Poem-a-Thon

[The Mutt]

Ode to Spot

by Lt. Commander Data

Spot,
Felis Cattus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
an endothermic quadruped carnivorous by nature.
Your visual, olfactory and auditory senses
contribute to your hunting skills, and natural defenses.


I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
a singular development of cat communications
that obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
for a rhythmic stroking of your fur, to demonstrate affection.


A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aide in locomotion,
it often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.


O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

 

[bluerains]

damn thats good

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

I just bought qp a fishin shirt that said...I am the fisher of kings...and the king is
mackrel...for him and he so loved the pun fisher of men fisher of fish...qp is such a cynic...

 

[Angeline]

by Lt. Commander Data

Spot,
Felis Cattus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
an endothermic quadruped carnivorous by nature.
Your visual, olfactory and auditory senses
contribute to your hunting skills, and natural defenses.


I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
a singular development of cat communications
that obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
for a rhythmic stroking of your fur, to demonstrate affection.


A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aide in locomotion,
it often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.


O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

I think a poem from Data in this thread is pretty cool, Mutt.

 

[Angeline]

Ozymandias
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

This is my favorite ever:

When You Are Old
William Butler Yeats

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

 

[The Mutt]

I think a poem from Data in this thread is pretty cool, Mutt.

Cool is my middle name.
The Cool Mutt.

 

[ruminator]

It helped me feel at home.

Thanks

 

[tungtied2u]

Song for Billie Holiday

by Langston Hughes

What can purge my heart
Of the song
And the sadness?
What can purge my heart
But the song
Of the sadness?
What can purge my heart
Of the sadness
Of the song

Do not speak of sorrow
With dust in her hair,
Or bits of dust in eyes
A chance wind blows there.
The sorrow that I speak of
Is dusted with despair.

Voice of muted trumpet,
Cold brass in warm air.
Bitter television blurred
By sound that shimmers-
Where?
__________________________

When it's hot in Maine,
don't complain-
think o' that sweet sax refrain
how it remains
hangin' in the air
soft and sultry
on a New Orleans night
sweat drippin'
hips slippin'
as you strain to be one
with the music inside you.

 

[tungtied2u]

Master and Boatswain

by W. H. Auden

At Dirty Dick's and Sloppy Joe's
We drank our liquor straight,
Some went upstairs with Margery,
And some, alas, with Kate;
And two by two like cat and mouse
The homeless played at keeping house.

There Wealthy Meg, the Sailor's Friend,
And Marion, cow-eyed,
Opened their arms to me but I
Refused to step inside;
I was not looking for a cage
In which to mope in my old age.

The nightingales are sobbing in
The orchards of our mothers,
And hearts that we broke long ago
Have long been breakng others;
Tears are round, the sea is deep:
Roll them overboard and sleep.

One gaze points elsewhere,Prospero,
My compass is my own;
Nostalgic sailors do not know
The waters where Antonio
Sails on and alone
__________________________
The above excerpted from Auden's "The Sea and the Mirror"

 

[Angeline]

by Langston Hughes

What can purge my heart
Of the song
And the sadness?
What can purge my heart
But the song
Of the sadness?
What can purge my heart
Of the sadness
Of the song

Do not speak of sorrow
With dust in her hair,
Or bits of dust in eyes
A chance wind blows there.
The sorrow that I speak of
Is dusted with despair.

Voice of muted trumpet,
Cold brass in warm air.
Bitter television blurred
By sound that shimmers-
Where?
__________________________

When it's hot in Maine,
don't complain-
think o' that sweet sax refrain
how it remains
hangin' in the air
soft and sultry
on a New Orleans night
sweat drippin'
hips slippin'
as you strain to be one
with the music inside you.

It's never too hot for Langston Hughes.

 

[RhymeFairy]

Flower of Love


Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without
name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of
Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in
mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is
past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the
root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in
wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.

Oscar Wilde

 

[Jennifer C]

Flower of Love


Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common
clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed yet, seen the fuller air, the
larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on that verdant and enamelled meed.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening, as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned me, who am crownless now and without
name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling on the threshold of the House of
Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the lyre's strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead, clasped the hand of noble love in
mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush the burnished bosom of the
dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion, known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you -ah! what else had I a boy to do? -
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and when once the storm of youth is
past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for the blindworm battens on the
root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you? God's own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems, and, though youth is gone in
wasted days,
I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better than the poet's crown of bays.

Oscar Wilde

Great Oscar Wilde poem RF, Hope you don't mind but I have to post another

ATHANASIA

by: Oscar Wilde

O that gaunt House of Art which lacks for naught
Of all the great things men have saved from Time,
The withered body of a girl was brought
Dead ere the world's glad youth had touched its prime,
And seen by lonely Arabs lying hid
In the dim womb of some black pyramid.

But when they had unloosed the linen band
Which swathed the Egyptian's body,--lo! was found
Closed in the wasted hollow of her hand
A little seed, which sown in English ground
Did wondrous snow of starry blossoms bear
And spread rich odours through our spring-tide air.

With such strange arts this flower did allure
That all forgotten was the asphodel,
And the brown bee, the lily's paramour,
Forsook the cup where he was wont to dwell,
For not a thing of earth it seemed to be,
But stolen from some heavenly Arcady.

In vain the sad narcissus, wan and white
At its own beauty, hung across the stream,
The purple dragon-fly had no delight
With its gold dust to make his wings a-gleam,
Ah! no delight the jasmine-bloom to kiss,
Or brush the rain-pearls from the eucharis.

For love of it the passionate nightingale
Forgot the hills of Thrace, the cruel king,
And the pale dove no longer cared to sail
Through the wet woods at time of blossoming,
But round this flower of Egypt sought to float,
With silvered wing and amethystine throat.

While the hot sun blazed in his tower of blue
A cooling wind crept from the land of snows,
And the warm south with tender tears of dew
Drenched its white leaves when Hesperos up-rose
Amid those sea-green meadows of the sky
On which the scarlet bars of sunset lie.

But when o'er wastes of lily-haunted field
The tired birds had stayed their amorous tune,
And broad and glittering like an argent shield
High in the sapphire heavens hung the moon,
Did no strange dream or evil memory make
Each tremulous petal of its blossoms shake?

Ah no! to this bright flower a thousand years
Seemed but the lingering of a summer's day,
It never knew the tide of cankering fears
Which turn a boy's gold hair to withered grey,
The dread desire of death it never knew,
Or how all folk that they were born must rue.

For we to death with pipe and dancing go,
Now would we pass the ivory gate again,
As some sad river wearied of its flow
Through the dull plains, the haunts of common men,
Leaps lover-like into the terrible sea!
And counts it gain to die so gloriously.

We mar our lordly strength in barren strife
With the world's legions led by clamorous care,
It never feels decay but gathers life
From the pure sunlight and the supreme air,
We live beneath Time's wasting sovereignty,
It is the child of all eternity

 

[annaswirls]

Anna Swir

Beach Sandals

I swam away from myself.
Do not call me.
Swim away from yourself, too.

We will swim away, leaving our bodies
on the shore
like a pair of beach sandals.

~Anna Swir

 

[annaswirls]

Wislawa Szymborska

N P R A I S E O F M Y S I S T E R


My sister doesn't write poems,
and it's unlikely that she'll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who didn't write poems,
and also her father, who likewise didn't write poems.
I feel safe beneath my sister's roof:
my sister's husband would rather die than write poems.
And, even though this is starting to sound as repetitive as Peter Piper,
the truth is, none of my relatives write poems.

My sister's desk drawers don't hold old poems,
and her handbag doesn't hold new ones.
When my sister asks me over for lunch,
I know she doesn't want to read me her poems.
Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives.
Her coffee doesn't spill on manuscripts.

There are many families in which nobody writes poems,
but once it starts up it's hard to quarantine.
Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations
creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.

My sister has tackled oral prose with some success,
but her entire written opus consists of postcards from vacation
whose text is only the same promise every year:
when she gets back, she'll have
so much
much
much to tell.


Wislawa Szymborska

 

[Jennifer C]

She Walked Unaware

Oh, she walked unaware of her own increasing beauty

That was holding men's thoughts from market or plough,

As she passed by intent on her womanly duties

And she passed without leisure to be wayward or proud;

Or if she had pride then it was not in her thinking

But thoughtless in her body like a flower of good breeding.

The first time I saw her spreading coloured linen

Beyond the green willow she gave me gentle greeting

With no more intention than the leaning willow tree.



Though she smiled without intention yet from that day forward

Her beauty filled like water the four corners of my being,

And she rested in my heart like a hare in the form

That is shaped to herself. And I that would be singing

Or whistling at all times went silently then,

Till I drew her aside among straight stems of beeches

When the blackbird was sleeping and she promised that never

The fields would be ripe but I'd gather all sweetness,

A red moon of August would rise on our wedding.



October is spread bright flame along stripped willows,

Low fires of the dogwood burn down to grey water, -

God pity me now and all desolate sinners

Demented with beauty! I have blackened my thought

In drouths of bad longing, and all brightness goes shrouded

Since he came with his rapture of wild words that mirrored

Her beauty and made her ungentle and proud.

Tonight she will spread her brown hair on his pillow,

But I shall be hearing the harsh cries of wild fowl.

Patrich MacDonogh

 

[denis hale]

How Laux Can We Go?



"The Lovers" (c) '05 by Dorianne Laux

She is about to come. This time
they are sitting up, joined below the belly,
feet cupped like sleek hands praying
at the base of each other's spines.
And when something lifts within her
toward a light she's sure, once again,
she can't bear, she opens her eyes
and sees his face is turned away,
one arm behind him, hand splayed
palm down on the mattress, to brace himself
so he can lever his hips, touch
with the bright tip the innermost spot.
And she finds she can't bear it--
not his beautiful neck, stretched and corded,
not his hair fallen to one side like beach grass,
not the curved wing of his ear, washed thin
with daylight, deep pink of the inner body.
What she can't bear is that she can't see his face,
not that she thinks this exactly--she is rocking
and breathing--it's more her body's thought,
opening, as it is, into its own sheer truth.
So that when her hand lifts, of its own volition
and slaps him, twice on the chest,
on that pad of muscled flesh just above the nipple,
slaps him twice, fast, like a nursing child
trying to get a mother's attention,
she's startled by the sound,
though when he turns his face to hers--
which is what her body wants, his eyes
pulled open, as if she had bitten--
she does reach out and bite him, on the shoulder,
not hard, but with the power infants have
over those who have borne them, tied as they are
to the body, and so tied to the pleasure,
the exquisite pain of this world.
And when she lifts her face he sees
where she's gone, knows she can't speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply
watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that,
if she could see it, she would never let him see.

 

[Angeline]

"The Lovers" (c) '05 by Dorianne Laux

She is about to come. This time
they are sitting up, joined below the belly,
feet cupped like sleek hands praying
at the base of each other's spines.
And when something lifts within her
toward a light she's sure, once again,
she can't bear, she opens her eyes
and sees his face is turned away,
one arm behind him, hand splayed
palm down on the mattress, to brace himself
so he can lever his hips, touch
with the bright tip the innermost spot.
And she finds she can't bear it--
not his beautiful neck, stretched and corded,
not his hair fallen to one side like beach grass,
not the curved wing of his ear, washed thin
with daylight, deep pink of the inner body.
What she can't bear is that she can't see his face,
not that she thinks this exactly--she is rocking
and breathing--it's more her body's thought,
opening, as it is, into its own sheer truth.
So that when her hand lifts, of its own volition
and slaps him, twice on the chest,
on that pad of muscled flesh just above the nipple,
slaps him twice, fast, like a nursing child
trying to get a mother's attention,
she's startled by the sound,
though when he turns his face to hers--
which is what her body wants, his eyes
pulled open, as if she had bitten--
she does reach out and bite him, on the shoulder,
not hard, but with the power infants have
over those who have borne them, tied as they are
to the body, and so tied to the pleasure,
the exquisite pain of this world.
And when she lifts her face he sees
where she's gone, knows she can't speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply
watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that,
if she could see it, she would never let him see.

Oh my. What a raw and violently honest poem.

You got any others by her?

 

[RhymeFairy]

Oh my. What a raw and violently honest poem.

You got any others by her?

Very vivid.
I echo Angelines' words.

Stark Honesty, very poignant.
Almost a moment *caught* in time.
Priceless ...

 

[denis hale]

re: Dorianne

You got any others by her?

There's one of her's on my blog, Ange.
From earlier in her career.

If you, like looked in the May archives on my blog?

Or mebbe late April. Somewhere in there.

I also did a tribute thing to SP, that is in there as well.


hugs,

dhm

 

[ewopper]

So Inviting

Hello all I'n new to the site I'm a poet and I've written thousands over the years here's one of mine

Watching her quietly sitting there
in short dress exposing her underwear
just enough to cause my ardor to rise
enhanced by her sparkling sexy eyes

each sensual movement a thing of grace
surpassed only by her lovely face
lovely orbs protruding from her chest
make her a divine vessel of comeliness

long legs looking so very lovely
this lovely package of eye candy
inspiring me arousing me
to desire to make love to her longingly

every part of her builds in me a fire
to make love to her an unquenchable desire
her looks my way are so exciting
giving me stares that are so inviting

 

[Jennifer C]

Hello all I'n new to the site I'm a poet and I've written thousands over the years here's one of mine

Watching her quietly sitting there
in short dress exposing her underwear
just enough to cause my ardor to rise
enhanced by her sparkling sexy eyes

each sensual movement a thing of grace
surpassed only by her lovely face
lovely orbs protruding from her chest
make her a divine vessel of comeliness

long legs looking so very lovely
this lovely package of eye candy
inspiring me arousing me
to desire to make love to her longingly

every part of her builds in me a fire
to make love to her an unquenchable desire
her looks my way are so exciting
giving me stares that are so inviting

Welcome to the boards ewopper, HOT write

 

[Jennifer C]

The Rough Man Entered the Lover's Garden

The rough man entered the lover's garden
It is woods now, my beautiful one, it is woods,
Gathering roses, he has broken their stems
They are dry now, my beautiful one, they are dry

In this square our hide is stretched
Blessed be, we saw our friend off to God
One day, too, black dust must cover us
We will rot, my beautiful one, we will rot

He himself reads and He also writes
God's holy hand has closed her crescent eyebrows
Your peers are wandering in Paradise
They are free, my beautiful one, they are free

Whatever religion you are, I'll worship it too
I will be torn off with you even the Day of Judgment
Bend for once, let me kiss you on your white neck
Just stay there for a moment, my beautiful one, just stay there

I'm Pir Sultan Abdal, I start from the root
I eat the kernel and throw out the evil weed
And weave from a thousand flowers to one hive honey
I am an honest bee, my beautiful one, an honest bee.


Pir Sultan Abdal

 

[Angeline]

There's one of her's on my blog, Ange.
From earlier in her career.

If you, like looked in the May archives on my blog?

Or mebbe late April. Somewhere in there.

I also did a tribute thing to SP, that is in there as well.


hugs,

dhm

Thank you D. I will go look.

xo,
Ange

 

[tungtied2u]

Wow Denis!

"The Lovers" (c) '05 by Dorianne Laux

She is about to come. This time
they are sitting up, joined below the belly,
feet cupped like sleek hands praying
at the base of each other's spines.
And when something lifts within her
toward a light she's sure, once again,
she can't bear, she opens her eyes
and sees his face is turned away,
one arm behind him, hand splayed
palm down on the mattress, to brace himself
so he can lever his hips, touch
with the bright tip the innermost spot.
And she finds she can't bear it--
not his beautiful neck, stretched and corded,
not his hair fallen to one side like beach grass,
not the curved wing of his ear, washed thin
with daylight, deep pink of the inner body.
What she can't bear is that she can't see his face,
not that she thinks this exactly--she is rocking
and breathing--it's more her body's thought,
opening, as it is, into its own sheer truth.
So that when her hand lifts, of its own volition
and slaps him, twice on the chest,
on that pad of muscled flesh just above the nipple,
slaps him twice, fast, like a nursing child
trying to get a mother's attention,
she's startled by the sound,
though when he turns his face to hers--
which is what her body wants, his eyes
pulled open, as if she had bitten--
she does reach out and bite him, on the shoulder,
not hard, but with the power infants have
over those who have borne them, tied as they are
to the body, and so tied to the pleasure,
the exquisite pain of this world.
And when she lifts her face he sees
where she's gone, knows she can't speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply
watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that,
if she could see it, she would never let him see.

______________________________________

This is such a beautiful and keenly observed piece.
It almost unfolds in slow motion, with such detail to the physical and emotional.
Sort of like watching the petals of a flower unfold.
Thanks for sharing it.

 

[Jennifer C]

Here I Love You



Here I love you
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.

The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Pablo Neruda

 

[Jennifer C]

Confession

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.

it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

Charles Bukowski