|
5061. ScreamingSin - 9/17/2003 2:31:17 PM there was a guy
an under water guy who controlled the sea
got killed by ten million pounds of sludge
from new york and new jersey
this monkey's gone to heaven
this monkey's gone to heaven
this monkey's gone to heaven
this monkey's gone to heaven
the preacher/creature in the sky
got sucked in a hole
now
there's a hole in the sky
and the ground's not cold
and if the ground's not cold
everything is gonna burn
we'll all take turns
i'll get mine, too
this monkey's gone to heaven
this monkey's gone to heaven
this monkey's gone to heaven
this monkey's gone to heaven
rock me joe!
if man is 5
if man is 5
if man is 5
then the devil is 6
then the devil is 6
then the devil is 6
then the devil is 6
and if the devil is 6 5062. ScreamingSin - 9/17/2003 2:31:49 PM then god is 7
then god is 7
then
this monkey's gone to heaven 5063. ScreamingSin - 9/17/2003 3:21:19 PM -Pixies 5064. RickNelson - 9/27/2003 9:45:52 AM SS,
If I tell you I knew it was the Pixies, would you believe it?
Every once in a while I take out my dubbing of the cd from '88 or so and listen again.
Once NIN came out with "Pretty Little Hate Machine" I let that one sit on the shelf. Then so on and so forth.
What did you think of the late "Man in Black" Johnny Cash version of "Hurt"?
And to all, being busy seems small excuse for tidbit posts now and then. Forgive it as you may.
I've heard a few tidbits about R. Pinsky. Something he did in Sept '03 caught my attention. He visited a small college in Iowa. I would havd liked to have gone, but didn't.
I read one bit that clued me in a little further into his current approach to poetry. I'm taking this from that college paper and it wrote it as a quote. Jennifer Rogers is the editor-in-Chief. Pinsky: "The medium of poetry is not words, not a printed page, not images," " a poem's medium is one human body, the column of air shaped into a human voice. The medium is the sounds of a language."
Well, now. I would like more contex, but isn't [add emphasis now] that special. 5065. RickNelson - 9/27/2003 11:29:43 PM Well, Now that I've read some of a R. Pinsky book " The Sounds Of Poetry" (1998) I see that The quote from the college paper is nearly identical to parts of book. His book is "A Brief Guide" to understanding his "Theory" from which chapter the quote is found.
I've just read a bit, and he's right, it is a brief guide.
A wholely simple and easy guide. Though just 20 pages into it, some advice to read poets specific titles is very interesting. The titles suggest we can be instructed of poetic forms via collections of poems. For example traditional metirics can be learned by reading "The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats" or "The Complete Poems of Ben Jonson". He wrote free verse is exampled via the two-volume "Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens and W.C.W.. He considers "The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson" to be "One of the most instructive books on short lines".
[All quoted from page 7]
He makes some enlightened opening remarks about our "hearing-knowledge we bring to a line of poetry is a knowledge of patterns in speech we have known to hear since we were infants." [page 5]
He quickly gets into accent, syllable stress and the iamb foot.
Understanding R.Pinsky's choices as editor of Slate Poetry has become clearer to me now. 5066. RickNelson - 9/28/2003 2:17:12 AM Do the parts of this poem segue to you? If you will read it out loud for me, do you find a stress that does not sound good to you?
Autumns call
In 1861, a hundred years
before I was born
a local son stepped
into Old Main.
His parents, may have seen
their son’s attendance that
autumn as his passage
into man-hood.
In 2003, distance does
not sway students away
from autumns call to college,
Into new Main.
Does the summer of ones
life give deference to the
spring of their child? Perhaps,
expecting they share the parents
autumnal time of life?
I selfishly guard the love
for my daughter, her every
decision holding my rapt
attention. Pride and awe
that a human being I’m a part of-
is searching their life path.
Rick Nelson 2003
5067. ScreamingSin - 9/28/2003 3:51:18 PM RickNelson, about the Pixies, sure, lotsa people must have heard that song. To me it's poetry, like any other poem wondering why someone on top of the world (under water guy who controlled the sea) and lots going for them, at least the way they (under water guy) see things, would suddenly get stricken with death (got killed by ten million pounds of sludge). And when will I die, will I get the sludge of chemo or just get knocked down.
Yes, NIN, I saw them in NYC in some decrepit theatre that was about to be torn down, the stairs were rotten going up to the balcony. I remember, because I stuck my fashion victim heel in one of those stairs and it came out with the shoe. People were diving off the balcony and we were up there giving signs, you know how they do diving scores or perhaps ice skating scores? One holds up the cards? Oh! that guy totally smashed, he gets a 4, that one managed to get caught safely, he gets a 7, oh look at the guy crawling up on that teetery light rig, perfect 10. Judging danger, I suppose. And then a few years later I got a license plate starting with NIN, how funny. I don't know about Pretty Little Hate Machine, it was more Head Like a Hole when I saw them and they got thrown out because of the wilding and someone else came on directly after or they ushered us all out, etc etc.
Singing it out loud, your latest, the only part that rings true to me is this
'I selfishly guard the love
for my daughter, her every
decision holding my rapt
attention. Pride and awe
that a human being I’m a part of-
is searching their life path. '
The rest is off-kilter with funky punctuation. And a sentiment about your own parents that I don't understand. IMO. 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.
|
