Archival Review

[MyNecroticSnail]

Do you have anything by Tara Blackwood?
I've been told she was one of the best.

 

[LeBroz]

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For the Snail man — I'd heard Tara Blackwood was good so when I hadn't come across anything by her I looked up her bio and found she'd pulled all her works. If she was all that good then it's Lit's loss.

In the meantime, here's a piece that feels rather sad from JUDO.


Bitter Sweet Affections
by JUDO ©


--- A 'see you soon' for my poetic siblings ---


The time for parting is drawing ever near,
So, I ponder friends who've brought me wonder,
The mighty cliffs that I'll leap from tomorrow
And all the love that's brought me here.

Memories' events filled with tears and laughter
Striving against chaos for universal dreams.
It's been two years, but it seems like forever
Since my first words bounced off the Laureled rafter.

A Gypsy poet who sings the great life of dreams,
Friend warrior who defeats the mightiest of devils,
Brilliant seductress from afar that shares my heart --
All these and more have blessed my memestreams.

I wonder where we'll all be in twenty years time
When the moondust of Heaven sprinkles our brows?
Will we know one another with a heartfelt hug,
Or will the Fates step between to spoil our rhyme?

With my friends, I 've kissed the roof of the sky
And felt their arms twine about my troubled soul.
As I step in the boat, please remember this quick,
"I love you and need you, please don't ask why."

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[LeBroz]

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At last, the weekend! By morning I should finally get caught up on e-mail and similar obligations. And by Sunday get back on track reading some poetry. Speaking of which, in this new age you can meet all your friends 24/7 without ever getting dressed and leaving the comfort of your apartment.


better, worse
by smithpeter ©

in friendship, as in other things
when it's bad it's shared
across miles of wire and optic
cable entanglements

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[LeBroz]

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Has all the sounds of the wishes and hopes of creative writing.


Birthing hope
by tungtied2u ©

Tread softly midst the possible
Lest you crack the moment’s shell
Spill out the effervescence
Loose the liquid of the almost attainable
Coddle closely the seed of the seemingly
unreachable fulfillment
for which you have searched lifelong
Nurture the could be, should be
until it becomes the is


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[MyNecroticSnail]

Do you have anything by Pat Carrington?
I've been told he was one of the best.

I would like to see a little less thrown up and a little more commentary. If we are treated to a five liner about a man who wears a stinky shirt to a bar, I want to know why you think I should read it. True it may be about the human condition with a famous name attached to it, butI want to know how you know it is any good, otherwise what is the purpose of this? A quasi legitimation of the new regime by an identification with the selected glories of the past?

This is NOT Poetry Feedback and Discussion, at best it is advertising, at worst it is something else. I've been waiting for a reponse to what I perceive was damage control here as per PM it was supposed to be thrusday.

 

[LeBroz]

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Finally, back again. Tons to do to get caught up but here's a little something to sip on.


black water
by seranade ©

Black Water swirls
sweetened by existence
spell casting brew

energizing

Hovered over and cupped hands around
black water's warming strands
slivers on streams

steaming

A potion for the awakening
a serum for the craver
Texas mud, Java's black water

coffee

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[MyNecroticSnail]

Again the question? What is this? Your picks, without reason as to why? What are you adding here? What is the criteria for inclusion? For exclusion?
This?

Like I've said before, the poems I'm selecting are those I like or those I think others might like. Among the considerations that guide me are:

1. That it be fairly easily understood. I liked those lines in smithpeter's poem posted above, "there are poems I will never understand," so when I come across something that appears well written but I find myself spending too much time trying to figure it out, I'll pass on it. There may be some I include that I don't wholly understand {some lines may be obscure} but overall, "I get it."​

2. Spelling and word usage must be correct. I'm not playing editor here. I might let slip in an excellent piece with a rare typo.​

3. The poem says what it says in a style appropriate to its message. If it's about human emotions, I want to feel something. If it's about events or locations {with or without people}, I want to be able to visualize it. And yes, it can even be humorous ~ check out the Uncle's Christmas poem.​

I know of 2 poets (3 names) that will never appear on this list. One has so many poems that start sounding the same that they've become devoid of feeling. It's like they're churned out on an assembly line. The other fervently violates my second criterion, even after I left comments suggesting changes. It tells me that she doesn't care about her readers; if she doesn't give a damn, why should I?

Boiled down, it looks like.
1. You must "get" it, or it must look poetic enough.
2. You're playing politics, and hiding it behind a cheap feelgood facade.

Neither sits very well. It looks all too easy, who is here, that I can throw up from the boneyard.

Let's see Wanton Vixxen = Angeline; My Erotic Tail = Senna Jawa; can you tell A from B.

Come to think of it, I don't remember any comments from you in the Poetry Discussion Circle, but you are good enuff to determine....

Lauren Hyde's Al·Gharb series, incredibly complex, why did you pick it? That deserves a little more than just a read.

As a follow-up question, why did you pick these things, . Why the lack of any substantial commentary? Can you give us reasons why, what you picked is poetry.

Or is this going to be another reasonless thread, to go with the reasonless comments and scoring that a certain set that you seem to belong to, insists on.

 

[LeBroz]

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blade
by SeattleRain ©

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I think it was steel
but for the rust

sweat under work gloves, tan line
is dirt line and you
pound that shovel into soil

metal screeches against rock

want to be under that blade
use your boot for pressure
baby, dig, dig into me deeper

tell me this is what we wanted
tell me this is what we prepared for

all crack and grapple

don't think

~

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[LeBroz]

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Got to admire this lady for covering the subject. Though, come to think of it, it was far easier to handle in real life than a father-daughter discussion on sex.


Bloom
by annaswirls ©

"Are you there God?
It's Me, Margaret's father.
I know you know her,
she talks to you all the time.

I am sure you are aware,
she just got her first period.
So, what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

My son, He says
whatever you do
do not try to write a poem about the father's experience,
and if you must, do not to show daughters or mothers.
They will never share ownership of this milestone,
nor care to see the view from the Y chromosome.

Besides, they know, somehow they know
it is all Your fault.


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[LeBroz]

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Imagery of loneliness and sadness without once speaking of such things; fine example of show, don't tell.


Blue Days
by wildsweetone ©

She collects bottles
stacks them on the windowsill
like blue sentries overseeing
barren paddocks
where Friesians once grazed.
Stubs the roll-your-own
in the ashtray between ochrous
fingers as she talks to them,
the blue shaped ornaments,
tells them her needs
and secrets, waits
for answers.
And then
designs her own
answers
when waiting
turns onerous.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's one to read out loud; listen to how the words affect your speech and suddenly you feel the blues.


Blue Muse Bop
by Angeline ©

Funk that groove.
Kinesiology moves me
bone deep, hip to hip,
slip rocks my cradle.

Liberty is shifting notes
switching in and out of time
to dream in closed eye
synchronicity. This jazz

don’t mind no p's or cues,
just slides straight up,
just twangs my muse.

Walking bass beat rhythms
fallen dancing at my feet.
Wag tailfeathers. You know
sweet blues melt cool,
swallow whole souls neat,

sparkle, flicker into flames
of leaping saxy fusion,
tenor toney, hollow honey
cruising to completion.

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[annaswirls]

um, Patrick does not have any work here anymore, not beyond the forum.

Just Google his name if you want to read his work, it is out there.

And don't worry so much, this is just one person's thread, nothing more, anyone can do what they want with the thread, what harm done? It is like the "favorites" option in people's bio page, you do not need to put in reasons there either.

Surely, reasons are nice, commentary is wonderful, but not everyone can do it all.

Why does it bother you? You can always make your own

Do you have anything by Pat Carrington?
I've been told he was one of the best.

I would like to see a little less thrown up and a little more commentary. If we are treated to a five liner about a man who wears a stinky shirt to a bar, I want to know why you think I should read it. True it may be about the human condition with a famous name attached to it, butI want to know how you know it is any good, otherwise what is the purpose of this? A quasi legitimation of the new regime by an identification with the selected glories of the past?

This is NOT Poetry Feedback and Discussion, at best it is advertising, at worst it is something else. I've been waiting for a reponse to what I perceive was damage control here as per PM it was supposed to be thrusday.

 

[LeBroz]

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Not quite the same feel as that last piece above (Blue Muse Bop). But a personalized poem? That's sure to please at least one person!


Blues for Shara
by steve porter ©

Shara let your hair down low,
Shara let your hair down low,
You’re going to bend on down
Until it gathers on the ground,
Shara let your hair down low.

See just how far you can go.
Let the music take you way down low.
Sip your wine and feel fine,
Slip away, ease your mind, and
See just how far you can go.

And when you get down I’ll be there.
Maybe I’ll be lying in my underwear.
We will think and we will drink,
We will celebrate the kitchen sink,
And together we will bare what’s left to bare.

We will listen as the lady sets the mood,
While Lester’s ax will make us feel real smooth,
Lay your head upon my chest
And just forget about the rest,
And we'll get lost in the resulting interlude.

Go ahead and let it down now,
Ain’t the blues a pretty sound now,
And anyway you know the time how
She just slowly slips away.

Go ahead and get down low now,
Slip into it like you know how,
It’s time to get on down now
And let these blues take yours away.


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[LeBroz]

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I was slow to warm to this but Fly's comment about generational succession got me reading this again. There's no warm fuzzy feel here.


Bolero
by recklesschild ©

The idea was a progression:
innocence to awareness to apathy
and the world still span.

Blame it on a clockwork orange, big brother,
or some other British naked lunch
complete with cucumber sandwiches
and bitter tea. What do they know,
them with their crooked teeth,
their dead royalty.

Poets swim backwards, lazy strokes
of calligraphy brushes and India ink,
Japanese stylings, not yet aware
of conquered countries, western values,
fast food restaurants. Norman
Rockwell rejoices,
no one else shows up.

Facial piercings wake up the eerie young eggs,
the lithe, the starved to take up consumption
in horror flicks and dollar store manga. Teeth unseen,
black is the new black. Not
that anyone cares

when heads are down to the keyboard
correcting marriage paper cuts
by filling the scars with italicized font. Up
the ante, Texas hold’em and botox celebrity
hold-ups. Hold the door for the old folks.
They’re on their way out.

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[LeBroz]

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Bluest Fields
by impressive ©

BLUEST FIELDS

within bluest fields deep
greener grass breathes
a fertile caress of promise

within bluest fields deep
passion‛s prayer blooms
with wild flowering surrender

within bluest fields deep
succulent steel bows
to sate ravenous hope

within bluest fields deep
haunting hunger blurs
the feral lines of convention

within bluest fields deep
crystalline chaos burns
into naked imagination

sizzling dreams thaw my nights
within the magnetic pools
of bluest fields deep

~ ~ ~​

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[MyNecroticSnail]

um, Patrick does not have any work here anymore, not beyond the forum.

Just Google his name if you want to read his work, it is out there.

And don't worry so much, this is just one person's thread, nothing more, anyone can do what they want with the thread, what harm done? It is like the "favorites" option in people's bio page, you do not need to put in reasons there either.

Surely, reasons are nice, commentary is wonderful, but not everyone can do it all.

Why does it bother you? You can always make your own

Oh, how forgetful of me. I even bought his book, read some of it without cracking the spine (I can do these things) before passing it off as a Christmas gift to an adversarial friend.

The harm that is done is, is what is the reason for it? If this is Lebroz's favorites, label it as such. If this is the supposed Literotica literary canon, well we hade three of them, the E list and the Top Read and and the Top Fifty. Both Tops easily subject to number-fuckery. The top 50 now 500? Diffusion and dilution. This is what again?
I suggest his time would be better spent reading:
Break, Blow, Burn: Camille Paglia Reads Forty-Three of the World's Best Poems.
an excerpt from this webpage, interviewing her about her book.
Close reading is currently considered passé and even reactionary. Although it probably remains the primary classroom methodology of conscientious teachers of college freshmen, it has certainly been abandoned by the most prominent and chichi literature faculty in the elite schools. I am trying to make close reading fashionable again and to embolden graduate students and junior faculty to do likewise. Over the past 35 years, literature and art have too often been reduced to lugubrious victimology or crass political sloganeering.

of course that assumes it is about the poetry

 

[LeBroz]

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Here's a piece that again embodies that dictum: show, don't tell. Not once does the word Alzheimer's appear, though, as I mentioned in my PC, it's less a private hell for the sufferer who no longer appreciate all they've lost than for those that remember what they used to possess.


Bobbie
by minsue ©

She shuffled to the piano
painfully, slowly,
supported
by the daughter
she no longer recalls.

Gnarled, stiff hands,
so fragile and thin,
grasp at sheet music
as unfamiliar as hieroglyphs.

She stared at those pages
and down at the keys
before finally, haltingly
plinking random notes.

This woman, once renowned
for her independence,
her stubbornness,
now frail and lost
within a home
she can't remember.

Playing piano in her
own private hell.

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[LeBroz]

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Time for a little Chick Fil A break ~~


bovine road side
by SeattleRain ©

It did not surprise me
when the holstein
hitched a ride on I-70
south over old Rocky Top

But what did surprise me was when he
used his pan handle
markings to point out
his destination

Someone told him in Oklahoma city,
cattle roam free, yet cannot vote
let alone enter any building with
automatic doors

I impressed him
with my ability to distinguish
between hay and straw,
heifer, steer, bull, and cow,
holstein, angus, swiss brown and the like

and he told us how
he had been chosen
due to his fortunate markings
and uncanny ability
to ride escalators
without the fear of losing
balance
ever

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[LeBroz]

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At first I was going with the idea presented by a comment that the last word be done whole. But then I thought that makes it too smooth, glib and easy. The way it is, is not congruent to normal speech and thought patterns; a rather disquieting way to face a mental condition.


Blurred at the Edges
by Curiouswife ©

Stirrups in a table
Paper draped foam
Lollipop sticks
My son called out at three
Now calling out again
This time thirteen
In a cheap, plastic chair
Fingers clutched to the side
Now what seems to be the problem?
Still echoes through my mind

"I think they are watching.
There is something I know."

"What is it, can you tell me?"

He thinks this is part of the show

"Now that…that is what I'm trying to figure out."

He figured it out
Harvard goes far
And is worth paying for
When there is a puzzle before you
Stirrups, paper draped foam, lollipop sticks
Blurred at the edges
The pieces don't fit
In the normally assembled pattern
College, grandbabies, and laughter
Lots of laughter
I hear it welling up in me
Mixed with disbelief
Still struggling to put together the pieces
Schi zo phre nia

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[LeBroz]

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For some folk, it's that time of year. Again. Paying the taxman what is owed. Unless you've a spouse with attitude. Though I think the asterisks could have been dispensed with, seeing as how this is Litland.


Boadicea
by oggbashan ©

I was the husband of the great Boadicea
She was a good wife but now - O dear!

I died supported by her passion and love
But I'd hardly call her a peaceful dove

We were civilised, I had a long Roman name
Now my wife is a warrior of international fame

The Romans asked for more taxes - she replied "Go to Hell!"
To persuade her they whipped her, raped her daughters as well

You just don't DO that to our blue-blooded bitches
Queens of the Iceni, horsewomen, post-graduate witches

She's painted with woad, renamed herself Boudicca
Sharpened her weapons, revived the arts of Wicca

She's rallying her armies, adding scythes to her wheels
She'll give the Roman taxmen no doubt how she feels

Ere long she will join me, her witch wisdom knows
But not 'fore she's slaughtered thousands of foes

Our rulers must remember not to over-tax the Brit
Else meet "Death or Glory" mid tons of horse-****.

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[My Erotic Trail]

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Time for a little Chick Fil A break ~~


bovine road side
by SeattleRain ©

It did not surprise me
when the holstein
hitched a ride on I-70
south over old Rocky Top

But what did surprise me was when he
used his pan handle
markings to point out
his destination

Someone told him in Oklahoma city,
cattle roam free, yet cannot vote
let alone enter any building with
automatic doors

I impressed him
with my ability to distinguish
between hay and straw,
heifer, steer, bull, and cow,
holstein, angus, swiss brown and the like

and he told us how
he had been chosen
due to his fortunate markings
and uncanny ability
to ride escalators
without the fear of losing
balance
ever

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well now, that made me chuckle on a Sunday morning reading (~_~) I for one enjoy reading these poems after LeBroz knocks the dust off of them. There has been several threads like this one, yet this one is current; I had one called 'Dusty Poems' (grinin') have a quality day!

 

[LeBroz]

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This has got to be a single woman with no children. A married woman would have plenty to do fixing all the flaws in her spouse, just as a mother would have her hands full with children to rear.


Bored
by Svenskaflicka ©

The homework is done,
and the dishes are too.
Immaculate house,
the car's newly washed,
the freezer's full,
and the garbage is out.
The clothes are clean,
neat piles stored away,
the bills have been paid
and the fridge is refilled.
I've bathed and I've dried,
used lotions and balm,
perfume and hairspray,
red paint on my nails.

I'm dressed and I'm coiffed,
my face a work of art,
teeth brushed,
ears cleaned,
nails cut,
skin scrubbed.

Now I'm sitting straight up,
thinking "What the hell to do NOW???"

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[LeBroz]

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There's no doubting the powerful emotions woven in this. The thought that came to mind after reading this a few times is wondering if it were more subtly done, could the emotional impact be as strong?


Borne pain
by tungtied2u ©

At six months the doctor said
The fetus though small is fine
At seven months, apologies,
The child you’re carrying is dead.
At eight months, induced labor
Would you like to see your son
Amid the grief, so great
You nodded no
Your heart removed
Your wailing soul
would not permit the sight

Out of body
Not out of mind
Out of the country
Bury it behind
Visit friends, family abroad
Tears, silence, soft embraces
Hopefully healing
Then my aunt’s pictures
Of her new grandchild
You died again
and again
with each photo
Damning indictment of life lost

Visit cut short,
back to England
back to emptiness
and each other
alone
no photos to show
no proof of our angel
labor’s pain for nought
except for pain itself

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[LeBroz]

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books i've borrowed
by recklesschild ©

Books that I've borrowed, pages I have turned,
are marked with other distractions: jam, grease,
chocolate cake, tea. Sometimes I have eased
them into hot waters, bloated, burned,

spilled, dropped, fumbled, torn. I can say sorry
but marked as they are, they speak for themselves:
We weren't mistreated, forgotten on shelves-
until we were read hard. "I am sorry,"

is what I would tell your wife when she
asks why you are dog-eared and jam spotted
when you return at dawn after plotted
hours being used by me. "I am sorry…"

but not so sorry I can give you back.
Smudged and loved, waiting for your spine to crack.​

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[LeBroz]

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Now here's a piece to get you thinking. And until recently, not a single comment in 4 years!


Broken Blinds
by Lauren Hynde ©

Today, he was calmer, the blind lift operator
today, exactly today.
He spread his arms wide to tear people's bodies,
spread himself in calm gestures of a powerful man
blinded by smugness.

White, the secret eyes the blind
could have painted over the white backdrop.
He tore bodies: arms today,
maybe everyday--
The willing hands that covered his feature
were dispassionate disguises.

People, all day long, in and out of the lift.
When they entered, the blind lift operator
heard and got his hands to them.
He tore them spreading his arms.
In the background, a white wall poured
out of his eyes.

The lift breaks down and jerks,
the lights go out in the cabin.
I lower my eyes and fall to the ground.
Everything's steel in this world
except to the blind man getting his hands on it.
All is white, before the suitable disguise,
but a blind man's eyes can hold back
his secrets.

Empty faces wait
for a clock to impose on them.
Burdened men wait for anguish's push
and indecision bits at my heels.

I breathe,

steady my grip on the steel of my cage
and stand up, my flesh burning

The hank of screams' thread hides in my throat,
in my legs I shake off revulsion.
I rise to the blind man's face

and he knows it.

He reaches out into the open.
I stand before him, challenging.


In the dark, I beat the blind lift operator
with tremendous punches in his pride,
until out of his eyes poured a fresh colour.
"Look", I said. "There's a new sun outside!"

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