Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley Poetry, like a nipple, is a little pointy island surrounded by skin. On this nipple lives the poet. He has pink feet and is scared to step on the cream or chocolate skin that hems him in because his feet might leave pinkish footprints all over the nice umblemished skin. He doesn't like dirty things, so he sits quietly and plays with his pointy thing all the time. However, he learns (whether through divination or vibration or sensation) that another Pink Person lives on the other side of the Great Chest Valley of Hair. He wants desperately to make contact to this other person because she is just like him, he knows it, he feels it, he tastes sad moth wings because of it. He stretches himself as far as he can, but still cannot reach the other Pink Person. All this damn flesh is a fuss. So he decides one midnight to brave the flesh. He takes a cautious step. He doesn't sink. He doesn't stink. There are no footprints. There are no strangers. Just skin and longing and emerging urgings. He looks back at the comfortable and miserable island he just left and wonders why he was scared in the first place. Never be scared to step. Never be scared to connect. Poetry steps. Poetry connects.
And the two Pink Persons met just beyond the Great Chest Valley of Hair and lived happily ever after. Right over the heart.
Now holy shit that was adorable. I wonder what sad moth wings taste like.
I think Seta often says it best for me and what poetry means to me...
When I write, it is all the things I would have said if I had the voice to do so. It is why no matter how many times I read my work, in my head it always sounds so correct, so apropos, though my voice cannot inflect the ennui that I propose.
I NEVER NEVER considered myself a poet until the PJ message board allowed me to be who I was. Vulnerable, insecure, truthful and most of all full of love for a man who started my engine. I don't have much of my own to say about it, but here is one of my favorite poems that tells my story. (i hope i havent posted this yet. it seems the last several weeks are starting to blur and sometimes i cant begin to remember what i wrote.)
One day, i was just a girl, the next day I woke and I felt like Neruda. BUT, i do know where it came from,
POETRY
And it was at that age (40!)...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
Ah the romance runs thick, no matter the confusion or Confucian mists in its wake, the Incan jungle that crowds and caresses...
To emerge from the deepening of the cascading forests a triumph within itself and to find that the moonlight heals... ahhhh icing on that cake.
Do you bring with you the pelicans of dawn? The coming wind, or the somersault of rain? Your footsteps bleed water and I stoop to drink as I follow, grateful for the little that you give in the dirt.
Where do I stumble forward?
I sigh, a lost tornado. I fear the great blue above me, I prefer the mud I am stuck within. It comforts and drowns, a thick embrace, a touch I had forgotten.
The earth, she loves me. I cry to death in her arms and dream the dream of a home in homelessness.
My heart may fossilize or crystalize to be discovered by some worthy adventurer far in the future. May it be up to them, the preservation, the display.
I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by setaside2 Ah the romance runs thick, no matter the confusion or Confucian mists in its wake.
Or is it Peruvian mist? That Incan jungle that crowds and caresses...
To emerge from the deepening of the cascading forests a triumph within itself and to find that the moonlight heals... ahhhh icing on that cake.
Do you bring with you the pelicans of dawn? The coming wind, or the somersault of rain? Your footsteps bleed water and I stoop to drink as I follow, grateful for the little that you give in the dirt.
Where do I stumble forward?
I sigh, a lost tornado. I fear the great blue above me, I prefer the mud I am stuck within. It comforts and drowns, a thick embrace, a touch I had forgotten.
The earth, she loves me. I cry to death in her arms and dream the dream of a home in homelessness.
My heart may fossilize or crystalize to be discovered by some worthy adventurer far in the future. May it be up to them, the preservation, the display.
I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.
Breathlessly beautiful!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
Originally posted by setaside2 I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.
Tour Guide #1: And over here, children, we have the crystallized homogenized pasturized and almost pulverized emotions of one Seticus Asiduious Sequelous. Its natural habitat is the mountainous-icecicled-ninth circle of Hell on Earth: Colorado. Specifically Littleton. Yes, little boy, you have a question?
Little Boy: Is the Seti..Cussing thing dangerous?
Tour Guide #1: Only when auctioned. (Continuing) At one time, children, these emotions roamed freely over great poetry forums and survived by posting philosophical incantations that would make the Wakowski Brothers perplexed. These emotions were very beatiful and yet, very fragile. That's because the Seticus loved so much. It was so full of love and compassion that sometimes it got hurt giving its love away, especially to Vietnamese prostitutes in assless chaps. You see, children, the mighty Seticus loved assless chaps. Legend has it that the Seticus sheds assless chaps twice a night during its lifetime. That's a whole lotta asslessness, children. However, all that got in the way of Seticus's dream world: A world in which everyone was a poet........in assless chaps. This passion ultimately led to the extinction of Seticus, for one day it got a bad case of the crabs and itched itself to death. It died in its assless chaps, but the chaps were completely erased by time. All that is left, is the tattered emotions of what could've been. Oh, what could've been.....
Tour Guide #2: And over here, we have Pamela Anderson's original breasts.
Originally posted by setaside2 lifeisworth, I have to say that it is always an honor to post alongside you and it has been since we started on this board.
so there.
my most gracious thanks
i'm honored by your honorable honoring
we wait you know...
here... my "leaves" thing... (it's old..)
bristles
scrape
concrete
schloughing
leaves
wet from rain
and your hands
scrape pale skin
schloughing cells
rough from rowing
but while both
are very different
they two sound
just the same
in my mind
leaving puddles
in the grass
Poetry is an extension of self. It is one's feelings and emotions served up articulately in a certain manner not for exploitation, but rather for enlightenment.
I waited all day.
You waited all day..
but you left before sunset..
and I just wanted to tell you
the moment was beautiful.
Just wanted to dance to bad music
drive bad cars..
watch bad tv..
should have stayed for the sunset...
if not for me.
What follows, ladies and jammers, is a sketch written by Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie for their show "A Bit of Fry and Laurie" which aired on the BBC in the late 80s, early 90s. Fry and Laurie are practically Gods to me, and after I read this lil' bit, my pants were bursting with excreted excitement. Frankly, I see you all in this sketch.
**SCENE TAKES PLACE IN A SCHOOL OFFICE. HEADMASTER IS SITTING BEHIND DESK, WHEN TERRY KNOCKS**
HEADMASTER: Come
(Terry tarries not and enters)
HEADMASTER: Ah, Terry, come in, come in.
TERRY: Thank you, sir.
HEADMASTER: Well now, do you know why I sent for you?
TERRY: Not really.
HEADMASTER: Not really? Well, let me see. Firstly, let me congratulate you on winning the School Poetry Prize.
TERRY: Thank you, sir.
HEADMASTER: Mr. Drip tells me that it was the most mature and exciting poem that he has ever received from a pupil. Don't suck your thumb, boy.
TERRY: I'm not, sir.
HEADMASTER: No, it was just a piece of general advice for the future.
TERRY. Oh.
HEADMASTER: Now, Terry. Terry, Terry, Terrance. I've read your poem, Terry. I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm a headmaster, not a homosexual. But I have to say it worried me.
TERRY: Oh?
HEADMASTER: Yes, it worried me. I have it here. Um, you entitled it "Inked Ravens of Despair Claw Holes in the Arse of the World's Mind." I mean, what type of title is that?
TERRY: It's my title, sir.
HEADMASTER: "Arse of the World's Mind"? What does that mean? Are you unhappy about something?
TERRY: Well, I think that's what the poem explores.
HEADMASTER: Explores? Explores! Oh it explores, does it? I see. "Scrotal threats unhorse a question of flowers." I mean, what's the matter boy?! Are you sickening for something? Or is it a girl?
TERRY: Well, it's not something I think I can explain, sir, it's all in the poem.
HEADMASTER: It certainly all is in the poem. "I asked for answers and got a headful of heroin in return." Now, Terry. Look at me. Who gave you this heroin? You must tell me. If this is the problem, we must do something about it.
TERRY: Well, no one gave me herion, sir.
HEADMASTER: So this poem is a lie, is it? A fiction, a fantasy? What's happening?
TERRY: No. It's all true. It's autobiographical.
HEADMASTER: Then, Terry, I must insist. Who has been giving you herion?
TERRY: Well, sir, you have.
HEADMASTER: I have. I have?! What are you talking about, you diseased boy? This is rank, standing impertinence. I haven't given you any heroin. How dare you.
TERRY: No, it's a metaphor.
HEADMASTER: Metaphor? How?
TERRY: It means I came to school to learn, but I just get junk instead of answers.
HEADMASTER: Junk?! Junk? What do you mean?
TERRY: It's just an opinion.
HEADMASTER: Oh, is it? And is this an opinion, too? "When time fell wanking to the floor, they kicked his teeth." Time fell wanking to the floor?! Is this just put in to shock or is there something personal you with to discuss with me?
TERRY: It's a quotation.
HEADMASTER: A quotation? What from? It isn't Milton. It's not from Wordsworth.
TERRY: It's Bowie.
HEADMASTER: Bowie? Bowie?
TERRY: David Bowie.
HEADMASTER: Oh, and is this David Bowie, too: "My body disqusts, damp grease wafts sweat balls from sweat balls and thigh fungus"? I mean, don't you wash?
TERRY: Of course.
HEADMASTER: Then why does your body disqust you? It seems alright to me. I mean, why can't you write about meadows or something?
TERRY: I've never seen a meadow.
HEADMASTER: Well, what do you think the imagination is for? "A girl strips in my mind, squeezes my last pumping drop of hope and rolls me over to sleep alone." You are fifteen, Terry! What is going on inside you?
TERRY: That's what-
HEADMASTER: That's what the poem explores, don't tell me. I don't understand you.
TERRY: Well, you were young once.
HEADMASTER: Yes, in a sense, of course.
TERRY: Didn't you ever feel like that?
HEADMASTER: You mean did I ever want to "fireball the dead cities of the mind and watch the skin peel and warp"? Then, no, thankfully, I can say I did not. I may have been unhappy from time to time, if I lost my stamp album or broke a penknife, but I didn't write it down like this and show it to people.
TERRY: Perhaps it might have been better for you if you had.
HEADMASTER: Oh, might it, young Terence? I suppose I am one of the "unhappy bubbles of anal wind popping and winking in the mortal bath"? Am I?
TERRY: Well-
HEADMASTER: Your silence tells me everything. I am, aren't I? I'm an unhappy bubble of anal wind.
TERRY: Well, I am one, too.
HEADMASTER: Oh, well, as long as we're all unhappy bubbles of anal wind then of course there's no problem. But I don't propose to advertise the fact to parents. If this is poetry, then every lavatory wall in Britain is an anthology. What about "The Oxford Book of Verse"? Where's that gone?
TERRY: Perhaps that's the lavatory paper.
HEADMASTER: Oh, I don't understand anymore. I just don't understand.
TERRY: Never mind, sir. You're a bit frustrated perhaps. You've got a lonely job I'm sure.
HEADMASTER: I am frustrated. Very frustrated. And it is a lonely job, boy. So lonely. I am assailed by doubts, wracked by fear.
TERRY: Write it down.
HEADMASTER: Eh?
TERRY: Write it down. Get it out of your system. "Assailed by doubts, wracked by fear."
HEADMASTER: Yes, yes. You think? "Assailed by doubts and wracked by fear, tossed in a wrecked mucus foam of . . . of . . ."
TERRY: Hatred?
HEADMASTER: Good. Good! What about "steamed loathing"?
TERRY: Better. You're a natural.
(Terry slips away.)
HEADMASTER: ". . . wrecked mucus foam of steamed loathing. Snot trails of lust perforate the bowels of my intent . . ."
And everyone lived happily in a bubble of anal wind ever after.
and B.E. my head isn't so good. Apparently you taught me all wrong and it's just gotten worse. I'm figuring that I may turn to Radar's expertise to, ahem, pull it off properly.
I suppose I should have known better.
Sigh.
I've learned my lesson. For now.
And B.E. I would like a free lesson in return for all the bad ones.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Comments
Now holy shit that was adorable. I wonder what sad moth wings taste like.
i know... i know...
too fuggin funny
When I write, it is all the things I would have said if I had the voice to do so. It is why no matter how many times I read my work, in my head it always sounds so correct, so apropos, though my voice cannot inflect the ennui that I propose.
I NEVER NEVER considered myself a poet until the PJ message board allowed me to be who I was. Vulnerable, insecure, truthful and most of all full of love for a man who started my engine. I don't have much of my own to say about it, but here is one of my favorite poems that tells my story. (i hope i havent posted this yet. it seems the last several weeks are starting to blur and sometimes i cant begin to remember what i wrote.)
One day, i was just a girl, the next day I woke and I felt like Neruda. BUT, i do know where it came from,
POETRY
And it was at that age (40!)...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
forgive me,
I love you Eddie Vedder.
Deborah
Call me pumpkin pants.
To emerge from the deepening of the cascading forests a triumph within itself and to find that the moonlight heals... ahhhh icing on that cake.
Do you bring with you the pelicans of dawn? The coming wind, or the somersault of rain? Your footsteps bleed water and I stoop to drink as I follow, grateful for the little that you give in the dirt.
Where do I stumble forward?
I sigh, a lost tornado. I fear the great blue above me, I prefer the mud I am stuck within. It comforts and drowns, a thick embrace, a touch I had forgotten.
The earth, she loves me. I cry to death in her arms and dream the dream of a home in homelessness.
My heart may fossilize or crystalize to be discovered by some worthy adventurer far in the future. May it be up to them, the preservation, the display.
I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.
Breathlessly beautiful!
they already are
And porn.
Little Boy: Is the Seti..Cussing thing dangerous?
Tour Guide #1: Only when auctioned. (Continuing) At one time, children, these emotions roamed freely over great poetry forums and survived by posting philosophical incantations that would make the Wakowski Brothers perplexed. These emotions were very beatiful and yet, very fragile. That's because the Seticus loved so much. It was so full of love and compassion that sometimes it got hurt giving its love away, especially to Vietnamese prostitutes in assless chaps. You see, children, the mighty Seticus loved assless chaps. Legend has it that the Seticus sheds assless chaps twice a night during its lifetime. That's a whole lotta asslessness, children. However, all that got in the way of Seticus's dream world: A world in which everyone was a poet........in assless chaps. This passion ultimately led to the extinction of Seticus, for one day it got a bad case of the crabs and itched itself to death. It died in its assless chaps, but the chaps were completely erased by time. All that is left, is the tattered emotions of what could've been. Oh, what could've been.....
Tour Guide #2: And over here, we have Pamela Anderson's original breasts.
SUEDE assless chaps, dear Radar.
sigh. The great part is.. I feel the love. You made me smile, sir. And that hasn't happened often enough these past weeks. Thank you.
Poetry is.... sir Radar Baba O'Riley. He is the poet.
But my feet show it
Cuz I'm wearing Longfellows.
weeeeeeaaaaaak.
but still, somehow, humorous.
"What's the deal . . . with vending machines? Honestly."
LOL!
Considering my rather low opinion of Jerry Seinfeld and his so-called "humor" I tend to find that an EXCELLENT impersonation. Keep it up, maestro.
(:
so there.
my most gracious thanks
i'm honored by your honorable honoring
we wait you know...
here... my "leaves" thing... (it's old..)
bristles
scrape
concrete
schloughing
leaves
wet from rain
and your hands
scrape pale skin
schloughing cells
rough from rowing
but while both
are very different
they two sound
just the same
in my mind
leaving puddles
in the grass
rather patiently, wouldn't you agree?
Damn the poker faces of the faceless.
sigh.
might be true for a little while
what you think of poetry
can be an inch or a mile
these are the words
and the feelings between the lines
words like swords
behind the enemy lines
don't ever care
what poetry is
it's just another broken ceiling
coz poetry itself
is more important
than its own secret meaning
#that was an improv#
thank you,for giving me an instant inspiration
You waited all day..
but you left before sunset..
and I just wanted to tell you
the moment was beautiful.
Just wanted to dance to bad music
drive bad cars..
watch bad tv..
should have stayed for the sunset...
if not for me.
**SCENE TAKES PLACE IN A SCHOOL OFFICE. HEADMASTER IS SITTING BEHIND DESK, WHEN TERRY KNOCKS**
HEADMASTER: Come
(Terry tarries not and enters)
HEADMASTER: Ah, Terry, come in, come in.
TERRY: Thank you, sir.
HEADMASTER: Well now, do you know why I sent for you?
TERRY: Not really.
HEADMASTER: Not really? Well, let me see. Firstly, let me congratulate you on winning the School Poetry Prize.
TERRY: Thank you, sir.
HEADMASTER: Mr. Drip tells me that it was the most mature and exciting poem that he has ever received from a pupil. Don't suck your thumb, boy.
TERRY: I'm not, sir.
HEADMASTER: No, it was just a piece of general advice for the future.
TERRY. Oh.
HEADMASTER: Now, Terry. Terry, Terry, Terrance. I've read your poem, Terry. I can't pretend to be much of a judge of poetry. I'm a headmaster, not a homosexual. But I have to say it worried me.
TERRY: Oh?
HEADMASTER: Yes, it worried me. I have it here. Um, you entitled it "Inked Ravens of Despair Claw Holes in the Arse of the World's Mind." I mean, what type of title is that?
TERRY: It's my title, sir.
HEADMASTER: "Arse of the World's Mind"? What does that mean? Are you unhappy about something?
TERRY: Well, I think that's what the poem explores.
HEADMASTER: Explores? Explores! Oh it explores, does it? I see. "Scrotal threats unhorse a question of flowers." I mean, what's the matter boy?! Are you sickening for something? Or is it a girl?
TERRY: Well, it's not something I think I can explain, sir, it's all in the poem.
HEADMASTER: It certainly all is in the poem. "I asked for answers and got a headful of heroin in return." Now, Terry. Look at me. Who gave you this heroin? You must tell me. If this is the problem, we must do something about it.
TERRY: Well, no one gave me herion, sir.
HEADMASTER: So this poem is a lie, is it? A fiction, a fantasy? What's happening?
TERRY: No. It's all true. It's autobiographical.
HEADMASTER: Then, Terry, I must insist. Who has been giving you herion?
TERRY: Well, sir, you have.
HEADMASTER: I have. I have?! What are you talking about, you diseased boy? This is rank, standing impertinence. I haven't given you any heroin. How dare you.
TERRY: No, it's a metaphor.
HEADMASTER: Metaphor? How?
TERRY: It means I came to school to learn, but I just get junk instead of answers.
HEADMASTER: Junk?! Junk? What do you mean?
TERRY: It's just an opinion.
HEADMASTER: Oh, is it? And is this an opinion, too? "When time fell wanking to the floor, they kicked his teeth." Time fell wanking to the floor?! Is this just put in to shock or is there something personal you with to discuss with me?
TERRY: It's a quotation.
HEADMASTER: A quotation? What from? It isn't Milton. It's not from Wordsworth.
TERRY: It's Bowie.
HEADMASTER: Bowie? Bowie?
TERRY: David Bowie.
HEADMASTER: Oh, and is this David Bowie, too: "My body disqusts, damp grease wafts sweat balls from sweat balls and thigh fungus"? I mean, don't you wash?
TERRY: Of course.
HEADMASTER: Then why does your body disqust you? It seems alright to me. I mean, why can't you write about meadows or something?
TERRY: I've never seen a meadow.
HEADMASTER: Well, what do you think the imagination is for? "A girl strips in my mind, squeezes my last pumping drop of hope and rolls me over to sleep alone." You are fifteen, Terry! What is going on inside you?
TERRY: That's what-
HEADMASTER: That's what the poem explores, don't tell me. I don't understand you.
TERRY: Well, you were young once.
HEADMASTER: Yes, in a sense, of course.
TERRY: Didn't you ever feel like that?
HEADMASTER: You mean did I ever want to "fireball the dead cities of the mind and watch the skin peel and warp"? Then, no, thankfully, I can say I did not. I may have been unhappy from time to time, if I lost my stamp album or broke a penknife, but I didn't write it down like this and show it to people.
TERRY: Perhaps it might have been better for you if you had.
HEADMASTER: Oh, might it, young Terence? I suppose I am one of the "unhappy bubbles of anal wind popping and winking in the mortal bath"? Am I?
TERRY: Well-
HEADMASTER: Your silence tells me everything. I am, aren't I? I'm an unhappy bubble of anal wind.
TERRY: Well, I am one, too.
HEADMASTER: Oh, well, as long as we're all unhappy bubbles of anal wind then of course there's no problem. But I don't propose to advertise the fact to parents. If this is poetry, then every lavatory wall in Britain is an anthology. What about "The Oxford Book of Verse"? Where's that gone?
TERRY: Perhaps that's the lavatory paper.
HEADMASTER: Oh, I don't understand anymore. I just don't understand.
TERRY: Never mind, sir. You're a bit frustrated perhaps. You've got a lonely job I'm sure.
HEADMASTER: I am frustrated. Very frustrated. And it is a lonely job, boy. So lonely. I am assailed by doubts, wracked by fear.
TERRY: Write it down.
HEADMASTER: Eh?
TERRY: Write it down. Get it out of your system. "Assailed by doubts, wracked by fear."
HEADMASTER: Yes, yes. You think? "Assailed by doubts and wracked by fear, tossed in a wrecked mucus foam of . . . of . . ."
TERRY: Hatred?
HEADMASTER: Good. Good! What about "steamed loathing"?
TERRY: Better. You're a natural.
(Terry slips away.)
HEADMASTER: ". . . wrecked mucus foam of steamed loathing. Snot trails of lust perforate the bowels of my intent . . ."
And everyone lived happily in a bubble of anal wind ever after.
I am the headmaster.
seriously.
and B.E. my head isn't so good. Apparently you taught me all wrong and it's just gotten worse. I'm figuring that I may turn to Radar's expertise to, ahem, pull it off properly.
I suppose I should have known better.
Sigh.
I've learned my lesson. For now.
And B.E. I would like a free lesson in return for all the bad ones.