Archival Review

[LeBroz]

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I think I'll start this new page with a fine tribute to Sylvia Plath.


Forgive Me Sylvia
by jthserra©


Forgive Me Sylvia

Forgive me Sylvia,
but your silence haunts me
from the vacuum,
your lack of existence
swallows the sound
of your voice.
In the clear glass
I can almost see you,
standing in miniature
reciting a poem
in the silence of the jar.

Forgive me Sylvia,
I read your poems
without tears
afraid because I know the ending.
Your darkness attracts me,
not because you survived
only to die in
the hissing silence,
but because you dared
to live and die
in your colossus of words.

Forgive me Sylvia,
but I yearn
for your grasp
of disillusionment,
for fingers and toes
to grow in the darkness,
as roots in the earth
from mushrooms.
Earthy, bulbous,
we grasp at reality
while mired in the soil.

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[LeBroz]

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Fine references to north Jersey and, as he does so often, manages to slip in more esoteric references to make his words convey special meaning.


Forgive Me Paterson, William Carlos
by jthserra©


Forgive Me Paterson, William Carlos, and Allen

Drove it early
....to avoid the snow
.that never came
......didn't dare stop---
intent on a goal
....to arrive before dark
..but saw the signs
.......closer and closer, until---
exit sped past
.....peering back at me.

The history
.....is a mystery
..its significance
........a maze to me---
Paterson guys beat up
.....Newark punks
...and nothing was better
........than a kiss stolen
beneath a street light
......on a frozen night.

Forgive me Paterson
....William Carlos
..and Allen---
........a highway sign
on "I-eighty"
......caught my eye
...speeding by
........a momentary thought
but rode a different road
.....heading home.

The rear-view
....showed nothing more
..lanes and lines
........signs falling away---
a turn towards Newark
....a flip of the page
..it should have been more.
........Forgive me Paterson
William Carlos
.....and Allen.

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[LeBroz]

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The tone of the poem seems rather foreboding, despite the hint of promise in the title. Just look at the word choices — entrapped, swamps, predator's web, thorns to capture — sounds more foreboding than promising.


forever yours
by bluerains©


Entrapped
..like twisted mangroves
..........tangled amid the swamps
....................of the everglade marsh
~*~
Weaved
..into the vision of a
..........predator's web of pleasure
....................looming from a maestro's harp
~*~
Embedded
..in a garden of budding roses
..........with thorns to capture the
....................butterfly in filaments of forever more

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[LeBroz]

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A parent's real nightmare — remembering their own parents' failings while committing new ones of their own.


Forgiveness
by quietpoly©


In my youth
you cared for me.
In my sorrow
you wept.
Held my hand
at crossroads.
Tied my shoelaces
lest I fell.


And yet I can't
forgive you
for things you
didn't do.
And yet I fail
to love you
as now I see
your mistakes.


What cruel child
you have left behind
to remember you in hate.
When all you tried
to do was help
even though you failed.

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[LeBroz]

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Powerful imagery here does more to create the feel of forgetting than just describing the mental state. So much left unsaid that it contributes to the air of forgetfulness.


Forgotten?
by jthserra©


Forgotten?

What did we forget
this time – license
its pall of numbers
listless photo, signature –
as if it mattered
if we remembered it
the procedure’s the same
government issued or not.

Doors open all around
then shut to only open again
a passing... of something
more than time: hope, dreams
all disappear in frigid air.
Cold hands? There’s worse
this time, a longer wait
the door remaining shut.

And finally opening,
we leave this time, this time
less than before – much less
quickly shuffling across the floor
desperately clamoring down
the curving stairs and out.
Wondering what we forgot,
what we’ll never forget.


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[LeBroz]

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Here's a little something that ought to drive some of you nuts while figuring it out.


Fortunately Not Allergic
by smithpeter©


To Napalm and Plutonium
Small Pox and Large Pox
Advertisements for Fat, Phat
Pelican Republicans

The Donkeys no longer bother me either eyether

The children should be told:
~nothing is dangerous any more~

but never go to bed without your flashlight
and cell phone
just in case we get separated
like at the fair last year

but it ended well
with laughter
our smiling faces on that big
screen in Security Depot.

disclaimer:
We promote Morse Code.
Have an intensely nice day.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's something that should appeal to Lit's long-time members, this fabulously hilarious rhyming piece with all Lit's poets lined up and on display.


Forty Poets Wood
by The Mutt©


"It's scary out this evening," said the doormouse to the fawn,
who'd crept up to the house to munch on tulips from the lawn,
"On this wicked eve of Hallows, there is mischief in the air."
The little fawn kept munching like she didn't have a care.

"I live deep in the Black Wood," the fawn snorted with disdain,
"and there it's always scary, so stop being such a pain."
But as it grew close to midnight, doormouse whispered in fawn's ear,
"I hear the mutt is prowling, so you would be wise to fear."

The fawn nosed in the hedges, for the sweet sub-grasses there,
her nose down in the bushes and her hind up in the air,
and watching the fawn munching, doormouse felt a pang herself--
there was a killer muffin in the kitchen on the shelf.

Living in the Black Wood, food was plentiful as air,
but the perks of household living kept the doormouse staying there.
She only crept out now and then to tease the little fawn,
who'd munch the oats that grew beyond the fence across the lawn.

But suddenly there came a howl, it echoed through the night,
and everyone who heard the howl was frozen by their fright.
Maria Angelina dropped the bread that she was kneading.
Uncle Pervy in the bedroom dropped the book that he was reading.

Porters dropped their baggage, even liars stopped their lying,
swirls stood still in coffee cups and friars stopped their frying.
Trendy hippies held their tokes, champagne in grails stopped bubbling,
ferocious cats stopped chasing rats, the mutt's howl was so troubling.

"Don't just stand there, " yelled the mouse, "You've lost your little mind,"
and with a stalk of oats she lashed the fawn on her behind.
"Don't be afraid, you silly mouse, there's nothing can go wrong.
I studied with a wizard and I know a magic song."

"The mutt has come to eat you, it won't matter what you sing,"
the doormouse said, then ran to hide beneath a dragon's wing.
Then nosing through the laurels, the mutt strode onto the lawn,
drawn there by the musky scent of tender, little fawn.

The fawn, tongued-tied at first, began to sing the wizard's song;
"Syndra tathagata oz okasha goolagong.
dreams and rain and eagle's eye, eumenides tatelouey,
sappho tristesse oggbashan, fastiddy merenguey."

But the mutt, he kept a'coming like he hadn't heard a sound.
He pounced upon the little fawn and drove her to the ground.
"This cannot be," the fawn cried out, "I have a magic charm!
The wizard said his magic song would shield me from all harm!"

The mutt gazed down his snout at her, his nose drew in her scent,
"What makes you think, you silly fawn, that harm is my intent?"
He took her gently in his mouth and carried her away.
What happened next, dear reader, is debated to this day.

The morning found the little fawn, contented at her play.
The mutt was curled up on a stone to sleep the day away.
The doormouse begged til sunset to know what had taken place.
The fawn just kept on munching oats, a big smile on her face.

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[LeBroz]

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Some improvisational rambling to leave the reader wondering about the sort of midway the poet's wandering about.


found in pocket
by 2rivers©


lately off dreaming
right up front
having a spell
of contemplation
on the tilt-a-whirl

holding hot
smiling at cold
stepping with the
sheep shearer
chatting with dead people

silent auctions
mute balloons
wind in hair
blind rage
with a sweet twist


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[LeBroz]

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Let's take it easy this week and start each day with Dada. Here's one that sounds like a prescription for disaster — belief systems in collision.


Found Poem #1
by Bill Dada©


a group of people
who shouldn’t be
in the same room
fighting things
that don’t exist

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[LeBroz]

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I really didn't plan it this way but we'll be having three straight Dada/Jawa-days {sounds like something out of Star Wars}. Should prove an interesting contrast, with this particular contribution sounding like it's written from the perspective of a student or teacher {who else is off during the summer months?}.


four seasons (commuting)
by Senna Jawa©

winter--Greyhounds and cabs
and near accidents

spring rain--a Black woman
drives me thru blinding fountains
and laughs me too

summer--no need to commute

fall--before I know
it snows​

wlodzimierz holsztynski ©

1997-06-13​

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[LeBroz]

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Here's another little Dadaism with which to start the day. Here's a thought ~ saying the glass is half empty isn't quite the same as saying the glass is only half empty.


Found Poem #2
by Bill Dada©


The secret
of being me
is
I’m only half there.

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[LeBroz]

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One cautionary note ~ be careful when using the word weird in describing any aspect of her pregnancy.


four seasons (her transformations)
by Senna Jawa©

spring
she acts weird

pale summer
but she suntans like never before

autumn fruit fullness
and hers

soft snow outside
dark eyes wide open in the baby crib​

Wlodzimierz Holsztynski ©

1997-06-12​

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[LeBroz]

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A variation on A shadow of my former self.


Found Poem #3
by Bill Dada©


I’m merely
a shell
of my
former shadow.


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[LeBroz]

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The title on this one makes it fully self-explanatory — no mysterious obfuscation here, a message to which other poets might take heed.


four seasons (teacher)
by Senna Jawa©

fall--a classroomful
of new faces

winter--will you grade finals
on the curve? no,
on my floor

spring semester--some
faces familiar

summer--the empty classroom
full of smells​

wlodzimierz holsztynski ©

1997-06-18​

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[LeBroz]

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Doubtless it should start "Due" but more importantly, what happened to #4 — is it now 'lost'?


Found Poem #5
by Bill Dada©


Do to uncertainties
all drug sales
are final

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[LeBroz]

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Here's something to try that's a bit compelling as fractured thoughts play out, pulling the reader's mind along.


Fractured Thoughts
by RazzRajen©


Fractured thoughts, sleepless times
Toss Me away
like a discarded husk of corn
Roast me over a slow fire,
That heat a cloak,
Warm me cockles on a cold winters night,

Take Me with you when your
mind soars like a bird's,
here and then not
Look in the far distance
that fjord, that valley carved

Lazy circles cast in hot air draughts
I leap and tumble,
a loose leaf in a whirlwind eddy
down to the depths and cast out
Spewed out like so much flotsam

krill may last forever,
but My sinuous slithering alter,
Takes the dank springy morass
Mind is it?
or a flowering red stained mass
teeming and writhing
Out of that comes My life
bearing gifts of self and peace
white-edged and safe.


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[LeBroz]

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Some very dramatic imagery is invoked here; makes the point so well that the last line seems like understatement.


fragmented
by Savannah Skye©


hand shoved down throat
heart ripped out
soul cut in half

fragmented
vacant empty space left

i toss it at the wall
*splat*

blood pours out
paints a portrait of you

love has left my soul


- by Savannah Skye...

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[LeBroz]

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Seductive imagery of seaside lovers with passion percolating beneath it all. If this doesn't make you want love and passion, have yourself admitted to a mortuary.


Fragments Of Reality
by Lauren Hynde©


Sun shone on the beach of old,
on a sea as young as us...
Under an awning of gulls
Desires were stripped and dressed up...
On your body and on my own,
crystallized,
glittering without sin,
the salt of our kisses...
A boat, glimpsed in the distance
sailing the fate of finding its berth.
Soft breeze returned from the pinewood
smelling of resin.
And the music of the waves,
silently,
almost heartfelt,
resonated in the dog-whelk,
in the beach.
At dusk, on the edge of the cliffs,
temples of immolation,
we burned the remains of the fire...
And smoke, as it rose from the embers
made more ethereal the light
that burdened with mythical sense
every fragment of reality.

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[LeBroz]

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Here's a truly wonderful piece ~ built upon with exquisite improvisation and variation from the source.


Free Hands
by Angeline©


If hands could free you, heart,
Where would you fly?
Far, beyond every part
Of earth this running sky
Makes desolate? Would you cross
City and hill and sea,
If hands could set you free?

~ Philip Larkin, If Hands Could Free You, Heart

If hands could free you, heart,
from drumless rhythms, oceans
or fragmented falls of rain,
all different, distant yet the same
beating from miles apart.

The continent can not divide
the whisper of you, heart:
the tap of truth spoken
one letter at a time.

If hands could free you
with the feathered power
of a rhyme, where would you fly?
What music would you paint
if song could fill your eye,
recall the scattered tears

far beyond every part
of prescience, child years
that catch each flake of hope
upon the tip of smiles.

Our compasses of earth,
this running sky, make desolate
the hourglass of past.
Where would you cross
the hidden line from first
to last: heaven and earth,
city and hill and sea?

Where would you plant your dreams
if hands could set you free?


~for Tristesse

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[LeBroz]

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On the surface, a nice little ditty, until your offering sits out there on eBay® with no takers — nada — zilch — no bids — ouch. In the meantime, while awaiting bids, read it again.


Free Market Fantasies
by Liar©


One day,
I will sell my soul on E-Bay,
see if I can squeeze
a foolish penny
from a paper tiger,
and release this pigeon flock
inside. To let it
scatter and hide.

Then spread sunflower
seeds across my chest.
Watch them land and merge,
wrap my heart in feathers.

And some sucker
will go soulless
still.

Yes,
one day,
I will sell my soul
on E-Bay.

So you see,
you can not have it,
not yet, only borrow.
I just might need it
tomorrow.

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[LeBroz]

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Decades later, what once was is a distant memory, as we long for simpler, less complicated times, where all of life's worries and strife are someone else's province.


Free Play
by Angeline©


Twilight shadowing west,
even the willow looks tired.
I've mellowed to a calmer state,
teeter tottering to acceptance.

You smile,
I'm up tilted
over the playground,
swinging toward freedom
from those depths. A minute
shifts the world, word, face
turns to the other side of real

and bumps dirt, stones again,
like a sliding board with rust--
you won't slip straight through,
but scratch down part way,

or you go around, around.
Someone spins the wheel,
crazy running, sky twists
into kaleidoscope shards.
Dizzy. You want to oh just
jump off, catch bearings.

Some kids can go straight
across the monkey bars,
hand to hand in smooth
self-propelled ride, settling
feet first, striding to evening.

Luna smiles like your mom,
who calls, you come Schwinning
home to dinner, bath, bed, story,
kiss, a safe goodnight.

Did you ever wish
to close your eyes
and wake up 8 again?

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[LeBroz]

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Ahhhh — the bar scene. Partying was always great, the babes were always beautiful {especially at 4am}, and the sex was fantastic {the parts you can remember}.


Free Street Bar Scene, 1970
by jd4george©


..........- Revisited with Tathagata, Sandspike
and TheMutt in mind



tiled floors and
boozing bitches sucking lifeblood
.....through needledink straws
..........cherries popping in their
lips

quarters clunking through music machines
setting the changer in motion
.....and lies spin in rpms
..........the beat is on
gyrating…

thrusting their hips out
to breed hardons of delight
.....pelvic mutations
..........masturbations and
come

nightfall they passout
legs quivering apart
.....smiles plastered askew
..........whiskey nirvana threatening
climax…

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[LeBroz]

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The lady's been lurking here of late; she's even posted a new book recommendation poem. But here she has another message. A life preserved is not well lived; what's left is but an empty shell. A carefully crafted sonnet can say such harsh things in such a soft voice that you can't help but look closely at the thoughts expressed.


Freeze-Dried Sonnet
by Cordelia©


As if the darkness of your eyes could show
a way for me to trap the voice of pain,
and set in amber life’s imbroglio
for me to hide, so only you remain.

Jars of my desire, well preserved –
formaldehyde-postponed in its allure,
patient in the hope that I’ve reserved
for packing up my soul, in honey-cure.

Repentance never froze a single urge,
but kisses stir emotions long left stored.
From suspended animation will emerge
warmed and soft – adventures unexplored.

A trophy, not of conquest, but of art –
A taxidermist version of my heart.

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[Anschul]

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The lady's been lurking here of late; she's even posted a new book recommendation poem. But here she has another message. A life preserved is not well lived; what's left is but an empty shell. A carefully crafted sonnet can say such harsh things in such a soft voice that you can't help but look closely at the thoughts expressed.


Freeze-Dried Sonnet
by Cordelia©


As if the darkness of your eyes could show
a way for me to trap the voice of pain,
and set in amber life’s imbroglio
for me to hide, so only you remain.

Jars of my desire, well preserved –
formaldehyde-postponed in its allure,
patient in the hope that I’ve reserved
for packing up my soul, in honey-cure.

Repentance never froze a single urge,
but kisses stir emotions long left stored.
From suspended animation will emerge
warmed and soft – adventures unexplored.

A trophy, not of conquest, but of art –
A taxidermist version of my heart.

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Thanks, my friend, it's beautiful. Makes me want (need?) to work harder.
A

 

[LeBroz]

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Or, look at it this way — live as full a life as possible and when your camera's out of film, you'll be too busy to step down.


French Film
by smithpeter©


the time left in your life
is like the amount of film
left in your camera
at the final shot
your subjects have wandered away

when you met
you kissed cheeks

at goodbye
we blank
there is only
space


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