As she stood there breathing with difficulty
lost in her black sorrow
dancing wild dances and reading her epitaphy
Far from the world where her spirit fought
trying to build a paradise in her meters..
Living in the edge... but...
dying every sunshine with the poets...
In her eyes a diffrent world
a sea for all the dolphins
In her heart a diffrent word
love the food of nymphes
Even in her last hour
she never left the poem
escape her lips
because she knew..
this world wasnt made for hers
but now she is going
to a paradise build in her meters....
~~dont mind yer make up, just make up yer mind~~
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
Originally posted by anOmis As she stood there breathing with difficulty
lost in her black sorrow
dancing wild dances and reading her epitaphy
Far from the world where her spirit fought
trying to build a paradise in her meters..
Living in the edge... but...
dying every sunshine with the poets...
In her eyes a diffrent world
a sea for all the dolphins
In her heart a diffrent word
love the food of nymphes
Even in her last hour
she never left the poem
escape her lips
because she knew..
this world wasnt made for hers
but now she is going
to a paradise build in her meters....
I will keep this one for my daughter
(one day)
You´ve named her Rain.
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.
Above Slievemore, there, there becomes a cloud
undershone by dying sun, feint red,
now deeper, oh, so deep! Am I allowed
to cry, now that the Doona tide is bled
tonight of sorrows, healing into peace
wherein shall come the darling of my heart,
'O let these skying fires fall and cease
that once kept earth and ocean apart'?
To cry, 'Let moonrise come upon the bay
and let my lover greet me in the sound
of gentle crashing waves that lightly play
the air that makes the lonegull turn around
to catch its whispered, delicious song'?
Yes, I shall cry upon these waves in throng.
What an inspiring day today, isn´t it?
It makes one dance across the room and and scream, after being
hit by the overdose of love and happiness.
lovely creation for your butterfly again
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.
It is, it is. My butterfly sent me
a birthday parcel! It arrived today,
First thing this morning! But, you see,
It's not my birthday until Wednesday
so my darling Julie's written "Not
To Open Until On the Very Day"
seven times upon the box! I've got
to make sure that I'm patient. I must say
I'm tempted just to have a little peek
inside to see my prezzies! But I shan't.
Even if my birthday was a week
away, I'd wait, in spite of happy want.
My butterfly, oh yes, she does inspire
This big old Finsbury, real name McGuire.
so simply your words again have composed another melody
to soothe my ghost.
what would this world be like without your genius?
loads of smiles
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.
FinsburyParkCarrots McGuire.....thou shallt not peek into thy birthday prezzie.....or thou shallt have transgressed the first rule of international prezzie giving......
Rule No. 1....
and God said unto Moses.....
do not peek into thy birthday presents prematurely....
hehehehehehe
....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......
ahohohohohohohohohoh.....hehehehehehe.....too late
....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 clank my boots
up the ladder's shuddering steps
my weight making thud upon thud
in steel echo.
Stooping from about the top
I check the ladder's forefeet:
rubber trotters snugly paw the base
of my whitewashed farmhouse wall.
I place my paint pot on the top
stepladder step, looking within it
to a dense cream pulp. Then I lower
my hand, gripping before it my brush
lightly into the paint's lipped skin
and feel through the handle
the press of thick liquid upon wire.
Now I pull out my brush
and lofting my arm to an eave
to coat it, I see streaked bulbs of surplus
cream paint festoon the wind
and constellate the concrete path below.
As I peer beyond, my left hand leaning
on the top of the wall for balance,
I find clouds stacking to the darkening of blue,
stone air towers in a hierarchy of rain.
Below, Saddle Head, a prostrate mountain
proclaims its contoured sapphire worthless
as it buries itself in rippled miles
of shifting ocean sparkles, twinkles
to the morse of starfish, the beat of sealbreath;
Occasions of tidegush, rhythms of an afternoon.
Day upon day, the tide comes a little nearer,
carving rivulets in the dank jade rush.
In the Parish Church they've locked away
prophecies, some say spoken by a drowning cow
to his master: Doona will drown in a high tide
and no seawall will ever stand.
And I turn back to my eaves, I try to blind
the woodgrain eyes of eaves
with manmade chemicals from a pot,
Knowing next year they'll be staring again.
It means much more to me that my work has a physical, hopefully positive effect on readers than if it had some abstract influence on those vague things called ideas and 'the world'. Thank you so much. I like the work of yours that I have read so far, too.
A moonwinged butterfly poem dances
fluttering in bright blue orbs, gentle Wiley's eyes.
Wiley cries, "Mommy, I've a poem!
I have to write it down before it flies away!"
He likes a neat sentence.
He has an opinion on what English is.
He says what isn't plain isn't English.
He wants to know what something's about before he reads it.
He doesn't want to have to work at decoding something.
He says literature should reflect reality.
He says he doesn't have time to read much.
He says anyone who questions reality is a loony.
He wants language to reinforce his view of the world.
He hates -isms.
He says "The Left can't write".
(He emphasises this pun with a shout.)
He likes to point out what he sees as thick people.
He says a thought that isn't formed neatly isn't a thought at all.
He says a mature thought is a Conservative thought.
He's never invited to parties.
He says he doesn't care.
He's fibbing, I reckon.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots A moonwinged butterfly poem dances
fluttering in bright blue orbs, gentle Wiley's eyes.
Wiley cries, "Mommy, I've a poem!
I have to write it down before it flies away!"
That's how a poem happens.
Wiley will tell you!
Ahhh, butterflies... thoughts arrive...*sigh*
Forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen
i love your stuff fins!
you are truly talented
and i swear you could make a living at writing.
maybe you do and you just chill with us ameteurs, huh?!
well, thanks for looking at my work too.
way cool!
Class was assembled, sitting crosslegged
and frozen on long, cold floorboards. We
were eight and nine. We'd read the hymns from dogged
old books, must-dusty to the touch. She
was speaking, our headmistress, now (standing
there, her suit blue Thatcher-starched). "There are
Evil atheists in Moscow, handing
stale old bread to queues of mites who stare
out at skies and buildings, black and white,
Lost to communism." Then she steered
the topic onto how the dread and blight
of pagan darkness died where people feared
a Father's light: Strange lands where missions came
and settled, changing "children" for the good
by building up a market in the name
of building souls.
Today, they lack for food,
The "young" of Heaven's providential vision:
those, risen from a cold hard floor;
those, subjects of a colonising mission.
Still, preachers say we're rich in being poor.
Place above my heart your golden head,
darling one, and whisper how you came
to wing upon a world to find my bed
tonight when rose my crying of your name.
He reclines in a sepia image, occasioning sunset,
straw boater on,
cigar under his civil servant moustache,
chin jutting up in loutish profile,
dominating the golden section of this frame.
His deck chair like a yawning V sprawls
imperiously across a carpet floor, right to left.
His shoed feet are up on a table with a teapot,
And he poses with affected nonchalance,
Discoursing with his white-clothed body
on the confidence of place now owned,
for the camera; for the owners.
He has open at his chest a pulp hardback,
Its crude dustcover sketch emblazoned
clearly to the camera's view:
A stockpile image of familar adventure.
His blank eyes seem to pretend to glance
at an easy story's beginning;
One of afternoon boredom
and how firm rule rules from the first
without a need of a read-up of notes on arrival,
Since the Empire runs to order unfailingly.
A steel tub, for washing,
stays in a corner tucked to the left,
beer bottles are opened before boxes and cases
and a traveller's mirror catches a photographer's flash.
This new boy's arrival-festoonery belies
the ancient figures, deities
on carved pillars, dancing Gitas,
laughing,
loving beginnings after ends.
This is his office, in the Chennakeshava Temple
in Somapalem Andrapradesh.
Behind him, tall, erect, face full to the lens,
another's eyes glance to those filled shoes upon the table,
The light between pillars ushering
a chance of outside, a sunset light,
a dying Western blaze upon a shoulder.
This man, perhaps a servant, stands,
But the camera's attempt at chiaroscuro
fails to mask his face to standard form.
He, cheek lit, poised, is seen clearly.
His eyes radiate, in background brightness
though critical, askance.
This standing man's eyes
Reflect more than the colonial's mirror:
This man's eyes know what we see now,
Woodworm under broken shoes
And the imperviousness
of dancing gods on stone.
Two city drunks were staring at the moon
While leaning on a bridge, beneath which flowed
sparkles, ripplegleams. "That thing's a ruin:
Stare harder! Make that fughin' thing explode!"
A thirty-eight year old woman from Chepstow was reported to have given birth to a three headed yak. This was in 1598. Her husband was led in chains to the Tower of London and fed bread and water in the Bloody tower, whipped and racked and made to hang upside down, from the tower battlements over the Thames, in a hair shirt and in full view of passing coaches from Aldgate to Chelsea, while crowds of peasants gathered around and pelted him with jellied blood and buttered oats.
"When we found him in his bed, you know
he'd quite begun to whiff. Stiff as this gin,
He was. You know, he had this glow
Just like a rubber chicken, and this grin
stuck on his face, with all his yellow teeth
sinking in his bottom lip. But then
We noticed that protruding underneath
the bed were reams of pages where his pen
Had scrawled great slabs of poetry and prose
on history and kings, and deaths in battle:
We found this novel right below his toes
He'd written: "Whiskey Stars". Good stuff. Not prattle.
Well, the bugger's dead now. And his novel?
Dunno. I left it there, still in that hovel..."
rocking
dancing
plunging
rising
moving rhythm
plectrum beating
upstroke downstroke
halfbeat quarterbeat
eighthbeat again
again ringing
ringing harmonics
fifths, sevenths,
ninths, elevenths,
infinity spiralling
upward and pulsing
repetitive ragas
modal rills
like rivulets
on sound's
mountainous
roar of blue
quartz janging
azure, moving
the heart of my dancer
new waves
blisswaves
blissweaves
bliss to dance
bliss to dance
to dance
to dance
to dance
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots rocking
dancing
plunging
rising
moving rhythm
plectrum beating
upstroke downstroke
halfbeat quarterbeat
eighthbeat again
again ringing
ringing harmonics
fifths, sevenths,
ninths, elevenths,
infinity spiralling
upward and pulsing
repetitive ragas
modal rills
like rivulets
on sound's
mountainous
roar of blue
quartz janging
azure, moving
the heart of my dancer
new waves
blisswaves
blissweaves
bliss to dance
bliss to dance
to dance
to dance
to dance
Comments
lost in her black sorrow
dancing wild dances and reading her epitaphy
Far from the world where her spirit fought
trying to build a paradise in her meters..
Living in the edge... but...
dying every sunshine with the poets...
In her eyes a diffrent world
a sea for all the dolphins
In her heart a diffrent word
love the food of nymphes
Even in her last hour
she never left the poem
escape her lips
because she knew..
this world wasnt made for hers
but now she is going
to a paradise build in her meters....
~~its better to be hated for who you are than be loved for who you are not~~
F.ZAPPA
I will keep this one for my daughter
(one day)
You´ve named her Rain.
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.
undershone by dying sun, feint red,
now deeper, oh, so deep! Am I allowed
to cry, now that the Doona tide is bled
tonight of sorrows, healing into peace
wherein shall come the darling of my heart,
'O let these skying fires fall and cease
that once kept earth and ocean apart'?
To cry, 'Let moonrise come upon the bay
and let my lover greet me in the sound
of gentle crashing waves that lightly play
the air that makes the lonegull turn around
to catch its whispered, delicious song'?
Yes, I shall cry upon these waves in throng.
What an inspiring day today, isn´t it?
It makes one dance across the room and and scream, after being
hit by the overdose of love and happiness.
lovely creation for your butterfly again
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.
a birthday parcel! It arrived today,
First thing this morning! But, you see,
It's not my birthday until Wednesday
so my darling Julie's written "Not
To Open Until On the Very Day"
seven times upon the box! I've got
to make sure that I'm patient. I must say
I'm tempted just to have a little peek
inside to see my prezzies! But I shan't.
Even if my birthday was a week
away, I'd wait, in spite of happy want.
My butterfly, oh yes, she does inspire
This big old Finsbury, real name McGuire.
wonderful!!!
wednesday, you say. good to know
so simply your words again have composed another melody
to soothe my ghost.
what would this world be like without your genius?
loads of smiles
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.
Rule No. 1....
and God said unto Moses.....
do not peek into thy birthday presents prematurely....
hehehehehehe
up the ladder's shuddering steps
my weight making thud upon thud
in steel echo.
Stooping from about the top
I check the ladder's forefeet:
rubber trotters snugly paw the base
of my whitewashed farmhouse wall.
I place my paint pot on the top
stepladder step, looking within it
to a dense cream pulp. Then I lower
my hand, gripping before it my brush
lightly into the paint's lipped skin
and feel through the handle
the press of thick liquid upon wire.
Now I pull out my brush
and lofting my arm to an eave
to coat it, I see streaked bulbs of surplus
cream paint festoon the wind
and constellate the concrete path below.
As I peer beyond, my left hand leaning
on the top of the wall for balance,
I find clouds stacking to the darkening of blue,
stone air towers in a hierarchy of rain.
Below, Saddle Head, a prostrate mountain
proclaims its contoured sapphire worthless
as it buries itself in rippled miles
of shifting ocean sparkles, twinkles
to the morse of starfish, the beat of sealbreath;
Occasions of tidegush, rhythms of an afternoon.
Day upon day, the tide comes a little nearer,
carving rivulets in the dank jade rush.
In the Parish Church they've locked away
prophecies, some say spoken by a drowning cow
to his master: Doona will drown in a high tide
and no seawall will ever stand.
And I turn back to my eaves, I try to blind
the woodgrain eyes of eaves
with manmade chemicals from a pot,
Knowing next year they'll be staring again.
i have gotten goose bumps from some of the poetry i have read so far.
thanks for sharing yourself with us.
Love
Richard
fluttering in bright blue orbs, gentle Wiley's eyes.
Wiley cries, "Mommy, I've a poem!
I have to write it down before it flies away!"
That's how a poem happens.
Wiley will tell you!
He has an opinion on what English is.
He says what isn't plain isn't English.
He wants to know what something's about before he reads it.
He doesn't want to have to work at decoding something.
He says literature should reflect reality.
He says he doesn't have time to read much.
He says anyone who questions reality is a loony.
He wants language to reinforce his view of the world.
He hates -isms.
He says "The Left can't write".
(He emphasises this pun with a shout.)
He likes to point out what he sees as thick people.
He says a thought that isn't formed neatly isn't a thought at all.
He says a mature thought is a Conservative thought.
He's never invited to parties.
He says he doesn't care.
He's fibbing, I reckon.
you are truly talented
and i swear you could make a living at writing.
maybe you do and you just chill with us ameteurs, huh?!
well, thanks for looking at my work too.
way cool!
and frozen on long, cold floorboards. We
were eight and nine. We'd read the hymns from dogged
old books, must-dusty to the touch. She
was speaking, our headmistress, now (standing
there, her suit blue Thatcher-starched). "There are
Evil atheists in Moscow, handing
stale old bread to queues of mites who stare
out at skies and buildings, black and white,
Lost to communism." Then she steered
the topic onto how the dread and blight
of pagan darkness died where people feared
a Father's light: Strange lands where missions came
and settled, changing "children" for the good
by building up a market in the name
of building souls.
Today, they lack for food,
The "young" of Heaven's providential vision:
those, risen from a cold hard floor;
those, subjects of a colonising mission.
Still, preachers say we're rich in being poor.
darling one, and whisper how you came
to wing upon a world to find my bed
tonight when rose my crying of your name.
straw boater on,
cigar under his civil servant moustache,
chin jutting up in loutish profile,
dominating the golden section of this frame.
His deck chair like a yawning V sprawls
imperiously across a carpet floor, right to left.
His shoed feet are up on a table with a teapot,
And he poses with affected nonchalance,
Discoursing with his white-clothed body
on the confidence of place now owned,
for the camera; for the owners.
He has open at his chest a pulp hardback,
Its crude dustcover sketch emblazoned
clearly to the camera's view:
A stockpile image of familar adventure.
His blank eyes seem to pretend to glance
at an easy story's beginning;
One of afternoon boredom
and how firm rule rules from the first
without a need of a read-up of notes on arrival,
Since the Empire runs to order unfailingly.
A steel tub, for washing,
stays in a corner tucked to the left,
beer bottles are opened before boxes and cases
and a traveller's mirror catches a photographer's flash.
This new boy's arrival-festoonery belies
the ancient figures, deities
on carved pillars, dancing Gitas,
laughing,
loving beginnings after ends.
This is his office, in the Chennakeshava Temple
in Somapalem Andrapradesh.
Behind him, tall, erect, face full to the lens,
another's eyes glance to those filled shoes upon the table,
The light between pillars ushering
a chance of outside, a sunset light,
a dying Western blaze upon a shoulder.
This man, perhaps a servant, stands,
But the camera's attempt at chiaroscuro
fails to mask his face to standard form.
He, cheek lit, poised, is seen clearly.
His eyes radiate, in background brightness
though critical, askance.
This standing man's eyes
Reflect more than the colonial's mirror:
This man's eyes know what we see now,
Woodworm under broken shoes
And the imperviousness
of dancing gods on stone.
While leaning on a bridge, beneath which flowed
sparkles, ripplegleams. "That thing's a ruin:
Stare harder! Make that fughin' thing explode!"
Nah, not really.
he'd quite begun to whiff. Stiff as this gin,
He was. You know, he had this glow
Just like a rubber chicken, and this grin
stuck on his face, with all his yellow teeth
sinking in his bottom lip. But then
We noticed that protruding underneath
the bed were reams of pages where his pen
Had scrawled great slabs of poetry and prose
on history and kings, and deaths in battle:
We found this novel right below his toes
He'd written: "Whiskey Stars". Good stuff. Not prattle.
Well, the bugger's dead now. And his novel?
Dunno. I left it there, still in that hovel..."
dancing
plunging
rising
moving rhythm
plectrum beating
upstroke downstroke
halfbeat quarterbeat
eighthbeat again
again ringing
ringing harmonics
fifths, sevenths,
ninths, elevenths,
infinity spiralling
upward and pulsing
repetitive ragas
modal rills
like rivulets
on sound's
mountainous
roar of blue
quartz janging
azure, moving
the heart of my dancer
new waves
blisswaves
blissweaves
bliss to dance
bliss to dance
to dance
to dance
to dance
(((((((blissweaver))))))))
now thats very rarghhhhh
and sensual!
It was inspired by guitarness.
i was thinking something else
but a guitar can only exemplify it furtherness