Annoncing my poem! You jey!

[MTVM]

mad max or mad max beyond thunderdome?

I do rather resemble a young Mel Gibson, the one who kept his mouth shut and made women swoon. And I would like to co-star with Tina Turner in (ahem) something. Does that count?

 

[Angeline]

I do rather resemble a young Mel Gibson, the one who kept his mouth shut and made women swoon. And I would like to co-star with Tina Turner in (ahem) something. Does that count?

Thank you for qualifying the Mel resemblence.

I wrote a Tina Turner poem once. Damn I wish I could find that disc I lost when we moved. I had about 100 illustrated poems on it that went bye bye with it.

 

[MTVM]

Thank you for qualifying the Mel resemblence.

I wrote a Tina Turner poem once. Damn I wish I could find that disc I lost when we moved. I had about 100 illustrated poems on it that went bye bye with it.

Truth to tell, I probably look more like Elvis Costello than Mel Gibson, except I'm taller, American, and a lousy guitar player.

He wasn't in Mad Max, though.

The Ike and Tina Revue-era Ms. Turner was pretty, uh, energetic.

 

[Angeline]

Truth to tell, I probably look more like Elvis Costello than Mel Gibson, except I'm taller, American, and a lousy guitar player.

He wasn't in Mad Max, though.

The Ike and Tina Revue-era Ms. Turner was pretty, uh, energetic.

Elvis Costello is way cooler than Mel Gibson.

I saw Tina in Atlantic City about 12 or 13 years ago, so she was in her early 60s at the time. She could still shake a tail feather like nobody's business. I did love the Ike and Tina Turner Review though. My sister and I used to watch them on TV when we were kids and dance like the Ikettes lol. But poor Tina--she was dealing with Ike and Phil Spector. They must grow some strong women in Nutbush City.

 

[MTVM]

Elvis Costello is way cooler than Mel Gibson.

That's what I always said! Several girls (I use that word deliberately, reflecting both their age and my maturity) were unimpressed by the argument.

I saw Tina in Atlantic City about 12 or 13 years ago, so she was in her early 60s at the time. She could still shake a tail feather like nobody's business. I did love the Ike and Tina Turner Review though. My sister and I used to watch them on TV when we were kids and dance like the Ikettes lol. But poor Tina--she was dealing with Ike and Phil Spector. They must grow some strong women in Nutbush City.

She's nearly 68 years old and could still wring me out like an old dishrag. Wrong thread for this, but I cosmicomically adjuidcate cotnent!!! Nutbush City Limits. It's in Tennessee, y'all.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

this is all very nice, but how bout some poetry?

That's what I always said! Several girls (I use that word deliberately, reflecting both their age and my maturity) were unimpressed by the argument.
She's nearly 68 years old and could still wring me out like an old dishrag. Wrong thread for this, but I cosmicomically adjuidcate cotnent!!! Nutbush City Limits. It's in Tennessee, y'all.

I would have been impressed by the argument. Completely hot for Elvis Costello.

I wonder, MTVMVT, if you have any work in your canon about having your head crushed by tina's completely perfect, positively divine thighs...


bijou

 

[MTVM]

I would have been impressed by the argument. Completely hot for Elvis Costello.

I wonder, MTVMVT, if you have any work in your canon about having your head crushed by tina's completely perfect, positively divine thighs...


bijou

They are really nice legs. I think she works out. (Skip the Beatles cover, if you can. And, hey. Is that Jesse Jackson in the audience?)

 

[Eluard]

Is it from the Tudor or the Fourdor period? Ah, well I remember the War of the Roadsters...

bijou

Very funny, bijou!

 

[MTVM]

Do Not Go Gently into a Bar Fight

Do not go gently into a bar fight,
Be sage in turn and brave in the melee.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Tough, wizened men know all's fair in fights.
Because they've fought off broken bottles they
Do not go gently into a bar fight.

Good men, disadvantaged, think rules are right—
This frailty's usually trounced in some mean way.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Mild men who often sing take run in flight
And are branded cowards. Avoid their way:
Do not run gently from a bar fight.

Brave men fight well, fists flailing left and right,
Black eyes worn as proud medals of the fray.
Rage? Rage keeps them from crying in the night.

And you, my brother, here with me tonight,
Cursed to cover my defenseless rear, I say
Do not go gently into this bar fight—
Rage. Rage keeps us from crying in the night.


—for Ms. C., who suggested it

 

[Angeline]

Do Not Go Gently into a Bar Fight

Do not go gently into a bar fight,
Be sage in turn and brave in the melee.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Tough, wizened men know all's fair in fights.
Because they've fought off broken bottles they
Do not go gently into a bar fight.

Good men, disadvantaged, think rules are right—
This frailty's usually trounced in some mean way.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Mild men who often sing take run in flight
And are branded cowards. Avoid their way:
Do not run gently from a bar fight.

Brave men fight well, fists flailing left and right,
Black eyes worn as proud medals of the fray.
Rage? Rage keeps them from crying in the night.

And you, my brother, here with me tonight,
Cursed to cover my defenseless rear, I say
Do not go gently into this bar fight—
Rage. Rage keeps us from crying in the night.


—for Ms. C., who suggested it

Nice to see you branching into the world of form poetry.

 

[MTVM]

Nice to see you branching into the world of form poetry.

I had already done Donne for first formal form.

 

[Angeline]

I had already done Donne for first formal form.

I have to go back and look. A sonnet, I s'pose.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

o now you've done it

Do Not Go Gently into a Bar Fight

Do not go gently into a bar fight,
Be sage in turn and brave in the melee.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Tough, wizened men know all's fair in fights.
Because they've fought off broken bottles they
Do not go gently into a bar fight.

Good men, disadvantaged, think rules are right—
This frailty's usually trounced in some mean way.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Mild men who often sing take run in flight
And are branded cowards. Avoid their way:
Do not run gently from a bar fight.

Brave men fight well, fists flailing left and right,
Black eyes worn as proud medals of the fray.
Rage? Rage keeps them from crying in the night.

And you, my brother, here with me tonight,
Cursed to cover my defenseless rear, I say
Do not go gently into this bar fight—
Rage. Rage keeps us from crying in the night.


—for Ms. C., who suggested it

as if I weren't already in love with you. A villanelle, indeed.

bijou

 

[Epmd607]

EC and MG

elvis costello is def. a poet. who knows, mel might be.

You're sending me tulips mistaken for lilies
You give me your lip after punching me silly

 

[MTVM]

Here venturing I am lost for something. Foreignessity. Lost I am, but trepid. Pleas, smartnessed one, pleas forgiv en humble offaling. Meantling is good!!!!

Autopiscography

A groupie in a lake!
Her fishiness surreal—
I'd play her pat-a-cake
And negotiate a deal

To represent her eyes
Which are supremely fine.
Two orbs though, fishy, wise—
No flattery. Divine.

Although this fishy swims
Through minds admiring gain
She's strung me on her whims:
I bite her bait! Am slain!​

O.B. generous, remoter ladty on humple effort. Bad potre I am, I know, but entuhsiantic!

 

[Angeline]

Do Not Go Gently into a Bar Fight

Do not go gently into a bar fight,
Be sage in turn and brave in the melee.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Tough, wizened men know all's fair in fights.
Because they've fought off broken bottles they
Do not go gently into a bar fight.

Good men, disadvantaged, think rules are right—
This frailty's usually trounced in some mean way.
Rage. Rage keeps you from crying in the night.

Mild men who often sing take run in flight
And are branded cowards. Avoid their way:
Do not run gently from a bar fight.

Brave men fight well, fists flailing left and right,
Black eyes worn as proud medals of the fray.
Rage? Rage keeps them from crying in the night.

And you, my brother, here with me tonight,
Cursed to cover my defenseless rear, I say
Do not go gently into this bar fight—
Rage. Rage keeps us from crying in the night.


—for Ms. C., who suggested it

His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away
from splashing to the lake, measuring poet's time,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

was beauty terrible, a history where sorrow lay
ruined in hearts, bled in the land, bred in his rhyme,
his swans have gone from Coole, flown years away.

Commanding flap, their trumpet fading to the gray,
the purpled mist of dusk or dawn, past tower, chime,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

wears scars like tarnished jewels that fueled his day
in anguish slouching toward a vision of the crime:
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,

loss blown like love and seedlings, nothing but to pray
for daughter and schoolchildren, years that climb,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

can't heal, but even tattered, aged, he raged in sway
of nation spun into the bone of hills and wild thyme.
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say.

 

[LeBroz]

His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away
from splashing to the lake, measuring poet's time,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

was beauty terrible, a history where sorrow lay
ruined in hearts, bled in the land, bred in his rhyme,
his swans have gone from Coole, flown years away.

Commanding flap, their trumpet fading to the gray,
the purpled mist of dusk or dawn, past tower, chime,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

wears scars like tarnished jewels that fueled his day
in anguish slouching toward a vision of the crime:
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,

loss blown like love and seedlings, nothing but to pray
for daughter and schoolchildren, years that climb,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

can't heal, but even tattered, aged, he raged in sway
of nation spun into the bone of hills and wild thyme.
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say.

Good lord! You're probably the only one I know who'd write a villanelle in play.
At least deserves a cherished

.

.
.
.

 

[champagne1982]

Do Not Go Gently into a Bar Fight—for Ms. C., who suggested it

Well, I've never had a bar fight dedicated to me, and very few poems... I'm bamboozled!

 

[champagne1982]

Good lord! You're probably the only one I know who'd write a villanelle in play.
At least deserves a cherished

.

.
.
.

Silly Leon, you should see what she does with a sestina! (Oh, wait, you have ). But seriously, isn't writing poetry a form of entertainment? It's logical to step from doing something you enjoy right into the realm of play, I think. At least, that's what I attempt to do, successful or not, I can't say. I do know that I have fun trying.

 

[Angeline]

Good lord! You're probably the only one I know who'd write a villanelle in play.
At least deserves a cherished

.

.
.
.

I like writing form poems. They're like solving puzzles to me.

 

[MTVM]

Well, I've never had a bar fight dedicated to me, and very few poems... I'm bamboozled!

You've never had guys fight over you in a bar? What the hell is wrong with Canada?

You have very attractive bamboozles, by the way. Just a comment.

 

[MTVM]

His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away
from splashing to the lake, measuring poet's time,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

was beauty terrible, a history where sorrow lay
ruined in hearts, bled in the land, bred in his rhyme,
his swans have gone from Coole, flown years away.

Commanding flap, their trumpet fading to the gray,
the purpled mist of dusk or dawn, past tower, chime,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

wears scars like tarnished jewels that fueled his day
in anguish slouching toward a vision of the crime:
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,

loss blown like love and seedlings, nothing but to pray
for daughter and schoolchildren, years that climb,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

can't heal, but even tattered, aged, he raged in sway
of nation spun into the bone of hills and wild thyme.
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say.

I am really really tempted to write a poem titled "The Wild Swains at Coole," but I poorly render country life (though I have been to the Roy Rogers Bar in Terry, Montana (pop. 611) where one helpful local pointed out the holes in the wall into which some local notables headlike appendages had been involuntarily thrust. It seemed to be a recreational activity. I tried very hard not to overstay my welcome.) But, as I said, no matter.

No fair writing a real poem, though! That takes all the fun out of it. Makes it harder, too. Cranky east coast, uh, harpy!

 

[Angeline]

I am really really tempted to write a poem titled "The Wild Swains at Coole," but I poorly render country life (though I have been to the Roy Rogers Bar in Terry, Montana (pop. 611) where one helpful local pointed out the holes in the wall into which some local notables headlike appendages had been involuntarily thrust. It seemed to be a recreational activity. I tried very hard not to overstay my welcome.) But, as I said, no matter.

No fair writing a real poem, though! That takes all the fun out of it. Makes it harder, too. Cranky east coast, uh, harpy!

If it makes you feel any better, it's not a new poem. I wrote it about a year ago. I just put it in here because I'll seize any opportunity to sneak a form poem past everyone and I heard that rumor that you like that Yeats guy, too.

I do like your Wild Swains idea. Coming from central New Jersey, I don't do country so well either, but how about The Wild Swains are Coole? Like these guys:

Too weird?

Yours in Poetry,
Harpy-line

 

[Angeline]

*never mind*

 

[MTVM]

If it makes you feel any better, it's not a new poem. I wrote it about a year ago. I just put it in here because I'll seize any opportunity to sneak a form poem past everyone and I heard that rumor that you like that Yeats guy, too.

I do like your Wild Swains idea. Coming from central New Jersey, I don't do country so well either, but how about The Wild Swains are Coole? Like these guys:

Too weird?

Yours in Poetry,
Harpy-line

The guy on the left looks like Elliot Gould as Rueben Tishkoff.

That can't be right, can it?