Jeeze dat feckin' tyre's flat feel it bumpin' along the road yed think the council would come out one feckin' day a month an' spray the grass that's growin' in de middle of de road it's a hard enough thing tryin' te cycle uphill in de feckin' wind comin' from the sea after a night on the stout but to put up in dis glorious time of Europe an grants an handouts to farmers like Francis Lenaghan he got three grand to whitewash his cabin for the tourists an stick a few gnomes on the wall till he was told te take em down they weren't bucolic enough like the Quiet Man a tourist's idea of the wild sports of the west feck 'em anyway yes ye'd think the communications revolution would tell these feckers to come out an' spray de grass that's overgrowin' an' them brambles is comin' out into the path nearly takin' the cap off me wonder if I can steer this thing one handed while I go to my fob for the flask startin' to get the hangover comin' on that'll be today fecked headache cannant move at all layin' in bed an' cursin' puttin' me head on the cold wall as I lay there hopin' for the dark again when the pain goes better to stay stocious ah I can't steer this feckin' thing an' get the flask at the same time I'm not an octopus there was a whale down on the strand Father Tony said at mass the other day it had gone red on the rocks I thought he was interestin' for once but then he started saying starfish grow their arms back again after ye cut them off an he was sayin' the love of God's like that an' I got an attack of the fits laughin' in there Mrs Deane from the post office turnin' around in the pew an lookin' at me disgusted makin' me laugh worse I kept thinking if I cut his balls off would they grow back for the love of God ye never know it'd be the parish miracle of Father Tony's Blessed testacles an' then there would be parish missions and TV cameras an revenue generated an' enough money te pay for the feckin' roads ah feck there's a feckin' stone ahhhhhhhhhh.......
On the road to the village, before the turn, on the right
there's the graveyard, and it's set on a hillock;
it's well tended with salty marble stones that look newly set and chiselled.
There's one family grave there, if you look along the rows near the centre;
and if you read it well, you'll note
a mother and three children
who died one day in August.
They were found at the foot of the Head
on the rocks, the Atlantic lapping at their broken bodies.
Mary had worked in the building society in England;
she was my cousin, I was just a kid;
when she came round she'd read to me The Three Little Pigs.
I'll blow your house down.
She was married and she moved back West -
They say now her husband was screwing
so Mary turned Medea
and a mother and three kids
were found by the sniffer dogs
broken on the rocks at the foot of the Head.
I think of Mary and blackness swells behind these eyes
and an inexorable chill like steel pulses from gut to throat to ear
and something in me drowns.
And there is burgeoning in that red on the Gogs
laying down loverlong upon mustard sprawls
fire, rain expectant, earth opening up
The mouths of seasons, growths of forests,
our ghosts surviving their clearances:
Oh now, the dawn! My love, lock deep!
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Jeeze dat feckin' tyre's flat feel it bumpin' along the road yed think the council would come out one feckin' day a month an' spray the grass that's growin' in de middle of de road it's a hard enough thing tryin' te cycle uphill in de feckin' wind comin' from the sea after a night on the stout but to put up in dis glorious time of Europe an grants an handouts to farmers like Francis Lenaghan he got three grand to whitewash his cabin for the tourists an stick a few gnomes on the wall till he was told te take em down they weren't bucolic enough like the Quiet Man a tourist's idea of the wild sports of the west feck 'em anyway yes ye'd think the communications revolution would tell these feckers to come out an' spray de grass that's overgrowin' an' them brambles is comin' out into the path nearly takin' the cap off me wonder if I can steer this thing one handed while I go to my fob for the flask startin' to get the hangover comin' on that'll be today fecked headache cannant move at all layin' in bed an' cursin' puttin' me head on the cold wall as I lay there hopin' for the dark again when the pain goes better to stay stocious ah I can't steer this feckin' thing an' get the flask at the same time I'm not an octopus there was a whale down on the strand Father Tony said at mass the other day it had gone red on the rocks I thought he was interestin' for once but then he started saying starfish grow their arms back again after ye cut them off an he was sayin' the love of God's like that an' I got an attack of the fits laughin' in there Mrs Deane from the post office turnin' around in the pew an lookin' at me disgusted makin' me laugh worse I kept thinking if I cut his balls off would they grow back for the love of God ye never know it'd be the parish miracle of Father Tony's Blessed testacles an' then there would be parish missions and TV cameras an revenue generated an' enough money te pay for the feckin' roads ah feck there's a feckin' stone ahhhhhhhhhh.......
Something about the lack of periods in that makes it so unorganized, it spills off into the impression you get of the speaker (someone who is comically insane). From one thought to another without a solid method of organization...
I kind of like less organized writing. In English we read some W.H. Auden and I was introduced to some stream of consciousness writing, which I liked.
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
Originally posted by Barroom Hero Something about the lack of periods in that makes it so unorganized, it spills off into the impression you get of the speaker (someone who is comically insane). From one thought to another without a solid method of organization...
I kind of like less organized writing. In English we read some W.H. Auden and I was introduced to some stream of consciousness writing, which I liked.
Originally posted by Barroom Hero Something about the lack of periods in that makes it so unorganized, it spills off into the impression you get of the speaker (someone who is comically insane). From one thought to another without a solid method of organization...
I kind of like less organized writing. In English we read some W.H. Auden and I was introduced to some stream of consciousness writing, which I liked.
Have a look at chapter eighteen of "Ulysses": Molly Bloom's soliloquy. It's the longest sentence in the English language and it's the prototype for exactly this kind of interior monologue. One can have tremendous fun writing someone's rambling thoughts....
Cheers for coming on, Barroom. Good to see you over here in the poetry "Hut"!
Originally posted by rarghrargh-brownstar or maybe not
nice to see u away from the train
Of course, I read Grapes of Wrath, unlike my brother, who found it impossible to understand. I liked it a lot because there was a great deal of symbolism in the characters' actions. The final act, of the girl offering her breastmilk to the man, seemed like an impression this society could really make good use of.
Steinbeck was a communist, I've heard, but most of the good writers were lefties.
William Faulkner seems to be a good stream of conciousness writer as well, from what I've gleaned in my brief English education. Some of his writing is a bit strange though, like having a mentally disabled child speak for the first half of a book.
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Have a look at chapter eighteen of "Ulysses": Molly Bloom's soliloquy. It's the longest sentence in the English language and it's the prototype for exactly this kind of interior monologue. One can have tremendous fun writing someone's rambling thoughts....
Cheers for coming on, Barroom. Good to see you over here in the poetry "Hut"!
heh, I have yet to actually read that book, but I've heard of that passage before..doesn't it go on for like, 48 pages? James Joyce wrotes Ulysses, right? Another good Irish author. The only Irish author we covered this year was Frank O'Connor, but his short story was powerful. I forget the name of it, but it had to do with the capture of two British prisoners and the relationships that were formed between the Irish soldiers and the Brits.
Something about the experience on that island churns out the best writers...
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
By the way, Barroom, please feel most welcome to post your poems here on "my" thread anytime. This isn't a gravebrowed poetry symposium, it doesn't take itself too seriously and its ethos is that you have fun.
Cheers,
Richard.
PS If you scroll up a few pages, you'll find links to Samuel Beckett and Patrick Kavanagh's works.
On the road to the village, before the turn, on the right
there's the graveyard, and it's set on a hillock;
it's well tended with salty marble stones that look newly set and chiselled.
There's one family grave there, if you look along the rows near the centre;
and if you read it well, you'll note
a mother and three children
who died one day in August.
They were found at the foot of the Head
on the rocks, the Atlantic lapping at their broken bodies.
Mary had worked in the building society in England;
she was my cousin, I was just a kid;
when she came round she'd read to me The Three Little Pigs.
I'll blow your house down.
She was married and she moved back West -
They say now her husband was screwing
so Mary turned Medea
and a mother and three kids
were found by the sniffer dogs
broken on the rocks at the foot of the Head.
I think of Mary and blackness swells behind these eyes
and an inexorable chill like steel pulses from gut to throat to ear
and something in me drowns.
Woah, "I'll blow your house down" feels like such a passionate, painful moment for the speaker. The house seems to represent the children and mother that were killed, because they were members of the "house" or family.
If you were assuming the speaker was saying that line as his own thought, it would lead you to believe that he wanted revenge on Mary. It's a bit ambiguous at the same time, because one could say Mary said it and the speaker was recollecting her saying it. Either way, I love the ambiguity of the line and the way it's tone sharply contrasts the stanza in which it is placed.
Trying to make sense of poetry is tough though, especially the more ambigous kind.
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
I often deliberately leave out what are called in semiotics "indexical signifiers" of who is thinking what in poetry, because I feel these are realist generic conventions and that ambiguity in signification can produce more interesting interpretative responses.
I also believe in the idea of a piece of work being fluid or polyphonic in its intertextuality, and this is why I merged the reference to "The Three Little Pigs" in with the story line. It's interesting that you thought the line might be spoken by the narrative speaker (which, of course, it is, at some level). Also, you could read the line in this context: The young woman is reading a line from a children's story to a young cousin, while in her own mind planning to "blow down the house" of her husband who is cheating on her; she blows down his house, metaphorically, by committing the act that she did. In structuralist literary theory, this kind of prophetic foreshadowing in a story is called "prolepsis."
Thanks for the response. It's interesting to talk about this piece objectively, because it is founded on a true story.
I move through Hobson's Brook in my waders, with my fork
angled down in a fast jut-thrust.
I lift out a cake of green cress
up and out from the mud, and I love the suck it makes
and the feel of the weight on the metal
and the way the water jets through the prongs
escaping back noisy, sploshing back into the stream.
I flick the fork into the air from the elbows,
How Dad showed me, and three stones of cress fire up
over my head ... wheeeee ..... to land on the top of the bank
five feet away. It's great to keep repeating this, keep repeating this,
moving my rubber-booted feet through friendly sludge,
watching the deeps always near a tree coming from the verge,
with the spring sun spying proudly through willow fronds
and lighting the sound of a splosh in my busying mind.
And oh, the voles and moorhens and the drakes love to see the river clear:
they bomb past me merrily, their little bottoms nuzzling into new terrain;
a grasssnake whips between my booted calves in the roll downstream,
and if it could say "Excuse me there, kind fella", you know, I think it would.
But what makes me stop and watch and listen
Right now
in the boughs of that cypress
just there
is
that kingfisher
its little heart beating
in a shiny orange breast
its jacket blue
its beak grinning
its toes curled
its eyes on me
gosh
even the water stills now...
Hey, kingfisher...
What would you like me to do
with the river?
Cambridge academics know
surprisingly
little of
synergy:
They took the mathematical bridge apart
trying to work out how it held together with no bolts
and they couldn't put the thing back together again...
So the bolts had to go in
to keep the tourist attraction up -
just -
and to keep it visible
to the miserable punt chauffeurs
tempting Japanese cameramen on Magdalene Bridge
with a watery odyssey
under the weary dons
at the windowed
Bridge
of
Sighs.....
You'd think they'd be able to sort out everything
after boasting of Newton
and his light refraction tests at Trinity
and the other fellas
splitting the at- om
in Cavendish labs,
but no...
you see,
they thought they knew the principle of
synergy
off the top of their brilliant heads
so they,
er,
drew lots of multi-dimensional plans
reckoning they knew
how the original engineers did it
and
how the wooden sticks
when balanced together
could
cross
the Cam
and take the weight
of a gaggle of drunkards
galloping over on Suicide Sunday
to celebrate exams
but when it came to taking it all apart
by hand
to study its dynamics
.
.
.
?
they lost the secret of the synergy
that was either built on serendipity
or an educated guess.
So the moral of the tale is to keep the phenomenon,
marvel at it, use it as a means of transport too,
but if you wonder how it works
Just smile and let it carry you where it takes you,
and don't get itchy fingers to tinker with the machinery,
because those bolt-on jobs are never the same.
Yeah, some people hate ambiguity and prefer everything to be organized scientifically, but my mind is about as ambiguous as you can get, so I tend toward less information rather than more.
Mary changes her name to Medea to kill the family right? Why Medea? What is the significance of that, is it an allusion to some greek tragedy?
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
Originally posted by Barroom Hero Yeah, some people hate ambiguity and prefer everything to be organized scientifically, but my mind is about as ambiguous as you can get, so I tend toward less information rather than more.
Mary changes her name to Medea to kill the family right? Why Medea? What is the significance of that, is it an allusion to some greek tragedy?
Before I go to bed, Barroom, I will say the following:
(1) You are a very talented writer. Your work on A Moving Train demonstrates this to me. My politics are a lot more to the left than yours, but our world view is in many ways similar given our Irish background, and I think you've the style of what Yeats called "the indomitable Irishry." Pasta's another fighting Irish spirit on this forum! (Aren't ya, Pasta! )
(2) Mary doesn't change her name to Medea in the story, but she by her actions follows and extends beyond the prototype of Medea (in the Greek tragedy of the same name by Euripides).
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Before I go to bed, Barroom, I will say the following:
(1) You are a very talented writer. Your work on A Moving Train demonstrates this to me. My politics are a lot more to the left than yours, but our world view is in many ways similar given our Irish background, and I think you've the style of what Yeats called "the indomitable Irishry." Pasta's another fighting Irish spirit on this forum! (Aren't ya, Pasta! )
(2) Mary doesn't change her name to Medea in the story, but she by her actions follows and extends beyond the prototype of Medea (in the Greek tragedy of the same name by Euripides).
2...4...
Sometimes you sink in2 the floor
But when you look up
You see the sun rising,
You see dawn on the horizon,
Burning off the long night's fog,
Burning away the darkness,
Burning up the cold indifference,
Each ray igniting hope in heart,
Beats bursting 4th with radiance. Garnet, becoming sapphire, becoming emerald, becoming ruby, becoming amber, becoming topaz.
A myriad of reflections
Each painfully, beautifully wonderful
Playing in mind's eye,
Bouncing back 2 be savoured again.
Reminds you of the potential for good.
Softens your weary soul,
Evaporates some of those troubles,
Lifts you delicately up
With it's loving embrace... *closes eyes*
And a kiss 2 echo on your lips.
2 remember.
4 ever.
A warm aloha to you, Fins! Have a wonderful day!
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
When you are tired of your weariness,
and all that pain demands cannot command
your patience any more, you start to bless
instead of censure foolishness and fond
comedy. Then, laughing with the bare
brazenness of one who knew life's dark
recesses but, in time, saw not to care
to shout its broad importance, you will hark
the music of your little life and death.
Soon, turning from great catastrophic bangs
of swallowing tornadoes, you'll gain breath
for songs of truest tone, in comic things.
A flower laughs a song upon a grave,
A laugh sounds out the deepest cry we have.
lives opened and trashed
look, ma, watch me crash
no time to question
why'd nothing last?
grasping hold on
hold tight and fast
soon be over
and i will be blessed
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots When you are tired of your weariness,
and all that pain demands cannot command
your patience any more, you start to bless
instead of censure foolishness and fond
comedy. Then, laughing with the bare
brazenness of one who knew life's dark
recesses but, in time, saw not to care
to shout its broad importance, you will hark
the music of your little life and death.
Soon, turning from great catastrophic bangs
of swallowing tornadoes, you'll gain breath
for songs of truest tone, in comic things.
A flower laughs a song upon a grave,
A laugh sounds out the deepest cry we have.
strong, but true.
thank you for sharing
Write. Wind each new thought upon the stream;
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Originally posted by PastaNazi lives opened and trashed
look, ma, watch me crash
no time to question
why'd nothing last?
grasping hold on
hold tight and fast
soon be over
and i will be blessed
01. Last Exit
Written By: Vedder, Ament, Gossard, McCready, Abbruzzese
Album: Vitalogy
Release Date: 1994-12-06
Found On: Vitalogy
lives opened and trashed..."look ma, watch me crash"...
no time to question...why'd nothing last...
grasp and hold on...we're dyin' fast...
soon be over...and i will relent...
"Ribboosupp eee trayyysh
Lipsuction creche
Nine timetah question
Why nuthin' lashh
Gasper hold on
The tide waves splash
Soon be over
And I will Mabel at last"
But tsis may be more advised in their interpretation, of course...
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells
Comments
On the road to the village, before the turn, on the right
there's the graveyard, and it's set on a hillock;
it's well tended with salty marble stones that look newly set and chiselled.
There's one family grave there, if you look along the rows near the centre;
and if you read it well, you'll note
a mother and three children
who died one day in August.
They were found at the foot of the Head
on the rocks, the Atlantic lapping at their broken bodies.
Mary had worked in the building society in England;
she was my cousin, I was just a kid;
when she came round she'd read to me The Three Little Pigs.
I'll blow your house down.
She was married and she moved back West -
They say now her husband was screwing
so Mary turned Medea
and a mother and three kids
were found by the sniffer dogs
broken on the rocks at the foot of the Head.
I think of Mary and blackness swells behind these eyes
and an inexorable chill like steel pulses from gut to throat to ear
and something in me drowns.
laying down loverlong upon mustard sprawls
fire, rain expectant, earth opening up
The mouths of seasons, growths of forests,
our ghosts surviving their clearances:
Oh now, the dawn! My love, lock deep!
Something about the lack of periods in that makes it so unorganized, it spills off into the impression you get of the speaker (someone who is comically insane). From one thought to another without a solid method of organization...
I kind of like less organized writing. In English we read some W.H. Auden and I was introduced to some stream of consciousness writing, which I liked.
nice to see u away from the train
Have a look at chapter eighteen of "Ulysses": Molly Bloom's soliloquy. It's the longest sentence in the English language and it's the prototype for exactly this kind of interior monologue. One can have tremendous fun writing someone's rambling thoughts....
Cheers for coming on, Barroom. Good to see you over here in the poetry "Hut"!
Of course, I read Grapes of Wrath, unlike my brother, who found it impossible to understand. I liked it a lot because there was a great deal of symbolism in the characters' actions. The final act, of the girl offering her breastmilk to the man, seemed like an impression this society could really make good use of.
Steinbeck was a communist, I've heard, but most of the good writers were lefties.
William Faulkner seems to be a good stream of conciousness writer as well, from what I've gleaned in my brief English education. Some of his writing is a bit strange though, like having a mentally disabled child speak for the first half of a book.
heh, I have yet to actually read that book, but I've heard of that passage before..doesn't it go on for like, 48 pages? James Joyce wrotes Ulysses, right? Another good Irish author. The only Irish author we covered this year was Frank O'Connor, but his short story was powerful. I forget the name of it, but it had to do with the capture of two British prisoners and the relationships that were formed between the Irish soldiers and the Brits.
Something about the experience on that island churns out the best writers...
Cheers,
Richard.
PS If you scroll up a few pages, you'll find links to Samuel Beckett and Patrick Kavanagh's works.
Woah, "I'll blow your house down" feels like such a passionate, painful moment for the speaker. The house seems to represent the children and mother that were killed, because they were members of the "house" or family.
If you were assuming the speaker was saying that line as his own thought, it would lead you to believe that he wanted revenge on Mary. It's a bit ambiguous at the same time, because one could say Mary said it and the speaker was recollecting her saying it. Either way, I love the ambiguity of the line and the way it's tone sharply contrasts the stanza in which it is placed.
Trying to make sense of poetry is tough though, especially the more ambigous kind.
I also believe in the idea of a piece of work being fluid or polyphonic in its intertextuality, and this is why I merged the reference to "The Three Little Pigs" in with the story line. It's interesting that you thought the line might be spoken by the narrative speaker (which, of course, it is, at some level). Also, you could read the line in this context: The young woman is reading a line from a children's story to a young cousin, while in her own mind planning to "blow down the house" of her husband who is cheating on her; she blows down his house, metaphorically, by committing the act that she did. In structuralist literary theory, this kind of prophetic foreshadowing in a story is called "prolepsis."
Thanks for the response. It's interesting to talk about this piece objectively, because it is founded on a true story.
angled down in a fast jut-thrust.
I lift out a cake of green cress
up and out from the mud, and I love the suck it makes
and the feel of the weight on the metal
and the way the water jets through the prongs
escaping back noisy, sploshing back into the stream.
I flick the fork into the air from the elbows,
How Dad showed me, and three stones of cress fire up
over my head ... wheeeee ..... to land on the top of the bank
five feet away. It's great to keep repeating this, keep repeating this,
moving my rubber-booted feet through friendly sludge,
watching the deeps always near a tree coming from the verge,
with the spring sun spying proudly through willow fronds
and lighting the sound of a splosh in my busying mind.
And oh, the voles and moorhens and the drakes love to see the river clear:
they bomb past me merrily, their little bottoms nuzzling into new terrain;
a grasssnake whips between my booted calves in the roll downstream,
and if it could say "Excuse me there, kind fella", you know, I think it would.
But what makes me stop and watch and listen
Right now
in the boughs of that cypress
just there
is
that kingfisher
its little heart beating
in a shiny orange breast
its jacket blue
its beak grinning
its toes curled
its eyes on me
gosh
even the water stills now...
Hey, kingfisher...
What would you like me to do
with the river?
surprisingly
little of
synergy:
They took the mathematical bridge apart
trying to work out how it held together with no bolts
and they couldn't put the thing back together again...
So the bolts had to go in
to keep the tourist attraction up -
just -
and to keep it visible
to the miserable punt chauffeurs
tempting Japanese cameramen on Magdalene Bridge
with a watery odyssey
under the weary dons
at the windowed
Bridge
of
Sighs.....
You'd think they'd be able to sort out everything
after boasting of Newton
and his light refraction tests at Trinity
and the other fellas
splitting the at- om
in Cavendish labs,
but no...
you see,
they thought they knew the principle of
synergy
off the top of their brilliant heads
so they,
er,
drew lots of multi-dimensional plans
reckoning they knew
how the original engineers did it
and
how the wooden sticks
when balanced together
could
cross
the Cam
and take the weight
of a gaggle of drunkards
galloping over on Suicide Sunday
to celebrate exams
but when it came to taking it all apart
by hand
to study its dynamics
.
.
.
?
they lost the secret of the synergy
that was either built on serendipity
or an educated guess.
So the moral of the tale is to keep the phenomenon,
marvel at it, use it as a means of transport too,
but if you wonder how it works
Just smile and let it carry you where it takes you,
and don't get itchy fingers to tinker with the machinery,
because those bolt-on jobs are never the same.
Mary changes her name to Medea to kill the family right? Why Medea? What is the significance of that, is it an allusion to some greek tragedy?
Before I go to bed, Barroom, I will say the following:
(1) You are a very talented writer. Your work on A Moving Train demonstrates this to me. My politics are a lot more to the left than yours, but our world view is in many ways similar given our Irish background, and I think you've the style of what Yeats called "the indomitable Irishry." Pasta's another fighting Irish spirit on this forum! (Aren't ya, Pasta!
(2) Mary doesn't change her name to Medea in the story, but she by her actions follows and extends beyond the prototype of Medea (in the Greek tragedy of the same name by Euripides).
Here's a link to "Medea", online:
http://classics.mit.edu/Euripides/medea.html
Oh that's funny, that was just a wild guess about the greek tragedy.
Sometimes you sink in2 the floor
But when you look up
You see the sun rising,
You see dawn on the horizon,
Burning off the long night's fog,
Burning away the darkness,
Burning up the cold indifference,
Each ray igniting hope in heart,
Beats bursting 4th with radiance.
Garnet, becoming sapphire, becoming emerald, becoming ruby, becoming amber, becoming topaz.
A myriad of reflections
Each painfully, beautifully wonderful
Playing in mind's eye,
Bouncing back 2 be savoured again.
Reminds you of the potential for good.
Softens your weary soul,
Evaporates some of those troubles,
Lifts you delicately up
With it's loving embrace... *closes eyes*
And a kiss 2 echo on your lips.
2 remember.
4 ever.
A warm aloha to you, Fins!
Welcome, is how you make me feel, and welcome, you are!
Howdy miss BE... I do like the poem, 'specially in color.
xoxo
Danka, methought the colou;)rs were much purdier than the old beige on brown so, gave them a wee bit of life by lighting them up a bit .
Piece & louvre, all!
and all that pain demands cannot command
your patience any more, you start to bless
instead of censure foolishness and fond
comedy. Then, laughing with the bare
brazenness of one who knew life's dark
recesses but, in time, saw not to care
to shout its broad importance, you will hark
the music of your little life and death.
Soon, turning from great catastrophic bangs
of swallowing tornadoes, you'll gain breath
for songs of truest tone, in comic things.
A flower laughs a song upon a grave,
A laugh sounds out the deepest cry we have.
look, ma, watch me crash
no time to question
why'd nothing last?
grasping hold on
hold tight and fast
soon be over
and i will be blessed
let the oceans swell
strong, but true.
thank you for sharing
and in its contradiction of response,
Or seeming stagnance, see that rippled gleam
That might suggest true movement. If you sense
a hidden wave in what seems blanket still,
Write more, wind each desire, and you'll see
The willows nod and rustle, and you will
hear the rushing babble of the free
gush of water, brimming, charged with light
That is your reader's understanding heart.
Good to have some Ed on the thread.
01. Last Exit
Written By: Vedder, Ament, Gossard, McCready, Abbruzzese
Album: Vitalogy
Release Date: 1994-12-06
Found On: Vitalogy
lives opened and trashed..."look ma, watch me crash"...
no time to question...why'd nothing last...
grasp and hold on...we're dyin' fast...
soon be over...and i will relent...
let the ocean swell
what do you think it is?
"Ribboosupp eee trayyysh
Lipsuction creche
Nine timetah question
Why nuthin' lashh
Gasper hold on
The tide waves splash
Soon be over
And I will Mabel at last"
But tsis may be more advised in their interpretation, of course...
jk
Home, home again
I like to be here when I can
When I come home cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
Far away across the field
The tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spells
'floyd