Challenge: Five Poems in Five Days.

[PandoraGlitters]

i was very moved by PG's poem about the pregnant teenager!



stunning.


simply. that.

Thank you, CB. You're very kind.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Well, you aren't. You're very welcome. I'm just peeved that you're writing better poems (well, so far, poem) than me.

Bastard.

Sorry, I mean "well done, poet!'

:smileything:

Hey, GM, I think you are awesome. You write poems which make me think. I like to think. Hence, I like your poems.

Keep writing, bud. Please.

Thanks, but I'm more of a cyber copycat of your poetry than you may know.

 

[greenmountaineer]

n2

Last Supper in Munich

To those who hoped to find a truce
He gladly fed their souls with tripe,
And as he rose to make a toast
For Neville who sipped on his tea,
He thought about the kegs he spilled
Where once he ate but prison gruel
Before he belched his putrid gas
To whet the appetite therefrom
For Lebensraum and Polish meat,
Soon to be roasting in his ovens.

 

[butters]

oh wow!

always the thought-provoker...

 

[Tzara]

Thanks, but I'm more of a cyber copycat of your poetry than you may know.

Oh, my. Now my life is complete.

If you are copying me you are, like, editing out the incompetencies and such I wallow in, GM. Just relax into your own voice and (your superior to mine) poetic talent.

It's OK. You can swim.

 

[Tzara]

n:3

Girls for Torture: True, May 1938

What is she wearing, cobwebs? Shred
by Thing or Things unknown, I guess.
I 'spose I'd dig this were I bred
In 1920, more or less.
How did this leather, 'round her wrists
become to be? I think, unless
opinions vary here from trysts,
it's mostly trope. Some love the West,
some love the East. I'm neutral, but
love everything political.
(No Nazi guards, so there's an out
before things get historical,
or hysteric.) I don't know.
Her frightened eyes? Damn apropos.

 

[greenmountaineer]

n3

Breviarium non Psalterii

White is white and black is black;
Love is good but sex is bad
Is what I seem to say
Behind the screen
On Saturday
Or Sunday from the pulpit.

But, my God, Angél is nice
( I won't say "hot.")
When he comes for tea
And older than an altar boy
I never wanted anyway,
And I am not, no I am not
In some monastery.

 

[greenmountaineer]

n4

Every Sunday and Weekends Twice a Month

For Michael, 1989

So will he remember this camping trip?
Of course, he will. Cogito ergo sum:

Some tinker toy, a mobile in the crib,
That hammered nail that almost found a thumb,
A boy whose thirst once gulped his milk and quipped
“to grow as big as you are, Dad,” my son,
Now six feet two with sophomoric wit,
Breaking camp on the shore by Hosmer Pond
While in the crisp September air I view
The vast expanse I thought he could not row
And reminisce about the thorn that grew
On bloom I used to call my red, red rose.

What will his recollections be of me?
God damn it, Thought! I know what mine will be.

 

[greenmountaineer]

n5

Wrestling with Keats, Waiting for my Daughter

For Elizabeth, 1995

I will admit it. I am guilty of
“that egotistical manufacture of
Metaphysical importance
On trivial themes.” So be it.

That I would speak to a ghostly poet
Proves the point. Now doesn’t it?
But need I point out who did the same
In an ode on a Grecian urn?

Meanwhile I in this hospital wing
Hear the cry of my newborn daughter,
Making love as surely she makes
Her mother whisper-sing lullabies.

And that’s my point of disagreement.
The miracle is the commonplace, Keats,
Because like love, my girl, or a moth
You did not breathe by accident.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Zettel

Here words are brushstrokes
feathered into a rose, a beloved's thigh,
layered into philosophy, welded
to make a city or a train.
A portrait, not a text—
some thing for wall or garden,
not the dim stacks of a library.
No facts, no instruction,
no cause and following effect.
Just a different kind of game,
necessary as the air.

For some reason, I think this is autobiographical.

 

[Tzara]

For some reason, I think this is autobiographical.

It's not, particularly. At least I don't think so.

It's mostly me mulling over one of my favorite Wittgenstein quotes (from Zettel, hence the title): "Do not forget that a poem, although it is composed in the language of information, is not used in the language-game of giving information."

The last line is both about Wittgenstein (or, more accurately, my interpretation of what he was saying), kind of mashed together with this famous verse from William Carlos Williams:

It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die every day
for lack
of what is found
there.​

So, mostly just me being pretentious, as usual.

Yours were some smashing poems, BTW, gm. I got derailed by work, so will have to start over again.

 

[sweepthefloor]

1-1 The Mouth

Once upon a time there was a mouth that refused talking. The mouth kissed dirt and diamonds and rocks, lipping cross-country all the way to his sock. He thought it was strange this mouth on his sock, but the mouth liked socks, and it was a clean sock. The mouth opened up and pulled off the sock and dropped it in his lap. The mouth wanted to linger halfway but the sock owner said no. He dared to touch the mouths face and found out that there lived ears. The mouth did not know it owned ears, but the sock owner put the mouths ear on his chest and the mouth and the ear heard a heart beat. Like a metronome this beat put the mouth to sleep. If the mouth had eyes they would wet his chest, but he has not found them yet.

*this started out as the mouth, I liked it, so I will add to it and finish it in 5 days.

 

[Tzara]

n+1:1

Cemetery, Mullan, ID,
Trashed by a Logging Operation

The tractor tread of bulldozers
Left headstones crushed, mashed into dirt.
The trees, like carrots yanked from earth
Disturbed just miners' graves. Other

Buried souls might have complained,
But Earth's uncertainty they knew.
They understood their families, too.
"They need the money," ghosts explained.



Note to GM: This one is autobiographical.

 

[butters]

Cemetery, Mullan, ID,
Trashed by a Logging Operation

The tractor tread of bulldozers
Left headstones crushed, mashed into dirt.
The trees, like carrots yanked from earth
Disturbed just miners' graves. Other

Buried souls might have complained,
But Earth's uncertainty they knew.
They understood their families, too.
"They need the money," ghosts explained.



Note to GM: This one is autobiographical.

both poignant and stolid, Tzara.

 

[Tzara]

both poignant and stolid, Tzara.

Um, thanks?

I'm a little confused about "stolid," which our (doubtless silly and inaccurate) American dictionary (I'm using www.merriam-webster.com) defines as "having or expressing little or no sensibility : unemotional."

's OK, of course, if you mean that, as I am often kind of dully unemotional, but I think you meant your comment as compliment.

I think.

If not, that's OK too.

 

[Tzara]

n+1:2

Alchemy

Her swiveled physical parts
Do meta-physical things
Like meddle, mystically,
Make metal what was spongy,
Turn brittle muscular hearts.


.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Cemetery, Mullan, ID,
Trashed by a Logging Operation

The tractor tread of bulldozers
Left headstones crushed, mashed into dirt.
The trees, like carrots yanked from earth
Disturbed just miners' graves. Other

Buried souls might have complained,
But Earth's uncertainty they knew.
They understood their families, too.
"They need the money," ghosts explained.



Note to GM: This one is autobiographical.

I liked this very much; reminds me of "real people," not to be confused with reality TV.

Still unraveling Alchemy, immediately following, but anything that combines the spiritual with the sensual is OK in my book, and that's autobiographical too.

 

[butters]

Um, thanks?

I'm a little confused about "stolid," which our (doubtless silly and inaccurate) American dictionary (I'm using www.merriam-webster.com) defines as "having or expressing little or no sensibility : unemotional."

's OK, of course, if you mean that, as I am often kind of dully unemotional, but I think you meant your comment as compliment.

I think.

If not, that's OK too.

definitely a compliment the 'stolid' was more referring to your word-choice, in this instance: plain words used to portray something most would view as significantly emotional, done in such a way as to mimic the nature of miners, their acceptance of life's hardships...

 

[Tzara]

I liked this very much; reminds me of "real people," not to be confused with reality TV.

Thanks, gm.

Still unraveling Alchemy, immediately following, but anything that combines the spiritual with the sensual is OK in my book, and that's autobiographical too.

There's not really much to unravel there--the sense of the poem is basically I like girls. My usual deep, philosophical thought.

 

[Tzara]

n+1:3

Course
I love too much; I am a river
Surging with spring that seeks the sea,
I am too generous a giver,
Love will not stoop to drink of me.
—Sara Teasdale, "Desert Pools"

Into her open river's flow
I should have cast myself, my fate,
But I was timorous and slow,
And, as always, much too late

To drown in love. For out to sea
Her current's gone, an undertow
Too weak to pull me down below,
Down to her green and somber sleep.

A river flows here still. It's straight
And deep and clear and very cold.
Submerged, it has her certain weight.
My pockets will I fill with stones.


.

 

[Tzara]

n+1:4

I'm reworking this, people. I'd be happy to send it to you if you don't believe that.


.

 

[Tzara]

n+1:5

In Which She Models a Summer Dress

This sundress thing fits you, you know.
Your shoulders are quite lovely bare.
In summer, everything is slow:

Desire, heart—in fact, my stare
Gets lazy in the summer heat.
Your shoulders are quite lovely bare,

So free and tan. I'm indiscreet,
I know, to prattle on your looks.
Made dizzy from the summer heat,

I hang on sentimental hooks
And skin, of course. I'm simple, male,
And quite bedazzled by your looks.

(If you were Text, I'd wish you Braille.)
I love this print, this fabric, cut
To show your skin. I'm simply male,

My lizard brain runs in a rut.
In summer, everything is slow,
Including Romance, often, but
This sundress you fit swell, you know.


.

 

[DrewberryLess]

Please keep this thread alive!

 

[sweepthefloor]

1 The Mouth

(I am going to try again.)

Once upon a time there was a mouth that refused talking or kissing. The mouth licked dirt and diamonds and rocks, lipping cross-country all the way to his sock. He thought it was strange this mouth on his sock, but the mouth liked socks and cocks, and it was a clean sock. The mouth opened up and pulled off the sock and dropped it in his lap. The mouth wanted to linger at familiar cock but the sock man put: hand in hair and pulled the mouth back. The mouth did not know it had hair; the mouth suddenly felt it.

The sock man touched the mouths face and found out that there lived ears. The mouth did not know it owned ears, but the sock man put the mouths ear on his chest, the mouth and the ear heard a heart beat, like a metronome this beat nearly put the mouth to sleep.


The mouth leaned forward and a felt cold belt buckle in the middle of what must be a chest. There was a pounding fast tick-tock inside, more surprise. The mouth has a heart.


If the mouth had eyes they would wet his chest. When the mouth found out it had eyes it looked into the sock mans eyes and found another surprise.

The mouth looked down suddenly realizing it owned cheeks; it could feel them turning pink and hot and stinging with happy salty tears; from the prize in his eyes.
The mouth was shocked and saw the hard cock. The mouth has hair, ears, eyes and cheeks and a heart.

The sock owner said, “Suck the cock mouth.” And the mouth said, “Yes.” The mouth did not know it possessed vocal cords, and startled by the sound of it’s own one syllable word voice it began to swallow the cock to violate these folds in the throat and choke. The mouth has a throat.

The gag, cough and swallow revealed brain stem integrity with positive reflexes. The mouth has a brain, thought the mouth suddenly as if it never thought before.

The mouth sucks the cock and the sock man found a nose and pinched it closed.
The mouth did not know it had a nose, now the mouth knows it has a nose and lungs.

The sock mans cock began to pump, something came out and the mouth swallowed. The mouth felt this sticky slide down into her belly. The mouth found out it has a gastrointestinal track. The mouth has a butterfly-caged belly, the mouth found out.

The mouth felt wet everywhere and looked down and saw a torso sitting on toes. The mouth now knows it has a silky pelvic floor and numb knees on long legs attached to feet in fuzzy warm socks.

The mouth is a woman with a mouth. It is a developmental suck worthy realization, as if the mouth or the woman had never sucked before.

 

[sweepthefloor]

2.

The best cock ache is the one in your chest
That throbs together with the stroke of your heart.

Every cell spells awe with the ache it wants
To take sway over with the certain mark

Of a spraying, aching, awe-some come
Tom Cat with a magical hat.

There is an aching awe best boner out there
I aim to claim with these words that-

Spill out of a mouth with the force-
Of a healthy hearts ejection fraction.