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5538. Macnas - 11/23/2005 10:53:07 AM Art imitates life. 5539. Ulgine Barrows - 11/26/2005 10:02:33 AM And it's your face I'm looking for on every street
~Dire Straits 5540. Macnas - 11/28/2005 11:11:31 AM This is by a fellow called Brendan Kennelly, one of our best living poets:
Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.
5541. wonkers2 - 12/1/2005 5:33:28 AM Poems of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven. 5542. Ulgine Barrows - 12/1/2005 10:03:48 AM There are angels in your angles
There's a low moon caught in your tangles
There's a ticking at the sill
There's a purr of a pigeon to break the still of day
As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Down we go away
Away
There's a tough word on your crossword
There's a bed bug nipping a finger
There's a swallow, there's a calm
Here's a hand to lay on your open palm today
As on we go drowning
Down we go away
And darling, we go a-drowning
Down we go away
Away
There are angels in your angles
There's a low moon caught in your tangles
~The Decemberists
"Of Angels And Angles" 5543. Ulgine Barrows - 12/3/2005 11:03:13 AM Houdini's Box
The box sits on the bridge
The crowd is waiting
The chains are locked across my chest
There's no heart breaking
I've done this show a thousand times
This trick's so easy
As they lower me into your waters
There's no escaping
There's a secret passage out of here
But I don't want to reappear
I just want to stay with you in here
In Houdini's box
Close the lid
And tie the knot
Houdini's box
The clock ticks by the bed
I hear you breathing
I should be out the door
But I'm not leaving
I've still the scars from my last escape
I nearly drowned beneath the lake
Stayed down too long dreaming about you
In Houdini's box
Close the lid
And tie the knot
Houdini's box
In Houdini's box
Houdini's box
I'd take such good care of you
I'd brush your hair, untie your shoes
There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do
In Houdini's box
In Houdini's box
Seal the lid
And tie the knot
In Houdini's box
Houdini's box
Houdini's box
Houdini's box
Houdini's box
The box sites on the bridge
The crowd's still waiting
~ Jill Sobule 5544. Ulgine Barrows - 12/3/2005 11:28:35 AM Houdini Blues: Kristin Hersh
Oh no, don’t you put me in that box
You know what you can do with those locks
Bet your life I’ll come crawling out again
You’ll have to deal with me then
You’ll hear me on the wind
I’ve been on the other side of the blue ridge
Seen the shenandoah rolling there
I stepped off the mountains edge
Just to climb the golden stair
I seen the streets up there
I been on the mount transfiguration
Been there with my ma and my pa
On the mountain of commandment
I been handed down the law
You should have seen what I saw
I fell to the bottom of thales’ well
Caught like a theif with a lamb
You know these stars they can cast a spell
I’ve been caught with red hands
I’ve been caught with red hands
I scaled the mountains, skiied the valleys
I’ve done the highs and the lows
I don’t feel like work today
Hell I won’t go
Bess I won’t go
Just let me at their locks
We should all be free
Oh bess, I swear I’ll call
When I’m free from me
We should all be free 5545. Ulgine Barrows - 12/3/2005 11:35:01 AM And there we have it: two vastly different opinions on Houdini's infamous box. 5546. Ulgine Barrows - 12/3/2005 11:50:53 AM Guess who wrote this rhyme:
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
Too many women with too many pills
Shoot to thrill, play to kill
I got my gun at the ready, gonna fire at will 5547. NuPlanetOne - 12/7/2005 3:28:10 AM My Wonderful Dream
Am I missing sunsets
That trail along the sky
I know I miss the dawn
When I sat alone
On the pier
It was a holy time
I had no experience
And no regrets
I just wished
For things
Because there was time
Ahead
And wishing was so grand
The trust in hope
That fierce strength
To make things happen
And even when nothing
I wished for
Came to pass
There was the next dawn
And even as the same
Weary boats
Went out
I believed, for me
It would be different
At some point
I began
To watch the sunset
The colors
Seemed to match
My broken heart
The rusty golds stretched
Like regrets
Across the sky
And the urgency
And my wishes
Hung like the day’s
Nets
Out to dry
And although
I might still
Look up and sit
Quiet at dawn
Or sit looking back
At shore
As the boat takes me out
The wild desire
And painful yearning
As the sun gleams
Over the edge
Is not anymore
A holy thing
But just some other
Fisherman’s
Wonderful dream
5548. Macnas - 12/7/2005 2:24:48 PM Ulgine
I think ACDC would have something to say about you including thier lyrics in a poetry thread. 5549. NuPlanetOne - 12/21/2005 4:55:15 PM Could Be I’m Cuckoo
The irony, of course
Is we all have ideas
Firm convictions
Slants, unconscious ways
Of looking at things
And choices, the voices
We hear in our ear
Sway or betray and
Move the moment
Then we are alone
Back to thinking
Quiet in the truth
Of our real opinion
In the comfort
Of our decisions
Falling asleep
Discussing the changes
As our brain rearranges
The cells and deep
Somewhere, where
We hide our hope
Sanity prevails
It is ironic how crazy
It can feel
I suppose
Losing ones mind
Is the opposite kind
Of feeling
5550. ElliottRW - 12/22/2005 9:03:56 PM Ban sales to kids.
No. Not one word did I omit.
Ban it.
Ban it all.
Do not stop at alchohol, candy, porn, or demeral.
Children crave what we deny.
The time is nigh to simplify.
Ban it all.
Ban sales to kids.
5551. arkymalarky - 12/23/2005 3:33:35 AM HEY ELLIOTT!!!! Provocative poem. I like it! Hope you can stick around and share more. 5552. ElliottRW - 12/27/2005 5:48:30 AM Spod?
I follow my obsession
down a wire
into the void
and out somewhere
where I find the new word,
which, like magic,
pushes my (old) obession back in the inbox.
For a while.
Hi, er, Arky. Can't stay too long, don't want to be a spod. 5553. Ulgine Barrows - 12/28/2005 11:44:29 AM what's a spod 5554. alistairconnor - 12/28/2005 1:38:26 PM you and me hunny...
people who are obsessive long-term users of on-line talk sites
But here's a definition I like more :
SPOD also stands for the "Spinning Pizza of Death", which describes the colorful, spinning circle in the Apple Mac OS X operating system that indicates that the application under the cursor has become unresponsive.
Obviously designed by Flying Spaghetti Monster cultists. 5555. Ulgine Barrows - 12/29/2005 8:49:51 AM hunny bunny! Like from the Pulp Fiction movie!
I am in SO in the mood to do a crime.
Feeling outlandish, hard core
Bitter end
5556. Ulgine Barrows - 12/29/2005 8:59:11 AM Good lord, I've posted a lot of nonsense in this thread. 5557. alistairconnor - 12/29/2005 10:41:04 AM Here's some more nonsense. Rather facile pastiche, but funny as hell, from a certain Francis Heaney, who has written a book in which the starting point is to make an anagram of a famous author's name. Thus "T.S. Eliot" becomes "Toilets", "Edward Albee" becomes "A Wee Bladder", etc...
MULTICOLORED ARGYLE SEA
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he taketh lots of drugs,
And he thinks his beard is made of snakes
And his body crawls with bugs.
He spies a wayward Wedding-Guest,
And pulls the man aside.
“Unhand me! Surely thou art mad,
Thy pupils are so wide.”
He holds him with his twitchy stare—
“There was a boat,” quoth he.
The Wedding-Guest stands frozen there
Without the will to flee.
“A multicolored argyle sea
Was where our trip began,
We sailed o’er oceans deep and wide
And measureless to man.
And then the winds did drive us on
Into a hidden river,
Where sirens’ voices called with songs
To make a stout man shiver.
The trees there all bore tangerines,
To save us from the scurvy.
The sky was of an orange hue,
And things seemed topsy-turvy.
Flowers towered in the sky,
The sunlight showing through;
A green and yellow light fell on
The lost and dazzled crew.
Held captive by a siren’s call
The men were drawn ashore.
Though they felt sure they’d seen her face,
It seemed she was no more.
At length we came upon a bridge;
A fountain stood nearby,
Where wooden centaurs feasted on
A great marshmallow pie.
And as the centaurs rocked in place
(They could not move to caper),
A host of hansom cabs appeared,
Each one made out of paper.
The drivers beckoned us inside,
And, helpless to resist,
We took our seats; they cracked their whips
And rode into the mist.
The hansoms crackled in the wind,
Grew soggy with the rain—
Just as it seemed they must collapse,
They left us by a train.
The station porters’ eyes were dull,
Their skin was plasticine.
We saw reflected in their ties
Our faces, pale and lean.
And then we heard the siren’s voice:
It called to us anew!
Beyond the stile she stood and stared
And bid us all come through.
O’er the turnstile each man went,
Clearing it with a leap.
And I too would have followed her,
But that I fell asleep.
When I awoke, I was alone
Upon the argyle deep.”
“God’s mercy, ancient Mariner—
At least thou didst survive.
’Tis hard your fellow crew was lost
With none but thee alive.
But thank the Lord who saved thee, sir,
From passing through death’s door.”
“Canst thou not see? No joy for me
Remains in this world o’er.
For I still dream of her sweet face,
And think of her sweet song.
I’d rather I had followed her
Than that my life be long.
I see her in the sky above
With diamonds in her hair.
’Tis like a broken bone to know
I cannot join her there.
This tale is all I have of her;
I tell it but to praise
The many-colored bits of glass
That sparkled in her gaze.”
The Mariner, whose hair is long,
Who feels he needs a snack,
Is gone, although the Wedding-Guest
Attempts to call him back.
He shakes his head like one amazed,
Who knows not what he knows,
And, with a halting step, back home
To Liverpool he goes.
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