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5599. alistairconnor - 2/22/2006 12:21:54 PM

"Saving for hell to pay"

I spent the weekend discussing this theme with friends...
How dare we have children? How to prepare them for the future?

Teach them how to grow potatoes, and chop wood. Yoga and judo.
I am less optimistic than you Nu

5600. Macnas - 2/22/2006 1:16:12 PM

Disconnect, Part 2.

Family ticket to Dublin please
the bottle blonde girl behind the glass
is pushing buttons and typing.
I daydream for half a second
to when printed cardboard was all the rage
and an ink stamp sealed the deal.

"Do I have to go?"
some words half-formed catch in my throat,
looking at you looking at me in that way you have,
Not if you wouldn't like to I suppose.
"I'll stay with granny so".

And on the way up
and on the way down
I look at where you might have sat
and think of things to say to you
when you ask about the day.
But you don't.

5601. NuPlanetOne - 2/25/2006 5:23:27 AM

//

I fear you find song in most things Ulgine. Truth be told, so do I. Song is poetry, poetry is song. I have always wanted to write songs, perhaps I will one day. As for writing to suit myself, it’s true as well, sometimes I’m like Emily D. I jot small and assorted things down and stuff’em somewhere. I’ll never get around to them. Idiosyncratic and asymptomatic, that will be my next song. Got music?

5602. NuPlanetOne - 2/25/2006 5:24:26 AM

//

Yes Alistair, I am oddly optimistic for my times. Even if I do think there is big shit coming. Is it our turn? Then I think it can still go right by me. And land over there. I just wish it all wasn’t grounded in the same ancient standoff. Better that it were a new Khan with a separate agenda riding over the horizon. Same God, three peoples. I’m so over that!

5603. Ulgine Barrows - 3/3/2006 11:52:47 AM

oh my god, I totally get that Phillip Larkin, and I know I'm not supposed to
winky
good one!


5601. NuPlanetOne
"fear you find song... I have always wanted to write songs"

Yeah, right. Amyhoo, I like your stuff!

5604. Macnas - 3/3/2006 12:34:03 PM

But Ulgine, I posted Larkin especially for you.

5605. Ulgine Barrows - 3/3/2006 12:59:37 PM

I won't forget to put roses on your grave.

5606. Ulgine Barrows - 3/3/2006 1:03:44 PM

er, Rolling Stones, circa 70s ^^^^

5607. Ulgine Barrows - 3/3/2006 1:40:47 PM

I was touched, and I might cry

5608. Ulgine Barrows - 3/3/2006 1:41:27 PM

ah what the hell....
I already did

5609. NuPlanetOne - 3/4/2006 9:47:36 PM



Lost

I really have been lost, you know
Once in the woods on LSD
Because the trees turned evil
And didn’t know me anymore

So I sat.

Once downtown between scrapers
I turned down an alley
I came out in a new place
But I kept walking
And it was too late
It wasn’t my city
And it was big

I called for help.

Once, driving to a reunion
I missed a turn on the highway
Next exit 67 miles
The panic at night
I didn’t have the number
And got off and back on
Then couldn’t find the house
I stayed in a motel

Alone.

Then there was the moment
I realized I was lost
Not in a place
Or looking for one
But me
I lost myself
I sat alone calling for help

And nobody came.

And I’m looking hard.

5610. NuPlanetOne - 3/7/2006 10:04:48 PM



OK. I have finished a poem. I know, I have posted over a hundred here over the years. Yet hitherto, I have never really, officially nor seriously, edited or pained over the final shape each one should take. JamesWright tried many times to get me, as well as others, to realize that our various first drafts were just the beginning of the task. If you could liken a keen sense for poetic structure and content to that of the fine palate in an oenologist, then its likeness is our Mr. Wright.

Of course, Maria G did insist on serious revision and changes when we collaborated briefly back in the day, but I just acquiesced mainly because I was infatuated with her brilliance and feminine allure, rather than any serious attempt to better my poetry. She castigated me on this very point and might have even been flattered, but her explanation of my dilettantish attitude toward writing had more to do with my non-committal nature in general, dooming me to obscurity, (She said that!), unless I took the pain to understand the work involved in really good poetry. Like I wasn’t even more smitten! Ha! Have I mentioned that I miss her?

Anyway, the following is a before and after of a piece I put here before. I liked it then, but it was really, quite flawed. I still am not sure I made my point except to stress the main idea is a notion, not serious science, but an observation run amok in the afterthought of passing by the scene. So, if you are bored, and at your leisure, comment. Is at least the new style more effective? I felt that at least it had a style, as a lot of mine are run ons with lazy line breaks, just a block of marble holding promise sustained by conceit.

5611. NuPlanetOne - 3/7/2006 10:05:50 PM



Beware The Crows (original)

Why did the squirrel just stop?
He had it made. They all do that
It is why some crows chase them
Out there. One keeps him from
The tree. One forces him into the
Road. They goad and place him
In danger. It seems that all creatures
With intelligence use it for gain
As if the only purpose of a brain
Is to conquer. Is to sustain a being
No matter the cost. Always fleeing
The smarter predator. Given
That some creatures are driven
To act out of sheer kindness, humans
For example. This is intelligence,
Perhaps, also evolved for survival
One of the more subtler features
Of flesh and bone. Sharing and caring
And writing it down. Where evil
Has become the crows. Perched
Staring at the picture. Devising. Searched
For weakness. Revising. Swooping
Eating the kill with drooping head
And malevolent eyes. For it knows
It’s business, as it knows the dead.
Beware the crows.


Beware the Crows

Why did the squirrel
Just stop?
It had it made
They all do that

It is why the crows
Chase them
Out there
One keeps it
From the tree
One forces it
Into the road
They goad and place it
In danger

It seems that all creatures
With intelligence
Use it for gain
As if the only purpose
Of a brain
Is to conquer
Is to sustain
A being
No matter the size
Always fleeing
The smarter predator

Given
That several creatures
Are driven
To act out of sheer kindness
Humans, for example
This is intelligence
Perhaps
Also evolved for survival
Pure altruism
An anomalous feature
Of flesh and bone
Within a creature, merciful
Civilizing. Sharing and caring
And writing it all down

Where evil, pure animal
Incubates
Tweaking in crows
Waiting to evolve
Mutating. Perched
Staring at the picture
Devising
Searched
For weakness
Revising
Swooping
Gouging the kill
With a malevolent
Craning head
And T-Rex
Machiavellian eyes
For it knows
Its business
As it devours the dead
Beware the crows.

5612. arkymalarky - 3/9/2006 12:18:54 AM

Very nice, Nu. I like the way the change affects the sound and sense.

James Wright--there's someone I'd love to see back in here.

5613. arkymalarky - 3/9/2006 12:19:52 AM

Sense as in sensation.

5614. jexster - 3/17/2006 8:48:14 AM

Zapped Flashbacks...Mid Life Crisis

    Mid Life Crisis



    She had that
    Camarillo brillo
    Flamin’ out along her head,
    I mean her mendocino bean-o
    By where some bugs had made it red

    She ruled the toads
    Of the short forest
    And every newt in idaho
    And every cricket who had chorused
    By the bush in buffalo

    She said she was
    A magic mama
    And she could throw a mean tarot
    And carried on without a comma
    That she was someone I should know

    She had a snake for a pet
    And an amulet
    And she was breeding a dwarf
    But she wasn’t done yet
    She had gray-green skin
    A doll with a pin
    I told her she was awright
    But I couldn’t come in
    (I couldn’t come in right then...)

    And so she wandered
    Trough the door-way
    Just like a shadow from the tomb
    She said her stereo was four-way
    An’ I’d just love it in her room

    Well, I was born
    To have adventure
    So I just followed up the steps
    Right past her fuming incense stencher
    To where she hung her castanets

    She stripped away
    Her ranchid poncho
    An’ laid out naked by the door
    We did it till we were un-concho
    An’ it was useless any more

    She had a snake for a pet
    And an amulet
    And she was breeding a dwarf
    But she wasn’t done yet
    She had gray-green skin
    A doll with a pin
    I told her she was awright
    But I couldn’t come in
    (actually, I was very busy then)

    And so she wandered
    Trough the door-way
    Just like a shadow from the tomb
    She said her stereo was four-way
    An’ I’d just love it in her room

    Well, I was born
    To have adventure
    So I just followed up the steps
    Right past her fuming incense stencher
    To where she hung her castanets

    She said she was
    A magic mama
    And she could throw a mean tarot
    And carried on without a comma
    That she was someone I should know

    (is that a real poncho...i mean
    Is that a mexican poncho
    Or is that a sears poncho?
    Hmmm...no foolin’ ...)



Frank Zappa, 1970

5615. NuPlanetOne - 3/18/2006 3:30:23 PM

jex. Zap was the man.


...ain't no way to delay
that trouble comin' every day
...and if a millon more agree
there ain't no great society

...what's the ugliest part
of your body?
...some say your nose
...some say your toes
but i think it's your mind
...your mind...your mind
ooo...ooo...ooo

...it don't mean shit to a tree.


Zappa. Freak Out. (69?)

He was like a Confucius.

5616. NuPlanetOne - 3/18/2006 3:31:28 PM

...I love this girl

Amanda Leigh Lichtenstein

Picture This

Coins and shoelaces
Car keys and clouds

Picture the day
You returned home

Father's dark toenail
Fell off, finally --

Placed on the mantel
Microscope close

Old men shed layers
Of skin and then

Picture the day
Your father dies

And you do not fly
Home – not yet.

A perilous sort of paralyzed
Two eyes, quizzical

A sorrow mirror:
Ghosts sleep in the shower.

First you turn off the lights.
Then you remember your toes.

Tickets arranged, click-click.
Airports full of asthma.

Your father is dead,
All his music stacked

High in sex-closets
Stuffed with feathers.

You box-drag endless
To the curb – and he

Coughs from the porch
Clapping his hands, windless.

*************


Leaving

Adios to the louses who invented longing

Sayonara to the silent narrator in our lives

Livid is the girl who thought she knew the language

Anguished over the age and freshness of the day

A to Z an alphabet of dusk and haze to grope

The interloping hexagon of faith

Goodbye to the good eye and the good lie

Arrivederci to the cherry tree and her fruits

Kwa heri to the hurry lurking in our toes

Languid is the girl who thought she knew to swirl

See ya soon you sea of sighs

Keep in touch, you caped and weary cantor

I'll cry for you Argentina, Eva Peron!

I'll sketch your likeness in white

Totezines you xenophobes who played your oboes

Farewell airy wellspring of fever

Talk to you later all you skating stalkers

Write me while camel riding at sunrise

Call me and cull me a future we'll cheer
So long my letter to forever

**********************

Another Time


Back snapped like time capsule

Bursting with dust from the good old days



Bracketed and packaged in saran wrap,

Parceled and stamped fresh to study



The hair and skin, who needed it? I emptied

The belly of wanting and insisted on despair



I steered the horse into water to see it swim,

Pressed play on its whinny and wondered



Paused its disastrous attempts, the bending

Of knees and eyes wide in horror – oh, dark



Cloud where are you to complete the mood?

I wouldn't look at what was sad, not then.



The hands fold into a second glance, fists

Like knots of crystal waving in the dark



I need to accept boats as decent modes

Of transport and forget the gallant horse.



Accept maps as representations

And not itself any sort of real plan.


I know the difference when I try to call home:

The numbers disappear inside my mouth.















5617. phillipdavid - 3/18/2006 4:14:17 PM

NuPlanetOne,
Re 5611
" Is at least the new style more effective? I felt that at least it had a style..."

No.

Your original style is (and always has been!) incredibly effective.

Your original has movement...the first half of the poem is written in such a way to accentuate words at the end of lines; then in the middle words toward the begining of lines are accentuated, then at the end the acentuated words mingle, and this creates a wonderful circular confluence. Form helps function.

For example: stop, them, from, him,

and then: humans, perhaps, one flesh, writing, become

and then: head, knows, dead,

and then: beware the crow

Your style has always worked for me. I just read one of your poems (A New Head) to a class of 6th graders to show them how the rhyme and rhythm and accent can be created in the middle of lines and doesn't have to follow more traditional forms (I introduced them to poetry using Emily Dickenson and Robert Frost), and sometimes this works to great effect because it stirs your mind to contemplate ideas suggested in the middle.

I hope that made sense to you.
Your poems have always made sense to me!

5618. arkymalarky - 3/18/2006 4:51:31 PM

Hey PD!

Good to see you're still at it.

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