Saturday Night Poetry

ooh. poems. gimme.

ohhh my favourite poem ever is robert Frost’s, Two roads , just can’t remember the name right now and i’ll be damned if I’m about to google it!

Wonder who teh artist of that painting is.
; p

I love Rumi
poet/mystic

Ok #1 Invalidresponse…show us the $$$$$$$$ After all, that is the tradition of being first…. great to see you are the first..

One of my favorite poems is Merlin Enthralled by Richard Wilbur…sad but beautiful

I also love all of John Donne and the Metaphysical Poets..Andrew Marvell, George Herbert et al..
Gerard Manley Hopkins…Emily Dickinson, also maligned ..her poetry and her person..for along time..Allen Tate, John Crowe Ransom, Donald Davidson( The so called Southern Fugitive or New Criticism poets…) Well so many more..
This Heaney poem is pure lyric..and lovely.

Louise Bogan is another wonderful poet I think..so many.

Oh, the money, that’s right!
Can’t wait to see our new total tomorrow morning.

oh, “The Road Not Taken,” yes, a lovely classic.

Please gimme more.

It was a cross-post, Trish not an answer to your post. To be sure, a great poem. Not an accident we both thought of it at the same time.

Casper Cat 11.22.08 at 10:50 pm

Ok #1 Invalidresponse…show us the $$$$$$$$ After all, that is the tradition of being first…. great to see you are the first..
__________________________________________________
not to worry, my donation has been sent……(snail mail)
I put my money where my mouth is….
(only wish my pocketbook was as bit as my mouth sometimes)

(no comments from the peanut galary please

artist is Eustache Le Seur, french , 1617-1655, founder of the french academy of painting.
————–
Thank you, Murphy!

Murphy,

I just sent you the updated spreadsheet on where the FEC project is at

Invalidresponse..I was just joking with you….bye the way I am no peanut…I am a almond!!!!!Ha!! just having a little fun for being first, hope you are not offended…It is just a game and nothing more..

I’m not so much into poetry, but thought you might be interested in who my favorite artist is. Every year at Christmas or my b-day I get a new print.

You can see her work here(click on posters):

http://www.rosamond.com/rosamond.htm

She was swept away by a rogue wave while walking along a beach in California with her son. Her sister was able to save her son, but Christine Rosamond perished.

Crazy serendipity. I posted an original poem over at my place tonight before I stopped by here.

Here’s a copy and paste (I hope original poetry is allowed too!):

Promise of Summer
for C. R.

It is not yet April and already she wears sandals,
her piggish toes exposed to the world.
In her red hoodie, blue jeans, and flip flops
this daughter of mine looks changed—
suddenly, girlishly metropolitan.
Her perma-scowl is balanced perfectly
between pony tails that only hint
at her waning innocence.

I thought to stop her before she left,
some instinct toward maternal wisdom
rising in my throat, but choked back
by my experience as a woman in the world,
free of relationships that define me;
feeling feminine power like
shrugging on a borrowed red dress,
a little flamboyant, but fun to try on.
I want her to shrug on the dress and dance,
her hands reaching for the sun as she grows long,
her fingers curling like tendril’d vines.

She is eleven and her breasts have risen
beneath her pink undershirts like
the bread my grandmother used to make,
magically and quickly reaching its full potential.
She would shame me for telling that
but I cannot help but marvel
at Rose blooming right before me,
her petals unfolding by the hour.

This morning she looked relaxed in her clothes,
sporting the stoic cynicism that makes the young look cool,
posturing apathy in the very slackness of her stance.
I am not allowed to touch or intervene.
I must trust what I have done and what she becomes.
She is locked tight, a fleshy seed with a tiny leaf,
the promise of summer growing inside it.

(My daughter’s middle name is Rose, btw)

@ #35, oh, it didn’t work. It’s a painting called “sea wall.” click posters.

William Wordsworth. 1770–1850

Ode to Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell’d in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath pass’d away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look’d upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years’ darling of a pigmy size!
See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul’s immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a master o’er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest—
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never:
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish’d one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp’d lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

mzebest. Thank you. I had just read something about the tankless when I noticed the post had moved upstairs while I was away.

Then I got lost looking at some poems of W<B<Yeats and couldn’t tear myself away or pick a favorite. Thanks, Murphy, for the question about poems.

Darn I hate having a string of capitals with periods between them – sort of like P>U>M>A which I now write as PUMA cause I think everyone recognizes it and it’s easier.

Do you have it online wontbackdown? So we can listen?

Good Night taggles1. Sweet puma dreams…

Anna Belle: really liked your poem; that moment when you know to let your daughter go; so filled with love, joy, trust and fear all twined together.

btw, my daughter’s middle name is also Rose, but mine is a woman grown.

Merlin Enthralled

In a while they rose and went out aimlessly riding,
Leaving their drained cups on the table round.
Merlin, Merlin, their hearts cried, where are you
hiding?
In all the world was no unnatural sound.

Mystery watch them riding glade by glade;
They saw it darkle from under leafy brows;
But leaves were all its voice and squirrels made
An alien fracas in the ancient boughs.

Once by a lake-edge something made them stop.
Yet, what they found was the thumping of a frog,
Bugs skating on the shut water top.
Some hair like algae bleaching on a log.

Gawain thought for a moment that he heard
A whitethorn breathe Niniane.
That Siren’s daughter
Rose in a fort of dreams and spoke the word
Sleep, her voice like dark driving water;

And Merlin slept, who had imagined her
Of water sounds and the deep unsoundable swell
A creature to bewitch a sorcerer,
And lay there now within her towering spell

Slowly the shapes of searching men and horses
Escaped him as he dreamt on that high bed:
History died. He gathered in its forces;
The mist of time condensed in the still head.

Until his mind as clear as mountain
water,
Went raveling toward the deep transparent dream
Who bade him sleep. And then the Siren;s
daughter
Received him as the sea receives a stream.

Fate would be fated; dreams desire to sleep.
This the forsaken will not understand.
Arthur upon the road began to weep
And said to Gawen Remember when this hand

Once haled a sword from stone; now no less strong
It cannot dream of such a thing to do.
Their mail grew quieter as they clopped along.
The sky became a still and woven blue.

…Richard Wilbur, American Poet

Anna Belle
Good one! Thanks for sharing it.

I want more. more to me. more poems. lol.

This article says how well Obama and Hillary are getting along. That they settled their differences soon after she conceded and he was impressed with how she campaigned for him. Sounds like there are no hard feelings between them, maybe logisticsmonster’s theory about them is right. Here’s the article:

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/11/22/america/23hillary.php

Has anyone else visited Trish’ (fromCanada’s) site of poetry. I really like going there and reading her work. It has an aura there.

http://poetryprison.wordpress.com/

She has also written another piece on child abuse that is really, really good! She’s given me permission to put it on my site – and we have been working on a whole section that will open with her piece.

oh!
and Pablo Neruda
::::swoon::::

I seem to have dragged ee cummmings around with me too… since early adolescense… (or early adolnosense. That’s a lie. I think I had more sense, the special kind, when I was an adolescent.

here’s a bag full of right parens. Just use them to fill in all the ones I forget to close. Thanks.
))))))))))))))))))))))))

61 wontbackdown
MK is doing a cheat sheet, I will upload to prowls section, where the other cheat sheets have been stored. You can also repsond to her and she’ll send teh document.

#34AnnaBelle: “That’s a poem”…

…I agree… In fact, you write beautifully… and soooo honestly… I love your posts on your site!

Trish will have at least 40 states completed by Sunday night!
Go Trish!!!

help me, what is the poem with the little baby and the oyster pearl and breast milk…?

lol..I know, whut.

oh…shoot. Anna Belle’s reminded me of it.

wontbackdown
Went to a reading of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings…
I was maybe 23 (?)… There were only 15 of us in this hall… it was very intimate ad she spent a lot of time with us afterwards.
:::: thrill::::

catsden, you know what I’m talking about. It is filled with all of that.

Thanks, NOP, DwP, WBD, and others who commented on my poem. I’m glad you liked it. I LOVE Maya Angelou, btw, DwP. She had been a weird sort of thread woven throughout my life, and was my first role model outside of my own mother for how I wanted to mother. She taught me the importance of living for myself as much as I lived for my daughter, that sacrificing everything was uncalled for and unhealthy. I saw her on the night of the birth of my godchild, my daughter’s best friend, and it was insanely magical, to say the least. I don’t care if what I feel for her is worship–she deserves it.

I actually own Bill Clinton’s book, is it “My Life”? I heard he wrote it all down on paper! Wrote that tome on paper, crazy.

Not poetry per se, but funny and more like rap…

Someone might have gone today to a place where obots hang out and glued in the toilets pictures of Mr. Ofluckyou in the toilets (might have been the warholy one with his nose up that says LOSER). Then someone might have gone into the establishment and said loudly, come quickly someone has defaced the ladies bathroom. Then someone might have said loudly, I will never be able to go number two again without thinking of Mr. Blahblah. And then someone might have gone up to the counter and asked for a chai tea latte venti with soy milk and asked them if they were in the mood to share the wealth. And someone might have done this without even smiling and to the amazement of approximately 40 obots.

Then someone spent the rest of the day LAUGHING and having fun thinking of there faces when someone said LOUDLY I will never be able to poo without thinking of Sen. Obama….

Poetry. for you.

Have you read her follow up autobiographies, Dwp? I know there are at least three, maybe four by now. I’ve read four of them–consumed the other three in a fire after reading IKWTCBS when I was 21. Damn that lady put a mark on me. I love her for it. She’s a big inspiration for me.

DancesWithPumas 11.22.08 at 11:53 pm

Trish will have at least 40 states completed by Sunday night!
Go Trish!!!
_________________

REALLY??? Go Trish!!! Love those Cheat Sheets too!!!

OH MY GOD, Kat in the Hat, Jeremy Irons reading Lolita? For reals? Well, good lord, that’s the gold standard for literature and for actors reading it! He’s perfect!

That book is creepy. I love it and I hate it. It is hands down the most compelling book I’ve ever read. I could not put it down, even though I was horrified as I kept reading. I want to read it again one day. It’s not something I could do twice in rapid succession.

Metaphors by Sylvia Plath
I’m a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf’s big with its yeasty rising.
Money’s new-minted in this fat purse.
I’m a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I’ve eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there’s no getting off.

Good night everyone!

My headache has enjoyed about all of my project work it can stand!

wontbackdown 11.22.08 at 7:36 pm

taggles1 11.22.08 at 7:09 pm:

I agree. I refuse to BLAME HILLARY RODHAM CLINTON for anything – especially not for her failed candidacy, a voting block so full of sexist hate that they have gotten themselves hung in Obama’s zipper and being forced into choosing between serving in Foreign Policy or our fricking own foreign legislature being controlled by our now foreign Demon-cratic Party.

The woman has a strength that not a single one of her political “colleagues” can even recognize – few of them would even be standing – much less get up from even one of the thousands of punches and low blows she has taken for years and years! imho

HAIL TO THE CHIEF! HILLARY RODHAM CLINTON – THE PEOPLES’ PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMEIRCA! That’s what I say.
——————
Gotta agree with you completely!!!
I joined this blog in June because I support Hillary Clinton. I don’t blog much because of all the negativity towards her on this blog by many. For everyone that talks so much about supporting women and all the crap they have been though, seems as though Hillary is expected to not get the same respect.
Love and miss some of you very much. Others……………gack!

NOP;
About 2%Matthews: that’s even worse than Pelosi! Together they add up to double digits, though.

DanceswithPumas: My feelingsexactly about poor Sylvia Plath…
She was it seems entrhalled with darknes and darkness indeed did her in.

Not necessarily a poem , but so incredibly poetic that it has stayed with me for 20+ years . From Thoreau’s walden Pond – Economy Chapter …

The Vedas say, “All intelligences awake with the morning.” Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Why is it that men give so poor an account of their day if they have not been slumbering? They are not such poor calculators. If they had not been overcome with drowsiness, they would have performed something. The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?

Dances: Oh, I forgot. You are welcome. Thank you for acknowledging it.

ok ill try my hand at a poem

my though it falls on yesterday ,when? why? it went away i called you once to say im here, despite my ever growing fear then hope and joy were lain to pass that day you said we never knew . how then could you live your life when weight falls down on mine at night, and again when morning comes to pass my world my days are falling past
the thoughts of mine they always fret a day will never happen yet and time for you may not be long
ill still be sorry when your gone
tec 1965

Dances,
yes Jeremy Irons’ version was way better and…wow.

Anna Belle,
I know, it’s so wrong but so beautifully written. And, did you notice, he Humbert Humbert seduces *you* as she seduces *him*…almost eerie.

BTW, I thought the oyster pearl/ breast milk poem might be Anne Sexton, so I just read like ten of her poems, dang, she was seriously raw. Also, tidbit, I think she called her daughter “stringbean”–term of endearment.

TEXAS:
I am reposting this from downstairs. I waited to see you were here before I posted it.

It is very difficult to read through tears and the reading of many of these posts just brings on another flow of tears.

I was very much alive at the time, living in Landover Hills, Maryland a short distance from the Capital and having a blast visiting the Senate whenever I was able.
I was in my homeroom looking at pictures of Kennedy that I had taken on November 11th in the Memorial Building before the laying of the wreath at the tomb of the unknown soldiers. I then went to teach my 1st English class of the afternoon, when over the loud speaker came the news that Kennedy had been shot. I was in my next Engglish class when it was announced that President Kennedy had died. The whole school began to pray the Rosary and because I was sobbing uncontrollably I left my classroom and walked up the hill a very short distance from school to my home.
For 3 whole days I cried and had the worst attack of hives of my life. I also had my first and only attack of asthma.
People even committed suicide. So for all of you who were not alive, you can now appreciate how much John F. Kennedy was revered and loved.

TexasTigress: Glad you reminded me of ole Thoreau…I think his last two sentences or so about the millions awake for physical labor but so many less for intellectual endeavor et what follows…really explains the people who voted for Ojingo. Thoreau is one of those prose writers that I remember I just liked to read away even if I did not stop to understand. His is a lyrical prose style that even if I do not agree with his thoughts some time I like to take in. every now and then.

thanks dances
this is my first poem evaaa lol
ps is the fox still uner the bridge

lilibet
It’s so great to see you back again.
Lots of wonderful things are happening here. Anyone who wants to bash Hillary needs to find another blog where that kind of behavior is acceptable.
————-
Good to see you again Lilibet too. I don’t believe Hillary deserves to be torn down, God knows her own party and many Democrats have been doing this from day one. She tries so hard to do what is best for her and for the majority and I would love for people on the pac to treat her with some sort of kindness. I am sure she wasn’t happy to return to the senate and find out winning the popular vote meant very little to the leaders there. Then get trashed in the media before the SoS deal is set………it never ends. She is a political punching bag. It makes me sick. I certainly would have given up if I were her, but she still gets up and keeps fighting. Fighting not just for her own career in politics, but for all of us.

Thanks Dances, for Sylvia, did you read BellJar? What was she hiding in? A vent…a crevice in the wall? I haven’t read that since I was a teenager and I remember that bothered me…do I make sense?

Anna Belle, goodnight to you, sweet dreams. xo

tec1965 11.23.08 at 12:24 am
thanks dances
this is my first poem evaaa lol
ps is the fox still uner the bridge
————–
oh, your first? Good job!
The fox? The fox remains under the bridge until

jhti jsjs pwwal

If you want to know what that means, just let me know…
but it’ll cost you a little somethin’.

tech1965: I think your first poem eva a…is very good for a first poem evaaaaa….I hope you will continue to do them.

TT
My Copy of I know Why the Caged Bird Sings ….SIGNED !
——-
Nice.

yup dances i def want to know

what doesit mean ?

I am signing off, but want to post this poem from W.B.Yeats.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

good night all, and maybe next time we do a poetry session I will, like others, post one of my own.

hi kat
hi new orleans thanks guys

Lilibet – I LOVE your story . I felt really bad for bringing that up this morining . I think it opened a lot of old wounds . I think I was trying to find some sort of consistancy with , what I view as the collective loss of innocence of the Nation , and what my feelings are in regards to this years election . Everything I ever believed to be true – the media keeps us informed , people care about facts , the best person wins , cheaters never win , and my party would never betray the people – everything went up in smoke …
Anyway , thank you VERY MUCH for sharing .

catsden, thank you for Yeats. Yes, I wrote papers on him…gone forever from my memory. Combo papers on these: http://www.ap.krakow.pl/nkja/Anthology/yeats.html#Innisfree

I know of a bar dedicated to him and his poems are etched in the wood. Back when I could quote him readily I was quite the cool kat. Zap. All gone now. lol.

Ah, poetry. One special one, and apropos I believe:

A Dream Deferred
by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Heidi Li
-nice one .

BillieJo 11.23.08 at 12:10 am:

There are a lot of people on this blog that you won’t hear say anything but great respect for Hillary – we just hear the criticisms screaming.

NOP: Thank you for sharing that!

TEXAS: THANK YOU! I am so glad I read that before going to bed.

invalidresponse: Bravo!

tec1965: You too, lovely!
________________________________

Texas: Maya – What a prized possession!

“I have often wondered if I would ever meet anyone who was truely ‘awake”

I met someone that was as close as I can imagine – the “presence” is penetrating, the depth of awareness is like being heard for the first time in your whole life, and the ability to hear, to really HEAR, another… HEAR everything without “judging” it as a possession within their own realm of existence is such a mystery. I felt that they truly “experienced” me and that they allowed me to fully experience them… completely.

I cannot describe them at all, really… I bore myself trying.

Goodnight for real – Glad I read further, though.

Wu Tsao

Bitter rain in my courtyard
In the decline of Autumn,
I only have vague poetic feelings
That I cannot bring together.
They diffuse into the dark clouds
And the red leaves.
After the yellow sunset
The cold moon rises
Out of the gloomy mist.
I will not let down the blinds
Of spotted bamboo from their silver hook.
Tonight my dreams will follow the wind,
Suffering the cold,
To the jasper tower of your beautiful flesh.

TexasTigres: In addition, the analogy you draw in the post re the posting is also very appropriate and I think very accurate to the loss…in both situations…in many many ways.

DancesWithPumas 11.23.08 at 12:46 am

I love that, and it is new to me.

Dances – beautiful

Kat in hat: You are welcome cool kat in hat!!

DancesWithPumas, ooh, I like that too. #138

as Murphy might say:
Wu Tsao and Sappho went to different schools together

Kat in Hat: I remember what it felt like when I read certain poems and poets and novels for the first time…how thrilling it was..that first moment of encounter…and Yeats especially so. I love Yeats.

I feel distressed. I cannot remember poems I wrote A grade papers on. yikes. My father remembers every single street sign and sonnet and everything–e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. Oh, no, maybe english lit will be like my spanish: poof.

NewOrleansPuma, yes, the first time to read it is the best. Then you go to school, and they make you chop it up and butcher it and overanalyze* instead of sway with it.

Yes…I have so many new things still. I absolutely love to learn more than anything.

Kat in hat: Do not forget..poetry is still here for you to read…so ..when you can, maybe you should or might pick up a few of your favorite poets and get back aquainted…These poems will be ther for you and you can meet them again whenever you want…

NewOrleansPuma: My dad is in his mid-50’s–well, he will be soon.

Dances: And are they not truly beautiful stunningly beautiful lyrics…? Yes they are. I wish we had more of Sappho’s poetry. A friend of many years who teaches now where we both went to school..college..has written some things on the lyrics of Sappho.

NOP
it’s amazing the things time spares and squanders.
I wish as well.

“Computers in my view have perfectly ruined the rule of memory in the human mind…truly have.”

as has the written word, in any of its forms.

@164Dances: yes, this is true…Dances. Very true.

NewOrleansPuma:
You might be right. I speed read. I can watch two shows at once. I can have 10 different windows open at once, reading several articles at a time. It’s all for muck. As far as memory anyway. Maybe some kind of knowledge is getting beat in there…you know, I know a million things about nothing. lol.

I loved in Farenheit 451 (that doesnt look right) how each person memorized a book, and then as they grew older, the children were apprenticed to them… to memorize, understand, learn, become the book.

163Kat in Hat: Yes, I think I understand . The bothering is good, however…you care and that is the point…which means what you do not wish to lose you will not or you will seek to recover it..and that is very important…for timewishes to take from us that which we do not nurture and even that which we do…we are always in a condition of recovery in time…I think…it is its nature, time, I mean. And ours is to live in it, and through it even as I think and believe it is to live as well beyond it …inside and eventually literally, beyond death of course…the end point on the literal level of time.

good night pumas

goodnight invalid…good night tec1965..keep writing your poems!

hi kat! Are you still waiting for a poem??
I don’t know a sexy poem but I know some funny jokes.

(Hey, I didn’t say it.)

e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

#179: Well I am speaking my dear one…truly what I have experienced and know to be true..I am glad you understand.

Nice poem, Kat!
I had a date tonight, and very fortunately we did not discuss politics.
But I was just reading a post from yesterday & say GoPumaGo’s post, and I agree, I think it’s still possible Hillary will end up being sworn in as our Prez in January.

Have you been keeping up on the BC issue, if so will you fill me in?

like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh … And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

ee cummings

wow…kat!!
lol

Hi NewOrleans, what’s new w/you?

Rose petals in my bed…

Dances: Whew…there is another one!

hillstheone 11.23.08 at 1:34 am

Tulips on your organ!

LOL!!

#181 NewOrleansPuma
a heroine of her own life.
it’s amazing how passion overcomes the most difficult of obstacles.

NewOrleansPuma 11.23.08 at 1:34 am
Dances: Whew…there is another one!
————
yes. exquisite.

Hi Dances, long time no see, hope you have been feeling good!
I wish all us PUMA’s could have a reunion party someday…

DancesWithPumas #193

Wu Tsao

omg, beautiful. oh oh

NewOrleans,
Glad you are still fighting the good fight. I haven’t been keeping up w/politics at all, I tuned out now for a while. Feels GOOD, but I’m not used to feeling so ignorant, lol…

All I know is I don’t expect Obama to be sworn in in January, and “all is in divine order,” somehow…

While impossible to pick a favorite, this one has had some meaning to me:

A Man Young And Old: III. The Mermaid

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

William Butler Yeats

#208Hillsthe one: Oh we all need breaks.. I took a little one.
I expect another one to be needed soon..it is the way it is.

NewOrleansPuma #205, yes, very very pretty. I think that’s how I remember. I will have love and it will be grand. yes, I think so.

HiHat, I like Yeats, but that doesn’t sound like a very happy ending for the lad…! I have been reading a big book called Creative Mythology, and just finished a chapter about love & death (Triston & Isolt type stuff).

It’s really good, makes me think, probably good for my brain…

HiHat, oh yes, I love it. Oh, it’s funny and ironic and sad.

Sweet dreams, New Orleans…!

hillstheone #216

Yes, well, Yeats did have a difficult time with love, and it didn’t end happily for him, in some ways.

kat, have you heard anything new about Rezko or the BC issue lately?

NewOrleansPuma: thank you..g’night xo

hillstheone:
Rezko, well, I believe Patrick Fitzgerald must wait until after January to get trial proceeding. You know, wait till after inauguration. (blah) The BC issue is all over the place with lawsuits. But Keyes has a case, and apparently this bc drama is at our highest court in front of Thomas, so we shall see what develops. Nothing new now, sorry.

hillstheone #225

Yes. Or maybe he could have learned how to hold his breath longer.

I gotta fix this, for the record:
It’s a passage from Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf:

“For I am the Steppenwolf, that beast astray, who finds neither home, nor joy, nor comfort, in a world that is strange and incomprehensible to him.”

Okay. I feel better now.
45 years ago is 45 years ago … now, even my long term memory is going.

For kat:

SONNET 29

When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

William Shakespeare

#228 HiHat, maybe they should have tried a waterfall, lol…

Kat,

You’re not French are you?

StateOfDisbelief’s piece at:
http://riverdaughter.wordpress.com/

Caffeine has worn off… I can finally go to bed.

Goodnight, Puma Nation.

goodnight, dances.

Yeah, I gotta go too. Some writing I must get done.

Goodnight Pumas.

OOooOOoo, can’t stop reading Rumi, ok, gnight all xoxo. I go read now.

The thought plickens!

lmao! lol…

ok, now I am signing off for bed. xo Rumi is good.

Hello….for all of you late nite Pumas….this is a beautiful video to watch before turning in…hope you enjoy it….sweet dreams to all…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1g3YN8qIifM&NR=1

An interesting manifestation of my mental illness. Poetry and jazz infuriate me. It might be a cadence thing. I equate them to public masterbastion…Thought I’d share.

I like just about every poem written by Edgar Allen Poe, but my very favorite is “A Dream Within A Dream”.

Each time I read it, I find myself sitting silently for several moments concentrating on the words.

Delle

for Delle

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allan Poe

The winner of this election? Poppy! he finally got a POTUS who will listen to him
http://edgeoforever.wordpress.com/2008/11/23/poppys-obama-finally-a-potus-who-will-listen-again/

Those days are gone my friend
Sometimes I wish we could live again
The good times that we had
My memories make me glad

We have new dreams that we must heed
We have new lives that we both must lead
As you go down that new road you travel
May the grace of God go with you
——————————————

I wrote this for a high school friend after graduation. It remains one of my favorite pieces.

Here is another poem I enjoy:

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Delle