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5501. Ulgine Barrows - 8/19/2005 6:58:58 AM now we are a disagreeing couple.
I think it was
madam i'm adam 5502. Ulgine Barrows - 8/19/2005 9:08:05 AM lightning strike you all
roll your dreams along the thunder
CRASH
into the new day 5503. NuPlanetOne - 8/22/2005 9:51:18 PM Anxious, Thinking Worms
What is this clawing anxiety?
I never felt it before
Why does it just sit there
Like a hot coal in my middle
That’s what makes you ill
Because it can’t be digested
Which is what the body
Does, after all
It is all the body wants
Just more to chew and digest
Somehow our fear of things
Forces the body to turn against
Itself, churn and burn
The stomach over-reacting
Instead of hunger the signal
Is warped. The brain overrides
The senses. We imagine
We are the body and this news
Confuses it. Our grinding
Thoughts force a ceaseless
Secretion of stuff and signals
And the body is defenseless
To sort it out. So it is all
Combined and placed in the belly
While the rest of the body
Is kept from its work.
And as the thoughts continue
The body lays about and waits
And follows us around
It obeys our commands
But in its middle, its power plant
You can feel its discomfort
We think only our thoughts
Are sick. But the body only has
One function, one purpose
While we don’t know our purpose
And our thoughts can override
Our body’s function. I never had
These fears before. A worm
Is only a body with 2 holes
One hole to bring stuff in the body
A long tube to digest, and
One hole to pass out waste
We think we aren’t worms
We think we are more than long tubes
But the body can’t digest anxiety
And that is what the body does
After all.
5504. Ulgine Barrows - 8/23/2005 8:04:08 AM Wow, that's a good title for that poem!
I like how it starts out really strong:
Why does it just sit there
Like a hot coal in my middle
That’s what makes you ill
Because it can’t be digested
I don't get the part about the body having only one function, though. 5505. Ulgine Barrows - 8/23/2005 8:05:13 AM "New Slang"
Gold teeth and a curse for this town were all in my mouth.
Only, i don't know how they got out, dear.
Turn me back into the pet that i was when we met.
I was happier then with no mind-set.
And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the king of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.
New slang when you notice the stripes, the dirt in your fries.
Hope it's right when you die, old and bony.
Dawn breaks like a bull through the hall,
Never should have called
But my head's to the wall and i'm lonely.
And if you'd 'a took to me like
A gull takes to the wind.
Well, i'd 'a jumped from my tree
And i'd a danced like the kind of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well.
God speed all the bakers at dawn may they all cut their thumbs,
And bleed into their buns 'till they melt away.
I'm looking in on the good life i might be doomed never to find.
Without a trust or flaming fields am i too dumb to refine?
And if you'd 'a took to me like
Well i'd a danced like the queen of the eyesores
And the rest of our lives would 'a fared well. 5506. Ulgine Barrows - 8/23/2005 8:07:12 AM I really like that, it's from The Shins and I heard it when I was watching Garden State. 5507. Ulgine Barrows - 9/13/2005 8:52:23 AM faded Persian
once deep red
decomposed into
a wan maroon
~with thanks to Ellis Weiner 5508. NuPlanetOne - 10/2/2005 2:03:50 AM The Mock Sneer
I’m sorry. How did I know
Twenty-five years would pass
I can see you snarling
From time to time
Darling, in that mock menace
Because you were
Laughing at me
Taking myself seriously
Deliriously in love
I was with you
I found your grave
And sat there
Only we knew
Didn’t we, about that year
We crept behind the backs
Of everyone, tracks
In the sand on Wallaston beach
And each time I held you
We glistened
I don’t know why
I still miss you
So much passed between us
That day on your deathbed
We lived a long life together
In each other’s eyes
I despise that I’m still here
I’m sorry that I did go on
But I see you
Clear as day, snarling
Darling.
5509. Seamus - 10/6/2005 10:25:41 PM I quite like that, Nu.
And each time I held you
We glistened
is luminous.
It very much reminds me, and in a happy way, of something else you did a couple of years ago.5510. arkymalarky - 10/6/2005 11:29:05 PM SEAMUS!!! It's so great to see you in here! 5511. judithathome - 10/6/2005 11:58:26 PM NuPlanet....absolutely beautiful. 5512. Macnas - 10/7/2005 9:56:09 AM Seamus
How's things? you might post some verse, b’fhéidir...
5513. Ulgine Barrows - 10/7/2005 10:04:25 AM Didn’t anybody tell her?
Didn’t anybody see? 5514. Macnas - 10/7/2005 10:13:13 AM Sundays on the phone to Monday... 5515. Seamus - 10/7/2005 10:03:29 PM arky, you are so kind. Are you well, happy and busy?
Dia duit Mac.
Cén chaoi a bfhuil tú?
Your "maybe" inspires this:
On the ontology of poetry
(being an autobiographical inscription for the author's cenotaph or a tattoo, whichever comes first)
verse it
may be
but
worse verse it
could not
On the other hand, Mac, your Angst, eh? is fun.
Greetings to judith, Ulgine.
Yo, Rick?5516. arkymalarky - 10/8/2005 1:06:26 AM All three, Seamus, and I hope you are too, except not too busy for us to see more of you! 5517. jexster - 10/8/2005 10:55:46 PM
Gerontion
By Thomas Stearns Eliot
Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.
Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.
I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.
Signs are taken for wonders. "We would see a sign":
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger
In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob.
After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What's not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.
The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils.
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer contact?
These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a sleepy corner.
Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season 5518. NuPlanetOne - 10/18/2005 1:46:26 AM
Thanks on ‘Mock Sneer’. I’ve been trying to write that one for years. Perhaps, Haley’s comet Sir Seamus, when you come ‘round again, I’ll have another. Yet seriously, if I might add, as we all grin when you do appear, it’s nice to know you peek in as we all do from time to time. With time to time making more than a decade! Yikes!
…thanks Judith, beautiful is what I had hoped
5519. NuPlanetOne - 10/18/2005 5:58:26 PM Eyes, Blinking and Thinking
It’s not even about
Where I’m going
Because you must believe
In journeys
Of the spiritual kind
I believe in the connection
The feeling of inclusion
Amongst fellow creatures
The herd
You see it in the eyes of humans
In some eyes you see pain
It doesn’t hurt you
Some eyes make you share it
Any human’s eyes tell you something
It seems like a common life force
I saw a similar force
In a dolphin’s eye
Once an ape smirked at me
Many times my dog’s eyes spoke
Yet human eyes go far deeper
The glassy wall of silence
Behind some creatures eyes
Unable to fathom a connection
Suggests humans might be alone
I think of a shared soul
Not going anywhere, exactly
But always just being
And I wonder about extinction
The death of a soul
Sometimes I imagine the stars are souls
So spiritually
I do feel connected
Not seeking, nor worshipping
Going somewhere, I suppose
And you must believe in destinations.
5520. Jenerator - 10/18/2005 11:30:10 PM Very calming, Nu. Thank you.
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