ASF Poetry Thread

[2020hindsight]

drill, you're probaly right
Its hard to make some sense of it , especially set to verse
You try defining poets you just make em ten times worse
The poet will get stuck in corners every time he paints
The rest of us are logical - and rational - and saints

 

[2020hindsight]

The Poet
....
Has difficulty classifying and categorizing objects
Has difficulty retaining such things as
addition and subtraction facts, or multiplication tables
May recognize a word one day and not the next

From In a Small House on the Outskirts of Heaven, 1989
Harbour Publishing (Canada)

drill, since you've posted some good poetry here yourself , I'm not sure where your post is going , but...
on the question of logical behaviour , poets or anyone, this is an excerpt from #62 on this one..

MATTERS OF THE HEART

by Way of preamble, it’s easy to gamble, when dice are odds-on and it’s wise
and your Head’s in control, and the facts are in BOLD and they’re easy to rationalise,
but Where do you start with affairs of the heart, like two lovers’ tortured goodbyes,
who Needs to be chaste, its such a damned waste
they Much prefer lock-jawed and wrestle-embraced
(you Try it on strangers you’re sure to get maced)
and a Needing, bleeding, and frenzied-feeding - pleading trust in their eyes.
(As long as they don’t get to actually breeding before’n they formalise).

cos you Haven’t felt warmth till you’ve been there child, tho’ you’ve sat in front of the fire,
nor Shared in so dizzy a dream there child, with your heart on so swinging a tyre,
if Only one knew how to “beam there” child, one would yell from the highest spire,
but Rational thoughts – in love – distorts,
and the Two don’t combine well by all reports,
you just Give of your soul and your innermost thoughts,
and be Blissfully, wis(t)fully, ultralong kissfully - glissfully lost in the mire.
(you could Bottle and bank it and make a pile - Swissfully – selling to the highest buyer)., etc etc

occasionally through life we should forget about maths and stuff yes?

And another - in defense of Romance vs Reality #26 :-

SCRAP METAL

Tell me your story small piece of scrap metal, jagged and rent from some hull,
Satelite glory? or broken old kettle? Something exciting or dull?
(have you) Seen the world from 10,000 miles high, or just from a kitchen stove?
did you Guess what a buzz it would be to fly? - or the pantry your furthest rove?

did aDrenoline thrill you, who knows maybe kill you? did you Whirl like a wide eyed dreamer?
did they "Tea-cosy frill" you, or praps "window sill" you, did you boil like a two-pot screamer?
did you Find romance in your time allotted? and travel mid languages foreign?
did your Master's dance with each space-beep spotted, - or your cosy just doubled as sporran?

Tell me your story , my new-found friend, just How have we spent our life?
Relishing height in each new bound, friend? or Just steering clear of strife?
Relishing moments of sunshine and warm, - and the LIGHTNING flash - Natures wild language?
or Relishing praps just the END of the storm? - or maybe - a corn relish sandwich?

Soared where the wedge tailed eagle goes? or Paced out some cage like a turkey?
well ME? I'm a bit of both I suppose (WHETHER REAL OR IMAGINED GETS MIRKY )
Moments of boredom or moments of bliss, Moments worth ten times gold,
In the end my friend it has come to this - Your story remains untold!

Epilogue (written by a Realist):-

You think it's romantic? It's a serious case!!! I have to be crisp and specific!!
There's Fe3 O4 all over the place (that's rust to you unscientific!)
It's OBVIOUSLY kettle you flaming great drip !! There's even a tealeaf this corner !!
And chances of satellite here !!! GET A GRIP!!, Stick your thumb back in , Lill Jack Horner!!

AND TRY TO BE MORE SCIENTIFICALLY PURE !! YOURE TECHNICALLY LACKING JACK HORNER!!

Better I stick with a real poet maybe, lol :-
"Life is mostly froth and bubble, two things stand like stone
kindness in another 's trouble, courage in your own" (ALGordon).

PS I would classify Mr Tom Wayman as "kettle" lol.
possibly with a fair bit of Fe3O4 as well

 

[2020hindsight]

THE LEGACY OF ABU GHRAIB
Sure we've had some baddies downed, Lord but what a cost,
Win at least SOME moral ground, else all else is lost,
Broadcast to the world out there, Abu Ghraib grins,
Makes rhetoric kinda bare, when inderpinned with sins.

Abu Ben Adam, (tribe reduced?), awoke one night from zen
And asked to be recorded "one who loves his fellow men"
How different from his brother Ghraib, ignorant, obsessed,
And when that golden book was wrote, which name lead all the rest?

 

[drillinto]

Selecting a Reader

Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.



from Sure Signs, 1980
University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, Pa.

[ Every poet has an image of the ideal reader, and the not-so-ideal reader ]

 

[2020hindsight]

LIFE IS A BEACH
The scribbled words we write today, are footprints of a mind at play
Or sometimes thoughts that sooth or thrill, to quench some electronic quill.
Sometimes we type out grains of sand, (- or grains of mud, you understand )
And so we leave behind us here, constructions out of such small beer.

For most of us one bucket full, one turret of a sandy fort
And equal share praps of bull, with fingers crossed in case we're caught,
....
Or Hitler's mangrove swamp of words, with twisted roots and blood lust leach, -
While Winston Churchill much preferred, to leave behind a golden beach .

 

[2020hindsight]

Lawson , the dollar-challenged larrikin ..
http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/words/authors/L/LawsonHenry/index.html

To a Pair of Blucher Boots, 1890 Henry Lawson

OLD acquaintance unforgotten, Though you may be “ugly brutes”—
Though your leather’s cracked and rotten, Worn-out pair of Blucher boots.
’Tis the richer man before you, Dearer leathers grace his feet;
’Twas the better man that wore you In the tramps through dust and heat!

Oft rebuffed by “super’s” snarling, When I asked him for a “show”,
On that long tramp to the Darling In the days of long ago;
Tell me, if you know it, whether, As I sadly tramped away,
Bore I heavy on your leather, Worn-out pair of Bluchers, say?

Though your leather’s cracked and rotten, Though you may be ugly brutes,
I’ll preserve you unforgotten, Worn-out pair of Blucher boots!

A Mixed Battle Song, Henry Lawson

LO! the Boar’s tail is salted, and the Kangaroo’s exalted,
And his right eye is extinguished by a man-o’-warsman’s cap;
He is flying round the fences where the Southern Sea commences,
And he’s very much excited for a quiet sort of chap.
For his ships have had a scrap and they’ve marked it on the map
Where the H.M.A.S. Sydney dropped across a German trap.
So the Kangaroo’s a-chasing of his Blessed Self, and racing
From Cape York right round to Leeuwin, from the coast to Nevertire;
And of him need be no more said, save that to the tail aforesaid
Is the Blue Australian Ensign firmly fixed with copper wire.
(When he’s filled the map with white men there’ll be little to desire.)

I was sulky, I was moody (I’m inclined to being broody)
When the news appeared in Sydney, bringing joy and bringing tears,
(There’s an undertone of sorrow that you’ll understand to-morrow)
And I felt a something in me that had not been there for years.
Though I lean in the direction of most absolute Protection
(And of wheat on the selection)
And, considering Congestion and the hopeless unemployed,
I’d a notion (but I hid it) that, the way the Emden did it,
’Twould be better for Australia if her “commerce” was destroyed.

You may say that war’s a curse, but the peace curse may be worse,
When it’s lasted till it’s rotten—rotten from the inmost core,
To the mouldy skin which we are, in the land we call the freer—
And I almost feel inclined to call for “Three Cheers for the War!”
For I think, when all is over, from Magellan’s Straits to Dover,
Things will be a great deal better than they ever were before.
But, since “Peace” and “Right” are squalling, I’ll content myself with calling
For three rousers—like the ringing cheers we used to give of yore—
For the Emden!
For the Sydney!
And their gallant crews and captains—both of whom we’ve met before!
And, for Kaiser William’s nevvy, we shall venture three cheers more!
Cheers that go to end a war.

 

[2020hindsight]

I'M OK - AT LEAST I WAS THE LAST TIME I WENT TO THE SHRINK

We are all here one part parent, we are also one part child
we are thirdly one part adult – that’s where facts and stuff are filed
and the part that holds most interest to my questionable mind
is the part in there unique to us – with birthmarked gems to find.

Just as two year olds can make us laugh, or sixty year olds dance
just as laughing conversations can lead logic to romance
we are all a mixed up bag of skills, and all were small kids once
so let’s skip the part that’s "genius", and drop all else and "dunce”.

If we only live in adult, it would all get so intense
I’d prefer to watch the footy, (where my mates are really dense)
Or watch the Greeks pay chess like kids, beneath some olive tree,
but with cheering and with jeering from the peanut gallery.

If we ride the roller coaster, if we scream down waterslides
where some 2 percent get toaster burns from rubbing on the sides
then we’ll maybe come out injured, but the question is my friend
we have fought the adult boredom, and these injuries will mend.

Even tears are from a part of us that's strictly from our youth
Even sympathy and courage and to pick a lie from truth
and the body language unaffected (prior to poker faces)
is the stuff that makes us what we are, and gives us all "our basis".

PS (IMHO )

 

[2020hindsight]

THE LITTLE HERO

It was many years ago now, when a small young boy was killed
I read about the matter - why was such young blood be-spilled
a man had worked long overtime to pay his bills that day
and he microslept that part of his untimely homeward way.

The little boy was with his sister, both were infant kids
the footbridge wasn’t finished, and the road was full of skids
each one of them spelt danger, but this day the driver slept,
and he hit this little stranger, and his mother since has wept.

There’s more to this sad story, just to make it extra cruel
for I think from distant memory, she has barely started school
and the car involved was heading for his darling little sis
and he pushed her in a way that meant the danger was all his.

......
Sure he died that day a hero, sure they think about him oft
Sure he’s found a path to heaven, sure he looks down from aloft
Sure there’s none of us immortal, and the one’s behind will weep
.....
Sure his little life is bounded by an honoured heroes sleep.

 

[drillinto]

Fame
Les Murray

We were at dinner in Soho
and the couple at the next table
rose to go. The woman paused to say
to me: I just wanted you to know
I have got all your cook books
and I swear by them!

I managed
to answer her: Ma’am,
they’ve done you nothing but good!
which was perhaps immodest
of whoever I am.



[Les Murray is Australia's leading poet]

 

[2020hindsight]

a lot of talk lately about rating posts and posting rates etc...
These lines sprung to mind as I was walking the dog just now

"Bill Posters will be prosecuted" called the maddened crowd!
"Bill Posters might be innocent" said one lone voice aloud!
and pre -romantic poets mustn't post romantic verse,
and they in turn will reckon that pre-classical is worse.

And threads might score two stars or threes, or maybe even fours
hell my tent scores at least 15!, and I've got timber floors!
but when I sleep outside my tent, and when it's not too cold
why then I score 10,000 stars - and that's worth more than gold.

A day out at the races can bring fortunes to a fool
who doubles up his losing bets by some outdated rule
there's no exceptions sadly from the ASX floor dins...
.. one trader always loses when another trader wins.

 

[2020hindsight]

a lot of talk lately about rating posts and posting rates etc...
These lines sprung to mind as I was walking the dog just now

"Bill Posters will be prosecuted" called the maddened crowd!
"Bill Posters might be innocent" said one lone voice aloud!
and pre -romantic poets mustn't post romantic verse,
and they in turn will reckon that pre-classical is worse.

And threads (and hotels) score three stars, or maybe even fours
- my tent scores maybe 15 stars!, cos I've got timber floors!
but when I sleep outside my tent, and when it's not too cold
why then I score 10,000 stars - and that's worth 10 times gold.

A day out at the races can bring fortunes to a fool
who doubles up his losing bets by some outdated rule
there's no exceptions sadly from the ASX floor dins...
.. one trader always loses when another trader wins.

I'll post this on the poetry thread, and if called to attention by the moderators, I'll plead "poetic licence " . But continuing ...

One trader sells a share in something, someone out there buys,
and the crazy thing goes up or down, and one or other cries,
whether Lady Luck has kissed you, maybe left you in the lurch,
It is no-one's place to blame another (DYOR).

There'll be posters rating posters, there'll be raters posting rates,
there 'll be scrambled egg comparible to thirty broken crates,
there'll be "I can knock your block off", there'll be "yeah you wanna bet"
there'll be quick-draw nigh-noon gunfights with the moderator's pet.

In the quiet logic moment, you'd suspect a fatal flaw,
Cos the judge who sits in judgement might himself be feeling sore.
while the dog can chase his tail around, the ASF thread log
will (you'd think) be less constructive, (and a bloody dizzy dog).

 

[2020hindsight]

THE NEVER-ENDING BULL RUN

A mate of mine's an optimism, he's rarely ever blue
I told him a correction to the market's overdue
His eye's lit up, a smile broke out, like some foolhardy clown
"You little bobby dazzler!! - is it up or is it down? "

You'd have to say he's on a roll, it's hard right now to fault him
But then again, the day will come some hiccup's gonna halt him
Until that happens, sure I'll try to join in all the fun,
But have my joggers standing by, in case I haveta run.

 

[drillinto]

Natasha Trethewey has won the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for poetry for ``Native Guard.''

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Publisher (Mariner Books/Boston - USA) Comments:

Growing up in the Deep South, Natasha Trethewey was never told that in her hometown of Gulfport, Mississippi, black soldiers had played a pivotal role in the Civil War. Off the coast, on Ship Island, stood a fort that had once been a Union prison housing Confederate captives. Protecting the fort was the second regiment of the Louisiana Native Guards ”” one of the Union's first official black units. Trethewey's new book of poems pays homage to the soldiers who served and whose voices have echoed through her own life.
The title poem imagines the life of a former slave stationed at the fort, who is charged with writing letters home for the illiterate or invalid POWs and his fellow soldiers. Just as he becomes the guard of Ship Island's memory, so Trethewey recalls her own childhood as the daughter of a black woman and a white man. Her parents' marriage was still illegal in 1966 Mississippi. The racial legacy of the Civil War echoes through elegiac poems that honor her own mother and the forgotten history of her native South. Native Guard is haunted by the intersection of national and personal experience.

 

[noirua]

Confidences' friendly dash remains sky high,
as investors line up, join the feeding frenzy,
they only see the sky, blue, a flicker of fire?
one day, grey skies, and then, no, no envy.

The beginning, the middle, and the end - noirua

 

[noirua]

Now I'm getting into this poetry there's no stopping me.

Your next journey is your greatest journey;
on this journey, will be all your loved ones and friends;
you may not have started the journey but it will certainly begin;
the world will continue whilst you are on this journey
and all the world and everything that is within it, and without it,
will follow you on this journey; and fear not my friends,
the journey, that all and everything will be with you on!
Most fear this journey, but do not, I will be with you,
and you with me, and we will all travel on it forever

"the journey" - by noirua

 

[2020hindsight]

PROTECT YOUR ASS-ETS

there are many reasons readers come to websites such as this
and to separate the leaders from the ones who take the pi**
but I find it quite a challenge (and this isn't meant as "dig")
how to end up with small fortunes (without starting off with big).

there are some who could care tuppence with a dropping AOX
while the rest sing for their suppers, and resort to "coke and bex"
it can be like sand grains draining in an upturned hour glass -
while a few "protect their assets" some poor punters "lose their ass"

 

[noirua]

OK, 2020 et al, here goes again. My poems are usually a bit sad, so please post some happy ones.


Every day, is a curse, pain, again, it seems to rain,
good God, again, I'm going swiftly, down the drain,
every end is a sharp one, again, tired, oh insane.
heaven save me, again, rats, crocs, no, I'm lame.

"again", by noirua

 

[2020hindsight]

ok noi, since you've challenged me lol ... seriously amateur poetry but what's new...

if you're rivetted to tv's or you're glued to some square screen
then unglue your bludy ass and buy an exercise machine
take a lesson from a lamb in spring, or spanish jumping bean
and forget all sheep-like traits, by which we lose our childhood keen. (?)

that is so hopeless it's not funny
maybe ..
clean your spleen of that caffeen, and let some running make you mean (?)
lol - with that I retire ) - see ya m8

I'm trying to give up bludy coffee by alternating it with tea, but somewhere deep down in my subconscious I much prefer coffee lol.

 

[noirua]

Very good 2020: Our poetry is head and shoulders above anyone elses on ASF, that's for sure.

 

[drillinto]

Poetry

Don Paterson

In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps
one spark of the planet's early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's -- boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.

Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.



from The White Lie; New and Selected Poetry, 2001
Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minn.