HarryHill
Hairy fucker
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2012
- Posts
- 15,044
Which line is it that's causing you dramas?
because the beast was driven from its den.
looks okay standing by itself and you can see him playing with b, d, and e
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Which line is it that's causing you dramas?
because the beast was driven from its den.
looks okay standing by itself and you can see him playing with b, d, and e
also finishing on a "en" then a clipped "N" Rhyming on an off beat with men and friends from the previous line. Is it too much sonically, or what? maybe we should chat in pm to stop clogging up this thread?
Krah turns the spit for men now friends
because the beast was driven from its den.
On other nights who knows?
Without the protein only the huge
would menace each other's empty stomachs
for one or two shanks not gotten to
after they chased the vultures away.
In his mind he's sipping fruit
Uma ferments from hawthorn berries
gathered below the hole they call home
that has at its entrance a long flat rock,
the envy of his best friend, Oom,
where soon Krah and Uma will celebrate
poetry, such as it is,
with a fire, the moon, maybe the sun,
and the many variations of moan.
This poem makes me believe you wrote "Cruising" in the contest.
I welcome constructive feedback from you and Harry, so you're not clogging up the thread on my account. I like thinking about different perspectives, whether the poem's mine or someone else's.
for tonight it's in vitro veritas
Is this meant to be "in vitro veritas" vs "in vino veritas"?
Is this meant to be "in vitro veritas" vs "in vino veritas"?
Yes as in word play for Latin "in glass" as in a glass of wine
I love. Love the way it sounds; love the way the thoughts bounced around in my head when I read it.a Beaujolais of River Styx
and stones of words
It's like a sponge you suck on
all the way down to your liver,
there on your cross,
the one you made yourself,
but it doesn't really matter,
for tonight it's in vitro veritas
in a long stem glass almost as big
as the goldfish bowl left behind,
a Beaujolais of River Styx
and stones of words
that don't pair well with "frankly, my dear,
I don't give a damn"
spittle until tomorrow
when dry clichés die on your tongue,
once intertwined with another,
and you'll ask in your mind's eye why
why would I ever?,
why would I ever?,
tonight seeing double,
tomorrow vision.
I like the punchiness of it. To me, the "my" in the second line of the last stanza is unnecessary - to my ear, the line flows better without it. Just my opinion.
Reading it made me think that we should have a thread with a collection of "father" poems - not inappropriate, what with Father's Day coming up and all.
Thank you, gm, for another great start of a day.
Gray is the color of many things:
cement, pewter, elephants,
cadet uniforms, and detritus,
once the bark on an elm,
fat with insects and sap,
that litters snow in the meadow now.
It's lead in a penciled sumi-e
print of a dormant bamboo
whose charcoal ink and wash stems
embrace a white Tao on rice paper,
or maybe the white is snow instead
beneath which green shoots will break
the topsoil again in early spring
wearing their jackets of hoarfrost at dawn
whose gray crystalline vapor's rich
with moisture to feed the nodes.
Gray is also a porous dark cloud
that shrouds a pockmarked phantom moon
whose yellow man, in fact, is a myth
spinning perhaps haphazardly,
the closest of all the spinning rocks
where there's no question, therefore no answer,
and black is the blackest black there is
perhaps without gray in the matter.
Such a shift of mood in that last stanza, and a change of pace - spinning harder. There's nothing obvious about this one... I wonder about the significance o f starting with gray, moving to white, back to gray, then black. And finally, gray again. Yes, nothing obvious about this one. Beautiful.
A very, very lovely and loving poem, gm.I should have realized then, my Dear,
how important pictures were,
our wedding portrait as an example,
once face down upon the mantel
like a still life, I the apple bitten,
you the peach, emblem of virtue,
in time forgiver of more than hidden
French postcards found in the attic.
So after I make you toast and tea
and seat you in your wingback chair
whereby the view is south southeast,
I tell you the sun will rise again,
knowing my voice is just a sound.
Tonight I'll bathe you in the shower
and dab your beautiful empty brow.
I should have realized then, my Dear,
how important pictures were,
our wedding portrait as an example,
once face down upon the mantel
like a still life, I the apple bitten,
you the peach, emblem of virtue,
in time forgiver of more than hidden
French postcards found in the attic.
So after I make you toast and tea
and seat you in your wingback chair
whereby the view is south southeast,
I tell you the sun will rise again,
knowing my voice is just a sound.
Tonight I'll bathe you in the shower
and dab your beautiful empty brow.