OK, so this isn't exclusively about poetry, but I think it fits here:
Libraries
With a collapsible history they hush about you
To deride the failings of a many,
Pluming from infinite poisons the darkness of quiet,
The impossible lightness of shelves.
OK, so this isn't exclusively about poetry, but I think it fits here:
Libraries
With a collapsible history they hush about you
To deride the failings of a many,
Pluming from infinite poisons the darkness of quiet,
The impossible lightness of shelves.
There are endless pages. Still the world waits.
Quick improv:
The gnome with the black hat in the library
has fallen asleep on a open book of Chaucer
and her nose is pressed on the page
underlining the word 'quaynte'
quaintly as a middle English expletive, she snoring faintly.
The gnome with the black hat in the library
has fallen asleep on a open book of Chaucer
and her nose is pressed on the page
underlining the word 'quaynte'
quaintly as a middle English expletive, she snoring faintly.
...like a jazz saxaphonist with a sense of humour.
so, i was thinking about poems about poetry and remembered a neat poem I had read a while back, where the poem itself was the subject of the poem. I can't remember the name of the poem, the author of the poem or exactly how the poem goes...i just basically remember the concept. so, borrowing the concept, I wrote my own. if anyone knows the poem that inspired this, let me know and/or post it! anywho, here is mine:
Fine Poem
But don't fall in love with it,
it don't love you
nor does it seek approval.
It may not even desire to be read,
fine poem that it is. I haven't even read it.
I certainly didn't create it.
It just always was, somewhere, somehow,
these symbols, phonetics, sounds.
This poem breathes like you.
Don't take it for granted;
don't sideswipe or jabberjaw it.
Never talk down to it, coddle it, or inflame it.
Refrain from molesting it, double-crossing it, or swindling it.
Please do not read meaning into it,
or commit it to memory,
or hold it dear,
or be passionate about it.
This poem is indifferent to ages and canons.
It is not an effigy, an elegy, a eulogy or doggerel.
It is not an affront, an attack, a lambaste or tripe.
It has no lineage or pedigree.
It is not a Citizen of Time
or Maker of Dreams.
It may sneak up upon you.
The smarmy bastard might scare you!
Please do not scare it back,
for it is not a game-player, a sooth-sayer or a tickler.
It does not purport to reveal higher truths, transcendent concepts, or philosophy du jour.
'Tis no masterpiece, opus, swan song, cartouche, milieu, cartouche, flambe, frieze, or chocolate.
It hates being referred to as High Concept, avante garde, and Neo-Objectivist.
It is not a soapbox for the grandiosely absurd.
This poem has no moral standing
or rhythmic preference;
It is not capable of caring about your day.
But if you tilt your head in close, friend,
closer to the paper, the page, the pulp,
if you tilt your head in close
and hold your breath right tight
you might just hear it's heartbeat
like sunbeams dancing off water.
It's a fine poem, alright,
but don't fall in love with it.
Smile, nod, it's OK,
Lots of poems start this way!
If reading it gives you trouble
Just imagine it as subtle
And proceed to the next
Brief but wise block of text.
Smile, nod, it's OK,
Lots of poems go that way,
And in any particular case
This poem is not my glued-on face.
Hello. Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Seth Allen Dellinger
and I have been waiting.
Years, now, I've waited,
long, apocryphal years,
time with no voice, no ears, no muse.
Many false muses rose to meet me:
sexable muses, discouraging muses, drinkable muses.
Where were you, fair clarity?
In your inspired toy-land
trouncing about,
choosing the time of your arrival
so eloquently, dramatically,
as to render me inert?
Now that you're here
better give me all you got.
I probably won't take no for an answer.
I suffered for you.
Hello. Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Seth Allen Dellinger
and I have been waiting.
Years, now, I've waited,
long, apocryphal years,
time with no voice, no ears, no muse.
Many false muses rose to meet me:
sexable muses, discouraging muses, drinkable muses.
Where were you, fair clarity?
In your inspired toy-land
trouncing about,
choosing the time of your arrival
so eloquently, dramatically,
as to render me inert?
Now that you're here
better give me all you got.
I probably won't take no for an answer.
I suffered for you.
You've certainly got the muse's attention, and ours, too. Thanks, Groovster.
Groovster....I love fine poem (and your use of italics in it and with first....and also I think 'to a muse' is particularly awesome.....yoru sense of hummous is so spot-on.....I wonder about you sometimes.....I was going to send you a pm....cos you're so curious.....don't go away anytime soon.....:)
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
I like teh phrase 'apocryphal years'....were they lean?
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Groovster....I love fine poem (and your use of italics in it and with first....and also I think 'to a muse' is particularly awesome.....yoru sense of hummous is so spot-on.....I wonder about you sometimes.....I was going to send you a pm....cos you're so curious.....don't go away anytime soon.....:)
I'll be staying around for awhile....I've still got plenty of stuff that I want to burden you guys with.
Comments
Libraries
With a collapsible history they hush about you
To deride the failings of a many,
Pluming from infinite poisons the darkness of quiet,
The impossible lightness of shelves.
There are endless pages. Still the world waits.
Quick improv:
The gnome with the black hat in the library
has fallen asleep on a open book of Chaucer
and her nose is pressed on the page
underlining the word 'quaynte'
quaintly as a middle English expletive, she snoring faintly.
...like a jazz saxaphonist with a sense of humour.
Fine Poem
But don't fall in love with it,
it don't love you
nor does it seek approval.
It may not even desire to be read,
fine poem that it is.
I haven't even read it.
I certainly didn't create it.
It just always was, somewhere, somehow,
these symbols, phonetics, sounds.
This poem breathes like you.
Don't take it for granted;
don't sideswipe or jabberjaw it.
Never talk down to it, coddle it, or inflame it.
Refrain from molesting it, double-crossing it, or swindling it.
Please do not read meaning into it,
or commit it to memory,
or hold it dear,
or be passionate about it.
This poem is indifferent to ages and canons.
It is not an effigy, an elegy, a eulogy or doggerel.
It is not an affront, an attack, a lambaste or tripe.
It has no lineage or pedigree.
It is not a Citizen of Time
or Maker of Dreams.
It may sneak up upon you.
The smarmy bastard might scare you!
Please do not scare it back,
for it is not a game-player, a sooth-sayer or a tickler.
It does not purport to reveal higher truths, transcendent concepts, or philosophy du jour.
'Tis no masterpiece, opus, swan song, cartouche, milieu, cartouche, flambe, frieze, or chocolate.
It hates being referred to as High Concept, avante garde, and Neo-Objectivist.
It is not a soapbox for the grandiosely absurd.
This poem has no moral standing
or rhythmic preference;
It is not capable of caring about your day.
But if you tilt your head in close, friend,
closer to the paper, the page, the pulp,
if you tilt your head in close
and hold your breath right tight
you might just hear it's heartbeat
like sunbeams dancing off water.
It's a fine poem, alright,
but don't fall in love with it.
Lots of poems start this way!
If reading it gives you trouble
Just imagine it as subtle
And proceed to the next
Brief but wise block of text.
Smile, nod, it's OK,
Lots of poems go that way,
And in any particular case
This poem is not my glued-on face.
carry on!
My name is Seth Allen Dellinger
and I have been waiting.
Years, now, I've waited,
long, apocryphal years,
time with no voice, no ears, no muse.
Many false muses rose to meet me:
sexable muses, discouraging muses, drinkable muses.
Where were you, fair clarity?
In your inspired toy-land
trouncing about,
choosing the time of your arrival
so eloquently, dramatically,
as to render me inert?
Now that you're here
better give me all you got.
I probably won't take no for an answer.
I suffered for you.
You've certainly got the muse's attention, and ours, too. Thanks, Groovster.
You sure do. Keep this thread going, it's truly entertaining!
these lines keep coming back to me....just so childlike....but they resonate!
I'll be staying around for awhile....I've still got plenty of stuff that I want to burden you guys with.
PM me to your hearts content!
lean, yes. and quite unnecessary.