Poetry

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This is a far more Serious Topic™, and it's directed to arky as well as anyone else who thinks that just because I may seem perpetually unawares, that I am, at all times, unawares. The fact is, I am indeed preternaturally unawares, but it is also the quite remarkable case that, for the moment, I’m awake. For the moment.

And towards that end…

I do not believe I've ever achieved an "It Which Must Not Be Named" here. The m-word. In the 8-ish or so years here (correct?) and in all the years at this place's predecessor, our former home, I do not think I've ever worn the laurel.

And I'd name it, save I cannot remember after all of the debates about its proper spelling what its proper spelling is. One "l" or two? One "n" or two? Zed zero?

We all realise that pigs fly about as often as one of these presents itself in Mote Poetry.

Here, I can be seen practising for the final sprint:

I
may
fall
miserably
short,
but
I'm
going to
try
for
it!

(Line breaks!
Ideal!
I could claim it is found poetry!)

So...

To arky and all other pretenders:

I'm going to fight you with every sentient ounce of my being for this one. Which adjective of course means you've not much of a threat in me.

The rest is silence.

5913. wabbit - 8/25/2007 12:26:03 AM

Darling, sweet Seamus,

I have no poetry, but
you may count on me
    for assistance in
the quest for the
M victory
which, once achieved,
I shall hope with my every breath
    the rest from you will
not be silence.

5914. arkymalarky - 8/25/2007 12:50:17 AM

OOOOh, a challenge!

5915. Seamus - 8/25/2007 4:06:11 AM

wabbit, you are very kind.

arky, yes, the game is afoot.

(Or as a dear friend from the Czech Republic, who loves Shakespeare but whose idiomatic English is less than precise, says: The game is underfoot.)

5916. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 11:38:51 AM

Seamus : And I'd no idea you [Nu] were a novelist as well!

I am pleased and proud to say that it started here (the unfinished Chicken Piccata Test).
Next comes the work in progress Tony, or Proof it existed.

Pleased, proud and frustrated, because he isn't letting us look at the process at the moment...

Next question is for you, Seamus : would you consider a contribution to that 5917. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 11:46:41 AM

Next question is for you, Seamus : would you consider a contribution to that autofiction thread?

5918. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 11:48:06 AM

Hmm Po'try Olympics?

How can I help?

I have a prose soul.

5919. arkymalarky - 8/25/2007 4:07:32 PM

Make every post rhyme with the one previous.

5920. alistairConnor - 8/25/2007 6:01:34 PM

That requires a soul that is twisted and devious.

A project more ambitious : a collective sonnet?

5921. arkymalarky - 8/25/2007 8:10:21 PM

Haha! Okay! You start! Get right on it!

5922. wabbit - 8/26/2007 12:18:58 AM

the Motean sonnet, a new rhyming scheme,

AA BB CA seems too obvious.

5923. Seamus - 8/26/2007 2:55:34 AM

A collective sonnet would be a Motean dream,
But when my turn, you'd need to be forgivious.

5924. Seamus - 8/26/2007 3:01:07 AM

I am pleased and proud to say that it started here (the unfinished Chicken Piccata Test).

I'm grateful for the link, alistair. That is a fun collection.

Next question is for you, Seamus : would you consider a contribution to that autofiction thread?

I'd be honoured to do.

5925. wabbit - 8/26/2007 8:38:32 PM

it will be a success if Seamus and NuPlanet
will grace the project with their verses most excellent


Ok, I should bow out now.
AA BB CA CA BB so far

5926. NuPlanetOne - 8/29/2007 3:55:03 PM

seamus

Thank you for your comments and analyses.

And yes my friend, I believe we do pray to the same absent God. Even if it is by habit. The God fearing, God hearing, God sighting, God fighting and God righting and wronging, I suppose, are the ones, perhaps, less likely to experience the phantom limb of excised belief. That I pray at all is just the hammer tapping the nerve. The leg kicks out in reflex. When I am jabbed in the soul, God jumps out, and I am surprised by the response once I see it. Actually, there are times when I am glad the reflex is healthy, as even in my most God railing moments I would not truly disrespect the notion of faith nor anyone devoted to it. The reflex reminds me, whether I like it or not, God exists, even if only as an idea. And from all I have observed thus far in my simple existence is, it is, arguably, the most primal of ideas. It’s the big one. Even bloodthirsty killers consult icons and spirits of some sort. Besides, how could I truly describe this existence we are in if I were to declare God dead? Ha, what in the hell would I write about! God forbid.

Anyway, I have decided to worship gravity.

Also, I’m not sure exactly what the sonnet project is as proposed, but I’m always ready to rhyme!

Oh, and yes, I say have a go at the fiction thread. Get me off the hot seat.

5927. NuPlanetOne - 9/2/2007 3:33:56 PM

Crushed Hope

There is gravity
Or there is nothing
Everything combines
Eventually aligns
Is tugged
Into the center

Sometimes
The center collapses
Everything is crushed
Goes dark
Invisible
Only gravity remains

If you shook off
The water
And people
And put the earth
On a giant planet
It would sit
Like a pebble
In the desert

There should
Be a reason
Why everything
Must obey
This one force
Of course
Reasons
Are crushed
As well.

5928. Ulgine Barrows - 9/8/2007 10:45:41 AM

Gasping in the afternoon sunlight
reaching for a drink of water
from my lover

5929. Seamus - 9/10/2007 9:41:55 PM

Blenheim Palace, 1882


What I marshal are my tin marines and my
reserves. Within my arena and with my toys,
I captain energies to defend my home.

With a proper kiss, I doom each to follow its
orders—hopelessly posted to defend home's walls,
already stove in, breached, eaten alive.

I receive reports from the fronts as I cower here,
made captain to repel so many Zulus in waves.
Straight on come Zulus, like vomit, straight on in waves,

Then left, enfilade left, nothing's left on the right.
The reserves I commit to the fight—so poorly placed
at the battle's start—allowed surrounded and surrendered

without entering the fight would be a breach
of faith. Across the breadth of my command
I stride to know the degree of my defeat.

This loss, today, will be a great one. None will
be taken alive; none will be repatriated.
Already, the enemy mount the stairs at my feet.

I would wear the blue coat with gold epaulets
for my surrender, but they will not accord
me my sword—Zulus sweep through me, past and on.


Seamus

5930. NuPlanetOne - 9/16/2007 12:59:53 AM

Seamus

I know little about English history or where exactly the historical allusions connect in that piece, but, that aside, the way you let the motion fall into the next stanza without interrupting the mood or current in the present stanza is exceptional. I’ve never been able to do that quite as well. I shy away from it, actually. And it is vivid. The tragedy is precise. Very nice.

5931. NuPlanetOne - 9/16/2007 1:00:18 AM

Nutmeg

I feel I am the spice
On the lower shelf
Bought to make a pie
It was exiting
Out there on the counter
Surrounded by color
And whizzing whipping
Action amongst various
Important ingredients
All of us wide eyed
And part of the fun
I remember how it felt
To be grasped and held gently
As respectfully I was chosen
And not loosely like
The salt and pepper
Oh no, not like those harlots
And flashers. Those pedestrians
Always out in the open
Strutting, thinking they make
The dish. As if they were
A spice. A seasoning
As if they could do more
Than just heighten
Or diminish an actual affect
But oh the life they live
Always the finishing touch
Needed at every turn
It was like that once
My life, my world
So many pies were needed
Often I was put up on the sill
Even the salt was envious
I was part of everything
I never felt desolate or alone
Back on my shelf I would
Greet everyone and be congenial
Because I knew soon,
I would be out there
Amidst the din and shuffle
Of excitement and adventure
Where have they gone,
The pies?
I can barely see the cupboard.

Poetry