Originally posted by setaside2 oh my holy cow you guys.
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.
Hey now, who told you I levied a fee for services rendered?
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley ps,
ignore the SPANKS
they're harmless, really.
unless you turn your back on them.
And if you wish to turn your back on them and still not feel them, stick a hard cover copy of "The Stand" down yer backside. That'll learn that damn SPANKY hand
I couldn't define poetry, only describe it. Poetry is, for me, something that communicates somehow by turning words inside out to get at feelings. I like what TS Eliot said: "Genuine poetry communicates even before it is understood."
but i still stand by this. and I don't think I'll ever deviate.
and fins, I love you love you, but now is the time to quote yourself and your own feelings. No more historic nostalgic maxims and axioms from writers long dead. What does fins feel? That is what we ask.
Originally posted by setaside2 I'll take the emotive concept just a step further in saying that poetry is the literal metaphor for humanity.
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 dream on the page. I fret, I nag, I worry the words as they go. Occasionally they burst furth as a supernova of lingual froth and I can barely control the pen or the typing hand, and it is they who hold the leash merely allowing me the sway as I sniff in the breeze. You have heard me say it before: I bleed.
Poetry is what all people would have said. There are people who read what we say and write and dream and do and say to themselves "why can I not do that? what is missing from me?" It is the quiet voice you must watch.
Poetry is self knowledge, however deprecating or even arrogant, it is true self on a page... if one is being honest. I believe false poetry to be easily seen from a distance and is therefore quickly discarded on approach.
Poets are artists in a window with glass planed through the soul.
Poetry is courage of word, thoughts that stay, opinions that may only matter briefly but to be remembered as long as the letters don't fade. Poetry is the art of realtime progression, a plotline that regards structure as a foundry, though limiting, and metaphor the freeing of caged captivity. Words are never as they seem and poetry is therefore proof that magic can exist.
People have asked me what I would do if all other things were taken from me...
I would write.
Yes, they say, but what if your writing was taken from you or lost?
I would die.
Poetry is my insanity on spread, my sanity enthralled. I am merely the conduit, the paper the lodestone, and all things flow through me. There is a force that contends me to write, compells me, to the point of wordlessness. I tend to babble, I am doing so now.
Poetry is and are the things I always wanted to say. I can tell someone that I love them better in a diary than I can in real life. I can relate fear or anticipation better on paper than in any ordinary conversation.
Oh there are the certain individuals, rare but true, that allow me to vent verbally as I do on the page, but I tend to get the wide-eyed-holy-shit-look-of-freak from most folks who hear me in such a state. I feel ashamed, as if I have been caught masturbating in public and then I feel angry because someone shat upon the thoughts that mean so much to me. Poetry is, therefore, self verification. These thoughts are mine and I share them because I feel that since they affect me so profoundly, there are times when my chest hurts I feel them so, that others MUST know, MUST be told. I cannot help it. It is my calling.
If ever I lost my hands, I would truly invent telepathy.
I now have the burn, I can feel the pain in my heart and the rise of the blood pressure as my mind seeks to find the volcanic plug and reduce it to ash here and now. I could go for days. I have gone for days.
This place... to find receptive eyes for the words that come to mine... I don't know what I would have done without it. I have written some of my best work in honor of those on this board and many times with the thought, admittedly, of trying desperately to blow people's minds, mine included. I wanted to write better than I ever have, say more things and mean more things than I ever have...
Funny thing is, I don't know if I've succeeded or not. I am very particular and sooner or later I may look at this work I've done and say to myself, it could have been better.
Even if it was all for love.
LOL Poetry is frustration. This, here, all of us, you, me, we go outside and smell the world, those cracks in the sidewalks you can feel if you concentrate, right through your shoes... the ability to watch someone from across the room and KNOW them, make love to them with your mind... stepping aside on the sidewalk as someone approaches and knowing that the rest of your day may forever be altered because of it...
I cannot... I don't....
It's all poetry. Every last drop. And I suppose this was my page on which to breathe.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Why don't I meet people that love words like you guys? Let's not call it poetry anymore. Lets be frank. Frankness.
Anonimity is a blast.
Message boards are the solution to chat rooms. Chat rooms turn into jerry springer shows. Message boards are peacefull graffiti.
Poetry is courage of word, thoughts that stay, opinions that may only matter briefly but to be remembered as long as the letters don't fade.
Poetry is the art of realtime progression, a plotline that regards structure as a foundry, though limiting, and metaphor the freeing of caged captivity.
Words are never as they seem and poetry is therefore proof that magic can exist.
(I tend to babble, I am doing so now. - damn, seta... you're so fucking precious)
If ever I lost my hands, I would truly invent telepathy.
LOL Poetry is frustration. This, here, all of us, you, me, we go outside and smell the world, those cracks in the sidewalks you can feel if you concentrate, right through your shoes... the ability to watch someone from across the room and KNOW them, make love to them with your mind... stepping aside on the sidewalk as someone approaches and knowing that the rest of your day may forever be altered because of it...
I cannot... I don't....
It's all poetry. Every last drop. And I suppose this was my page on which to breathe.
Poetry at its most successful should resemble a Freudian slip. However crafted our words of poetry might seem on first glance, an impression of happy accident or involuntary communication of a textual unconscious should surge and pulse as the river of our language, breaking down the fortified dams of ideology shaped in prose, and even destabilising the banked-up forms of verse itself, being always uncompromising, relentless, alive.
Who would be the resurrector that brought this up from the depths of hell? Just reading this stuff I am convinced that this place was the best to have fun and hang out on any given day. An odd bunch but a great bunch all the same. I still stick by my posting on page one.
The month of April is over. So are my ideas for the year. I am now back in my usual residence. I check in to read and see what is going on. This was definately a blast from the past!
For the contributing part of this place I think I am done for the year. I might throw the odd one in but it's not the same as it once was. Not that my stuff is stellar stuff. To start a poem and have smut come out of nuclear destruction......you know that kind of stuff.....PRICELESS!!!! We should try and have a reunion day where all the old girls and boys, women and men come and have a whoop up of poetry lines and smut and "spanks" and just all round good natured fun. I must wipe a tear from my eye as this is just too much for me.............. I'm okay now.
Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley I assure you, with some of the shit we post around here, Tickle Me Elmo could say "You're my Nippleskin friend" and no one would flinch.
Comments
Hey now, who told you I levied a fee for services rendered?
chop, chop
sniff, sniff
oh what a relief it is
What money?
and aren't you at least saving one bill for snortin horton?
What? Tim Horton's? (see when you talk coffee & coffee shops, Tim Horton's is what I see).
LOL I'm more the Tattered Cover and Paris on the Platte type nowadays...
please disregard the snortin horton remark.
thanks.
so are the kids snorting alka seltzer these days?
HONEY!!!! BRING ME MY METAMUCIL.... I WANNA TRY SOMETHING....
and kids being shot for being rabid.
geezers beware
and it's what they get, fuckers.
ignore the SPANKS
they're harmless, really.
unless you turn your back on them.
And if you wish to turn your back on them and still not feel them, stick a hard cover copy of "The Stand" down yer backside. That'll learn that damn SPANKY hand
or not. SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK
SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK
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SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK
SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK SPANK Heh, heh, heh
but i still stand by this. and I don't think I'll ever deviate.
and fins, I love you love you, but now is the time to quote yourself and your own feelings. No more historic nostalgic maxims and axioms from writers long dead. What does fins feel? That is what we ask.
Anonimity is a blast.
Message boards are the solution to chat rooms. Chat rooms turn into jerry springer shows. Message boards are peacefull graffiti.
did you say something about making love?
now, where the fuck YOU been?
:P:D:P
no doubt....
seriously? you down til next april?
kidding... kidding...
i think a reunion is a total pipe dream
it'd be all like the Big Chill up in here
so....
how's that song go?
make new friends, but keep the old, one is silver and the other's gold?
...girl scout shit...
k... gimme a tissue, too
:P
lol
oh my god
doesn't negate the old that is also quite good
does it?