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It's pretty cool!
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Short History of the Apple
The crunch is the thing, a certain joy in crashing through living tissue, a memory of Neanderthal days. —Edward Bunyard, The Anatomy of Dessert, 1929 Teeth at the skin. Anticipation. Then flesh. Grain on the tongue. Eve's knees ground in the dirt of paradise. Newton watching gravity happen. The history of apples in each starry core, every papery chamber's bright bitter seed. Woody stem an infant tree. William Tell and his lucky arrow. Orchards of the Fertile Crescent. Bushels. Fire blight. Scab and powdery mildew. Cedar apple rust. The apple endures. Born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors. The first pip raised in Kazakhstan. Snow White with poison on her lips. The buried blades of Halloween. Budding and grafting. John Chapman in his tin pot hat. Oh Westward Expansion. Apple pie. American as. Hard cider. Winter banana. Melt-in-the-mouth made sweet by hives of Britain's honeybees: white man's flies. O eat. O eat. |
best poem here do date. thanks!
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He's right, darling - that's wonderful.
A Small Dragon I've found a small dragon in the woodshed. Think it must have come from deep inside a forest because it's damp and green and leaves are still reflecting in its eyes. I fed it on many things, tried grass, the roots of stars, hazel-nut and dandelion, but it stared up at me as if to say, I need foods you can't provide. It made a nest among the coal, not unlike a bird's but larger, it is out of place here and is quite silent. If you believed in it I would come hurrying to your house to let you share my wonder, but I want instead to see if you yourself will pass this way. Brian Patten |
Oooo! Love it, Sundae!
and here is a summer song from the Bard: Tempest, Act V, Scene I [Where the bee sucks, there suck I] by William Shakespeare Ariel sings Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. |
I liked the Edward Bunyard poem.
Part V from The Hollow Men by T. S. E. V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o'clock in the morning. Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the Kingdom For Thine is Life is For Thine is the This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper. |
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Pablo Neruda Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example,'The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is shattered and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight searches for her as though to go to her. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before. Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. |
Roses are red,
Violets are blue. This poem makes no sense, Refrigerator. |
There once was a man from Nantucket
who mistook his wife for a bucket he threw her down the well and said oh what the hell now I'll have to take this bucket and... |
go to the next town for water.
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from Get Fuzzy
Untitled by Satchel On the sidewalk, But not walking. Seen, but avoided. You feel uneasy And cross the street. Our eyes meet. Don't look at me! I didn't do it! |
Usually, I don't like this kind of weirdness but I like this. This is good.
April frigging 6 by Anselm Berrigan Meat pies delivered daily from tuck shop the chalkboard improvisionally utters to a chump's eye. Somewhere in the thick of the grip of the shit that must be said to be gotten out of the way. Can I sit in your lap and watch kitty videos? No, I have to go to work. Can I go to work with you? We can walk outside together. Earlier I felt — how's that radiation going — like a — I misheard that, now they are saying things like "she's a new girl" — bartender & medical worker of other type — I felt like an old creep making younger wobbly guys give me their opinions on things: "he had all these great lines! & then they just kept coming one after the other & it started to make me crazy." Look of indignation on early morning L train face. Inside that recreation a phone rang. I did not ignore the phone but I did ignore the call. This afuturistic handling of little pads, first aid for choking, and yet the company came with dog & I moved, no, was. Don't be coming over to join me this bird says, you hover and take up shade, you simplify into unwinged liftoff, you bear scars of an individually unremarkable nature, you stop nothing. I'll stay here without joining you, I say, and create as little energy in your vicinity as I can disimagine. Fuck you and your disimagination, this bird, now beginning to resemble Allen Ginsberg, yells at me. |
How I am feeling today:
Moonlight by Sara Teasdale It will not hurt me when I am old, A running tide where moonlight burned Will not sting me like silver snakes; The years will make me sad and cold, It is the happy heart that breaks. The heart asks more than life can give, When that is learned, then all is learned; The waves break fold on jewelled fold, But beauty itself is fugitive, It will not hurt me when I am old. |
I like that Bri. I had just come here to post how I was feeling these days. So, here it is:
Alone by Maya Angelou Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone I came up with one thing And I don't believe I'm wrong That nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. There are some millionaires With money they can't use Their wives run round like banshees Their children sing the blues They've got expensive doctors To cure their hearts of stone. But nobody No, nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. Now if you listen closely I'll tell you what I know Storm clouds are gathering The wind is gonna blow The race of man is suffering And I can hear the moan, 'Cause nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. |
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Brianna made me think of this one:
If If freckles were lovely, and day was night, And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie, Life would be delight,-- But things couldn't go right For in such a sad plight I wouldn't be I. If earth was heaven and now was hence, And past was present, and false was true, There might be some sense But I'd be in suspense For on such a pretense You wouldn't be you. If fear was plucky, and globes were square, And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee Things would seem fair,-- Yet they'd all despair, For if here was there We wouldn't be we. --e.e. cummings |
Who Wrote This?
Wondered if anyone remembered this. Sure you can google it but I really wanted to know if anyone remembers.
Dark and lonely on the summer night. Kill my landlord, kill my landlord. Watchdog barking - Do he bite? Kill my landlord, kill my landlord. Slip in his window, Break his neck! Then his house I start to wreck! Got no reason What the heck! Kill my landlord, kill my landlord C-I-L-L My landlord. |
I have no idea.
Not a scooby as we say. It's powerful. And seems to ring a bell. But I see it more as a lyric than a poem. Shows what I know. |
:)
I keep giggling. I've been going down a memory lane. But it's actually a pome, not a lyric. Well, sort of actually. ;) I like "not a scooby." Here sometimes W33D is called 'scooby snacks.' |
Mr Robinson Wrote that, bitch!
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My Dad is Mr Robinson. As is my bro.
I think I might have recognised it. |
I stand corrected. It was Tyrone Green
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Couldn't understand a word.
Even knowing what he was saying. Can I get a grant for studying American before I come on my US Road Trip? |
Here's the transcript:
http://snltranscripts.jt.org/81/81aprose.phtml Yes jim, Tyrone Green. When I first remembered it I was thinking it was a Garrett Morris skit. It's been that long ago! But we used to quote it and laugh our asses off. C-I-L-L... Thanks for the video! What made me think of it was you writing about your New Jersey accent and I remembered Piscopo's "You from Joisey? I'm from Joisey" bit, and my thoughts went from there. But OMG Mr Robinson's Neighborhood. "My wife left me today. I'm so glad the bitch is gone." Funny, funny, funny man. |
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Circus Love by Paul Gilmartin “Last call,” announced the barkeep and then their eyes did meet. Betty the Bearded Lady and Tom the Four-inch Freak. Tom lowered his voice and made a pass, “What’re you doin’ later?” Betty thought as she stroked her beard, “Nothin’ sweet potater.” People pointed, jokes were made, but it fell on four deaf ears. Tom thrust his tiny shoulders back, and ignored the painful jeers. “Betty,” he said, “The world can be such a cruel, unfeeling place.” She said, “I know my little punkin’,” and kissed his tiny face. She carried him through the parking lot, to the woods that lay beyond. Never before had either felt such an instant common bond. “Betty,” he said, gazing down at his tiny platform shoe, “Tonight I would like nothing more than to make sweet love to you.” She said, “I’m a virgin.” He said, “So am I.” She said, “Don’t you think that’s weird?” He said, “Not really, I’m four inches tall and, you know, you’ve got the beard.” She pressed him tight against her bosom, he inhaled her perfumed air. He covered her neck with tiny hickies, and stroked her facial hair. The moonlight danced off his cowboy hat, she giggled and she swayed. She undid his tiny rhinestone belt. A cricket looked away. She set him down, unzipped her dress, still tipsy from the booze. She tripped pulling off her panties, and crushed him with her shoes. Bearded Betty never married. Her mistake sure took its toll. She still owns that pair of shoes, and Tom’s still in her sole. :DYou're welcome.:D |
Joo evah see Freaks? (Tod Browning)
I have no new poems to contribute. I need to start looking again. According to the world at large I had enough favourite poems to last a lifetime and make me a literary snob; who has a favourite poem, let alone many?! Here I learned the answer. Even more. Ta. |
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Bwaahahhahahaaa!
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Crossing The Bar by Alfred Lord Tennyson Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar. |
Sister Joan by Paul Gilmartin Sister Joan, age 42, ignores the desert sun, The stranded church bus smoking, no sign of anyone. Buzzards circle overhead, panic starts to set. The kids are getting restless, her habit's soaked with sweat. The minutes become hours, she wobbles in the heat. Then, a distant engine roars, approaching from the East. She squints through horn-rimmed glasses, her pure heart skips a beat. Snake McGinty's Harley Hog, parts the dusty heat. Black leather-clad from head to toe, his eyelids barely open, Sister Joan says, "Holy Ghost, please tell me that you're jokin'." He parks his bike, stands six foot four, then gives her a nod. Through leather pants his manhood shows, she rolls her eyes at God. "Havin' trouble?", he barely mumbles. "Yes sir", she replies. He pops the hood, takes off his shirt, she covers up her eyes. "Kids", she says, "Back on the bus. Everyone be good." Her fingers part, her eyes take in his reflection off the hood. She grips her rosary tight with guilt and stares down at her socks. Her mind protects her vows with God, but her body picks the locks. He bends to check the fan belt, her nipples say, "Hello". Her eyes climb up his leather chaps like a snail with vertigo. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head, her legs start feeling funny. "Lord", she says, "For work like this, I'm making lousy money." He shuts the hood, "My name is Snake, I'm wanted in five states." She says, "Snake you're my forbidden fruit, and I need a little taste." The kids look on in disbelief. The kisses slow, then faster. Cheering rocks the school bus, till she says "Snake let's ditch these bastards." As they left, the kids screamed "No", she turned around and waved. Her next confession killed the priest and lasted seven days. For years the scandal rocked the church, but she regained their trust. She still teaches Sunday school, but she doesn't drive the bus. |
:thumbsup:
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I've been trying to find a reading of The Dolly on the Dustcart, by Pam Ayres. It was my favourite poem when I was a kiddiwink.
Couldn't find it, but did find her doing a reading of a more recent poem but found an audio only reading of two of her best known: I wish I'd looked after me teeth & The voice at the foot of the stairs: (parents might find the second one quite funny) And a more recent one: Should have asked my husband |
Here is the poem I was trying to find a reading of:
The Dolly on the Dustcart, by Pam Ayres I'm the dolly on the dustcart, I can see you're not impressed, I'm fixed above the driver's cab, With wire across me chest, The dustman see, he spotted me, Going in the grinder, And he fixed me on the lorry, I dunno if that was kinder. This used to be a lovely dress, In pink and pretty shades, But it's torn now, being on the cart, And black as the ace of spades, There's dirt all round me face, And all across me rosy cheeks, well, I've had me head thrown back, But we ain't had no rain for weeks. I used to be a 'Mama' doll, Tipped forward, I'd say 'Mum' But the rain got in me squeaker, And now I been struck dumb, I had two lovely blue eyes, But out in the wind and weather, One's sunk back in me head like, And one's gone altogether. I'm not a soft, flesh coloured dolly, Modern chidren like so much, I'm one of those hard old dollies, What are very cold to touch, Modern dolly's underwear, Leaves me a bit nonplussed, I haven't got a bra, But then I haven't got a bust! Yet I was happy in that dolls house, I was happy as a Queen, I never knew that Tiny Tears, Was coming on the scene, I heard of dolls with hair that grew, And I was quite enthralled, Until I realised my head Was hard and pink.....and bald. So I travels with the rubbish, Out of fashion, out of style, Out of me environment, For mile after mile, No longer prized....dustbinized! Unfeminine, Untidy, I'm the dolly on the dustcart. There'll be no collection Friday. |
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Ima copy that for Momdigr.
__________________________________ An illustrated poem...'Woulda-Coulda-Shoulda' by Shel Silverstein: Attachment 39629 |
That's awesome
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Dana,
your poem reminded me of this song: |
Ha! I can see why it did.
I love it. That chorus is going to be going around my head for the rest of the day :p |
V, very nice :)
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That was pretty cool.
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Loneliness by John Matthew
I pause midway in the whirl, Of deadlines, things undone, And average the sadness and joys - There remains only loneliness, Of which I see no cure, No bitter palliatives, no anodyne. We remain in life’s journey, Like loners sitting depressed, On solitary park benches, or, Standing in balconies, staring, Loneliness gnawing at our minds, As hungry ants at a grain of food. Often in life’s vicious lanes, In lonesome moments, It’s our failures we ponder, Not trasient joys and victories, We do not remember other's courage, Only their faults, and habits. When in each passing lonely moment, I count the millions of joyous seconds, I was alive to witness this world, and, Hurtful mimetic thoughts that passed me by, My loneliness vanishes, I scream, “I live; I am alive this lonely moment.” |
God's Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs-- Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. |
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good orthodoc. I love it too. I've been the bear and I've been the boy and both are blessings.
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Poppies in October
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts. Nor the woman in the ambulance Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ---- A gift, a love gift Utterly unasked for By a sky Palely and flamily Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes Dulled to a halt under bowlers. O my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers. -Sylvia Plath |
The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt "Will you walk into my parlor?" said the Spider to the Fly, "'Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy; The way into my parlor is up a winding stair, And I have many curious things to show you when you are there." "Oh no, no," said the Fly, "to ask me is in vain; For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again." "I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the Spider to the Fly. "There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin; And if you like to rest awhile, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "for I've often heard it said They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!" Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, "Dear friend, what can I do To prove that warm affection I've always felt for you? I have within my pantry, good store of all that's nice; I'm sure you're very welcome - will you please take a slice?" "Oh no, no," said the little Fly, "kind sir, that cannot be, I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see!" "Sweet creature," said the Spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf; If you step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say; And bidding good morning now, I'll call another day." The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den, For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again; So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly, And set his table ready to dine upon the Fly. then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing, "Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and silver wing; Your robes are green and purple, there's a crest upon your head; Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are as dull as lead." Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, - Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head - poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den Within his little parlor - but she ne'er came out again! And now, dear little children, who may this story read, To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er heed; Unto an evil counsellor close heart, and ear, and eye, And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly. |
There once was a little girl
who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead. when she was good she was very, very good; but when she was bad SHE WAS HORRID! my mom used to say that poem to me all the time when I was a youngster. |
Ohhh! My Gran used to say that one to me :)
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Mom also used to say "You lie like a rug" when she didn't believe me. Which was often. Which was probably fair enough. |
I posted this last year, I think. I also had a copy pinned to the shelf at work. I just love this April poem. (I was reminded by Dana's thread about april and foot's poem therein.)
Spring By Edna St. Vincent Millay 1892–1950 To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. |
I like this one.
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Ahhh that was lovely :)
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Whenever I need to say Millet, we eat it from time to time, I first think in my head that it should be pronounced Millay (like Fillet of fish) so I just refer to it as Edna St. Vincent, as in "Do we have any more Edna St. Vincent or are we out?"
I think my doing things like that has made my kids better at figuring things out. Certainly if they end up doing double acrostics. |
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Inside A Toddler's Brain: "Epiphanette"
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Boys, these do not fit my poetry criteria.
But FSM Grav's poem (by Tony) made me laugh. Big V as lyrics go those are right up there. But they are lyrics after all. You get a pass though, because they made me laugh too. Now. No more laughing. Poetry. NB - I'm not quite serious. Not quite. |
I loved it...
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great thread...big love for the WCW poems...here's an excerpt from City by one of my favourite poets Roy Fisher. From my home town....
I come quite often now upon a sort of ecstasy, a rag of light blowing among the things I know, making me feel I am not the one for whom it was intended, that I have inadvertently been looking through another’s eyes and have seen what I cannot receive. I want to believe I live in a single world. That is why I am keeping my eyes at home while I can. The light keeps on separating the world like a table knife: it sweeps across what I see and suggests what I do not. The imaginary comes to me with as much force as the real, the remembered with as much force as the immediate. The countries on the map divide and pile up like ice-floes: what is strange is that I feel no stress, no grating discomfort among the confusion, no loss; only a belief that I should not be here. I see the iron fences and the shallow ditches of the countryside the mild wind has travelled over. I cannot enter that countryside; nor can I escape it. I cannot join together the mild wind and the shallow ditches, I cannot lay the light across the world and then watch it slide away. Each thought is at once translucent and icily capricious. A polytheism without gods. |
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