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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 5088. jexster - 10/10/2003 4:45:00 AM Skating Away On The Thin Ice Of The New Day
I. Anderson
Meanwhile back in the year One --- when you belonged to no-one ---
you didn't stand a chance son, if your pants were undone.
`Cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society ---
one day you'll wake up in the Present Day ---
a million generations removed from expectations
of being who you really want to be.
Skating away ---
skating away ---
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
So as you push off from the shore,
won't you turn your head once more --- and make your peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
will live just one more day ---
to do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness, spinning in your emptiness:
you feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign
that the Universal Mind (!) has written you into the Passion Play.
Skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
And as you cross the circle line, the ice-wall creaks behind ---
you're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly in the corner of your eye ---
shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's
too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like
you're the only person sitting in the audience?
Skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
5089. ScreamingSin - 10/17/2003 3:23:59 PM
They shall not
grow old,as we
that are left
grow old:
Age shall not weary
them, nor the years
condemn.
At the going down
of the sun and in the morning
We will remember
them.
-Laurence Binyon, 1914
5090. ScreamingSin - 10/23/2003 5:10:10 PM Don't you know
Nobody parts
Two rivers met
-LP 5091. RickNelson - 10/23/2003 10:23:49 PM SS,
I've read the Binyon poem a lot during this week. I'm impressed with its general command of death and empathic simplicity.
I picked up WCW to reflect upon the poem. For me WCW represents an example of minimal impact. Within the book "Imaginations", part I "Kora In Hell", the end of 13 and to 14 reads: "If the inventive imagination must look, as I think, to the field of art for its richest discoveries today it will best make its way by compass and follow no path.
We're all quite set upon with the knowledge base we're supplied with. It's good, very good to know these things. What "these" are doesn't matter, because we interpret them toward our own nuances anyway. This is what I think.
What can be done when the imagined inspiration hits? For me, it's usually time to battle my innate senses. My intuition to create instead of let happen. I'm just too forced for my own happiness. That's what I think.
You're very welcome around the Mote SS. You've a sense of what is; experienced. 5092. RickNelson - 10/23/2003 11:04:58 PM I found this exellent example of iambic pentameter on Poetry Daily, today.
It starts in the metaphysical, ending with a strong comparrison of ageless connections.
Sarah Wardle
Metre
Number 14
Autumn 2003
"Upper Palæolithic
It might be thirty thousand years ago,
with horses and bison running the plains,
and you in skins with a bow and arrow,
holding me close against the cold night wind,
above us a sky, pitch black as a cave,
stars at intervals like blazing torches,
and our modern selves, descendants we made,
like two rivers, traced back to their sources,
instead of the twenty-first century
with late-night traffic and the cafés closed,
shop lights masking the stars, as you kiss me
on buried earth in Tottenham Court Road."
5093. Neato - 10/24/2003 9:03:19 AM Rick, I think you might be right about creating instead of letting it happen. To me some of your posts in the childhood thread are sort of poetry, or you could make them so.
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