Poetry in Progress ~ construction zone

[Tathagata]

Re: Re: Mad Poet: Lynn Mass..1980's

I love this tath.

thank you brother

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

how long

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

how long

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

how long

 

[tarablackwood22]

~~

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

well it was stunning before, but i c you've improved upon it.

i think i could sum it up with the whole idea of embracing our inner child..growing up before you're ready.


i'm way beyond dececting one of your poems, i wouldn't begin to know where to start..

spotting beauty is simple..specific features..in poetry, is not even close to where i am..ask me in 10 years

 

[Liar]

...there, finally in the right thread. I'm too tired for posting stuff.


Anyway, a question: This was a conversation overheard in Swedish. Does the language in the quotes work in English?


late night jerks

night bus
snaking suburbia
with the inner city leftovers
heading for a hung over
sunday morning

"yannow it's weird..."

a kazzoo whine
like a sentient duck
two seats behind

"...how it goes,
yannow,
with hands"

2 am tipsy
but eloquent enough
to pass this wisdom on
to his grinning mute firend
while I try to filter out
the babble
I focus but in vain
on a murderous migraine

"I'm a southpaw yannow"

oh really? shut up

"write with it, type, paint, pick stuff"

so you have an opposable thumb after all
do parrots have those really?
shut up shut up

"but yannow..."

shut up shut...oh I give up
all right, spill it, spit out

"...I finger pussies with the right,
and jack off too,
yannow"

bus stop
closing in
humming down
hissing doors
and I descend to asphalt
an amused smile
spreading

because I realise
...yannow...
me too



#L

 

[tungtied2u]

...there, finally in the right thread. I'm too tired for posting stuff.


Anyway, a question: This was a conversation overheard in Swedish. Does the language in the quotes work in English?


late night jerks

night bus
snaking suburbia
with the inner city leftovers
heading for a hung over
sunday morning

"yannow it's weird..."

a kazzoo whine
like a sentient duck
two seats behind

"...how it goes,
yannow,
with hands"

2 am tipsy
but eloquent enough
to pass this wisdom on
to his grinning mute firend
while I try to filter out
the babble
I focus but in vain
on a murderous migraine

"I'm a southpaw yannow"

oh really? shut up

"write with it, type, paint, pick stuff"

so you have an opposable thumb after all
do parrots have those really?
shut up shut up

"but yannow..."

shut up shut...oh I give up
all right, spill it, spit out

"...I finger pussies with the right,
and jack off too,
yannow"

bus stop
closing in
humming down
hissing doors
and I descend to asphalt
an amused smile
spreading

because I realise
...yannow...
me too



#L

This is priceless Liar.....yeah it works... and plenty....ya'know
(my only advice)

 

[tarablackwood22]

Liar --

It works for me, but "you know" is usually done with " y'know ".

 

[Liar]

Liar --

It works for me, but "you know" is usually done with " y'know ".

annow. was trying to be onomapoetic, yannow.

Thx all. Will tune and submit.

#L

 

[tarablackwood22]

annow. was trying to be onomapoetic, yannow.

Thx all. Will tune and submit.

#L

 

[Tathagata]

I'm interested in suggestions, interested in your thoughts......
any thoughts at all.


rose of late autumn


quick whites arrived yesterday
in an ambush of autumn,
but my girl forgot

me,

too trapped in her cage
of rage and tears
to walk into our valley
as I slept.

I dreamed I was child……

I am certain she will come,
as she always comes,
rolling and laughing
over yellow hills,

so I bend,

seek shelter
from the cold white weep
of dead October, looking
for a child and a stolen sun.

I was meant for her hand,
for the pain
and pane that see
her lake and shield her eyes,
her hiding glass, crying
with her to the water,

not for this wrinkling, waiting
for a savior,
skin of frozen crimson falling
with the flakes.

I dreamed I was rose……

waiting for a child, me,
to save me from the chill
with a sudden snapping,
a kind cut of my green throat,

murdered placement
in the wet vase of her veins,
a fusion of self, reuniting
as one in a holy ceremony
of red wedding.

I dream of crying at the glass……

how do I reconcile my thorns
in this world of accidents,
in a game of lonely windows
and early snow?

and you thought I was melancholy??


It's beautiful, sad , tragic...
a tale of self sacrifice..
but your ...vagueness(?) takes away from it a little
I understand it..but I'd love it a tad clearer
more personal perhaps or just more concrete
I want to know one of the characters better..

there my 2 cents...
buy 2 gumballs
I get the red one
; )

 

[Tathagata]

mad poet 3rd

.....

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

phantom pains

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

phantom pains

 

[minsue]

Damn

The poem in its entirety is damned good, but this could stand alone:

I close my eyes
thinking of the phantom pains
from a childhood
amputated
so many moonless years ago.

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

Damn

The poem in its entirety is damned good, but this could stand alone:

I close my eyes
thinking of the phantom pains
from a childhood
amputated
so many moonless years ago.

ty min..i'm not sure the moonless bit will stay after all the moon poetry, but i i refuse to use dark..or one of it's cousins so still thinking..

but it's a poem..i haven't been writing much so liked having a starting point..well besides the mindless "he fucks 6 feet under" thing

anyhow, any suggestions would be appreciated!

 

[BlueskyBeauty]

phantom pains

 

[Angeline]

Is this better? I liked the wordplay of the original first verse of this poem, but you commenters were right--it had to go. Thanks for helping me see it.

Offering

Whether disheveled
in morning's mussed hair,
sleepy in cottony innocence,
bed warm and pliant,
yielding,

or sleek and glittering
in neon night eyes,
savvy and preternatural,
painted, fey, vamping,

she offers herself, the heart
of her flower flows. The gift
of vulnerability is trust,

curling bouquets of fingers,
entwined tendrils, limbs,
move, whisper.

 

[Tathagata]

.....

 

[Tathagata]

see below

 

[Tathagata]

mad poet 5th Lynn Mass- 1980'S

.....

 

[Tathagata]

Livermore falls

.....

 

[Syndra Lynn]

Re: Livermore falls

Livermore Falls
smells of sweet grass,
and strawberries, ponderous,
ready to burst
over cheerios.

The uilleann drone of a thousand bees,
looming lazy by the garden,
and wild blueberries for pancakes and muffins
purple tongues and fingers betray
between meal pilfery.
Fresh clover honey oozed onto Life cereal,
My favorite.

It smells of coffee on a Sunday morning,
(the pop-hiss-pop of the percolator)
and home made donuts,
sodden, rich and steaming.
I watched Uncle Alden dunk his in his mug
and slurp them down.

I dunked mine in cold creamy milk.


It smells of cows and manure.
It smells fertile and lush and careless

I watch barn swallows arc,
like figure skaters,
graceful, silent swoops.
Dive bombers, we called them
and raced to the barn to watch.

The smell of hay,
and oil,
and tractor grease.

Playing hide and seek in rows of corn
that went on for miles.
Years later I knew what it was like
to walk into rows of green and disappear,
like in "Field of Dreams"

And there were ghosts in the corn.

Painted warriors and pirates,
old salts who sang shanties,
and wore black watch caps and thick rubber boots
like eel skin.



One time they shot a bear,
hung it up in the barn.
" Came out in broad daylight...was headin over to the chickens"
There was an indian they were gonna call
who'd skin it for them,
an......Indian!!!

Why couldnt we move here??

My father said " timbuktu"

Sometimes he said East Bumfuck
after a few beers
on that porch.
The best porch.
It wrapped around the house like a careworn hand
and held us safe.
We drank ice tea with real mint

At night you could hear everything for miles.

Raccoons hiss and chatter,
branches breaking,
something heavy stirs out there,
man or beast??




But when the wind changed
you smelled the paper mills.
" Smell of money" they called it,
progress.
Its manipulative, strangling hand
choking , cloaking, covering
all the smells of life.

Aunt Elva said that smell was poison
but folks needed to work,
and Uncle Alden said " Ayup"
and I knew I'd never be able to come back to Livermore Falls again.

Just popped in for a pick me up and look what I found! Ooo, reminds me of home. Paints a portrait I want to spend time in.

Thanks.

 

[Syndra Lynn]

late moon

Hot Moon

a stifled moon rides
undulating hills
bathing her hunting path
Earth Mother seeks mate
gathering heat
rolling her hips
distracting porch-reclined men
who’ve come out
hoping to catch a whisper
but all they catch is their breath






It's not brilliant but I wrote something. ok?

Syndra aint' dead