LITEROTICA PODCAST
LIT CAMS (200 Free Tokens)ADULT TOYSVOD MOVIES

Isolated Poetry Blurt

Going back and looking for my lost sheep, I wish I could go through the 30 in 30 thread and delete all the posts where participants removed their work leaving nothing but blank posts.

Don't get me wrong, everyone has a right to remove what they posted, but I'd like to see a feature where they could delete their entire post from threads without leavings.

There are so many and it's ugly.
 
Neonurotic said:
Going back and looking for my lost sheep, I wish I could go through the 30 in 30 thread and delete all the posts where participants removed their work leaving nothing but blank posts.

Don't get me wrong, everyone has a right to remove what they posted, but I'd like to see a feature where they could delete their entire post from threads without leavings.

There are so many and it's ugly.
Click to expand...

You're right but I don't have the ability to do it with a shortcut and the idea of clicking through threads looking for those empty posts to select and then delete makes me want to cry. There is not enough time in the day and I would so rather write poems.

Maybe bronzy knows a way. I'm pretty much a techno-dunce.
 
Angeline said:
You're right but I don't have the ability to do it with a shortcut and the idea of clicking through threads looking for those empty posts to select and then delete makes me want to cry. There is not enough time in the day and I would so rather write poems.

Maybe bronzy knows a way. I'm pretty much a techno-dunce.
Click to expand...

Mere mods have no such power. One could select all the target posts on a single page and take out several at time, but it's no real time saver.

Besides, we don't really delete them, we just move them to a hidden forum.
 
I have a book titled, The Collected Works of Thomas Moore and I am sorry I rescued it from a dumpster. This particular Thomas Moore(28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852) was a prolific author and poet. He was some sort of Irish hero, kind of like Robert Burns and Scotland. I've never been invited to a Thomas Moore dinner, so his memory must have faded.

I can't read this stuff, though I try, again and again. It doesn't help that the type is the smallest possible font, or that the bottom half of most pages are filled with footnotes which explain the references to certain people, events or ancient myths.

The book is close at hand and I keep picking it up, turning to a random page, hoping to find something, but after two or three lines, my eyes glaze over. I went to the internet to find more information about Thomas and was surprised to discover some very interesting and quite readable poems. There are quite a few. I think the problem with this book is the "completeness" of it. The poems which have made it to the internet are there for a reason, but in the book they are there only for completeness.
 
i have tried to rate or comment but to no avail. i have read many of your poems. you have a bright fire in your belly that shines for miles. you are a damn fine writer. though when you said you wished their heart would break...there is enough of us wounded. it made me sad.
Click to expand...

So I was actually going through my email and found a bit of anonymous feedback (which, being anonymous, I couldn't reply to) and it made me stop and think...then come here to blurt, of course...

I'm not so certain that the perceived vindictiveness in the poem in question is is fully autobiographical. I am sure some of it is. I know how much and how long I can carry grudges, and the person(s) that inspired this piece occupy at least a bit of said grudges. Anyway, I can understand what Anonymous was getting at, and I hope the darkness revealed doesn't overshadow the brightness they were enjoying (thank for that comment, btw :eek:)

If the particular Anonymous involved sees this blurt and wants to talk more, feel free to drop me a PM or something.


:cool:
 
Remec: stop after "writer", and let the rest of it roll off of you like water droplets on a seal.

Listen to criticism, read comments and consider them...but then know when to Dive, baby, Dive!

Of course I am biased. I love practically everything you write.
 
Remec said:
So I was actually going through my email and found a bit of anonymous feedback (which, being anonymous, I couldn't reply to) and it made me stop and think...then come here to blurt, of course...

I'm not so certain that the perceived vindictiveness in the poem in question is is fully autobiographical. I am sure some of it is. I know how much and how long I can carry grudges, and the person(s) that inspired this piece occupy at least a bit of said grudges. Anyway, I can understand what Anonymous was getting at, and I hope the darkness revealed doesn't overshadow the brightness they were enjoying (thank for that comment, btw :eek:)

If the particular Anonymous involved sees this blurt and wants to talk more, feel free to drop me a PM or something.


:cool:
Click to expand...

This is a classy response to what I usually consider a cowardly act (the anonymous comment). Boo was right about you. :D
 
maurice hewlett

Oreithyia

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried
To stormy Thrace from Athens where you tarried
Down by Ilissus all a blowy day
Among the asphodels, how rapt away
Thither, and in what frozen bed wert married?

'I was a King's tall daughter still unwed,
Slim and desirable my locks to shed
Free from the fillet. He my maiden belt
Undid with busy fingers hid but felt,
And made me wife upon no marriage bed.

'As idly there I lay alone he came
And blew upon my side, and beat a flame
Into my cheeks, and kindled both my eyes.
I suffered him who took no bodily guise:
The light clouds know whether I was to blame.

'Into my mouth he blew an amorous breath;
I panted, but lay still, as quiet as death.
The whispering planes and sighing grasses know
Whether it was the wind that loved me so:
I know not--only this, 'O love,' he saith,

''O long beset with love, and overloved,
O easy saint, untempted and unproved,
O walking stilly virgin ways in hiding,
Come out, thou art too choice for such abiding!
She never valued ease who never roved.

''Thou mayst not see thy lover, but he now
Is here, and claimeth thy low moonlit brow,
Thy wonderful eyes, and lips that part and pout,
And polished throat that like a flower shoots out
From thy dark vesture folded and crossed low.'

'With that he had his way and went his way;
For Gods have mastery, and a maiden's nay
Grows faint ere it is whispered all. I sped
Homeward with startled face and tiptoe tread,
And up the stair, and in my chamber lay.

'Crouching I lay and quaked, and heard the wind
Wail round the house like a mad thing confined,
And had no rest; turn wheresoe'er I would
This urgent lover stormed my solitude
And beat against the haven of my mind.

'And over all a clamour and dis-ease
Filled earth and air, and shuddered in my knees
So that I could not stand, but by the wall
Leaned pitifully breathing. Still his call
Volleyed against the house and tore the trees.

'Then out my turret-window as I might
I leaned my body to the blind wet night;
That eager lover leapt me, circled round,
Wreathed, folded, held me prisoner, wrapt and bound
In manacles of terror and delight.

'That night he sealed me to him, and I went
Thenceforth his leman, submiss and content;
So from the hall and feast, whenas I heard
His clear voice call, I flitted like a bird
That beats the brake, and garnered what he lent.

'I was no maid that was no wife; my days
Went by in dreams whose lights are golden haze
And skies are crimson. Laughing not, nor crying,
I strayed all witless with my loose hair flying,
Bearing that load that women think their praise.

'And felt my breasts grow heavy with that food
That women laugh to feel and think it good;
But I went shamefast, hanging down my head,
With girdle all too strait to serve my stead,
And bore an unguessed burden in my blood.

'There was a winter night he came again
And shook the window, till cried out my pain
Unto him, saying, 'Lord, I dare not live!
Lord, I must die of that which thou didst give!
Pity me, Lord!' and fell. The winter rain

'Beat at the casement, burst it, and the wind
Filled all the room, and swept me white and blind
Into the night. I heard the sound of seas
Beleaguer earth, I heard the roaring trees
Singing together. We left them far behind.

'And so he bore me into stormy Thrace,
Me and my load, and kissed back to my face
The sweet new blood of youth, and to my limbs
The wine of life; and there I bore him twins,
Zethes and Calaïs, in a rock-bound place.'

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried
To stormy Thrace, think you of how you tarried
And let him woo and wed? 'Ah, no, for now
He's kissed all Athens from my open brow.
I am the Wind's wife, wooed and won and married.'


here's a link to the review of the book i got yesterday for 50p, Helen Redeemed and Other Poems by Maurice Hewlett; the review's by Ezra Pound:

http://www.jstor.org/stable/20569764

use the arrows at the bottom of the pages to continue reading his review.
 
just linking to the thread Fata Morgana started in the GB, that's all sea-related. some exquisite poetry there from names known and unknown, as well as some pictures to inspire the imagination.

http://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?t=998603

:kiss:


thanks for finding the blurt thread for me, angie - wasn't sure if you'd have the time or interest right now :rose:
 
Last edited:
My neighbor's dog has been barking like crazy this afternoon, which makes me think of this poem. :)

Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House
Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.
 
re a poem

its power lies in its pain
it's hard to read, especially knowing it to be personal and the pain is real, not some invented-for-art pain
it is beautifully written
i need time to draw out thoughts from the bruised mass of emotion
empathic-leanings sometimes suck
 
So half-listening to the local news on tv, I just heard the following:

She's been a nun since 1952. She just loves to ballroom dance.

That's all I caught. And damn if it isn't an American Sentence! I think they're stalking me.
 
so I left 22 comments yesterday and only three of them seemed to still be up, sigh
 
It may be that you went over some magic number of "maximum comments per hour" and got tagged as a spammer (ridiculous, I know, but possible). I recommend PMing the site administrator (Laurel?) to see if your comments can be restored. It's possible that they weren't deleted, but only hidden.
 
A Ritual To Read To Each Other
William Stafford

If you don't know the kind of person I am
and I don't know the kind of person you are
a pattern that others made may prevail in the world
and following the wrong god home we may miss our star.

For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood
storming out to play through the broken dyke.

And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail,
but if one wanders the circus won't find the park,
I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
a remote important region in all who talk:
though we could fool each other, we should consider--
lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark.

For it is important that awake people be awake,
or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;
the signals we give--yes or no, or maybe--
should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
 
I went through my PM's and found a few poems that Laurel rejected back in 2014. It was a series, tilted, "Cannibale". The poems talked about eating my ex and boss. I remember being a bit annoyed since two of them had already been posted on Lit a 2005 or so ago, but I look at them now... Sheesh, WTF was I thinking?

SORRY LAUREL!! :rose:
 
Last edited:
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

Angeline
It's the 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge! (This is a *poems only* thread.)
Replies
18
Views
656
Remec
Remec
Angeline
It's The 2025 Poem-A-Week Challenge Discussion Thread
Replies
5
Views
218
Bn2f
Bn2f
V
First Submissions in Erotic Poetry Section - Desperately Seeking Feedback
Replies
14
Views
322
verseandworse2
V
Angeline
Poetry PSA
Replies
6
Views
229
AlinaX
AlinaX
Angeline
2024 Poetry Challenge Discussion Thread
2 3 4
Replies
79
Views
2K
42Below
4
Back
Top