a lovely poem waiting there for me." Roses are red
Violets are blue
Oh my, lump in the bed
How I've missed you.
Roses are redder
Bluer am I
Seeing you kissed by that charming French guy.
The dogs and the cat, they missed you too
Barney's still mad you dropped him, he ate your shoe
The distance, my dear, has been such a barrier
Next time you want an adventure, just land on a carrier.
5072. RickNelson - 10/4/2003 6:30:16 AM Nu,
dang homey, that's powerful!
I connect to the poem, I know the lines, and it could free a soul.
If I could tap that power, Oh yeah, then all would be right. I'm told I've got to pray.
Yup.
Best to you,
Rick 5073. RickNelson - 10/4/2003 6:31:04 AM Bush is just being soooooooo cute!
Still wont vote for him though. 5074. RickNelson - 10/4/2003 6:32:31 AM Here's a revision of a poem I first wrote on 10-17-1999.
Rewrite 10/4/2003
When I:
When I whisper to you
and your furrowed brow shows
you grave as Medusa-
muttering under breath
As if for some time now
a villainous guile built
without an attribute
were irreplaceable
Your muses cleansing soul
partly Gauguin wistful
all of Van Gogh glory
with silence done loudly
Endowing the canvas
colored swoops and patterns
living a freed, skilled soul
enticing and serene
Free mighty prophecy
not separatist verse
fighting reality
you foment probity
Written: 10-4-2003
5075. RickNelson - 10/4/2003 11:26:56 PM Hmmm, I recall the first time I wrote the other version, leaving it behind because it didn’t say things clearly. Then I rewrote it to see if it cleared the idea up. The idea, and now it’s what is that idea? After all, that was 4 years ago.
The words break upon the rocky shore into spray; blown away with the wind.
Ok This time starting weak. There is reason to leave things out. This is a new independent life. One which will form of its own accord. Letting go is actually, letting go of the child I am loving so dearly. I missed too much, let her slip from me, and sought her back. She allowed me the gift of parenting once again. Now, I give so much, wanting so little. My burdens lightened, when I hear "I love you daddy". God that makes me cry.
The vision:
Father spent many years
not connecting with his
family. Finds a means
to recover with hope.
The circumstances thus,
our daughter works her view
wrought with uncertainty
what parents mean to her.
She is intelligent.
But, naïve as any teen
with young adulthood looming-
new life, new friends, new home.
Working hard toward goals
giving serenity,
entice abilities
and possibilities
Seeking honest freedom
and independent wings-
unconditional love
watching beautiful flight.
5076. Macnas - 10/5/2003 4:23:03 PM We have tested and tasted too much, lover--
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
the knowledge we stole but could not use.
Just one verse of Kavanaghs "Advent" 5077. RickNelson - 10/8/2003 8:41:54 AM Thanks Macnas.
You can pick 'em!
I'm happy to have read this. 5078. ScreamingSin - 10/8/2003 3:00:16 PM When I whisper to you
and your furrowed brow shows
you murderous as Medusa-
muttering under breath 5079. ScreamingSin - 10/8/2003 3:17:04 PM was Medusa grave? or harmful? She turned persons into stone, not tombstones.
I'm sorry, if I'm being insulting without knowing it, you'll have to say. I read somewhere, what? where? poets only congratulate each other when they've whipped critics or won a prize.
So. As an aspiring prize-winner, I cannot possibly congratulate you, apparently. And I haven't the acumen to know whether true discussion is desired here. 5080. ScreamingSin - 10/8/2003 3:32:01 PM Veruca Salt SEETHER lyrics
(Veruca Salt was the spoiled brat-daughter in Willy Wonka)
Ow!
Seether is neither loose nor tight.
Seether is neither black nor white.
I tried to keep her on a short leash,
I tried to calm her down.
I tried to ram her into the ground, yeah.
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
I can't see her till I'm foaming at the mouth
Seether is neither big nor small.
Seether is the center of it all.
I tried to rock her in my cradle,
I tried to knock her out.
I tried to cram her back in my mouth, yeah.
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
I can't see her till I'm foaming at the mouth
Keep her down, boiling water,
Keep her down, what a lovely daughter.
Oh, she is not born like other girls,
But I know how to conceive her.
Oh she may not look like other girls,
But she's a snarl-toothed seether, seether!
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
I can't see her till I'm foaming at the mouth
Seether
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
Can't fight the seether
I can't see her till I'm foaming at the mouth
Yeah. 5081. ScreamingSin - 10/8/2003 4:30:40 PM Fade into you
I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath that's true
I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth
You live your life
You go in shadows
You'll come apart and you'll go black
Some kind of night into your darkness
Colors your eyes with what's not there.
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it's strange you never knew
A stranger's light comes on slowly
A stranger's heart without a home
You put your hands into your head
And then smiles cover your heart
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it's strange you never knew
Fade into you
Strange you never knew
Fade into you
I think it's strange you never knew
I think it's strange you never knew
5082. ScreamingSin - 10/8/2003 4:31:10 PM Mazzy Star 5083. Macnas - 10/8/2003 4:55:57 PM Mirror in February
The day dawns, with scent of must and rain,
Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
Under the fading lamp, half dressed -- my brain
Idling on some compulsive fantasy --
I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
It seems again that it is time to learn,
In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
To which, for the time being, I return.
Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
I read that I have looked my last on youth
And little more; for they are not made whole
That reach the age of Christ.
Below my window the wakening trees,
Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
Suffering their brute necessities;
And how should the flesh not quail, that span for span
Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
I fold my towel with what grace I can,
Not young, and not renewable, but man.
Thomas Kinsella
5084. ScreamingSin - 10/8/2003 7:03:00 PM And then smiles cover your heart 5085. RickNelson - 10/10/2003 12:14:42 AM ScreamingSin,
I welcome discussion. I'm far from insulted. You have connected in some fashion with that crytic stanza? I truly meant it to be vague, not overly descriptive of reality, but the undercurrent of how we can keep a safe distance from someone. Perhaps so we avoid painful emotions. 5086. RickNelson - 10/10/2003 12:18:50 AM Macnas,
I'm a bit too moved by that latest poem. i'll give a bit of time and come back to it.
best,
Rick 5087. RickNelson - 10/10/2003 12:23:12 AM dang, it's a crptic stanza. What's with this latest problem I'm having leaving out a letter or word?
I'm thinking it's part of the technical difficulty I'm having while writing any post. I have a serious delay of word presentation. If I type non-stop, my words are totally blank until I stop. Then I can go back and read it. Sometimes I think I've made no mistake, alas that's in error.
Testing:
This is blank-, ok I've stopped and am typing each letter very slowly so I can read it as i type. I'm frustrated already. I want to type faster.
ciao
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