groove, I'll back you up. Don't take it as not to make suggestions, in fact take it to make more, open the mouth up about how you feel and a suggestion may or may not fall out but SOMETHING will and that's keeping it real, you know?
As for that particular poem, and as for being a poet who has sworn in several pieces, I think it works. It would work without it, but I think it is far more direct with it. I would miss it, but only because I read it that way the first time, right? I agree that either way, it would be a strong piece. And yeah, visceral is a great word to use to describe it.
In fact, I'd say that visceral, in it's tactile definition, describes a lot of Pasta's work. It always comes straight from within. She never cheats, is always honest, and I think even occasionally surprises herself with what she finds upon her hands and upon her page when she is done.
I think that's a fabulous part of writing poetry: the "where the hell did that come from and why does it make so much sense to me now that it's out here" situation.
it's easy to fall in love with a poet like Pasta. She leaves it open to do so.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
OK...perhaps I overeacted. The Unseens post just made it sound like I was trying to censor you or as though I was some fundamentalist. I felt pretty offended, but I simply should have not posted a reply. I apologize for my rushed reply.
I shall continue to suggest, when I feel the need. But with most people on this board, there is no need to suggest, only enjoy. There's a lot of good poets on here.
Originally posted by PastaNazi
The Symphonies of Virgins
Singing, lust-riddled, for Heaven's love
The Canticles of Ecstasy...
reaching, touching God's Everlasting hope
that his sons might learn mercy.
That his daughters keep the faith
three times their own size.
Against the truth that every day
choke-holds us we believe.
Bend her break
flail at her capacity.
Push her head underwater
laugh when she can't breathe.
Sum surprised
when a brother comes
to tan your horse's hide.
Love these sons so true and strong.
Heeding His directive line.
Keeping happy, keeping safe
to grow mankind's tomorrow.
...i wish i had the right words to reply to this...but PN? i'm almost positive you know exactly what i'm thinking.
You ask me to enter
But then You make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what You got
When all You've got is hurt
----
Underneath this smile lies everything
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame
Originally posted by PastaNazi oh I KNOW you know, violet
I'd go on, but then i'd be all exposed and stuff
lol
can't have that
hehe,
yea...i think i've given up on exposing myself as well
You ask me to enter
But then You make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what You got
When all You've got is hurt
----
Underneath this smile lies everything
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame
hours under the chitter glass plastic
making hot the line's timed resonance
the way that love hears its repeating
in four-times-infinity-new-squared ways
each take a new bee to a new blossom
on the first tree that ever dropped fruit on men
each accepting deeper droplets
freeze-thawing the rock set
in ways we used to have to be
love,
I love thee,
be thy bee mine
we sit under new trees
canonized in our eyes
In springtime the sandman blows me
acrid sandstorms that buff my teeth to a high clean sheen,
and we, my mouse, and I, crawl home to our showers
and empty the hot water heater, making our skin more red
more red delicious
in our screaming, adobe, split-lipped home.
The sandman fucks me in the mouth as if I were his personal bitch
begging, "Please, Baby Please,
seed me...
scrape me...
schlough me raw."
Yeehaw
I'm born to cowgirls in the sand.
The President of My United States
was a cowgirl in the sand
before she found her sandals.
Now she's a hippie-freak on the beach
without the heat that used to burn bare feet.
Her flower power pistol-whipped with beats and feather-down.
And she looks deep
more complete
with sinning similies and smiles.
this stuff is lovely....really eloquent and gorgeous.....(very big busty feminine!!!!)
....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......
The sandman fucks me in the mouth as if I were his personal bitch
such a lovely turn of phrase.....the imagery is great!!!!
....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......
Comments
As for that particular poem, and as for being a poet who has sworn in several pieces, I think it works. It would work without it, but I think it is far more direct with it. I would miss it, but only because I read it that way the first time, right? I agree that either way, it would be a strong piece. And yeah, visceral is a great word to use to describe it.
In fact, I'd say that visceral, in it's tactile definition, describes a lot of Pasta's work. It always comes straight from within. She never cheats, is always honest, and I think even occasionally surprises herself with what she finds upon her hands and upon her page when she is done.
I think that's a fabulous part of writing poetry: the "where the hell did that come from and why does it make so much sense to me now that it's out here" situation.
it's easy to fall in love with a poet like Pasta. She leaves it open to do so.
so very much
couldn't do it any other way
ya know?
I shall continue to suggest, when I feel the need. But with most people on this board, there is no need to suggest, only enjoy. There's a lot of good poets on here.
Draw closed the web
Over the lines
About my lips
This one last time
And let this last
of dim lights shine
Just one more time
To march us down
three stormy beaches
in the dark
Be it used to light a lamp
And use the light
To fasten tight
Casket to shore
Wade nevermore
Into the murkiest of depths
Or to the shallows of a breath
We just let go.
The Symphonies of Virgins
Singing, lust-riddled, for Heaven's love
The Canticles of Ecstasy...
reaching, touching God's Everlasting hope
that his sons might learn mercy.
That his daughters keep the faith
three times their own size.
Against the truth that every day
choke-holds us we believe.
Bend her break
flail at her capacity.
Push her head underwater
laugh when she can't breathe.
Sum surprised
when a brother comes
to tan your horse's hide.
Love these sons so true and strong.
Heeding His directive line.
Keeping happy, keeping safe
to grow mankind's tomorrow.
silent nimbus behind misted eyes
that old thing?
lol
actually it's as fresh as the daisies themselves
it's for those guys
who forget they're built stronger from the start
and use making people feel small
to feel big
now, i'm-a-go-on with my 5'3" self, like you told me to
kisses
I used to tear people down all the time so I could feel 5'6". I try not to do it anymore. Sometimes I catch myself, still. I'm a work in progress.
...i wish i had the right words to reply to this...but PN? i'm almost positive you know exactly what i'm thinking.
But then You make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what You got
When all You've got is hurt
----
Underneath this smile lies everything
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame
I'd go on, but then i'd be all exposed and stuff
lol
can't have that
hehe,
yea...i think i've given up on exposing myself as well
But then You make me crawl
And I can't be holding on
To what You got
When all You've got is hurt
----
Underneath this smile lies everything
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame
Can you see someone sitting there, writing, then questioning oneself... "oh, is this Classy enough?"...
that would SO be the round hole to my square peg
alo, alo
making hot the line's timed resonance
the way that love hears its repeating
in four-times-infinity-new-squared ways
each take a new bee to a new blossom
on the first tree that ever dropped fruit on men
each accepting deeper droplets
freeze-thawing the rock set
in ways we used to have to be
love,
I love thee,
be thy bee mine
we sit under new trees
canonized in our eyes
so finally now
so finally alive
In springtime the sandman blows me
acrid sandstorms that buff my teeth to a high clean sheen,
and we, my mouse, and I, crawl home to our showers
and empty the hot water heater, making our skin more red
more red delicious
in our screaming, adobe, split-lipped home.
The sandman fucks me in the mouth as if I were his personal bitch
begging, "Please, Baby Please,
seed me...
scrape me...
schlough me raw."
Yeehaw
I'm born to cowgirls in the sand.
The President of My United States
was a cowgirl in the sand
before she found her sandals.
Now she's a hippie-freak on the beach
without the heat that used to burn bare feet.
Her flower power pistol-whipped with beats and feather-down.
And she looks deep
more complete
with sinning similies and smiles.
such a lovely turn of phrase.....the imagery is great!!!!