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5641. arkymalarky - 4/11/2006 2:30:41 AM Oh how nice! The idea of mixing them is really wonderful. The trail's a great place to be, and either or both of us would be honored if we were still around, and I know Mose would! 5642. Macnas - 4/11/2006 1:24:05 PM Samuel Beckett
Cascando
why not merely the despaired of
occasion of
wordshed
is it not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives
saying again
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love
the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words
terrified again
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
pretending
I and all the others that will love you
if they love you
unless they love you
5643. Seamus - 4/11/2006 2:25:02 PM arky, I liked your story and I liked judithathome's name for it: "burial blues".
I like the Becket, Mac.
Our discussion brought this to mind:
In My Life
Lennon/McCartney
There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more 5644. Macnas - 4/11/2006 2:28:00 PM Seamus boy, cad e an sceal anois?? 5645. alistairconnor - 4/11/2006 2:51:32 PM The Beckett works for me.
i.e. it fills me with anguish.
He does that to me every time. 5646. Seamus - 4/11/2006 3:58:11 PM dada, Mac. Faic úr.
You? 5647. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:14:42 PM Go measartha, buiochas le Dia.
5648. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:18:00 PM But, faic-all happening anseo freisin. 5649. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:18:47 PM I had to laugh, I hadn't heard "dada" in so many years! 5650. Seamus - 4/11/2006 4:32:34 PM Sea, Mac, buíochas le Dia! (Much may she care to hear from me.)
So, is that a "fair to middlin" measartha, a "your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin'" one, or is it "when I woke, I reached up and didn't feel the lid of a coffin, so it's a good day"? Just asking.
Because my "measartha's" vary. 5651. Macnas - 4/11/2006 4:35:04 PM Well, considering the drink taken last night, fair to middling just about covers it. 5652. NuPlanetOne - 4/12/2006 9:51:53 PM
…thanks Jen. But that I were soft and warm or understood talent. Yet, I understand your affection. And that is nice!
5653. NuPlanetOne - 4/12/2006 9:52:36 PM Seamus..
I suppose haphazard more reflects my mood during a half hearted attempt to conform or transform, as it were, some of my things. Now and then I confuse my pile of poems with the notion of academic or scholarly significance. An association better officiated by people with diplomas and such, perhaps. It’s just that sometimes I scribble off something I really feel and later admire, and then later on I question why it happens so fast and easily. It just seems like it should be more difficult. The only difficulty is the missing urge. But I count that as the most excruciating part of writing. And if the ladies will excuse the analogy, false no doubt, that is, trying to conjure inspiration out of a vacuum must be like faking an orgasm. Convincing at best, obvious at worst. Eh, old friend?
And having somewhat aroused feelings of mortality by mentioning our beloved ghosts, I too love the notion put up by Judith that ‘hell is loss of memory.’ I have written so often on chords in that melody. The afterlife is only a source of dread and foreboding, if, as an adherent, you confuse right and wrong according to the accumulated and codified tenets of your specific faith bureaucracy. But like the dog that waits days by the corpse of its dead master, if you aren’t a member, you become that dog.
Anyway, the ‘burial blues’ discussion reminded me of my poem for my brother and the obligation of his burial.
HILLS AND VALLEYS
The air that the sun touches
Pushes the cool autumn breeze
Aside, down under the trees
And shady reaches below the hill
This hill, the burial ground
Faces the hill with the white church
Where numerous ministers have made
Their case for eternal splendor
They carried you down then up
And buried you here, solemnly
Yet smiling and resolute knowing
Your soul would not perish
They did not know you, my brother
You big jolly bear of a man
Who wore his gold crucifix on
The same chain with the red horn
Vengeance was yours also, you said
But to harm a stranger was the act
Of a coward. You knew the Stations
Of The Cross. Greed was unforgivable
Hills and valleys, you always said
That is what life is. And in your way
You had a faith that was as pure and
Uncomplicated as such a thing could be
It is not your church, over there
And you cannot smell the candles
Wafting through St. Anthony’s vaulted
Basilica. But forgive me Vitorio,
I found you a hill.
5654. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:39:57 AM "love love love thud of the old plunger"
that's a great line, tell ya what 5655. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:41:26 AM "love love love thud of the old plunger"
that's a great line, tell ya what 5656. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:41:29 AM "love love love thud of the old plunger"
that's a great line, tell ya what 5657. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 6:53:52 AM hah! it's so important it got posted thrice! 5658. Ulgine Barrows - 4/13/2006 8:16:47 AM Writing poems in the corner booth
No one can save us
But Kim the waitress
No one can save us
But Kim the waitress
Nobody can save us
But Kim the waitress
Always turns me on
!The Green Pajamas 5659. RIckNelson - 4/13/2006 2:59:50 PM Hopes and aspirations, without
contingent controversy.
The whiles of a clear mind.
Set into pattern, complimentary
attitudes; whilst delaying dissatisfactions.
There is vast expanse there,
tillable, rich soil.
Sagacity plays distant tunes,
and distracts-
A form of sheer raiment billows,
unsettles and floats away;
as compelling a gesture
of flung articulation
that's loosed to trundle,
leaving a close and detectable scent.
This guise to lay companion
and guest at ease.
Where confounded conundrum and
cacophonous comparison,
create confusion?
5660. RIckNelson - 4/13/2006 3:07:07 PM Way to go Kim!
I like your corner booth Ulgine.
I'm also happy to see Seamus and so many around. My meager showing is starting to turn. I'm supposing Spring and the time elapsed since my dear aunt passed are quietly working their balm.
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