Poetry is . . .

CranMalReign · November 2003

Originally posted by setaside2
Poetry is what all people would have said.
...
If ever I lost my hands, I would truly invent telepathy.

Genius. This whole passage was exactly what poetry is to me.

Thank you.

coleen · November 2003

Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley
Two words: Pish Posh.

see what i mean cranmal?

they are very supportive and encouraging. no judgements, no ridicule - although on ocassion there have been the threat of spankings thrown about.

CranMalReign · November 2003

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.

Of course not. I am his Nippleskin friend. pshaw!

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Originally posted by setaside2
I feel ashamed, as if I have been caught masturbating in public

It's really not that embarrassing.

seta, as always, I delight at seeing your light flicker. I would say more, but then that wouldn't be me.

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Originally posted by coleen
they are very supportive and encouraging.

That is the stupidest thing I have ever read.

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Originally posted by CranMalReign
Of course not. I am his Nippleskin friend. pshaw!

So when you laugh, does milk come out your nipples?

CranMalReign · November 2003

Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley
So when you laugh, does milk come out your nipples?

I'll hafta get to know you better before I divulge that.

setaside2 · November 2003

we can either discuss the veracity and possible vitriol surrounding NIPPLESKIN or we can see who else thinks poetry is what.

Post it here. I'm curious.

seta

BhagavadGita · November 2003

i must admit i have not been able to keep up the frantic pace i was writing several weeks back, at the dark beginning of this wonderfual adventure.. i am non medicated now and feel my sex chakra spinning out of control so me thinks til i get some real monkey dick, i may be slightly distracted but poetry in the beginning was to me like

throwing up on a strangers shoes, a really really cute and talented strangers shoes.

although his big red shoes were full of head cheese so who knew!

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Originally posted by setaside2
we can either discuss the veracity and possible vitriol surrounding NIPPLESKIN or we can see who else thinks poetry is what.

Post it here. I'm curious.

seta

Poetry, like a nipple, is a little pointy island surrounded by skin. On this nipple lives the poet. He has pink feet and is scared to step on the cream or chocolate skin that hems him in because his feet might leave pinkish footprints all over the nice umblemished skin. He doesn't like dirty things, so he sits quietly and plays with his pointy thing all the time. However, he learns (whether through divination or vibration or sensation) that another Pink Person lives on the other side of the Great Chest Valley of Hair. He wants desperately to make contact to this other person because she is just like him, he knows it, he feels it, he tastes sad moth wings because of it. He stretches himself as far as he can, but still cannot reach the other Pink Person. All this damn flesh is a fuss. So he decides one midnight to brave the flesh. He takes a cautious step. He doesn't sink. He doesn't stink. There are no footprints. There are no strangers. Just skin and longing and emerging urgings. He looks back at the comfortable and miserable island he just left and wonders why he was scared in the first place. Never be scared to step. Never be scared to connect. Poetry steps. Poetry connects.

And the two Pink Persons met just beyond the Great Chest Valley of Hair and lived happily ever after. Right over the heart.

CranMalReign · November 2003

Originally posted by Radar(Baba)O'Riley
Poetry, like a nipple, is a little pointy island surrounded by skin. On this nipple lives the poet. He has pink feet and is scared to step on the cream or chocolate skin that hems him in because his feet might leave pinkish footprints all over the nice umblemished skin. He doesn't like dirty things, so he sits quietly and plays with his pointy thing all the time. However, he learns (whether through divination or vibration or sensation) that another Pink Person lives on the other side of the Great Chest Valley of Hair. He wants desperately to make contact to this other person because she is just like him, he knows it, he feels it, he tastes sad moth wings because of it. He stretches himself as far as he can, but still cannot reach the other Pink Person. All this damn flesh is a fuss. So he decides one midnight to brave the flesh. He takes a cautious step. He doesn't sink. He doesn't stink. There are no footprints. There are no strangers. Just skin and longing and emerging urgings. He looks back at the comfortable and miserable island he just left and wonders why he was scared in the first place. Never be scared to step. Never be scared to connect. Poetry steps. Poetry connects.

And the two Pink Persons met just beyond the Great Chest Valley of Hair and lived happily ever after. Right over the heart.

Now holy shit that was adorable. I wonder what sad moth wings taste like.

lifeisworth · November 2003

Originally posted by CranMalReign
Now holy shit that was adorable. I wonder what sad moth wings taste like.

i know... i know...

too fuggin funny

BhagavadGita · November 2003

I think Seta often says it best for me and what poetry means to me...

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 NEVER NEVER considered myself a poet until the PJ message board allowed me to be who I was. Vulnerable, insecure, truthful and most of all full of love for a man who started my engine. I don't have much of my own to say about it, but here is one of my favorite poems that tells my story. (i hope i havent posted this yet. it seems the last several weeks are starting to blur and sometimes i cant begin to remember what i wrote.)

One day, i was just a girl, the next day I woke and I felt like Neruda. BUT, i do know where it came from,

POETRY
And it was at that age (40!)...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Gita, you're always the poetess with the mostest

BhagavadGita · November 2003

i love you jeremy

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Originally posted by BhagavadGita
i love you jeremy

Who?

BhagavadGita · November 2003

Originally posted by BhagavadGita
i love you jeremy

forgive me,

I love you Eddie Vedder.

Deborah

Radar(Baba)O'Riley · November 2003

Originally posted by BhagavadGita
forgive me,

I love you Eddie Vedder.

Deborah

Who - Episode II: Attack of the Clones??

Call me pumpkin pants.

setaside2 · November 2003

Ah the romance runs thick, no matter the confusion or Confucian mists in its wake, the Incan jungle that crowds and caresses...

To emerge from the deepening of the cascading forests a triumph within itself and to find that the moonlight heals... ahhhh icing on that cake.

Do you bring with you the pelicans of dawn? The coming wind, or the somersault of rain? Your footsteps bleed water and I stoop to drink as I follow, grateful for the little that you give in the dirt.

Where do I stumble forward?

I sigh, a lost tornado. I fear the great blue above me, I prefer the mud I am stuck within. It comforts and drowns, a thick embrace, a touch I had forgotten.

The earth, she loves me. I cry to death in her arms and dream the dream of a home in homelessness.

My heart may fossilize or crystalize to be discovered by some worthy adventurer far in the future. May it be up to them, the preservation, the display.

I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.

Being Enlightened · November 2003

Originally posted by setaside2
Ah the romance runs thick, no matter the confusion or Confucian mists in its wake.

Or is it Peruvian mist? That Incan jungle that crowds and caresses...

To emerge from the deepening of the cascading forests a triumph within itself and to find that the moonlight heals... ahhhh icing on that cake.

Do you bring with you the pelicans of dawn? The coming wind, or the somersault of rain? Your footsteps bleed water and I stoop to drink as I follow, grateful for the little that you give in the dirt.

Where do I stumble forward?

I sigh, a lost tornado. I fear the great blue above me, I prefer the mud I am stuck within. It comforts and drowns, a thick embrace, a touch I had forgotten.

The earth, she loves me. I cry to death in her arms and dream the dream of a home in homelessness.

My heart may fossilize or crystalize to be discovered by some worthy adventurer far in the future. May it be up to them, the preservation, the display.

I sincerely hope my emotions will be of museum quality.

Breathlessly beautiful!

Poetry is . . .

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