Share A Poet

[vrosej10]

Why I Am Not a Painter
By Frank O’Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

An oldy but a goody.

 

[twelveoone]

Nephelidia.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float,
Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine,
These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat?
Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor’s appalled agitation,
Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past;
Flushed with the famishing fullness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation,
Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast?
Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror,
Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death:
Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error,
Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude’s breath.
Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses
Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh;
Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses —
‘Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.’
Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be,
While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men’s rapiers, resigned to the rod;
Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby,
As they grope through the graveyard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God.
Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer:
Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things;
Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her,
Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

for...

 

[butters]

Spike Milligan




there're holes in the sky
where the rain gets in
they're ever so small
that's why rain's so thin!

 

[vrosej10]

Hardcastle Crags by Sylvia Plath

Hardcastle Crags

Flintlike, her feet struck
Such a racket of echoes from the steely street,
Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black
Stone-built town, that she heard the quick air ignite
Its tinder and shake

A firework of echoes from wall
To wall of the dark, dwarfed cottages.
But the echoes died at her back as the walls
Gave way to fields and the incessant seethe of grasses
Riding in the full

Of the moon, manes to the wind,
Tireless, tied, as a moon-bound sea
Moves on its root. Though a mist-wraith wound
Up from the fissured valley and hung shoulder-high
Ahead, it fattened

To no family-featured ghost,
Nor did any word body with a name
The blank mood she walked in. Once past
The dream-peopled village, her eyes entertained no dream,
And the sandman's dust

Lost luster under her footsoles.
The long wind, paring her person down
To a pinch of flame, blew its burdened whistle
In the whorl of her ear, and like a scooped-out pumpkin crown
Her head cupped the babel.

All the night gave her, in return
For the paltry gift of her bulk and the beat
Of her heart was the humped indifferent iron
Of its hills, and its pastures bordered by black stone set
On black stone. Barns

Guarded broods and litters
Behind shut doors; the dairy herds
Knelt in the meadow mute as boulders;
Sheep drowsed stoneward in their tussocks of wool, and birds,
Twig-sleep, wore

Granite ruffs, their shadows
The guise of leaves. The whole landscape
Loomed absolute as the antique world was
Once in its earliest sway of lymph and sap,
Unaltered by eyes,

Enough to snuff the quick
Of her small heat out, but before the weight
Of stones and hills of stones could break
Her down to mere quartz grit n that stony light
She turned back.


Plath's been done to death but Twelve was commenting on her personal poems and I though he might like this one which is much less so.

 

[bogusagain]

Plath's been done to death but Twelve was commenting on her personal poems and I though he might like this one which is much less so.

She keeps coming round but I think that's what quality does.

I promised myself I would never read another word about her and now I find myself reading yet another biography about her that was left lying around my local bar.

 

[Angeline]

She keeps coming round but I think that's what quality does.

I promised myself I would never read another word about her and now I find myself reading yet another biography about her that was left lying around my local bar.

Quite the literate local bar you've got there pal.

 

[bogusagain]

Quite the literate local bar you've got there pal.

The bar owner likes a better class of drunk in his establishment.

 

[vrosej10]

The bar owner likes a better class of drunk in his establishment.

I wouldn't touch anything I found in the bar I used to frequent...even a fifty dollar bill.

 

[bogusagain]

I wouldn't touch anything I found in the bar I used to frequent...even a fifty dollar bill.

Hmm I found a woman there once and I'm pondering what you said.

I suspect Berlin bars are diferent than Aussie bars. My local bar opens in the morning as is more a cafe where you can buy coffee and breakfast and read the papers provided by the owner and in summer sit outside on the terrace soaking up the sun. You can buy lunch later in the day and its only around 7pm does it turn into a bar proper. Some bars are a cafe during the day, a restuarant in the evening and a nightclub at night. Some are just out and out bars where you can drink, vomit and fight from morning till night.

 

[vrosej10]

Hmm I found a woman there once and I'm pondering what you said.

I suspect Berlin bars are diferent than Aussie bars. My local bar opens in the morning as is more a cafe where you can buy coffee and breakfast and read the papers provided by the owner and in summer sit outside on the terrace soaking up the sun. You can buy lunch later in the day and its only around 7pm does it turn into a bar proper. Some bars are a cafe during the day, a restuarant in the evening and a nightclub at night. Some are just out and out bars where you can drink, vomit and fight from morning till night.

I live in cafes, so I would love that kind of bar I think. They sound nothing like pubs. Most would never serve coffee for one thing and they aren't great places for anyone with brain cells that still function.

This post explains a lot for me. I didn't realise you live in Berlin; I thought you had some weird thing for Germany, which you expressed in your poems. Are you an expat? If you are a native born German, your English is impressive.

 

[bogusagain]

This post explains a lot for me. I didn't realise you live in Berlin; I thought you had some weird thing for Germany, which you expressed in your poems. Are you an expat? If you are a native born German, your English is impressive.

Expat. I seem to be moving eastwards. I used to live in Poitiers, France, then Amsterdam, I still go back to Holland to work nowandagain as there is not that much work in Berlin, I teach a little and make art, printing mostly and generally duck and dive to survive. I have a small apartment here but this is literally my next door neighbour. http://www.berlin.de/orte/museum/schloss-charlottenburg/index.en.php

 

[butters]

Expat. I seem to be moving eastwards. I used to live in Poitiers, France, then Amsterdam, I still go back to Holland to work nowandagain as there is not that much work in Berlin, I teach a little and make art, printing mostly and generally duck and dive to survive. I have a small apartment here but this is literally my next door neighbour. http://www.berlin.de/orte/museum/schloss-charlottenburg/index.en.php

how wonderful. sigh. i'd love to live next door to a fabulous museum. plonk it in the countryside first, though. *nods*

 

[butters]

Walt Whitman

Shut Not Your Doors

Shut not your doors to me proud libraries,
For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet needed most, I bring.
Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything,
A book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by intellect,
But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.

 

[Felix_Jones]

George Orwell

An ironic poem about prostitution

When I was young and had no sense
In far-off Mandalay
I lost my heart to a Burmese girl
As lovely as the day.

Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,
Her teeth were ivory;
I said, "for twenty silver pieces,
Maiden, sleep with me".

She looked at me, so pure, so sad,
The loveliest thing alive,
And in her lisping, virgin voice,
Stood out for twenty-five.

 

[bogusagain]

The mention of George Orwell reminded me of this poem. The title explains it all, it was published in the back of his book, Homage To Catalonia about the Spanish civil war, about his experiences in the Spanish civil war. A lot of the book is about the double dealing, mistrust and backstabbing between the leftist Republican factions. A salutary lesson considering N Africa when it comes to viewing how fights against dictators and would be oppressors are not always what they seem and how they can be subverted.


Poem from ‘Looking Back on the Spanish War’

The Italian soldier shook my hand
Beside the guard-room table;
The strong hand and the subtle hand
Whose palms are only able

To meet within the sounds of guns,
But oh! what peace I knew then
In gazing on his battered face
Purer than any woman’s!

For the flyblown words that make me spew
Still in his ears were holy,
And he was born knowing that I had learned
Out of books and slowly.

The treacherous guns had told their tale
And we both had bought it,
But my gold brick was made of gold –
Oh! who ever would have thought it?

Good luck go with you, Italian soldier!
But luck is not for the brave;
What would the world give back to you?
Always less than you gave.

Between the shadow and the ghost,
Between the white and the red,
Between the bullet and the lie,
Where would hide your head?

For where is Manuel Gonzalez,
And where is Pedro Aguilar,
And where is Ramon Fenellosa?
The earthworms know where they are.

Your name and your deeds were forgotten
Before your bones were dry,
And the lie that slew you is buried
Under a deeper lie;

But the thing that I saw in your face
No power can disinherit:
No bomb that ever burst
Shatters the crystal spirit.

 

[twelveoone]

The mention of George Orwell reminded me of this poem. The title explains it all, it was published in the back of his book, Homage To Catalonia about the Spanish civil war, about his experiences in the Spanish civil war. A lot of the book is about the double dealing, mistrust and backstabbing between the leftist Republican factions. A salutary lesson considering N Africa when it comes to viewing how fights against dictators and would be oppressors are not always what they seem and how they can be subverted.


Poem from ‘Looking Back on the Spanish War’

The Italian soldier shook my hand
Beside the guard-room table;
The strong hand and the subtle hand
Whose palms are only able

To meet within the sounds of guns,
But oh! what peace I knew then
In gazing on his battered face
Purer than any woman’s!

For the flyblown words that make me spew
Still in his ears were holy,
And he was born knowing that I had learned
Out of books and slowly.

The treacherous guns had told their tale
And we both had bought it,
But my gold brick was made of gold –
Oh! who ever would have thought it?

Good luck go with you, Italian soldier!
But luck is not for the brave;
What would the world give back to you?
Always less than you gave.

Between the shadow and the ghost,
Between the white and the red,
Between the bullet and the lie,
Where would hide your head?

For where is Manuel Gonzalez,
And where is Pedro Aguilar,
And where is Ramon Fenellosa?
The earthworms know where they are.

Your name and your deeds were forgotten
Before your bones were dry,
And the lie that slew you is buried
Under a deeper lie;

But the thing that I saw in your face
No power can disinherit:
No bomb that ever burst
Shatters the crystal spirit.

Who wrote this? Orwell?

 

[bogusagain]

Who wrote this? Orwell?

Yes. I think Orwell had a secret longing to be a poet. That's the feeling I got when I read his novel Keep The Aspidistra Flying which was about a would be poet.

 

[twelveoone]

Yes. I think Orwell had a secret longing to be a poet. That's the feeling I got when I read his novel Keep The Aspidistra Flying which was about a would be poet.

wow

Didn't know that.

 

[twelveoone]

Yes. I think Orwell had a secret longing to be a poet. That's the feeling I got when I read his novel Keep The Aspidistra Flying which was about a would be poet.

Hey Bog, check this out, from a Russian site
He sounds like you.

 

[bogusagain]

wow

Didn't know that.

I've read just about everything Orwell has written but I've never read that. How the hell do you find all this stuff?

 

[butters]

really interesting links, no?

i have trouble reading so much tight text onscreen with no white space between the paragraphs. my eyes try to read ti all at once.

gonna c&p onto word and add the spacing to make it more manageable for me.

 

[twelveoone]

heads up, For what it is worth. sites are russian, I got a warning from another user they may be carriering viruses from another user. You can't trust the former Eastern block countries, as I think that is one of there sole export industry.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

heads up, For what it is worth. sites are russian, I got a warning from another user they may be carriering viruses from another user. You can't trust the former Eastern block countries, as I think that is one of there sole export industry.

you're directing us to links containing viruses? !

 

[twelveoone]

you're directing us to links containing viruses? !

I hope not.

 

[theognis]

All In Love Is Fair

All is fair in love
Love's a crazy game
Two people vow to stay
In love as one they say
But all is changed with time
The future no one can see
The road you leave behind
Ahead lies mystery
But all is fair in love
I had to go away
A writer takes his pen
To write the words again
That all in love is fair

All of fate's a chance
It's either good or bad
I tossed my coin to say
In love with me you'd stay
But all in war is so cold
You either win or lose
When all is put away
The losing side I'll play
But all is fair in love
I should never have left your side
A writer takes his pen
To write the words again
That all in love is fair

A writer takes his pen
To write the words again
That all in love is fair

-S. Wonder