Today's poet

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

The Bukowski is fantastic. Thanks for that freckle! :)

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Yes, no kidding it's long freckle:eek:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

Yes, no kidding it's long freckle:eek:

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I resisted the temptation to quote freckle's post ;)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Bukowski anyone? its long...but good!...(so stick with it!!!!)

Let it enfold you

[COLOR=#333333][FONT=Arial]e.......
foot on the gas
pedal,
I entered the world
once
more,
drove down the
hill
past the houses
full and empty
of
people,
I saw the mailman,
honked,
he waved
back
at me.



Charles Bukowski

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Totally bloody brilliant - Bukowski has been a favourite of mine since I first encountered him on this thread

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eulog...ell-of-a-dame/

Can't remember who first posted the poem DT?HHH?Merry? or?, but he's up there with my favourites. Thanks freckle, I'd not read that one before.

I think freckle was first to post Bukowski poetry. I read some of his I think autobiographical prose years ago. A lot of it's bleak and relates to what he thankfully seemed to have moved away from in tonight's verse. iirc the Mickey Rouke film Barfly is based on his life. I saw it when it came out but haven't seen it since

aye it was me i think...

fancy some more angst?......bukowski style?

Now

I sit here on the 2nd floor
hunched over in yellow
pjyamas
still pretending to be
a writer.
some damned gall,
at 71,
my brain cells eaten
away by
life.
rows of books
behind me,
I scratch my thinning
hair
and search for the
word.

Charles Bukowski

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Derby Tup

I think freckle was first to post Bukowski poetry. I read some of his I think autobiographical prose years ago. A lot of it's bleak and relates to what he thankfully seemed to have moved away from in tonight's verse. iirc the Mickey Rouke film Barfly is based on his life. I saw it when it came out but haven't seen it since

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I really enjoyed the Bukowski - have come across some of his earthier works, but this reflective piece is a treat.
In a competetive moment I was going to post Oliver Goldsmith's 'Deserted Village' that was inflicted on us for A level, at 430 lines might have set some record. You'll be pleased I didn't....though it does have the line "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife"...which is so good it cropped up elsewhere much later.

Anyway, much more importantly, Merry - congratulations!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

or listening to the
rain in the
dark.
the less I needed
the better I
felt.

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:cool: :cool:

Thanks freckle I have not come across his work before.:)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Old Whippet

I really enjoyed the Bukowski - have come across some of his earthier works, but this reflective piece is a treat.
In a competetive moment I was going to post Oliver Goldsmith's 'Deserted Village' that was inflicted on us for A level, at 430 lines might have set some record. You'll be pleased I didn't....though it does have the line "Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife"...which is so good it cropped up elsewhere much later.

Anyway, much more importantly, Merry - congratulations!

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Cheers OW, freckle and Mossdog for the earlier congrats:)
Been looking at Bukowski and found this, like it, long walks at night beat going to the pub then home for an argument;)

And The Moon And The Stars And The World


Long walks at night--
that's what good for the soul:
peeking into windows
watching tired housewives
trying to fight off
their beer-maddened husbands.

Charles Bukowski

i love that poem merry...nice one :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

Cheers OW, freckle and Mossdog for the earlier congrats:)
Been looking at Bukowski and found this, like it, long walks at night beat going to the pub then home for an argument;)

And The Moon And The Stars And The World


Long walks at night--
that's what good for the soul:
peeking into windows
watching tired housewives
trying to fight off
their beer-maddened husbands.


Charles Bukowski

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Constantly Risking Absurdity

Lawrence Ferlinghetti


Constantly risking absurdity

and death

whenever he performs

above the heads

of his audience

the poet like an acrobat

climbs on rime

to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

above a sea of faces

paces his way

to the other side of the day

performing entrechats

and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

and all without mistaking

any thing

for what it may not be

For he's the super realist

who must perforce perceive

taut truth

before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

with gravity

to start her death-defying leap

And he

a little charleychaplin man

who may or may not catch

her fair eternal form

spreadeagled in the empty air

of existence

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mossdog

Constantly Risking Absurdity

Lawrence Ferlinghetti


Constantly risking absurdity

and death

whenever he performs

above the heads

of his audience

the poet like an acrobat

climbs on rime

to a high wire of his own making

and balancing on eyebeams

above a sea of faces

paces his way

to the other side of the day

performing entrechats

and sleight-of-foot tricks

and other high theatrics

and all without mistaking

any thing

for what it may not be

For he's the super realist

who must perforce perceive

taut truth

before the taking of each stance or step

in his supposed advance

toward that still higher perch

where Beauty stands and waits

with gravity

to start her death-defying leap

And he

a little charleychaplin man

who may or may not catch

her fair eternal form

spreadeagled in the empty air

of existence

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Class Mossy, class!...and very timely for me at the minute...i am desperately trying to write tonight and just can't get the words right!.....:mad:

offski....night all

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

offski....night all

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Night freckle;)

Hi Merry, I'm really pleased to hear about your work! That's great news, congratulations.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

Hi Merry, I'm really pleased to hear about your work! That's great news, congratulations.

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Merry recieves congrats
From all corners
Many thanks good people
May all my friends have support and luck in their time of need;)

Late the thread as usual...life and work got in the way. Still, it is always good to read what has been posted and I loved all the Bukowski.

The Stars

The stars appear one by one
like small songs,
like small terrors
rattling bright in their cages.
The moon so skin.
Pale rice paper
awash in blood.

The wolf—
a brilliant blue flame
through the trees.

Laura Lush

Some Functions of Snow
Elizabeth Zetlin

For quiet. To play
charades with the trees,
tickle the backs of lakes.
For obliteration, alliteration
and rhyme. To refrigerate
knees, force us to slow down, simplify,
clean out the closets. To insulate
and lessen loss — of water
from dormant plants, of sadness
from the rest of us. To sparkle.
To make us dig out from under
crystallized patterns. To clear the palette.
To remind us we're not in control.
To awaken shoulders and ache backs,
make us look up from whatever we're doing,
bring us closer to clouds. To be
atmospheric, translucent, one of a kind.
To halt traffic, close schools, disturb reception, cancel
just about everything as we fall to earth,
flail our arms like wings, become
what we like to call snow angels,
enter stillness, melt.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

The Stars

The stars appear one by one
like small songs,
like small terrors
rattling bright in their cages.
The moon so skin.
Pale rice paper
awash in blood.

The wolf—
a brilliant blue flame
through the trees.

Laura Lush

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Always had a thing about wolves and werewolves, remember doing a sponsored walk at school and my dad buying me an airfix werewolf with glow in the dark paint for completing it, always kept it at the side of my bed.
Used to be a werewolf, but i'm alright noooooooooooooooooooooow:D

Running With Wolves


Trapped in submission,
Sumberged in this condition,
Trapped in a shell,
I wish I could quell.

To be free is a dream,
To have what I desire is a wish.

Where can I go,
Where will this path lead,
From this shell I'll never grow,
From this body I won't stop to bleed.

Running with wolves,
An impossible dream,
A most wanted wish.

This shell hiding the beast inside,
I walk in skin,
He talks to me as a guide,
He is my friend, my opposite, my twin.

For him to break free,
What a day that would be,
Until...I abide,
Always there yet he hides inside.

The burning sensation,
To howl,
To run,
To feel the fascination.

Though I feel no fur,
Scratch no claws,
Run no forest,
Howl no song.

My dreams keep me in fascination,
They drive the sensation,
The wolf inside keeps me alive,
The running of the wolves makes me thrive.

Evan Skora

Too tired,Too drunk,Collapsed.

Cigarette stained fingers,
Grab the,
Broken neck of,
The beer bottle,
Smashed again,
Glass slices,
My feet crimson,
Tide against carpet,
Sand coloured,
Filth I lie cough,
As I pass out pissed,
Up fool can't just,
Want to feel the,
Hardened sand of my soul.

Some great stuff tonight again.

Good one Merry. I very much relate to that :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

Always had a thing about wolves and werewolves, remember doing a sponsored walk at school and my dad buying me an airfix werewolf with glow in the dark paint for completing it, always kept it at the side of my bed.
Used to be a werewolf, but i'm alright noooooooooooooooooooooow:D

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:D I like the idea of a glow in the dark werewolf! Airfix models were great weren't they? I wonder if they still make them. I used to have a thing about wolves too and did loads of drawings and paintings of them. I even went to Regents Park zoo and drew the wolves in the enclosure there.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Herakles

Too tired,Too drunk,Collapsed.

Cigarette stained fingers,
Grab the,
Broken neck of,
The beer bottle,
Smashed again,
Glass slices,
My feet crimson,
Tide against carpet,
Sand coloured,
Filth I lie cough,
As I pass out pissed,
Up fool can't just,
Want to feel the,
Hardened sand of my soul.

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Gritty Herakles...it made me wince.

there was a young woman called hes
who tried to be strong and fearless
but when blood was in sight
it gave her a fright
and she became a bit of a mess

(it is blooming annoying that trait, I have overcome it when I have had to but I hate that feeling and the grey dot thing).

I'm off...night all.

Good night Hes.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

I'm off...night all.

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Night Hes, hope you get over the grey dot thing;)

A full moon, hairs on my palm
I howl at the night
Off to my lair, before i cause a fright:eek:
Goodnight all;)

That's lovely. I managed to find a couple of patches to run through yesterday. I had to keep detouring off the path, but I couldn't resist. :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

Some Functions of Snow
Elizabeth Zetlin

For quiet. To play
charades with the trees,
tickle the backs of lakes.
For obliteration, alliteration
and rhyme. To refrigerate
knees, force us to slow down, simplify,
clean out the closets. To insulate
and lessen loss — of water
from dormant plants, of sadness
from the rest of us. To sparkle.
To make us dig out from under
crystallized patterns. To clear the palette.
To remind us we're not in control.
To awaken shoulders and ache backs,
make us look up from whatever we're doing,
bring us closer to clouds. To be
atmospheric, translucent, one of a kind.
To halt traffic, close schools, disturb reception, cancel
just about everything as we fall to earth,
flail our arms like wings, become
what we like to call snow angels,
enter stillness, melt.

---

Quote:

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Originally Posted by merrylegs

A full moon, hairs on my palm
I howl at the night
Off to my lair, before i cause a fright:eek:
Goodnight all;)

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Hey! I've just realised I never congratulated you on the job Merry. Nice one.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Hes

The Stars

The stars appear one by one
like small songs,
like small terrors
rattling bright in their cages.
The moon so skin.
Pale rice paper
awash in blood.

The wolf—
a brilliant blue flame
through the trees.

Laura Lush

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love it !

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Harry H Howgill

Hey! I've just realised I never congratulated you on the job Merry. Nice one.

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Cheers Harry;)

evenin all

This is about the only bit of poetry i 'get', the author's sense of dispair and anguish is almost tangible, we did it in english at school.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by mr brightside

This is about the only bit of poetry i 'get', the author's sense of dispair and anguish is almost tangible, we did it in english at school.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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Evening.........

I adore this poem mr brightside a classic, gets me every time thanks for posting :)

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Evening.........

I adore this poem mr brightside a classic, gets me every time thanks for posting :)

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me too...it says it all perfectly.

Young Crows
Susan McMaster

Your voice on the phone—
cancer — and their wings
start beating in my chest
black crow wings
leathered and soft
with bending spines,
handfuls of wings
fluttering, caught
between heart and ribs
pressing in on lungs
catching my breath
in spurts, starts

You ask for reassurance
but, this time, I can't tell.
Once or twice before
I've somehow known:
this one will fail
this one heal—
but now the air is still
now, when more than ever
I want to feel
the direction of the wind
strain for a clear view
silence suspends me
a foggy calm
neither feathers nor sky

I don't know what to say
We must wait for the tests
their uncertain light
keep a grip on this shifting
nest of bones
while the harsh winds swirl

wait, hold tight—

till a gust sends you spinning
out into the blast
we follow as we can
through storms, gales
inversions, calms

We don't know yet—
will your wings tear apart
in the tempest's wail
drop you crashing into rocks

Or will a gentler breeze
catch you, carry you
lift you against hope
to a nest of long grasses
on the hill's shaggy side

wings beat at my heart
fear takes flight

I thought this was really moving too.

Wow she is really good...it is almost 21.00...time for some passion (ooh I remember the days...;))!

The Pleasure of Lusting
Susan McMaster
From: Uncommon Prayer. Kingson, Ontario: Quarry Press, 1998.

—the pleasure of lusting
after you is to stroke, with my finger
the hollow beside your eye so lightly
you only shift and turn in your sleep—
hmmm— a small, satisfied sound
and your arm drops across me
in sleepy caress, and fits
under its weight, the arch
leaves my back, I become soft
as the sheet, waver down
your snores

—or to lie, blanket to chin
while you warm last night's coffee, lie
with one knee turned out, fingers idling
casual as the stroke for the cat
who sometimes rumbles beside us
as we toss, feeling everything
become fluid, rounded
a watery terrain

—and then to pull you
down to me, turn with one motion
from back to front, close my hands
around your ankles, close the triangle
as you rock me from below, as we
climb a long, slow wave to the
top, glide down

—what pleasure, then
to drift into dream of rocking
together up wave after wave
or wake, cup palm around
your shoulder as you drowse
beside me, watching

—three small, sleek, blackbirds
in the tree outside the window
whistle and preen

—roll again over you